Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands (6 page)

“Very well,” the governor approved.

The three men moved on through the dark smoke-filled hall.  The crackle of intermittent gunfire continued outside.

Heavy bootfalls boomed along the upstairs hall.  The three men looked up.  The sounds stopped at what was the Prince’s chamber.

“Carry on,” Governor Moody urged.  He unlocked and pushed open the door to his office.

The room was empty and undisturbed.  A portrait of Captain John McBride hung on the paneled walls, and a large oak desk sat flanked by two tall bookcases that held leather-bound tomes.  The governor began clearing books from shelves.

“Lock the door,” the governor ordered and Fagan complied.  The governor removed the plank of one shelf and pried off a false back, opening into a cobweb-filled crawlspace.  “This will get us to the garage.  In you go.  Both of you.”  There was no arguing with the diplomat-warrior.

Albert moved to enter, but Fagan held him back and went in first.  With Albert and the governor behind him, Fagan felt his way in the pitch-black.  He swatted at the sticky webs that stuck to his face and shuffled forward, feeling his way along the lath and plaster.  Then he saw light that outlined a small door.  He kicked it open and squeezed through.

Albert emerged next to a toppled pile of paint cans that had concealed the door within the garage workshop.  Fagan scanned the room.  There were tables, racks of tools, and garden implements.  He signaled Albert, who emerged, followed by the governor and his Uzi.  The governor used his key to unlock the workshop door and opened it just a crack.  He peeked through to the garage proper.

“All clear,” the governor proclaimed.

Albert and Fagan followed him to the garage where two Land Rovers were parked.  The glow of fire flickered through the small windows lining the top of the garage’s door. 
The mansion is burning,
the fact hit Albert.  Again, using the key, the governor opened a wall-mounted lock-box.  He removed a key FOB that would start one of the vehicles.

“I’ll drive,” Governor Moody declared.  As the governor knew the roads, neither Albert nor Fagan argued.  They piled into the Land Rover.  Major Fagan took the governor’s Uzi, slapped in a fresh magazine, and handed Albert his nine-millimeter pistol.

“You get in back and stay down,” Fagan instructed Albert.  With pistol in his dominant hand and the shotgun cupped in the other, Albert rolled over the rear seat and into the back of the Land Rover.

The governor started the vehicle and opened the garage door with a remote that hung on the shade.  As the door rose slowly, the governor revved the engine.

Impatient with the slow door he yelled: “Sod it,” and reversed out, splintering the edge of the wooden portal.  He spun the Land Rover around in the driveway, rocking its boxy body, and squealed its wide knobby tires.

Small arms fire plinked off the armored vehicle’s sides as the last of the enemy assault force had turned its fire from the mansion guards to the escaping Land Rover.  Through a gun-port in the Land Rover’s door, Fagan sprayed bullets back at the offenders.

“We must get the Prince to Mount Pleasant,” the governor said as they sped away.  He glanced at the burning mansion
in the rearview mirror, and passed a fire truck racing there.  The Land Rover’s engine revved and shifted through gears as they accelerated.  “Anyone want some air?  It is a bit stuffy in here,” the governor said with utter calmness.  Albert and the soldier shared a smile of mutual admiration for the rock-steady governor.

The Land Rover’s wheels screeched as the governor turned past ‘1982 Liberation Monument’ and Thatcher Drive, and then onto Reservoir Road.

“Look out,” Albert yelled as they almost smashed into an ambulance pulling out of King Edward VII Memorial Hospital.  They zoomed by Scotia House Bed & Breakfast where tourists had emerged to gawk at the raging fire at Government House.  Darting through light traffic, they passed residences on the left, and the Community School and Library on the right, and then a satellite dish that Argentine guerillas had wrecked, by driving a delivery truck through the small complex’s perimeter fence

“London has no idea, do they?” Fagan asked.

The governor and Albert stole a glance at one another.  Now on Darwin Road and quickly leaving the urban area of Stanley behind, the road narrowed and its surface changed from asphalt to loose gravel.

The Land Rover’s big tires and heavy weight came into their own, biting in and keeping the vehicle stable.  With much of the city’s lights extinguished, it was easy to see the night aglow with scattered fires.  Each illuminated rising columns of smoke.  The three men stared ahead in silence.

In the vehicle’s squinted headlights, the road narrowed further, and, edged by drainage ditches, threatened to grab the wheels of the speeding Land Rover.  Winding among hillocks, the vehicle began to rock back and forth as the governor skillfully followed Darwin Road.  Albert looked out through the big rectangle frame of the rear window.

Two bright dots appeared in the tail of dust that the Land Rover left in its wake.

“Governor?” Albert mumbled.

“Yes, I know.  We’re being followed.”

The governor stepped on the accelerator.  The Land Rover lowered and pitched forward as more horsepower was put to the road.  There was tapping at the Land Rover’s side and windows.  What they first thought was kicked up gravel was in fact small arms fire.

Fagan grabbed the shotgun and opened a side window.  Cool sea air blasted inside.  He leaned out, and, with successive booms that made Albert’s ears ring, emptied the shotgun at their pursuer.  Behind them, the bright headlights swerved.

Fagan chucked the empty shotgun to the front passenger seat.

“Uzi, please,” he requested.  Albert handed him the square, stubby submachine gun.  Fagan fired.  Ejected cartridges clinked against the window as he emptied the magazine with a ripping sound.  In the rear-view mirror, the governor saw tracer rounds trail off like laser beams.  They sparked as they impacted the front of the pursuing vehicle.  The chasing headlights swerved again.  Then they tumbled one over the other as the pursuers crashed.  One light flickered and extinguished as the wrecked vehicle came to rest upside down.

“Bastards,” Fagan yelled into the night, then leaned back in and kissed the stock of the Israeli-made weapon.

The speeding Land Rover went airborne as they topped a small hill.  Zooming down the other side, they saw a big fire raging in the distance.

“That’s at the airport,” the governor concluded.  A trail of fire shot across the sky.  It reached from offshore and toward where the fire was already burning.  A new fireball bloomed as it impacted the ground.  “The airport is being pummeled.”

Fagan picked up binoculars and looked to sea, where a merchantman sat at anchor.  It was a container ship, its decks covered by multi-colored forty-foot steel boxes, the kind that electronics and spare parts are shipped in.  Except these seemed to contain surface-to-surface missiles.

Fagan watched as the top of a container lifted.  A missile tilted up on its launcher and ignited.  It slid off its rail and arced into the sky and at the island. 
Club-K Container Missile System
, Major Fagan realized, recognizing the Russian weapon from an intelligence briefing.  He panned his view over to Stanley’s dock.

At the dock, a small cruise ship was berthed.  Men in uniform disembarked and made their way inland.

“My God, it’s a full-scale invasion,” Fagan said.

A shockwave shook the Land Rover.  In the distance, a fireball mushroomed as it rose.

“That was the fuel tank farm at Mare Harbour,” the infuriated governor said.  He had considered the attack on Government House as a terrorist attack, with potential perpetrators ranging from the IRA to Al-Qaeda, but it was now obvious that this was much more.

In stunned silence, Albert, Fagan, and Governor Moody sped along Darwin Road and toward the Royal Air Force Base at Mount Pleasant.

“The radio,” the governor realized.  “In the glove compartment.”  Fagan fumbled it open and revealed the small transmitter/receiver.  He pawed at the microphone, stretched the coiled wire, and clicked the transmit button.

“Any station, any station, this is Major Scott Fagan, 22 SAS Regiment, over.”  A warbling static was all they heard over the speaker.  “There’s jamming.”

“Try again,” the governor advised.

“RAF Mount Pleasant, RAF Mount Pleasant, we are inbound with a special package.  On Darwin Road, light-green Land Rover, diplomatic plates, over.”  For a moment, they heard a response in English, though it was cut off by high-pitched interference.  Then, briefly, there was Spanish.

“
Culebra dos zero dos, tratando
--”

A searchlight appeared.  It reflected off the calm dark waters of Bluff Cove.

“What’s this then?” Albert huffed.

The armed scout helicopter announced its arrival with bright yellow flashes and a burst of fire from its slung machine gun pods.

“Bollocks,” the governor shouted.

The Land Rover swerved and leaned precariously as geysers of dust erupted along the roadside.  The silhouette of the enemy helicopter flashed again, and the sound of its three-bladed rotor hacked at the night.  Albert studied the aircraft’s silhouette as the governor did his best to avoid the bullets that impacted around them.

“That’s a Chinese Z-11.  Twelve-point-seven-millimeter guns,” Albert recognized.

“Our armor cannot stop that big a round,” the governor said.  He yanked the wheel over.  The Land Rover left the confines of the road, bouncing hard.  Albert hit his head against the roof.  The governor swerved the Land Rover through the wet grass and mud as he tried to make it a difficult target.  They rounded a boulder dropped eons ago by a receding glacier.  On the other side was a vehicle full of men.

One had a rocket tube on his shoulder.  There was a blinding bright flash, and the governor skidded to a halt, but the missile streaked over them.  Albert, the governor, and the major ducked and braced as an explosion rocked the Land Rover.  Turning around, they saw the helicopter, swallowed by fire, fold in half and drop to the rocky ground.  Bits of earth and rock pitter-pattered on the vehicle roof.  In the Land Rover’s headlights, they recognized the men as Royal Marines.

“Hurrah,” the governor shouted.

◊◊◊◊

They approached the main gate
of Mount Pleasant air force base.  Beyond the fence-line, at the end of the base’s runway, sat a wrecked jetliner.  Firefighting foam surrounded its scorched fuselage, and smoke curled from where its ceiling had burned through.  The governor recognized the jetliner’s tail markings as belonging to the Chilean national airline, though the jet seemed to be an older model, one that did not belong to this airline’s modern fleet.  Then Governor Moody remembered his war-game briefings: enemy special forces would land by ship and aircraft, likely commercial ones using distress calls to open otherwise closed doors.  In the case of RAF Mount Pleasant, it was apparent the attempt had failed.  Beyond the wreckage was a big yellow bulldozer that had been parked on the runway.  Moved there in haste, it had sheared the jetliner’s landing gear, ripped open its belly, and caused it to crash and burn.

Fagan pointed out several other smoking piles of metal on the airfield’s apron, and saw one of the base’s fire trucks spraying what appeared to be a destroyed helicopter.  Despite the inferno it had suffered, Albert recognized its form as belonging to an Apache.  He wondered if it had been his loyal machine.

Led by the marines, the Land Rover approached the main gate’s sandbagged heavy machine gun positions.  A guard signaled them to halt, and, with his pistol brandished, approached the vehicle.

“Hello,” Albert said to the stunned officer.

“Blimey,” was all the man could say.  He signaled for support.  Several others jogged up carrying their SA80 carbines.  Albert got out and was encircled, a shield of flesh and steel formed around him.

“The governor,” Albert insisted.  The governor abandoned the vehicle and joined the Prince in the middle of the circle.  “I owe you my life,” Albert shook his hand.

“A life certainly worth living,” the governor said with a smile.  Albert nodded acknowledgement.  With Major Fagan in tow, they all moved inside the base’s perimeter and to the main building.  Once there they were introduced to a very busy looking officer, Mount Pleasant’s commander.

“There is a transport waiting on the tarmac.  As soon as we clear that wreckage,” the base commander said, pointing out a window to the burnt-out jetliner, “We will have you on your way.”

“What’s that all about?” Fagan queried.

“An airliner transmitted a mayday—claimed engine trouble—and we cleared it for an emergency landing.  Then all hell broke loose.  When we realized what was happening, I had heavy equipment driven out, and the tower warned them off.  As you see, they did not heed this warning.  The airliner landed smack on top of a bulldozer.  The enemy assault force was consumed while strapped in their seats,” the commander said.  Although he was glad his men did not have to contend with them, he nonetheless felt sadness for the means of their demise.

“Which of our aircraft survived the attack?” Albert asked.

“One Typhoon and a few helicopters.  Luckily, the C-17 was safe in the maintenance hangar and under guard.  Infiltrators got the rest.”  He pounded his fist.  “They managed to take out the satellite link.  So, I doubt London even knows what is going on.”

“Infiltrators?” the governor asked.

“Locals.  They had worked on-base for years.  One of them was a fuel bowser driver, and at least one was a trusted mechanic.  They set explosives, and one crashed a jeep into the Blindfire radar unit at the west end of the facility.  Without it, our Rapier surface-to-air missile battery is all but useless.”

“Fiends,” Fagan kicked in.

“But it was not just locals,” the base commander continued.  “The airliner was full of Argentinian soldiers.  We have one survivor in the infirmary with horrible burns.”

“And the Apaches?” Albert asked.

“Two survived; were saved.”