Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands (7 page)

Having not flown since the attack on Jugroom Fort, and certain he would never fly in battle again, Albert could not believe his next words: “Get me in one.”

“What?”

“We have to get you out of here; off the island.  You cannot go gallivanting about a warzone,” the governor said.

“I’m a pilot in His Majesty’s Army, and once you wear the uniform, you’re part of the game.  Service to our country will always come first,” Albert affirmed.

“You are the Crown Prince.  If anything should happen to you…” the governor worried.

“I have cousins.  They can rest their bottoms on the bleeding throne.  Get me to an Apache, now.”

“Look, I’m your superior officer, and I order you to stand down.  I will not take responsibility for such foolishness,” the base commander asserted.

“Actually—regardless of rank—as Prince, Captain Talbot has the authority,” the governor stated.

“A helicopter, then.  And a flight suit,” Albert spoke with calm determination.

“Yes, Captain.  The machines and some of your men are in the west hangar.”

“Then that is where I want to be.”  Albert turned to the governor and Major Fagan.  “Governor Moody, you will get on that transport and as soon as you are beyond the range of enemy jamming, report what you have seen.  Tell London we require immediate reinforcement.”

The governor only nodded.  Torn between departing—leaving his post—and the orders of his sovereign, he reluctantly complied.

Albert, the accompanying marines, and Fagan entered the hangar.  Several pilots readied the two Apache attack helicopters that had survived sabotage.  Among the men was Lieutenant Bruce.

“Donnan,” Albert said with relief.

The big Scotsman beamed back.

5: DRAKE’S DRUM

“
Duty is the essence of manhood
.”—General George S. Patton

A
lbert got dressed in the hangar storeroom.  His hand shook as he lifted the heavy fire-resistant olive drab flight suit.  He ran his thumb over the rough embroidery of his Afghanistan campaign patch.  His pulse pounded in his temples, and a click reverberated through his skull as he tensed his jawbone and ground his teeth.  He had to concentrate to slow his breathing, and he felt a tingling in his extremities.  He began to hyperventilate and squeezed his eyes closed.  In the pinkish darkness, he saw fire, and the black silhouette of a little girl.  Albert shook the image from his mind.  Instead, he remembered the governor’s words:
It was an accident.  Such things happen in war
.  Albert’s breathing slowed. 
You were doing your duty, for King and Country
.  Albert stepped into his flight suit and zipped up.  He donned his light blue beret, and tucked his flight helmet under his arm.  He mustered his strength and entered the hangar.

Albert came face-to-face with an Apache.  He saw his wan reflection in the cockpit glass.  The helicopter’s belly cannon aimed right at him and the nose ball turret mount looked like a proud chin, jutting from between the cheek avionics bays.  Slung from the stub wings he observed four Hellfires, and, on the opposite side, the launcher for CRV7 rockets and a single blue-bodied Stinger air-to-air missile.  Albert reached out and touched the Apache’s cold metal skin.

He felt an electrical shock when he made contact.  It had bitten him like the dangerous animal it was.  A technician came around.  Albert hoped the man had not seen the doubt in his eyes, and walked away.  As he strode to the hangar office, he repeated to himself:
Keep calm and carry on
.

Everyone had assembled in the hangar’s office.  The base commander strutted over, a print-out clutched in his white-knuckled hand.

“Gentlemen, we are left with several machines, and we are going to use them.  Prince Albert has joined our ranks, and, despite my vehement protests, insists on taking to the air.  Reports are sketchy.  Here is what we know: At 0300, Argentina commenced invasion operations.  We believe the opening moves included the seizure of an offshore oil rig, an attempt to assassinate or capture the Prince at Government House, bombardment of Stanley Airport, the landing of troops at Mare Harbour and Stanley, and what may have been a truck bomb at the marine barracks.  We have also lost feeds from the three mountain-top radars, and must assume them to be in enemy hands or destroyed.  As we all know, enemy commandos also tried to land here at Mount Pleasant.  They did not succeed.  However, saboteurs were able to destroy all but one of the Typhoons belonging to No. 1435 Flight.  They got a Special Air Service EH101 Merlin. Just two of the recently delivered AH Mark 1 Apaches are intact, with one suffering minor damage.  The Globemaster is safe, and we will evacuate the wounded and the governor with it.  There are no friendly ships close enough to offer immediate assistance.  His Majesty’s Ship
Iron Duke
left these waters four days ago and is probably half way to Portsmouth by now.  As far as we know, we have no submarines in the vicinity.  There is no word from the other towns on the islands, and we have been attempting to contact London.  Unfortunately, it seems all the satellite relays have been disabled.  It is also apparent that at least some operation participants were locals.  So, we must assume some of the population is hostile.  I would guess Argentina kept the initial invasion forces light to keep us from detecting their build-up, but we must also assume that heavier forces are on the way.  With just one Typhoon left in theater, it is obvious that the enemy has air superiority.  Regardless, we will use what we have left to challenge this status.  Our plan is to defend our base—and by extension the approaches on Darwin Road, and the town of East Cove—as well as harass enemy operations until we receive instructions, are reinforced, or are relieved.  Once the runway is clear, the Typhoon will escort the Globemaster out, with an Apache providing perimeter cover.  We will keep the second Apache in reserve.  We have also formed anti-air teams, armed with Javelins.”

A soldier entered the hangar and spoke with the commander.  “Excellent.  The runway is clear.  Right then.  The transport will fly out in ten minutes.  Captain Talbot.  Lieutenant Bruce.  Man your Apache.”  The base commander turned to the Typhoon pilot.  Knowing the man would be going up alone, flying without a wingman for cover, he said: “Captain, to your aircraft.”

The C-17 Globemaster III had already lined-up with the runway and held for take-off.  Beneath the strategic airlifter’s angled wings, four turbo-fans increased power.  The Typhoon was already airborne, circling overhead
at high altitude.  All by its lonesome, it would try to keep enemy fighters off the C-17’s back.

Albert hovered the Apache near the base’s eastern perimeter fence.  He was to handle any enemy anti-air teams that popped-up in the base’s surrounds.  He scanned the terrain with the Apache’s night vision system.  The exposed hilltops and wide-open ground would make it easy to spot any threats at a distance.  He turned his head to the runway’s apron.  The C-17’s bright strobes flashed and, with brakes released and engines whining, began to roll.  Overhead, the Typhoon banked with a scream and “Greyling two-nine, on guard” came over the Apache’s radio as the fighter checked in.

Slowly at first, the big transport moved down the runway.  Then, belying its size, it accelerated quickly.  Donnan and Albert scanned the horizon for trouble.  With nothing on their night vision system, they waited as the transport rotated and lumbered into the air.  Its navigation and landing gear lights were immediately extinguished.  The C-17 tucked its wheels away, and then banked south to avoid trouble.

“Bandits, inbound,” the Typhoon pilot reported, his voice strained by the high-G turn he was performing.  “I count four.  Greyling two-nine: Engaging.”

The Typhoon turned into the enemy four-ship.  Determined to keep the bad guys as far away from the climbing C-17 as possible, the pilot nudged his throttles past the stop and into afterburner.

Raw fuel dumped into the engines’ exhaust, ignited, and kicked the Typhoon past Mach 2.  Using its PIRATE—Passive Infra-Red Airborne Tracking Equipment—Greyling 29 recognized the shape of the approaching bandits.  Flying triangles with twin streams of hot thrust, the British pilot knew he faced Mirages, a French-built delta-winged supersonic fighter aircraft.  The Typhoon pilot looked to his weapon read-out.

Just one Meteor air-to-air missile was on its station, and there were only 300 rounds of 27-millimeter ammunition for the Mauser BK-27 revolver cannon.  Looking through the canopy and off to his right, he lamented the fact that no one was on his wing; no friend to protect his six.  The sky was awfully dark and the Typhoon was awfully alone.  Regardless, Greyling 29’s pilot threw the aircraft at his adversaries and closed fast with them.

Donnan tilted the Apache’s night vision turret skyward as he attempted to locate the Typhoon.  Stars streaked across the cockpit screens.  Like comets, they trailed white and green.  A solid green line appeared. 
Tail-fire…
he thought. 
An
air-to-air missile
.  Morse code-like tracer fire shot from the Typhoon.  He witnessed two high-altitude explosions as the Typhoon bested two Mirages.

A big aircraft broke from among high-altitude clouds and rolled inverted.  It was painted in tiger-striped greys, and sported the flag of the Argentine Republic high on both of its twin tails.  Marked along the fuselage in black letters was:
Fuerza Aérea Argentina
.  The aircraft was one of two J-11s in Argentina’s inventory, a pirated Chinese copy of the formidable Russian Flanker heavy air superiority fighter, provided to Buenos Aires in kit form as part of an ore-for-hardware counter-trade.  At its stick was one of the Argentine Air Force’s best: Captain Lucas Moreno.  As Moreno began to shed altitude, he kept the radar off to minimize emissions and instead relied upon a small fish-eye lens mounted in his Flanker’s canopy.

This infrared search and track system detected and displayed the heat emitted by his enemy, and thus found the British Typhoon as it trailed the last aircraft that belonged to a three-ship flight Argentina had assigned to patrol the block of airspace over the British airbase.  When the Typhoon took to the air, they had raced in to engage.  The Typhoon—a formidable machine with a skilled pilot at the controls—had, despite numerical disadvantage, turned the tables, and the Argentine Mirages let out a desperate call for backup.

Moreno had swept in from his orbit high above East Falkland.  He superimposed the Typhoon’s heat signature in the lens’s crosshairs and used it to follow.  He rolled the Flanker again, nosed it over, and dropped the throttles, using the pull of the earth to shed altitude.  Then, Moreno pushed the throttles to the stops, and the Flanker screamed as it dove on Greyling 29.

A high-pitched warble sounded in Moreno’s ear.  The PL-8 Thunderclap short-range infrared-guided missile on his right wingtip begged for release.  Another Chinese-built steal of Russian technology, the missile left its rail when Moreno squeezed the stick’s trigger, and, now freed, began to home on the heat generated by the Typhoon’s two turbofans.

The British pilot was focused on the last Mirage he trailed.  His plane rocked back and forth as he stayed with the Mirage, sending whips of glowing tracer fire its way.  He did not see the Thunderclap as it curled in, and, since the missile tracked passively, his systems offered no warning.

The Thunderclap detonated above the Typhoon.  Its blast fragmentation warhead sprayed the Typhoon with shrapnel that tore the rear-half off of the aircraft.  The Typhoon’s tank, ripped open and spewed its contents, and the fuel ignited in a bright, tumbling fireball.

Albert and Donnan saw the blast on the Apache’s screens.  They followed the fiery wreckage as it plummeted down to icy Choiseul Sound.

“Hope that’s an Argie,” Donnan said, though his gut told him otherwise.  Besides the thumping rotors, silence otherwise filled the Apache’s cockpit.  A moment later, the loud quiet was broken by a crackle on the radio.

“Greyling two-nine, Mount Pleasant,” the base radioed in vain.

The transmission repeated once again.

Only static replied.

Albert scanned the sky for parachutes, but he spotted none.

“This is British garrison, Port San Carlos, British garrison Port San Carlos, over,” the radio hissed.  “We’re under attack by superior enemy forces; in danger of being overrun.  We request any and all immediate assistance.”

Donnan turned and looked back at Albert.  Albert read the urgency of his co-pilots gaze and, in that moment, decided he would save his countrymen.  He would mitigate his guilt with honor and pride.

“Fuel?” Albert queried.

“There’s enough.” Donnan had read Albert’s mind.  Albert jerked the Apache into a turn, dipped the nose, and began speeding off toward the west.  He looked to his navigational computer.

“GPS signal is weak.  Likely being jammed.  I’m taking us due west in the direction of the coast.  We’ll follow Darwin Road, and then move along the shoreline.”

“Roger, mate, understood,” Donnan seemed eager for redemption as well.

A radio transmission came through.  Mount Pleasant begged an answer.  The base controllers had seen the Apache’s radar blip move from its assigned position and off their screen.  Although there would be hell to pay and questions to answer, both men ignored the radio and instead focused on their cockpit instruments.

Flying at 180 miles-per-hour—the helicopter’s maximum speed—Albert skirted the Apache over the rocky ground.  It was a moonlit blur above the tall grass and rock.  Following his compass, Albert swerved the machine to avoid a lone wind-stunted tree that he used as a visual reference.  The Apache came upon Darwin Road,
intersected, and began to follow it.

The Apache flew over Swan Inlet and its adjacent ponds, and then over Laguna Ronde, Laguna Isla, and Laguna Verde.  Its disturbance alighted flocks of kelp gulls from the waters.  As the machine screamed overhead, its rotor-wash kicked up a fine spray from the still waters.  The terrain this side of West Falkland shot by.  It was rippled, squeezed, and molded into parallel undulating hills.  The road veered south toward the town of Darwin, but the Apache continued west.  The sun began to rise.