CROWNJEWELTHEBATTLE

FOR

THEFALKLANDS

ByPetervon

Bleichert

Copyright2013-2015.

PetervonBleichert

Registered:LibraryofCongress;and,WritersGuild

ofAmericaProofreadbyJosephP.Bogo

Allcharactersappearinginthisworkarefictitious.Anyresemblance

torealpersons,livingordead,ispurelycoincidental.

Nopartofthispublicationmaybe

reproducedortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronicormechanical,including:photocopy,

recording,oranyinformationandretrievalsystem,withoutpermissioninwritingfrom

thecopyrightholder/publisher,exceptin

thecaseofbriefquotationsembodiedincriticalarticles/reviews.

BooksbyPetervonBleichert

Fiction

FourthCrisis:TheBattleforTaiwan

Non-Fiction

Bleichert’sWireRopeways

Blitz!StormingtheMaginotLine

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to myteachers: Jonathan E.; BruceH.; Paul M.; Karen S.; and,PanayiotisZ.

And, a special thanksto: Robert N. (UK); and,VictorN.(USA).

DEDICATION

MichaelMuxie,III(inmemoriam).

And, to those lost onboth sides of the realFalklands War: ‘Sleep wellyouBonnieLads.’

TABLE OFCONTENTSACKNOWLEDGMENTSDEDICATIONCHARACTERSNOTESBRIEFING

PROLOGUE:CABAL1:KALAT2:DOGO3:KELPERS4:WAYLAY5:DRAKE’SDRUM6: WHITE DOVE, WHITEHARE7:ARAPUCHA8:TANGOEPILOGUE: GRITTED

TEETH

CHARACTERS

ARGENTINEREPUBLIC:

Doctor WaldemarAmsel

Mayor (Major)EzequielVargas

…and, Presidente delaNación (President)Valeria

Alonso; Almirante (Admiral)Javier Correa; Ministro deDefensa (Minister ofDefense) Juan Cruz Gomez;& Capitán (Captain) LucasMoreno.

UNITEDKINGDOM:Lieutenant Donnan

BruceMajorScottFaganAethelindaJonesAnneJonesGovernor Roger

MoodyHis Royal Highness

PrinceAlbertRichardGeorgeJamesTalbotofYork

…and, the lads of 22SAS Regiment, Squadron D,AirTroop;HisMajestyKingEdward IX; Eight-ball; GreyBear; Henry Jones; AdmiralSir Reginald Nemeth; & the‘Warrahs’(Calvert,Fairbairn,Gubbins, McGregor, andSykes).

UNITED STATESOFAMERICA

Commander MaxWolff

…and,SEALTeam5.

NOTES

A British OverseasTerritory, the FalklandIslands are a stark, wind-ripped South Atlanticarchipelago some 400 mileseast of Argentina’sPatagonian coast, and 850miles north of the Antarctic

Circle. Comprising EastFalkland,WestFalkland, and778 smaller islands, theFalkland Islands are roughlythesizeoftheAmericanStateof Connecticut—about halfthe size of the country ofWales—and the capital is inthe port city of Stanley onEast Falkland. Falklandersare primarily of British,Chilean, and St. Heleniandescent.

BRIEFING

The ArgentineRepublic claims sovereigntyovertheFalklandIslands.

Called Las IslasMalvinas by Argentinians,the archipelago is viewed aspart of the South AtlanticDepartment of the ProvinceofTierradelFuego.

The United Kingdomhas never recognized thisclaim.

Although Falklandershave expressed a clearpreference to remain underBritish rule, in hopes ofeasing tensions, during the1960s, London engaged intalks with Argentine foreignmissions. The talks,however, failed to reach anymeaningfulconclusion.

In the early 1980s, a

ruthless dictatorship ruledArgentina. Accordingly, itsufferedacripplingeconomiccrisis. In an attempt todistract and unify its restivepopulace, Argentina initiatedOperation Rosario on April2, 1982, and invaded theFalklands.

Argentine forcesoutnumbered the Britishgarrison 10-to-one.Resistance was rapidlysubdued, and within hours,

Argentine forces occupiedGovernmentHouseinStanley—theFalklands’capital—andflew their flag over thissymbolofBritishhegemony.

BritishPrimeMinisterThatcher—dubbed the ‘IronLady’ by the Soviets—immediately denounced theinvasion. She roused hermilitary, organized andcommenced OperationCorporate, and dispatched aTask Group to retake the

islands.After fierce air and

naval battles, British forceslandedonEastFalkland. Bymid-June of 1982, Britishmarinesandsoldiersheld thehigh ground around thecapital city. Soon thereafter,the routed Argentineoccupation forcessurrendered.

Despite this clear-cutdefeat, Argentina hascontinued to claim the South

Atlantic archipelago as herown. In 1994, theTransitionalProvisionsoftheConstitution of theArgentinian Nation wereamended, thereby alleging‘legitimate and everlastingsovereignty’ over Las IslasMalvinas,SouthGeorgia,andtheSandwichIslands,aswellas the correspondingmaritimeandinsularareas.

With this legislation,the capture of said territories

became a permanent andunswayable objective of theArgentinepeople…

Thenear-future…

PROLOGUE:CABAL

"Wars are caused byundefended wealth."—ErnestHemingway

Buenos Aires—Argentina’scapital—grewupon the western shore of the

estuaryoftheRíodelaPlata.Sexy and alive, it bustledwith nightlife. Its cityscapeglowedrestlessly in thedark,moonless night. Peoplestrolled in waterfront parksandamongtheeclecticmixofbuildings.

They ambled alongthecity’swideavenueswheretraffic honked like impatientflocksofmigratinggeese,andscooters weaved in and out,buzzing like angry insects.

Expansive plazas—cobblestone fields filledwithfountains, statutes, trees, andvendors—allowed an escapefrom the jostling clamor.OneoftheseurbanoaseswascalledPlazadeMayo.

Named for the monthof revolution,PlazadeMayohonored the war that hadbrought independence fromSpain.Ironically,thiswaroffreedom had also broughtshackles to Argentina’s

people as it concluded withtheinstallationofthenation’sfirstmilitary government:LaJunta.

Ontheplaza’seasternedge sat a baby pink palatialmansion, home to thePresident of Argentina. LaCasa Rosada, as the homehad been named, featured aNorthHallwhere tall,archedwindows let the light of dayflood in, but could stop allelse, including bullets. The

President of Argentinawalkedwithin this hall. Hername: Valeria Alonso. Aspresident and commander-in-chief of the nation’s armedforces, she presided over thegathered nation’s MilitaryCouncil. Her high-heelsclicked on the stone floor asshe stalked along the long,rectangular table, lecturingthoseassembledinthestuffy,brightroom.

Those assembled

there included Minister ofDefense Juan Cruz Gomez,and Admiral Javier Correa,among others. PresidentAlonso tossed her hair backas she spoke, intimidatinglylockingeyeswitheachofhersubordinates. Her piercingeyes were dark brown, justlike her long hair; bothfeatures gifts from hermother.However,thoseeyesalso flashedwithher father’skeenintellect.

Her father, DoctorWaldemar Amsel, sat in hisoffice—aconcretebunker farbelow the streets of BuenosAires— watching hisdaughteronavideoscreen.

Dr. Amsel was onceknown as SSObersturmführer Amsel ofOccupied Poland’s Sobiborextermination camp, a placewherethecrematoriumovensstayedbusyandashfellwiththe winter snow, tinting the

ground a sickly grey. In thewaningdaysofWorldWarII,while the vengeful Russianswere closing in on his deathcamp, he and the otherofficershadcommandeeredasupply truck, taking itskidding along Polish backroadswiththe‘Reds’ontheirheelsallthewhile.

Adroningenginethenannounced the arrival ofmarauding aircraft, and, astheyracedthroughwoodsand

along snow-covered fields, aStormovik found them, dovehard, and strafed theirvehicle. The bullets rippedthroughthecanvasroofoftheold Mercedes, and then intoAmsel’s legs. With Amselbleeding heavily and barelyconscious, his loyal cadretook him to a doctor inGenoa, and, after a weeklyingbandagedinbed,heandhis cohorts received RedCrosspassports.

Amselwaswheeledtotheharborandputaboardthetransport shipDodero. Thisrustingtrampwasacogintheintricate machinery of the‘Ratline,’ the network thatdelivered fleeing Nazis toSouth America and otherpointsaroundtheglobe.Thatrainy day at the Genovesedocks, Dodero set sail forBuenosAires.

Amsel then healedduring the long, slow

voyage. When they arrivedontheSouthAmericancoast,he was met by Argentina’sRodolfoFreude,anadvisortoJuanDomingoPeron.

Despite manysurgeries in Argentina’s besthospitals, Amsel remainedwheelchair-bound. It was inthis chair that Amsel hadturned inward, trained hissubstantial intellect, andnurtured knowledge with avoracious appetite for the

writtenword.Amsel sat among the

rows of tall tome-filledshelves at the University ofBuenosAires’slibrary,wherespears of light pierced thereading room’s archedwindows and illuminated thepiles of leather-bound booksthat surrounded him.Surrounded by paperramparts, he greedilyconsumed the contents ofclassics and revolutionaries

alike. All the while, thebeams of day light crossedthe desk and climbed theshelves,marking the passageof so much time. It waswithinthislibrarythatAmselwas noticed by, and met, anArgentinian student namedBeatriz.

Beatriz had lookedbeyond Amsel’s shatteredlegs, past his cold eyes, andpeered deep into Amsel’smind. It was there, among

the twisted folds and spongymatter that Beatriz becameenamored with him. It wasthere, in the darkness of aforeign mind, that Beatrizwas seduced. One night—fascinated by the immobileprofessorwhohad taughthermoreaboutherworldandselfthan any other—Beatriz hadstraddled and mountedAmsel. Their daughter,Valeria, was born ninemonthslater.

One day, not longafter, Beatriz found Amsel’sSS Totenkopfverbände pin.The ‘Death’s Head’ hadadornedAmsel’sblackcapashe ordered women andchildren to the showers. Itwas the only memento ofthose ‘happy days’ he hadkept. His vanity backfired,however, as Beatriz foundand studied the silver skullandcrossbones.WithValeriasquirming and screaming in

her bassinette, BeatrizconfrontedAmseland,duringthe argument,Amsel stabbedBeatriz.Herfrailyoungbodythen folded on the kitchenfloorwhereshebledout.

After this ‘cookingaccident,’ as the police hadlabeled it, Amsel raisedValeriaonhisown,providingherwithaneducation,severallanguages,and thebelief thatpower was life’s ultimategoal. Valeria had grown

quickly as Amsel’s templesgreyed,andashissharpnosecame to support thickglasses. Meanwhile, he hadbecome a trusted advisor totheArgentinegovernment.

Amsel was admiredfor his cold, hard politicaladvice and vast repository ofinformation.Soonthereafter,the government had theuniversity bestow anhonorarydoctorateuponhim,and itwasfromthispointon

that the former Nazi becameDoctorWaldemarAmsel, or,to those who sought hiscounsel, simply, ‘HerrDoctor.’

Like any good Nazi,AmseldespisedCommunism,and was happy to beinstrumentalinthedesignandimplementation of OperationCondor, Argentina’s GuerraSucia—the ‘Dirty War’—during which Amselhandpicked most of those to

be ‘disappeared.’ WhenArgentina’seconomyfalteredand indignation spread,threatening the dictatorship,Admiral Anaya convincedthen-president GeneralGaltieri that an invasion ofLas Islas Malvinas was justthe nationalist ticket theyneeded. Amsel, with first-hand insight into Britishdetermination, and with anunderstanding of theirmilitary capabilities at the

time, warned the regimeagainst such an undertaking.Although history had shownthese men wrong and Amselright, they had all come andgone. Amsel, however,remained. As for theBritish,Amselthought,thatwasthen,and this is now. Amsel re-tuned his gaze to the videoscreen. Valeria flowedaround the room and thesquirmingministers.

Valeria had taken her

mother’s surname forpoliticalpurposes.Thankstoher father’s powerful allies,she experienced a meteoricrise in theNationalCongressand soon rose to thepresidency. Through hisdaughter, Amsel—a mastermarionetteer—had pulled thestrings of the ArgentineRepublic. He watched asValeria addressed theMilitaryCouncil.Despitehisadvanced age, he yielded to

his one admitted weaknessand lit a cigarette. Amselsmiledbroadly.Hewasfilledwithprideinhisdaughter;hiscreation; his progeny. Closeto making those who hadtoppled the Reich bleed,Amsel overflowed withhappiness, and he chuckled.Through wisps of bluetobacco smoke, Amselfocused on the office videoscreen and turned up thevolume on the small desktop

speaker. Although hisSpanish was permeated by aGermanic accent and neverquite became fluent, anddespite Valeria’s nativerattling diction, Amselunderstood and savored eachofherwords.

“Since theWarof theSouth Atlantic…” Valeria’shusky voice demandedattention, and invited noquestions. “…the Britisharmed forces have been

gutted, and their preciousRoyal Navy is a formershadow of itself.” She hadstudied the speeches of BillClinton, Adolf Hitler, BenitoMussolini, Barack Obama,Evita Peron, and RonaldReagan—allspeakerssheandher father admired—andborrowed articulation andnuances from each,incorporating them into herown style. While the wordswere carefully compiled by

her father, Valeria’spresentation was totally herown, and was made all themore effective by herstunningbeauty.

“The aircraft carriersHermes and Invincible—twonames we will foreverdespise—have beenscrapped,” she said. “Theirsuccessors—the whiteelephants of the new QueenElizabeth-class—have beendelayed and plagued by

technical problems, and therest of the British fleetrepresents half the numbersof the 1980s.” Valeriapaused to stare at AdmiralCorrea. He fidgetedas thesepoints to sank in. To theadmiral’s relief, Valeriamoved her laser gaze to theair force’s brigadier general,and continued: “The Harrierjump-jets have been retired,and the new F-35s meant toreplace them are broken

albatrosses, lacking innumbers and are perpetuallygrounded with one difficultyafteranother.TheBritishairforcenolongerhasanylong-range strike capability, andtheir army and marines areexhausted from combat inIraqandAfghanistan.Ontopof this, their economy is inrecession, and the Britishpeoplearetiredfromyearsofexpeditionary combat inquestionable wars; wars that

have drained both treasureand blood.” Valeria crackeda smile. Although happy tolet blame fall on the usualsuspects, she knewArgentina’s Secretaría deInteligencia—the nation’sintelligence service—hadbeen responsible for at leasthalfadozen‘terrorist’attacksagainst British forces inforeigntheaters. Likesettingplaster, her face againhardened. Valeriacontinued,

“Our own economy is…unstable. This is not due toany fault of our own. It is,however, due to aninternational banking systemdominated by London andNew York. A system thatpunishes us like naughtychildren. A system thatthreatens to undermine thehardworkanddeservedgloryof our people.” The volumeofValeria’svoicehadrisentoemphasizethislastword,and

then quieted again. “Andwhat is the solution?” Shedid not wait for volunteeredguesses, but provided herown short answer: “Oil andtherevenuesitbrings.”

Sixmonthslater…

1:KALAT

“Innocence does notfindnear somuchprotectionas guilt.”―Francois de LaRochefoucauld

The Apache, likemost United States combathelicopters, had been named

for native peoples of theNorth American continent.Thetribehaddeservedlybeenknown as fierce warriors,cunning tacticians, and forbeing led by strategic-thinking chiefs. TheApacheassaulthelicopterwasablackand foreboding dragonfly; aformidable tank-killer andgeneral ground supportaircraft.Thechopperssportedair-to-surface missiles, and,slung beneath its sleek

fuselage, an automaticcannon. One of theseawesomemachinessatontheasphalt and concrete tarmacof Camp Bastion, HelmandProvince,Afghanistan.

It had been built byAgustaWestlandintheUnitedKingdom, and belonged to662 Squadron, Royal ArmyAir Corps. The helicopterfeaturedaradardomeatopitsfour-bladedmainrotor.Slabsofthickballisticcockpitglass

surrounded two figuresmoving within. In the rearpilot’s seat fidgeted HisRoyalHighnessPrinceAlbertRichardGeorgeJamesTalbotof York—Prince Albert tomost.

With sharp features,beady piercing eyes, a talltaut frame, and reddishblonde hair, Prince Albertwas well-known for hischeeky grin, youthfulcannabisindulgenceandpub-

crawling, and his healthydisdain for the formalities ofroyal title. Despite endlessAl-QaedaandTaliban threatsagainsthislife,Albertthrivedinthewarzone.

Althoughhehadonceharboreddreamsofbecominga painter or writer, his royalstation, as well as a rigidfatherwhorespectednosuchsilly pursuits, pushed him toarmed service. Aftersuccessfully completing

general infantry and flighttraining, he had no intentionof sitting by as his matesdeployed to Afghanistan andIraq.AsCorónaPrincipem—CrownPrince—therewerenoallowancesforAlberttobeinsuch danger. Only aftermany heated arguments andemotion-laden threats toabdicate his title, had hisfather, the King, relented.With Afghanistan deemedsafer than insurgent-ridden

Iraq, Albert had beenpermitted to deploy oncondition that he have hisown security detail, that heassumeanomduguerre,and,should intelligence indicatetheenemyhadbecomeawareofhispresence,thathereturnhome immediately.Therefore, Prince Albert—Captain Albert Talbot—became Captain AlbertSmith, and deployed toAfghanistan where he was

paired with his belovedApache,aswell ashisvettedcockpitmate, co-pilot/gunnerLieutenantDonnanBruce.

Withbrightblueeyes,aroundface,ruddyskin,anda balding head that, inpatches, was covered byblack razor-hewn stubble,Donnan stood as a stockyScotsman from Inverness,andahardenedveteranoftheGulfWar. He was also oneof the few to know ‘Captain

Smith’s’ true identity.Segregated on base withAlbert, Donnan had come toenjoy the private meals,cushy barracks, and amplesuppliesthatcamewithlivingwithaPrince.Heoftenjokedhe should get a title,suggesting it as ‘Donnan,Count of Helmand’ with acoatofarmsmadeupof twodarts crossed before a bottleof beer. When at work,however, Donnan became

deadly serious, a ruthlessgunnerwhoneverhesitatedtokill. IntheApache’s tandemcockpit, these two menplayed their control panels,and went through the pre-flightchecklist.

Albert looked outsidefor a moment. The sun hadsettheskyablazeinredsandoranges. In thepurple-tintedblue on-high, white streaksmarked where American B-52s had made their way on

some nameless bombing runagainst mountain redoubts.Hesighedandmadeinputstothe three digital displaysarrayed before him. He alsochecked the flight systemsand programmed thenavigation computer withdestination coordinates andflight-path waypoints. Helowered and adjusted ahelmet-mounted monocularlens—whatAmericanApachepilotsaffectionatelycalledthe

‘Colonel Klink’—andcentered it before his righteye. With an electronicflicker, imagery filled themonocleandfloodedAlbert’sview.

The Apache’s noseturret sported an unblinkingmechanical eye that fed themonocle with an inhumanview of the world: Even inthe last of the hot day’ssunlight, body heat andvehicle engines appeared as

bright white against a dark-grey background. Albertturned his head and cockpitsensors detected themovement of his helmet,tracking the nose turret inunison. He watched as aground technician strolled upand signaled readiness. HewastoguidetheApacheintothesky. Beginning tosweat,Albert started the cockpitfans.Althoughtheblownairwas filtered, aviation gas

fumes and the dry stink ofAfghanistan’s air—what theyallcalledthe‘BigLatrine’forits sun-stewed aroma—wassuckedinside.

“Is that roses I smell,mate?” the helmet speakercrackledwithDonnan’s thickaccent.

“Smells likeHighlander to me,” Albertrebutted.

As usual, Donnan’slaugh was deep and hearty.

The quips sent at each otherhad a calming effect, andcounteracted the shakes-inducing adrenalin. Albertoften jabbed at his cockpitcompanion just to hear thatlaugh; a laugh that soundedlike it belonged to a ten-footgiant. Donnan snorted andreported: “All ready.” Theygotathumbs-upfromthemanoutside, too. Albert did afinalscan.

Electronics,

hydraulics, and otherparameters for the Apache’stwo big Rolls-RoyceTurbomeca turbo-shaftengineswereallinthegreen.Albert took the aircraft’scollective and cyclic controlsin his gloved hands andengaged the main and tailrotors. The helicopter,anxious to take flight,vibrated excitedly.Shimmeringheatblewoutofthe exhausts mounted either

side of the fuselage, and therotors began to rotate,rhythmically chopping at theair. The ground techniciantwirled an arm. The gesturesignified good spin-up. Thetechnician then indicated theApache was clear of anyground obstructions and hadauthorization for departure.Albertliftedthecollective.

The neutral rotorbladesarticulatedandbitintotheair,pushingairdownand

creating lift, the phenomenaAlbert called the ‘power ofup.’TheApacheleaptoffthetarmac, rose to 50 feet,hovered, turned, and dippedits nose toward the craggyhills that lined thenortheastern horizon. Theman on the ground saluted,and Albert contacted thetower.

Albertwasassignedadeparture lane thatwouldgethis aircraft safely through

other inbound and outboundAmerican, Australian, andBritish air traffic. Onceoutsidethewire,thebrightly-litbaseperimeterfellbehind.Donnan and Albert foundthemselves swallowed by thestone-age darkness ofAfghanistan.

Scanning ahead withnight vision, Albert spottedthe heat forms of a camelcaravan, fires from a smallvillage, andamanonahill.

This man, dismissed as justanother peasant in themountains, reported thehelicopter’s departure andgeneral heading to hisTalibanbuddies. Albertflewthe Apache along the linedemarked by the navigationcomputer. They were ontheir way to support anassault on the centuries-oldJugroomFort.

Albert checked themission computer. He noted

that his flight was on-courseand on-time. Their Apachewas tasked to rendezvouswith an American armedscout helicopter—a Kiowa—and be under the control ofone of their Forward AirControllersalreadyduginontheheightsabove theancientfortress.

Dry mud brickscomprised Jugroom’s outerwall. Uponacentralearthenmotte,therestoodacollection

of fortified buildings that theTaliban and foreign fighters—mostly Arabs andChechens—used to storeweapons caches, to feed andhouse fighters, and toprotecttheseason’sopiumcropuntilit could be moved out bydonkey. Tonight’s assaultwas dual purpose: confiscateor destroy the drugs, andcapture or kill as manyinsurgentsaspossible. Also,intelligencehad indicated the

presence of an Al-Qaedaleader. This leader was nothigh on the totem pole,though worthy ofinterrogation if caught. TheAmerican colonel whodeliveredthemissionbriefinghadremarked,“Noonewouldcry if this Al-Qaeda fuckerhappened to be killed;”adding, “Guantanamo’s allfullup.”

Albert flew hisApache nap-of-the earth, a

very low-altitude mode offlightutilizedtoavoidenemydetection in a high-threatenvironment. Heconsultedatactical diagram strapped tohis knee, and noted symbolsthat represented the smallvillagethatsat intheshadowoftheoldfort.

A mere collection ofhovelsandshacks,thevillagereliedon thefort’sspringfordrinkingand irrigationwater,and splayed just beyond a

rampart built aroundJugroom’s brick perimeterwall. The village wasdanger-close and civilianswere at home. As always,and since the village couldnot be warned beforehand,briefings included a cautionagainst collateral damage.While Albert knew this wasfor purposes of ‘hearts andminds,’ his avoidance of thevillage would be for thewomen and children; the

samewomenandchildrentheTaliban had a tendency toshelter behind whenthreatened.

“Five miles,” Albertcalledout.

“Right,” Donnangrunted. That one simpleword indicated Donnan wasreadywiththehelicopter’s30millimeter Chain Gun, itsHellfire missiles, and its 70millimeter CRV7 folding-finrockets. A green indicator

light on a cockpit panel toldDonnan that, in the domeabove the main rotor, theApache’s Longbowacquisition and targetingradar was warmed up andreadyforbusiness.

The Apache hoveredbehind a rocky hillock, itsgear tires barely three feetfromtheground.

“Okay, let’s see whatwe can see.” Albert broughtthe Apache above the

precipice,allowingtheirnightvision sensors and opticalsystemstodoaquickscanoftheterrain.JugroomFortwasvisible,andatopitsramparts,they could see Talibanfighters guarding theapproaches. On the cockpitscreens,heatfromlotsofUSMarines was also visible.They had formed up out ofviewofthefort,andthismasswas ready to begin theassault.Droppingtheaircraft

down again, Albert checkedhiswatch and announced theattack would commence inthreeminutes.

“Roger,” saidDonnan. They would openthe proceedings with aHellfire missile, the weaponblasting a breach in the oldmudwall andmaking a nicehole for the marines to pourthrough, before fanning outwithintheenemycompound.Just before the Hellfire

arrived,Donnanwouldguidehis cannon fire along therampart’s crenellations,hosing the enemy with 30millimeterbullets.

“Okay,mate,no strayroundsinthatvillage,”AlbertremindedDonnan.

“Roger,” Donnanacknowledged. “I’ll use thelaserdesignator forHellfire,”Donnan announced. Thismeant Albert would have tokeep the Apache’s nose

above cover for the durationof the missile’s flight.Although the Longbow radarcould guide the Hellfire, thelaser—whentheairwasclearofdust like tonight—directedthemissiletowithininchesofthe desired point of impact,makingitfarmoreaccurate.

“One minute,” Albertcounted.

Flashing panel lightsindicated the Chain Gun hadawakened,andthataHellfire

wasreadyforlaunch.“Ten seconds…five,

four,three,two,one.”The Apache

unmasked. The cockpitscreens showed the heat ofthe sallying Americans.Donnan energized theApache’s laser designator.The Hellfire’s singlemenacing eye spotted thelaser’s invisible beamdancing on the fort’srampart. Withawhooshand

a bang, the Hellfire ignitedand slid from its wing rail,speeding off to its target.Albert kept the Apachesteady to maintain beamintegrity. With the missileaway,Donnanwastednotimeopening up with his ChainGun.TheApacheshook,andthe cannon rounds impactedalong the top of the fort’swall.

One-by-one, enemyfighters fell from their firing

positions. Inhisnightvisionscreen,Albert saw one Talibstand to fire at theMarines.Hitby theChainGun’s largebullets, a light green mistappeared where the fighterhad once been. Then theHellfire slammed into thewallandexploded.

Dry mud blastedairborne. When the smokecleared, the fort’s perimeterhadyawnedopen. Americanmortar crews landed rounds

in the compound, and theinfantrychargedinbehindtheimpacts.Theradiocrackled.The voice of the Yank incharge of the assault orderedtheApachetoholdfireashismencamewithinrangeofthefort and the helicopter’sdeadlyarmaments.

The missile launchand cannon fire lit up hisApache like a Hollywoodpremiere. Albert used therespite to bound to a new

position. He banked andbroke hard, finding andsettling in behind anoutcropping. Although anti-aircraft missiles were scarcein theseparts,everybodyandhismotherseemedtoownthedreaded nemesis of thehelicopter: rocket-propelledgrenades.

“Bulldog 31, in coverposition,”Alberttransmitted.This told themarines that hehadmoved,andwasreadyto

provide suppressive fire byrequest. The Americancommander responded amoment later, shouting overtheracketofsmallarmsfire.Albert got the Apache backup, and brought its nosesensors from behind therocks.

The Americansstreamedintothefort.Albertcouldsee thewhitesplotchesoftheirbodyheat.Viewedinthe night vision screen, each

blob of white light was aman, and each was far fromhome, and each missed awoman and children whothey had left behind towonder and to worry. Asuited politician, sittingcomfortably behind a bigwooden desk, had sent eachof these white shapes on thegreen screen. Albert felt forthese simple men. Theyloved country and guns, andhadflownintoAfghanistanto

dorightbyboth. Thescreenwent white. Marines hadchucked a grenade through awindowopeningandsetoffaweapons cache. As theblinding flashcleared,Albertwatched a flickering blackshapemoveintothescene.

A medevac BlackHawkhelicopterlandedinanadjacent field. The whiteblobs carried severalcomradestothemachine.Themen on stretchers had been

hit by a heavy machine gunpositioned upon one of thefort’s parapets. The enemygunhadbeenfiredforajustamoment. The gun’s briefmomentofglorywasquicklysilenced by return fire, but itinflicted damagenonetheless. On a dark sideof the fort, Donnan andAlbert watched a group ofenemy fighters scurry fromtheprotectionofthefort.Theshapes moved along a

drainage ditch that led to theadjacentvillage.

“Caution: enemy onthemove;southernquadrant.I see several figures headedtoward the village,” Alberttransmitted on the openband. The cockpit intercomclicked.

“Should I take themout?”Donnan askedAlbert’spermissiontoengagethenewtargets.

“Negative, too close

to the village. Let themarines get them.” DonnantrainedtheChainGunintheirdirection,anyway. Usinghisgunner’s night vision systemto keep the targeting reticlecentered on the lead figure,Donnancould see theuniqueoutlinesofhotKalashnikovs.Also, at least one fighterhadsomething across hisshoulder. The weapon’ssilhouette suggested thatofaRussian-built rocket-

propelledgrenade.“Bulldog 31,” the

American commander calledout.“Putfireonthatgroup.”

“Negative, too closeto village,”Albert respondedalmostinstantaneously.

“That’s an order,Bulldog 31.” The Americanwas in command and knewit. Interpreting his screen,Donnan told Albert that theenemy was getting in avehicle parked outside a

villageshack.“Sir, our Al-Qaeda

target is likely among thisbunch,” Donnan posited.“RequestHellfire.”

Alberttookamoment,and then authorized Donnanto use the air-to-groundmissile. Donnan locked theLongbow radar on thevehicle.

“Longbow lock-up.Firing.” Another Hellfirescreamed away. Themissile

skipped down the hillside atthe vehicle. Both menwatched their night visionscreens. The target pulledforward several feet. Itstopped in front of a smallbrick building, and severalfigures emerged and movedtotheSUV’sopenreardoors.

Theheatsignaturesofthis second group weresmaller, and one seemed toclutch a small bear-shapedobject.DonnanknewtheUN

was fond of handing outteddy-bearstothechildrenofAfghanistan.

“Bloody hell,”Donnan exclaimed, “I thinkthere are women…and achild.” Knowing full wellthat the seeker in theHellfire’s nose wouldcontinue to guide it inanyway, Albert orderedDonnan to shut down theradar.

In what seemed an

eternity,bothmenwatchedasthefamilyscrambledintothetarget vehicle. The SUVbegantorollagain.Itmovedseveral feet before theHellfire knocked on its frontpassenger-side door. Albertand Donnan watched inhorror. The cockpit screensflashedwhite, blindedby theHellfire’s high-explosiveanti-tankwarhead.

“Good shooting,Bulldog,” came over the

radio.Slumped in their

cockpit harnesses, both mensatinstunnedsilence.Thesetwowarriorshadjustbecomemurderers.

The Apache driftedslightly. The tipsof its rotorcame dangerously close to arock wall. Albert snappedout of it and corrected thehelicopter’sattitude.

◊◊◊◊Asummershowerhad

cooled London, making thecity glisten in the sunshine.Grey clouds cleared, andbeams of light shone on thedome of Saint Paul’scathedral, the spires ofWestminster Abbey, theskyscrapersofCanaryWharf,and the iron span of TowerBridge. The Thames Riversnakedbeneaththemyriadofbridges that spanned it, andthebrightdaymade itsmud-brownwaterssparkle.Below

the streets of the metropolisstretched the cylindricaltunnels of the ‘Tube,’London’s undergroundrailroad.

At the Tube’sEmbankment Station, agovernment official got off asilver train, and,minding thegap, stepped onto theplatform. As she movedtoward the station’s exit, theofficial came upon someonereadinganewspaper.Nextto

thepudgyfingersthatclaspedthe front page, she saw apicture of the Prince in fullmilitary dress and a headlinethat declared: PRINCEALBERT INAFGHANISTAN. Shegasped and hurried to herWhitehalloffice.

Within the soot-coveredMinistry of Defencebuilding, she burst into theminister’soffice.

“Have you seen

today’spaper?”sheaskedtheminister.

“Yes, yes. Damnit,yes,”hegrumbledback.

“Al-Qaeda and theTalibanwillgetword.”

“Iknow,Iknow. It’stime to bring Prince Alberthome. Make it so,” theministerordered.

“Yes,sir,” theofficialsighed. She would have along day of phone callsahead,thoughshewouldhave

Prince Albert safely homewithin a week. She got towork.

The minster leanedover his desk. He wouldrequestacupoftealater,butin themeantime,he thumbedthroughtheday’sdispatches.

On top of the pile ofpapers, the first report statedthat a UK-based petroleumcompany had made asignificant discovery of lightoilintheresource-richseabed

that surrounded the FalklandIslands.

◊◊◊◊“You do not look

well,” King Edward said tohis oldest son. Even thoughAlbert sat, arrayed in fullmilitary dress and seatedwithin the splendor ofBuckingham Palace’s bluedrawing room, he knew thecomment was likely true.Since the incident atJugroom, Albert had been

drinking heavily. He andDonnanstartedindulgingjustafterthebattle,justassoonastheylandedatCampBastion.Theirfirstvictimwasabottleof single malt whiskeyDonnan had kept in his footlocker. After the goldenelixir was gone, it wasdownhill like a wheel ofcheeseforthemboth,astheydispensed with Russianvodka,Indiangin,andevenacubeofblackhash.

Donnan had punchedtheSpecialAirServiceblokewhotriedtoslowthemdown,andgot a broken arm for hismistake. When flight orderscamein,Albertclaimedtobesick,andanAmericandoctorwho had come to examinehim took one whiff of thefumesthatemanatedfromhispores,heshookhishead,andsigned the medical release.Bythen,allofCampBastion—as well as all of

Afghanistanforthatmatter—knew about the Prince’spresence.Withthenews,halftheBritsonbasehad tried toleave gifts of delicacies andliquors at Albert’s privatebarracks, though the SAScontingent never let anyoneget too close to what thewhole camp had previouslybelieved to be just an airconditionedsupplyshed.

“Thank you, YourMajesty,” Albert finally

acknowledged the King’sstatement.

Atthemoment,Alberthated his father only slightlymore than he hated himself.Despite the red and goldcarpet, and the portraits ofancestors whose heavyjudgmental gaze fell uponhim,Albertwantedtospitonthe floor. He swallowedhard, instead. He closed hiseyes to fight off a headachethat felt like a creature

movingwithinthefoldsofhisbrain. In the pink darknessbehind his lids, Albert sawthe missile hit the TalibaniSUV.Hehadseenthisimage—dreamt about it—everynight.Inthevision,thelittlegirl emerged from the fire,bloodied and charred, andasked Albert what she haddonetomakehimsomad.

Among the room’sfine artwas a globemade in1750. Albert remembered

playing with it as a child,spinning it, and when itstopped turning, he wouldlooktoseewhatexoticlocalehad ended up under histhumb. Regardless of theplace,hewouldalwayssaytohis older brother: “Perhapswe will go there someday.”Upon it, he saw the DurraniEmpire—present-dayAfghanistan. In the lateeighteenth century, itsborders had stretched into

Iran, as well as modern-dayIndiaandPakistan.

“When we are inprivate, youmay addressmeas,‘Father,’”theKingsaid.

“Yes, YourMajesty.” Albert’s reply was distantandmonotone.

King Edward huffedwith frustration. His firstborn son, Henry, had beenkilled during a stag hunt attheRoyalHuntingReserveatBalmoralCastle.Ithadbeen

theKingwhofoundhisson’sbodywithaholeinhischest,slumped over a rock by theRiverDee. Athis son’s feetwas the dropped anddischargedrifle,alickofbluesmokewaftingfromitsbore.

Albert had alwaysbeen theKing’s afterthought,second place to Henry’saccomplishmentsandtalents.Now he was heir to all theempire and kingdom.Although he always loved

Albert,theKingfeltletdownbyhisyoungerboy.Afterall,a King’s progeny should notexhibit the frailties of othercommon folk; he must behard, strong, and adhere to atimeless preordained model.WhenAlbert’smusingsofartand literature had replacedbusiness, hunting, andwarfare as preferred loves,the King concluded that heandAlbertwerenotcutfromthe same jib. A butting of

heads and stubborn willsconsumed their relationshipever since. The boy haddecided his path, and theKing found every flaw as anexcuse to stabat theheartofthe one he was meant tonurture. What the Kingwould never know, neverrealize, is that he too hadbecome just like his ownfather.

Once, King Edwardhad had his own spark of

desirewithin;adesire to livehisownlifeandwalkhisownpath. This spark had beenreadily snuffed. The onceyoung Prince Edward hadlonged for the embrace andacceptanceofhisownfather.However,hehadbeenpushedaway,frozencoldbypretenseand appearances, forevercorruptedwithacenturies-oldattitudethathadbrokenmanyaroyalson.

Even when in the

same room, Albert and hisfather might as well havebeen a million miles apart.Although his father knewnothing of the incident atJugroomFort,Albert’sreturnhome—simply a matter ofsecurity—was viewed byKing Edward as a failure ofsorts,aretreat;adefeatonthefieldofbattle.

The King did not seethemedalsonhisson’schest,the badge of the army air

corps,norhispilot’sinsignia,orthebloodonhishands.Hesaw only that his son hadbeen forced home. Albert’swarm,dark,browneyes—theeyes of his mother—lookeddeepintotheblueeyesofhisfather, the Germanic eyesinherited from the royalbloodline of Europe.Looking into the cold pools,Albert realized his fatherwould have preferred him tocome home in a flag-draped

coffin, preferred it to hisrunning from a cadre ofsheep-herding rifle-totingpeasants. At that moment,Albert also realized that hisfather would have preferredit,hadhebeentheonetodiethatdaybytheRiverDee.

Albert was about tosay it was not his choice toreturn from Afghanistan.However, like manyexplanations before, Albertknew his words would be

futile,would float in the stillair of the palace’s grandeur,and echo softly among thefrescos and ornate ceilingsbefore fading to silence. Headjustedhistightcollar.

The scratchy confinesofAlbert’suniformbecameasymbol of his bondage;bondagetoalifeforwhichhedid not ask, a life he wouldtradefornearlyanyother.Inthat moment, Albert wishedhecouldseehismotheronce

more. He wanted to be alittle boy again, held in hercomfortingarms, cryingoverthe injustices thatkept a freespiritbound,thehellofalifethat sucked animus until onewasabeatenshellofthechildthat oncewas, a zombie thatshambled through day-to-daytortures with a forced smilepainted on wrinkled skin.Albert felt the worst of thehuman condition:hopelessness.However,such

feelings ran counter to all hehad been taught as anEnglishman—stiff upper-lipand all—Albert wanted toembrace this hopelessness.He wanted to run, to fly, tohideattheendsoftheEarth.He wanted to trade placeswith that little girl. Hewantedtobedead.

“Albert,youwillgotoStanley in the Falklands,”King Edward said to thefloor. Really, the King did

notcarewhere itwashewassendinghisson,so longas itisfromhissight.

“Yes, YourMajesty,”Albertrepliedwithasigh.

2:DOGO

“No one becomesdepraved all at once.”—Juvenal

There was a buildingin the heart of downtownBuenosAires,ona streetnotfar from the main square inthe Monserrat neighborhood

of the central capital.Constructedin1929,theneo-classic building included acollection of antennae thatjutted from itsmansard roof,but was, to all outwardappearances, otherwise stuckin time. Twenty-odd storiesin height, pedestrians tendedto quicken their pace as theypasseditby.

KnownasthehomeofArgentina’s NationalDirectorate of Strategic

Military Intelligence, thebuilding hid a long, darkhistory that the bright lightsflooding its façade could notwash away. Its upper floorsheld the aroma of woodenshelves and old books.Below street level, however,the thick air of its basementreeked of sweat, urine, andblood. It was here thatshadows lived; shadows ofthe past that still crept alonghallwaysandstoppedtolisten

at doorways. Among theseshadows was a stooped,wheelchair-boundform.

Doctor Amsel sathuddled in one of thebuilding’s antechambers,staringataflickeringblack&white video screen. SinceValeria was not around toscold him, he was smokingagain. As he took a longdraw on the cracklingAmerican tobacco, hewatched one of his best at

work, listening to theproceedings through a wall-mountedspeaker.

Major EzequielVargas, of the elite 601Commando Company, struckthe prisoner. Caught near amilitary facility, thebloodiedChilean man was quicklylabeled a spy and taken intocustody. Albeit just aninnocent tourist, the prisonerwouldneverseehischildren,wife,orhomelandagain.

Argentina had neverforgotten Chile’s support ofthe British during theFalklands War, and Vargaswouldmake sure to properlyremind thisman of the fact.In the middle of the darkdamp interrogation room,beneath the lifeless stare ofthe ceiling-mounted camera,the Chilean slouched nakedand bound to a cold metalchair, his face swollen andcracked from repeated

punches. Vargas landedanother,knockingtheChileanfromsemi-consciousness intoblackness. The victimawakened several minuteslaterwhenVargaspouredicewateroverhishead.

“Bueno, mi amigo,”Vargassaid.Heraisedoneofhis favorite motivationalinstruments: a power drill.He revved its electricmotor,spun its bit, pointed it at theChilean’s hand, and slowly

pushed it closer to flesh.Even though the prisonercould hear the tool and hesaw it approaching, he wasunable to utter a word.Instead, he gurgled. Andthen,hescreamed.

The bellow passedthrough the thick stonewallsas if they were made ofpaper. Amsel pushed abuttononhiscontrolpanel.

The interrogationroom speaker crackled with

Amsel’s familiar German-accented Spanish. Vargashadbeensummoned.

Although proud to befavored—givinghimpurposeand justification for hismethodology—Vargas stillhad to hide his annoyance atthe disturbance. Splatteredwith blood, Vargas dutifullywent to his superior andmentor.

“I have an importantjob for you,” Amsel said.

Vargas nodded, saluted, andsaid:“Entiendo,jefe.”

◊◊◊◊Cerro General

Belgrano loomed the tallestpeak among the Sierra deFamatina Mountains ofArgentina.Snow-cappedandjagged, this alp stoodsurroundedbysmallercrags.The mount, named for anArgentine economist, lawyer,politician,andmilitaryleaderwho had taken part in the

Argentine Wars ofIndependenceandhadcreatedthe new nation’s flag, stoodsurrounded by young peaks,notyetroundedbytime,rain,andwind.Thesmallerpeakssurrounded the tallest, mostmajestic one, sitting about itinacircle,asthougheagertoheararivetingstory.

Vargas sat there too,on an outcropping thatperched inconsequentiallypartway up that big rock,

overlooking the valley townof Chilecito, a small citysurroundedby rockand farmfields that seemed out ofplaceamongthedryheights.

Vargas looked up atBelgrano’s heights with aweand inspiration. Thewindatits peak grabbed and pulledthe snow, forming a whiteplume that feathered into theatmosphere. At the snowline, where the stark rockbecameice-covered,werethe

ore fields of La Mejicana.Vargas took a deep,refreshing breath that tastedof new snow. Light-headedfrom the altitude,Vargas feltgood. He knelt to inspect apurple flower growing fromamongcracksintherock.

Hekneltbesideitandwatchedtheplantswayinthebreeze. Vargas’s bruisedknuckles closed about theflower’sdelicatestem.Ifnotfor the clankingof theCable

Carril—an antique wireropewaythatclimbedintotheheights—he would besurroundedbydeadsilence.

Although the CableCarril once transported richorefromthetoweringheightsdown to the railroad locatedin the steep valley floor, theoldsystemwasnowrelegatedtomovingbatchesof touriststo a trailhead located at theropeway’s first station.Vargas watched a gondola

approaching. As he waitedfor it to arrive, he thoughtabouthiswife.

Vargas had loved hereven more than he lovedArgentina. Thedayshediedin a fiery car crash, hisunborn child nestled in hercreamy-white belly, Vargashad changed, becomedifferent, a much darkerman. No longer was he asimple soldier. Instead,Vargasbecameakillerdriven

by vicious anger at aseemingly uncaring God.Yes, he had been raised aspart of a devoutly Catholicfamily, butwhen the coronerhad pulled back the fluid-stained sheet from hiswife’scorpse, exposing her crispand blackened face, Vargasfelt an electric shock withinand experienced a blackepiphany:TherewasnoGod,and the universe was a cold,neutral, indifferent place.

Vargas had killedshamelessly ever since,daring the supposed deity toproveHisexistencebytakingand punishing a once-piousman. As always, duringpeaceful moments, whensurrounded by the beauty ofthe land, Vargas longed forthe man he once was, to begood and forthright again.He shoved these thoughtsquickly shoved away, caughtbythebreeze,andsupplanted

by a question: Was it adaughterorsonthathaddiedin his wife’s womb, starvedof blood and oxygen,squirming as its newlydeveloping organs shutdown? Vargas wanted tosimultaneously cry withsadness and scream withanger. He was convincedthat, if theirchildhadbeenagirl, shewould have been asbeautifulashiswife.And,ifaboy,hewouldbestrongand

focused like his dad.Somewhere in his soul,Vargas knew it was a littlegirl that had died with hiswife that day, and thisknowledge made him all theangrier.Whatmore,afterall,is a father meant to do butprotectasweet,innocentlittlegirl? Therecanbenodivinebeing,heconcluded. Vargaswasconvincedofthis.Fornosuch supernatural spirit ofgood could let such things

happen.And,iftherewasnoGod, no Heaven, or Hell,Vargascoulddoashisnaturetoldhim,andas thosewithabetter understanding of theworldorderedhimtodo.Thesound of the old wireropeway jarred Vargas fromhistroubledthoughts.

Among the CableCarril’sloadoftouristswasaman Vargas recognized, aface he had studied;memorized, amember of the

ArgentineNationalCongress.Hewasanoutspokenmemberwho openly criticized theadministration of PresidentValeriaAlonso. Whilemostother Argentinians wished toforget, this man had pushedfor more information,informationonthosethathaddisappearedinthetimeofLaJunta. The wire ropewayslowed, and the stationattendant glided the gondolaand its load of tourists into

the station. The ridersdisembarked.

They milled about inclumpsand inspected theoldengineering work. Thetourists dispersed, spreadingout over the outcropping anddrifting toward the naturalbeauty beyond. They shotpictures with cameras andtheygawkedat thewondrousview. One obliviouswomanhad her face buried in asmartphone. Her thumbs

typed another meaninglessmessage. An older couplespoke about the days whenthetownofChilecitorodethecrestofaminingboom.Theold Cable Carril had hauledload after load of copper,gold, and silver from themines of La Mejicana, anddelivered them to steamingtrainsonthevalleyfloor.

The crowd of touriststhinned. Someheadedtothetrail while others wandered

toward a field of grass andwildflowers that danced inthebreeze.

Vargas nodded helloto a young woman who hadnoticed his Latin good looksbut then, seeing the scar justbeneath his close croppedhair, she winced. Vargas’ssmile widened. The taughtlipsrevealedonegold-cappedtooth. Then Vargas flickedhis tongue at her. Herflirtatious interest suddenly

becameuncomfortablerecoil,and she turned and walkedaway. Vargas saw thecongressman again, nowaloneandwanderingabout.

The congressman’sdomain was La RiojaProvince. Despiterabblerousing,hewas freeofcare or concern as he beganhis weekly constitutional: abriskhike along theold roadthat snakedalong thepathoftheropeway. Likeastalking

cat, Vargas trailed, not farbehind.

The congressmanstoppedbeneathanirontowerperchedprecariouslynexttoasteep drop. It held the wirerope up high, stringing ittoward its next support.Wary of his footing on theeroded narrow road, thecongressman took in thepanorama. Vargas emergedfrom behind a large rock.Despite wishing to be alone

and undisturbed, thecongressman smilednonetheless at a potentialsupporter/voter. When herecognized the look onVargas’s faceand thedangerit implied, his smile faded,replacedbyagrimace.

The congressmanfumbled with his jacket, anamateurish attempt to drawthe pistol holstered in thesmall of his back. Vargaswas upon him quickly, long

before the congressman feltthe weapon’s curved grip,longbeforehecouldundotheleather holster’s snap. Theshove Vargas delivered washard enough to knock thewindfromthecongressman’slungs, and certainly hardenough to start him over theprecipice.

Vargas savored theshock in his victim’s eyes.He saw the spark ofrealization there, the

realizationthathewouldsoonbedead.Vargashadseenthislook before. He watched asthe glaze of coming deathreplacedthemoistnessoflife.Thecongressman’ssprawledfigure became smaller andsmaller as it fell, and, whenhe impacted the sharp rocks,hisskullburst. Awetcrownofredsplatteredonthebeigedustystones.

Vargas sighed. Eventhough his feet remained on

terrafirma,hetoowasfallingfast.

3:KELPERS

“'Tis very true, mygriefliesallwithin;Andtheseexternalmanners of laments.Are merely shadows to theunseen grief. That swellswith silence in the torturedsoul...”—WilliamShakespeare

Prince Albert wasjostled awake by turbulence.He looked around the cabinof the chartered BritishAirways jetliner’s cabin. ASpecial Air Servicecommando named MajorScott Fagan peered back atAlbertwithconcern.Besidesthe seat occupied by thishyper-aware bodyguard, therestofthejetliner’sfirstclasscabin was empty. Albertsmiled thinly, a signal to

Fagan that he was fine. Acurtain separated the front ofthe aircraft from the rest ofthecabin.

Beyond this partitionsat the others in Albert’sentourage, mostly well-connected journalists andgovernment officials.Despite Albert’s request, therestofhisarmyunitsufferedtheconfinesandslungcanvasseatsofaRoyalAirForceC-17 Globemaster III, so the

jetliner was mainly empty.Albert detected the smell offreshbrewedcoffee.

His ears wereclogged. As people beganfishing carry-ons fromoverhead compartments, theclicks of the latches soundeddistant to him, and thebackground drone of theairplane’s engines wasmuffled. In an attempt toclearhisears,Albertpinchedhis nose and puffed up his

cheeks.Thenhefeltachangein air pressure. The aircrafthadbegun its initialdescent.We must be close to ourdestination,Albertsurmised.He lifted the window shade,the blinding sunmaking himwince. It reminded him hehaddrunktoomuchthenightbefore. The wispy cloudsparted, and the green outlineof an island appeared uponthevastblueocean.

‘Speedbird 926’—the

air traffic control call-signofthe Prince’s flight—emergedfrom a thick cloud bank thathad settled over NorthFalkland Sound. The flightcrossed the north coast ofWest Falkland at PebbleIsland. Passengers pressedfaces to the small, ovalportals to survey the peak ofMountAdamandthetowninits shadow: Hill Cove.Turning east over KingGeorge Bay, Speedbird 926

stepped down in altitude. Itthenbankedoverthescrubbyisland and broke overFalkland Sound, thewaterway that separated thetwomain islands. Squintingthrough his headache, Albertrecognized the geography ofEast Falkland, as well aslocales from the FalklandsWar:FanningHead,where3Special Boat Service hadcleared Argentine positions;and, Goose Green and

Darwin,where 2nd Battalion,Parachute Regiment hadretaken the area froma largeand well-equipped Argentinetaskforce.

The aircraft bankedlow over Grantham Soundand along the SussexMountains, then pointed itsnose at distant MountChallengerandflewpastTopMalo where a skirmish hadbeen fought between

elements of 3 CommandoBrigade and determinedArgentineSpecialForces.OnthehorizonwasStanley—thecapitaloftheFalklandIslands—and the airport where thePrince’s flight would land.He heard the distinctivewhineofextendingflaps,anda bang and suction as thelandinggearlowered.

The British Airwaysjet floated in over StanleyHarbour. Albert saw the

crossed runways thatcomprised Royal Air ForceBase Mount Pleasant.Eurofighter Typhoons—sleektwin-engined, canard-deltawing, multirole fighteraircraft—were parked at themilitary airfield. TherewereApache helicopters as well,one of which belonged toDonnan and Albert. ThismadeAlbertthinkofhismatewhowasbeingshuttledalongwith others aboard the giant

military transport. ‘Flyingsteerage class,’ is whatDonnanhadcalledit. Albertmissed the verdant BritishIsles—especially after thedesolation of Afghanistan—so,eventhegrasslandsoftheFalklands felt welcoming.Vortices streamed off thewingtipsofSpeedbird926asit lined up with the singleeast-west runway of PortStanleyAirport.

The ground reached

up.Theairlinerflaredbeforegentlysettlingupontheblackasphalt.Thetiresscreeched.The occupants heard themuffled scream of reversingturbo-jets followed by thesquealofbrakes.Thejetlinerslowedandtaxiedtowardtheterminal.

Cabin pressureequalized with sea level andthe flight crew opened thecockpit windows and pokedtwo flags out: that of the

UnitedKingdom—the‘UnionJack’—and thePrince’scoat-of-arms. When they stoppedrolling and the enginesshutdown, Albert stood andstraightenedhistiredbody.

The cabin dooryawnedopen.Cold,saltyairblasted inside, bringingdropletsfromthedrizzlygreyday. Albert felt the damp inhis bones and, surprisingly,missed the dry furnace ofAfghanistan. An attendant

deployed an umbrella andheld it over Albert as hestepped on to the truck-mounted staircase that had‘FIGAS’—Falkland IslandsGovernment Air Service—paintedonitsrampedside.

A cheer erupted fromthewaiting crowd, and smallUnion Jacks wavedfrantically.Albertrenderedasmile. A ceremonial guardstood in formation at thebottomofthestairs.Atrigid

attention, they formed agauntlet that led to severalwaiting vehicles. Amilitaryband struggled to be heardabovethehowlingwind.

◊◊◊◊Despite inclement

weather, Albert rode in aconvertible and waved toloyal subjects. In the othervehicles—mostly armoredLandRovers—heavily-armedmen comprised themotorcade’s security detail.

Theprocessionmade itswayalongRossRoadonStanley’swaterfront.

Young girls screamedlike at a Beatles concert, oldmen saluted, and, among thethrong, Argentine eyes tooknote. The vehicles rolled byChrist Church Cathedral andWhalebone Arch, passedVictory Green, and then ontoward Government Housewhere Albert would bewelcomed by, and become a

guest of, Governor RogerMoody.

Themotorcade turnedfromRossRoadandontotheshady grove of GovernmentHouseRoad. Albert saw thewhitewashed stone mansionwherehewouldstay.

Perched on a smallhilltop, Government Housestood over amanicured lawnwherecloudshadows,caughtin the erratic wind, playedtheir ways across the

grounds.Ithadbigwindowsthat looked out over the sea,staring as thoughwaiting fora love’s return. Themansion’s northern façadewas dominated by aconservatory, and tall brickchimneys poked from itsgreen-greyroof.Smokefromwarming fires floated fromtheircapsbeforebeingcaughtand carried awayby the stiffand ever-present breeze.Builtin1845andhometoall

London-appointed governorssince, Government Housestood watch over StanleyHarbour.

◊◊◊◊Albert sat cradled in

an overstuffed wing chairnext to a roaring fire thatwarmedhim. Abutler stoodbytorefillthePrince’sheavycrystal tumbler withwhiskey. Depression and jetlag had combined to exhaustAlbert. He felt sleep was

upon him. The drink wasslipping from his relaxedclutches. A pop from thewallsawakenedAlbertwithaspasm. The old buildingcooled in the evening. Itsbones—beams and joists—hadbeencraftedfrompartsofwhalingshipsthatusedtoplythe rich waters around theFalklands. They madesounds as if they were stillbeing stretched and twistedbythesea.

“Your RoyalHighness,” Governor Moodysaid as he entered themansion’s library. Albertstood up and wobbled.Embarrassed, the governorgestured him down. It wasthe governor, after all, whoshould stand in the Prince’spresence. However, Albertknew the thin and tallgovernor to be a combatveteranoftheFalklandsWar,and paid him this respect

nonetheless. “Thank you,Your Royal Highness,” thegovernor acknowledged thegestureandtooktheseatnexttoAlbert.Healsoacceptedadrink from the hoveringbutler, then removed a fineHavana fromahumidor box,lit it, and used a remote tostart the stereo. Chopin’s‘Raindrop’ prelude began toserenade. Cigar smokedriftedincurls,andthenwassuckedupthechimneybythe

convectivefire.Although Governor

Moody had met the Prince’smotorcade upon its arrival atGovernment House, he hadimmediately retreated to thebuilding beside the mansion,the so-called ‘wireless room’that housed equipment thatkept the remote island intouch with London bysatellite. “Excuse myabsence, Your RoyalHighness,” the governor

said. “Since the War, wemustreport ineveryevening,even when distinguishedcompany is in the House.”Distant and mesmerized bythe flickering fire, Albertnodded acknowledgment anddrank a long quaff from hisglass. The governor lookedthe young man over,recognized his distant stare,andfeltequalpartssympathyand reverence for hissovereign. The governor

swirled the golden whiskeyaround his glass, took a sip,and decided not to fill thesilence with idle chat. Bothmen peered at the fire.Among the flames, Albertsaw the little girl and theoutline of her teddy-bear.The governor, too, saw hisownghoststhere,anddecidedtospeakinstead:“Ithinkyouwillfindyourchambersmostcomfortable, Your RoyalHighness.”

“Please,governor,callmeAlbert.”

“Very well. Are youthinking of the war? OfAfghanistan?”

Justastheoldwarriorhad intended with hisinsightful question, Albertwas forced to meet thegovernor’s eyes. “YourRoyal Highness…Albert.Though no disfigurementmay be apparent, war canwound a man deeply. It is

something that one cannotunderstand unless they havebeen through the trialthemselves.” Albert lookedover the governor’s sharp-featured face, studied theliverspotsthatmadeamapofhisface,andthenpeeredintohis blue, unrevealing eyes.Albert recognized practicedblankness in them, andrealizedknewpainlurkedjustbelow.

“Yes,”Albert uttered,

withatremblingvoice.“It canbehard foran

Englishman to admit thispain,letaloneexpressit.Itisnotourway.Itmustbeevenmoredifficultforsomeoneinyour position, someone withsuch expectations put uponhim,” the governor said.Albert wanted to saysomething,butwasafraidhisvoice would crack if hespoke. Albert felt his throattighten and tears began to

well. “While we arewelcomed home with praiseandparades,itisoftenjustanear we need. Someone tolisten,” the governorcontinued,tookanotherdrink,andpeeredatAlbertover therimofhistiltedglass.

In that moment,Albert realizedhowmuchhelongedforarelationshipwithhis own father. He alsounderstoodhowharditwouldbe for such words to come

from theKing’smouth, hardforreasonsofculture,station,and personality. Hatred ofhis father was pushed asidejust a bit, though the spacewasreadilyfilledbyAlbert’sself-loathing. Feelingdetachedfromhisownlife,asthoughhehadsteppedoutofa movie and had justreturned, Albert thought, Ikilled a little girl. Thethought became a tremblingstatement that echoed in his

flight–clogged ears: “I killeda little girl,” Albert said outloud.

The governor wastakenaback.Hehadassumedthe Prince had killed, beenforced to kill bycircumstance, but he neverexpected such a confession.Questioningifhehadactuallyspoken the words, Albertadded stutteringly: “Wetargetedavehicle,dispatcheda missile, and a child got in

the way.” The last wordswere choked, and Albertbegantosob.Itwasthefirsttime since Jugroom Fort thathehad cried. The first time,infact,thathehadcriedsincehe was just a boy. Thegovernor dismissed thebutler, moved to Albert, andwrapped an arm around theyoungPrince.

“It was an accident.Such things happen in war.You were doing your duty,

forKing andCountry.” Thewords only made Albert cryharder. With streaming eyesclenchedshut,Albertsawthegirlengulfedinflames,alookof surprise and pain on herface.

Albert questioned hisownsanity,and,regardlessoftheanswer,realizedhewouldnever be the same. Theinnocence and the carefreedays of youth were now anunfamiliar memory. He

fought to regain composure.He had contemplated suicidesince Afghanistan. Thatnight, by the fire ofGovernment House, with thekind governor’s arm abouthim,AlbertpromisedhimselfandGodhewoulddonosuchthing.Hewouldlivewiththepain. Crying made himrealize this pain could bediminished somewhat,forgotten a little, that hecouldheal. However,Albert

was certain that when Goddecidedtotakehim,hewouldlikelywelcometheday.

“Son, I too havekilled,” the governor said.“Although my rifle claimedmany,whathauntsmetothisday was one night at ManyBranch Point. I had thrownwhat I thought was my lastgrenadeataretreatingArgie.It turned out to be whitephosphorous. So, instead ofexploding and killing him, it

ignited his uniform. Hewasburningalive.AndIwasoutofammunitionandcouldnotend his suffering. He wasjust a conscript. Just a boy.Heshouldhavebeenpickingupbirdsinthelocalcafé,notaiming a rifle at me and mymates. He cried for hismotherasheburned.Tothisvery day, I feel this grief.”The governor let out a deep,tormented sigh. “I havebecome more at peace with

the memory, though thenightly visits never seem tostop.Despitethis,despitethehorrificburdenswecarry,wemust carry on. AsChurchillsaid:‘Ifyou’regoingthroughhell,keepgoing.’”

That vaunted namestopped what was left ofAlbert’stears.Hesatuprightagain. Exhaustion hadbroken Albert’s mantle, andhe felt ashamed for ithappening in front of a

stranger, a dignitary he wasmeant to impress. Thegovernorrecognizedthis.

“Do not beembarrassed. Weareall justmen. This little chat isbetween you and me. Youhave my word as agentleman.”

“Thank you,” Albertsputtered,chuggingthelastofhis whiskey. “I think I willturnin”

“This way, Your

Royal Highness,” thegovernor gestured to an oldstaircase.

“Albert, Governor.You may call me Albert.Afterall,wearealljustmen,”he said with a forced sleepysmile.Filledwithrespectforthe young Prince, thegovernor watched Albertshamble up the old creakingstairs. Hesignaledthebutlertofollow.

Albert’s upper floor

bedroom awaited, cozy andwarm. Modest in décor, ithad a wood-fired stove thatradiatedheatandasoftglow.Asthebutlerretreated,Albertslidunderthesoftbed’sthickduvet. Swaddled incomfort,hepeeredoutasmallwindowto the black sea. On thehorizon was the flicker of aship’s deck lights. With hishead sinking into the soft,cool pillow, Albert surmisedthatthelightslikelybelonged

to a cruise ship filled witheco-tourists returning fromthe SouthernOcean. He fellasleep.

4:WAYLAY

“We're surrounded.That simplifies theproblem.”—ChestyPuller

The rotor blades ofthe Apache thumped andturnedslowly.Thehelicopterfloated along the meadow.Itsbellybrushedtall,swaying

grass. Ahead were thethatched roofs of simplehouses. Horsesscatteredandranawayoverthehills.

Albert was at themachine’s control. Relaxed,he looked up through thecockpit glass at the brightstars of the clear night, thendown to his co-pilot’shelmet. Theman in front ofhim never seemed to answerany questions. One of thehouse doors opened. Light

spilledoutintothedarknight,and, one by one, childrenemergedandlinedupagainstthebrickwall.

The helicopter’scannon rattled and flashed.The children fell inexaggerated spinningdeaths.Albert screamed. The co-pilot turned, and, beneathblack empty eye sockets, askeletal jawhingedopeninamockingsilentshriek.Albertscreamedagain.

◊◊◊◊“Your Royal

Highness. You werescreaming.” GovernmentHouse’s butler stood in thedoor frame. His face,shadowed by hall light,betrayedhis concern. Albertwas drenched in sweat.Major Fagan, now in hisfatiguesandabeigeberetthatcovered his salt and pepperhair, peeked around thecorner.Albertrecognizedthe

SAS’s cap badge. It wasExcalibur. The longswordwas pointed down, wreathedin flames, and worked intothe cloth of a Crusadershield. Beneath was themotto,‘WhoDaresWins.’

“You all right, then,Captain?” Fagan asked withhisthickYorkshireaccent

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”Albert answered. “Thankyou.”

“Verywell,sir.”

The butler said hewould fetch aglassofwater,and he shut the door. Theroom was swallowed bydarknessagain.

Suddenly, camemuffledthumping,andAlberthad to ask himself if hewasreally awake. Then, hurriedfootfalls in the hall. Albertswung his legs out of bed.Hisbarefeethitthecoldfloorandconfirmedhewas in factawake. He clicked the

nightstand light on. Themuffled thumps became thecrackle of gunfire. Albertlooked out the window andsawflasheson themansion’slawn.

“Captain Talbot.”The chamber’s door wasthrown open again. Faganleaned in, pistol in hand.“Comequickly.”Stillfoggedbyalcohol,jetlag,andsleep,Albert sat slumped at theedgeofhisbed.“Now,sir.”

The order blastedaway the last of the fog inAlbert’smind. He compliedandmovedtowardthevoice.Seeinghewasonlydressedinpajamas, Fagan threw aKevlarvestatAlbert.

“Put this on andfollowme.”

Crouched, Albert andFagan moved along theHouse’s upper hall. Agrenade explodeddownstairs. The mansion

shook. The blast wasanswered by a string ofautomaticgunfireandshouts.Someonewas coming up thestairs,too.MajorFagankneltand raised his SIG Sauerhandgun.

“Don’tshoot,”avoicesaid.ItwasGovernorMoodyand he had an Uzisubmachine gun in hand.“Albert,areyouallright?”

“So far,” Albertanswered as he looked over

hispajamasandbodyarmor.“What’shappening?”

“I’mnotcertain. Thesecurity detail and themansionguardhave failed toanswertheirradios.SomeoneyellingordersinSpanishtriedtogetinsidetheHouse.”

Therewasaflashandexplosionoutside. The threemen flinched and droppeddown.

“We have to get thePrince from here,” the

governor insisted to MajorFagan. To my office,” thegovernorinsisted.

Thethreemenheadeddownanarrowsetofstairs.

The butler was dead.He lay there at the bottomriser, a shattered glass ofwater at his side. Albert,Fagan, and the governorstepped over him. Out ofrespect, eachwas careful notto contact the corpse. Theyenteredthekitchen.

The simple kitchenheld baskets of vegetables,trays of eggs, and, hangingfrom an iron rack above thehearth, well-used pots andpans. Beside the woodchopping block lay a deadfootman. Albert, thegovernor, and Fagan turnedforthelowerhall.

They passed a deaddark-haired man folded overachair.Thecorpse’suniformwasblood-stainedandfullof

holesmadebythegovernor’sUzi. MajorFagangrabbedahandfulofhairandrolledthestiffeningbodyoffthechair’sback.Eventhoughtherewasno recognizable insignia onthe uniform, Fagan declaredhiman‘Argie.’

Numb and seeminglyindifferent to the mayhem,thegovernorsaid:“Myofficeis that way.” He pointed inthe direction of a set ofdouble doors with the barrel

ofhisUzi. The threemovedthat way and came upon ahallcabinet.

“One moment,” thegovernor said. They allpaused at the piece offurniture. As the governorremovedakey fromhis robepocket and unlocked thecabinet, Fagan tracked hissemi-automaticpistolaround,watching for threats. Thegovernor grabbed a shotgunfrom inside the cabinet and

handedittoAlbert.“Itrustyouknowhow

tousethis?”Albert’s answer was

communicated by a check ofthe 12-gauge’s chamber.Finding it empty, he cycledthe shotgun’s forearm anddragged a shell into thechamber.

“Very well,” thegovernorapproved.

The threemenmovedon through the dark smoke-

filled hall. The crackle ofintermittentgunfirecontinuedoutside.

Heavy bootfallsboomed along the upstairshall. The three men lookedup. The sounds stopped atwhat was the Prince’schamber.

“Carry on,” GovernorMoody urged. He unlockedand pushed open the door tohisoffice.

The room was empty

and undisturbed. A portraitof Captain John McBridehung on the paneled walls,and a large oak desk satflankedbytwotallbookcasesthat held leather-boundtomes. The governor beganclearingbooksfromshelves.

“Lock the door,” thegovernor ordered and Fagancomplied. The governorremoved the plank of oneshelf and pried off a falseback,openingintoacobweb-

filled crawlspace. “Thiswillget us to the garage. In yougo.Bothofyou.”Therewasnoarguingwiththediplomat-warrior.

Albertmovedtoenter,butFaganheldhimbackandwentinfirst.WithAlbertandthe governor behind him,Fagan felt his way in thepitch-black. He swatted atthe stickywebs that stuck tohisfaceandshuffledforward,feelinghiswayalongthelath

and plaster. Then he sawlight that outlined a smalldoor. Hekicked it openandsqueezedthrough.

Albert emerged nexttoatoppledpileofpaintcansthat had concealed the doorwithin the garageworkshop.Fagan scanned the room.There were tables, racks oftools, and gardenimplements. He signaledAlbert, who emerged,followedbythegovernorand

his Uzi. The governor usedhis key to unlock theworkshopdoorandopened itjust a crack. He peekedthroughtothegarageproper.

“All clear,” thegovernorproclaimed.

Albert and Faganfollowed him to the garagewheretwoLandRoverswereparked. The glow of fireflickered through the smallwindowsliningthetopofthegarage’s door. Themansion

isburning,thefacthitAlbert. Again, using the key, thegovernor opened a wall-mounted lock-box. Heremoved a key FOB thatwould start one of thevehicles.

“I’ll drive,” GovernorMoody declared. As thegovernor knew the roads,neither Albert nor Faganargued. They piled into theLand Rover. Major Fagantook the governor’s Uzi,

slapped in a fresh magazine,and handed Albert his nine-millimeterpistol.

“You get in back andstay down,”Fagan instructedAlbert. With pistol in hisdominant hand and theshotgun cupped in the other,Albert rolled over the rearseat and into the back of theLandRover.

The governor startedthe vehicle and opened thegarage door with a remote

that hung on the shade. Asthe door rose slowly, thegovernorrevvedtheengine.

Impatient with theslowdoorheyelled:“Sodit,”and reversed out, splinteringthe edge of the woodenportal. He spun the LandRover around in thedriveway, rocking its boxybody, and squealed its wideknobbytires.

Small arms fireplinked off the armored

vehicle’s sides as the last ofthe enemy assault force hadturned its fire from themansion guards to theescaping Land Rover.Through a gun-port in theLand Rover’s door, Fagansprayed bullets back at theoffenders.

“We must get thePrince to Mount Pleasant,”thegovernorsaidastheyspedaway. He glanced at theburning mansion in the

rearviewmirror,andpassedafire truck racing there. TheLand Rover’s engine revvedand shifted through gears asthey accelerated. “Anyonewant some air? It is a bitstuffy in here,” the governorsaid with utter calmness.Albertandthesoldiershareda smile ofmutual admirationfortherock-steadygovernor.

The Land Rover’swheels screeched as thegovernor turned past ‘1982

Liberation Monument’ andThatcherDrive,andthenontoReservoirRoad.

“Look out,” Albertyelled as they almostsmashed into an ambulancepulling out of King EdwardVIIMemorialHospital.TheyzoomedbyScotiaHouseBed& Breakfast where touristshad emerged to gawk at theraging fire at GovernmentHouse.Dartingthroughlighttraffic,theypassedresidences

on the left, and theCommunity School andLibraryontheright,andthenasatellitedishthatArgentineguerillas had wrecked, bydriving a delivery truckthrough the small complex’sperimeterfence

“London has no idea,dothey?”Faganasked.

The governor andAlbert stole a glance at oneanother. Now on DarwinRoadandquicklyleavingthe

urbanareaofStanleybehind,the road narrowed and itssurfacechanged fromasphalttoloosegravel.

TheLandRover’sbigtires and heavy weight cameinto their own, biting in andkeeping the vehicle stable.Withmuchofthecity’slightsextinguished, it was easy tosee the night aglow withscattered fires. Eachilluminatedrisingcolumnsofsmoke.Thethreemenstared

aheadinsilence.In the vehicle’s

squinted headlights, the roadnarrowed further, and, edgedby drainage ditches,threatenedtograbthewheelsof the speedingLandRover.Winding among hillocks, thevehicle began to rock backand forth as the governorskillfully followed DarwinRoad. Albert looked outthrough the big rectangleframeoftherearwindow.

Two bright dotsappeared in the tail of dustthattheLandRoverleftinitswake.

“Governor?” Albertmumbled.

“Yes, I know. We’rebeingfollowed.”

The governor steppedontheaccelerator.TheLandRover lowered and pitchedforward as more horsepowerwas put to the road. Therewas tapping at the Land

Rover’s side and windows.What they first thought waskicked up gravel was in factsmallarmsfire.

Fagan grabbed theshotgun and opened a sidewindow.Coolseaairblastedinside. He leaned out, and,with successive booms thatmade Albert’s ears ring,emptied the shotgun at theirpursuer. Behind them, thebrightheadlightsswerved.

Fagan chucked the

empty shotgun to the frontpassengerseat.

“Uzi, please,” herequested.Alberthandedhimthe square, stubbysubmachine gun. Faganfired. Ejected cartridgesclinkedagainstthewindowasheemptiedthemagazinewitha rippingsound. In the rear-view mirror, the governorsawtracerroundstrailofflikelaserbeams.Theysparkedastheyimpactedthefrontofthe

pursuing vehicle. Thechasing headlights swervedagain. Then they tumbledone over the other as thepursuers crashed. One lightflickered and extinguished asthe wrecked vehicle came torestupsidedown.

“Bastards,” Faganyelled into the night, thenleanedbackinandkissedthestock of the Israeli-madeweapon.

The speeding Land

Rover went airborne as theytoppedasmallhill.Zoomingdowntheotherside,theysawa big fire raging in thedistance.

“That’sattheairport,”the governor concluded. Atrail of fire shot across thesky.Itreachedfromoffshoreandtowardwherethefirewasalready burning. A newfireball bloomed as itimpacted the ground. “Theairportisbeingpummeled.”

Fagan picked upbinocularsand looked to sea,where a merchantman sat atanchor. It was a containership, its decks covered bymulti-colored forty-foot steelboxes, the kind thatelectronicsandsparepartsareshipped in. Except theseseemed tocontainsurface-to-surfacemissiles.

Fagan watched as thetop of a container lifted. Amissile tilted up on its

launcher and ignited. It slidoff its rail and arced into theskyandattheisland.Club-KContainer Missile System,Major Fagan realized,recognizing the Russianweapon from an intelligencebriefing.HepannedhisviewovertoStanley’sdock.

At the dock, a smallcruiseshipwasberthed.Menin uniform disembarked andmadetheirwayinland.

“My God, it’s a full-

scaleinvasion,”Fagansaid.A shockwave shook

the Land Rover. In thedistance, a fireballmushroomedasitrose.

“That was the fueltank farm atMareHarbour,”the infuriated governor said.He had considered the attackon Government House as aterroristattack,withpotentialperpetrators ranging from theIRA to Al-Qaeda, but it wasnow obvious that this was

muchmore.In stunned silence,

Albert, Fagan, and GovernorMoody sped along DarwinRoad and toward the RoyalAir Force Base at MountPleasant.

“The radio,” thegovernor realized. “In theglove compartment.” Faganfumbled itopenandrevealedthe smalltransmitter/receiver. Hepawed at the microphone,

stretchedthecoiledwire,andclickedthetransmitbutton.

“Any station, anystation, this is Major ScottFagan, 22 SAS Regiment,over.”Awarblingstaticwasall they heard over thespeaker.“There’sjamming.”

“Try again,” thegovernoradvised.

“RAF MountPleasant, RAF MountPleasant,weareinboundwitha special package. On

Darwin Road, light-greenLand Rover, diplomaticplates,over.”Foramoment,they heard a response inEnglish,thoughitwascutoffbyhigh-pitched interference.Then, briefly, there wasSpanish.

“Culebra dos zerodos,tratando--”

A searchlightappeared. It reflectedoff thecalm dark waters of BluffCove.

“What’s this then?”Alberthuffed.

The armed scouthelicopter announced itsarrival with bright yellowflashes and a burst of firefrom its slung machine gunpods.

“Bollocks,” thegovernorshouted.

The Land Roverswerved and leanedprecariously as geysers ofdust erupted along the

roadside. The silhouette ofthe enemy helicopter flashedagain, and the sound of itsthree-bladed rotor hacked atthe night. Albert studied theaircraft’s silhouette as thegovernordidhisbesttoavoidthe bullets that impactedaroundthem.

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

“Our armor cannot

stop that big a round,” thegovernorsaid.Heyankedthewheelover.TheLandRoverleft the confines of the road,bouncinghard.Alberthithishead against the roof. Thegovernor swerved the LandRover through the wet grassandmudashetriedtomakeita difficult target. Theyrounded a boulder droppedeons ago by a recedingglacier. On the other sidewasavehiclefullofmen.

Onehadarockettubeonhisshoulder.Therewasablindingbright flash, and thegovernor skidded to a halt,but themissile streaked overthem. Albert, the governor,and the major ducked andbracedasanexplosionrockedthe Land Rover. Turningaround, they saw thehelicopter,swallowedbyfire,fold in half and drop to therocky ground. Bits of earthand rock pitter-pattered on

thevehicleroof.IntheLandRover’s headlights, theyrecognized themen asRoyalMarines.

“Hurrah,” thegovernorshouted.

◊◊◊◊They approached the

main gate ofMount Pleasantair force base. Beyond thefence-line, at the end of thebase’s runway,satawreckedjetliner. Firefighting foamsurrounded its scorched

fuselage, and smoke curledfrom where its ceiling hadburned through. Thegovernor recognized thejetliner’s tail markings asbelonging to the Chileannationalairline,thoughthejetseemedtobeanoldermodel,onethatdidnotbelongtothisairline’smodern fleet. ThenGovernor Moodyremembered his war-gamebriefings: enemy specialforceswouldlandbyshipand

aircraft, likely commercialones using distress calls toopenotherwisecloseddoors.In the case of RAF MountPleasant, it was apparent theattempt had failed. Beyondthe wreckage was a bigyellow bulldozer that hadbeen parked on the runway.Moved there in haste, it hadsheared the jetliner’s landinggear, ripped open its belly,and caused it to crash andburn.

Fagan pointed outseveralothersmokingpilesofmetal on the airfield’s apron,andsawoneofthebase’sfiretrucks spraying whatappeared to be a destroyedhelicopter. Despite theinfernoithadsuffered,Albertrecognized its form asbelonging to anApache. Hewondered if it had been hisloyalmachine.

Led by the marines,the Land Rover approached

the main gate’s sandbaggedheavy machine gunpositions. A guard signaledthem to halt, and, with hispistolbrandished,approachedthevehicle.

“Hello,”Albertsaidtothestunnedofficer.

“Blimey,”was all theman could say. He signaledfor support. Several othersjogged up carrying theirSA80 carbines. Albert gotout and was encircled, a

shield of flesh and steelformedaroundhim.

“The governor,”Albertinsisted.Thegovernorabandoned the vehicle andjoined the Prince in themiddle of the circle. “I oweyou my life,” Albert shookhishand.

“Alifecertainlyworthliving,” the governor saidwith a smile. Albert noddedacknowledgement. WithMajor Fagan in tow, they all

moved inside the base’sperimeter and to the mainbuilding. Once there theywere introduced to a verybusy looking officer, MountPleasant’scommander.

“There is a transportwaiting on the tarmac. Assoon as we clear thatwreckage,” the basecommandersaid,pointingouta window to the burnt-outjetliner, “We will have youonyourway.”

“What’s that allabout?”Faganqueried.

“An airlinertransmitted a mayday—claimed engine trouble—andwe cleared it for anemergency landing. Thenallhell broke loose. When werealizedwhatwashappening,Ihadheavyequipmentdrivenout, and the tower warnedthem off. As you see, theydid not heed this warning.Theairliner landedsmackon

top of a bulldozer. Theenemy assault force wasconsumed while strapped intheir seats,” the commandersaid. Although he was gladhis men did not have tocontend with them, henonetheless felt sadness forthemeansoftheirdemise.

“Whichofouraircraftsurvived the attack?” Albertasked.

“One Typhoon and afewhelicopters. Luckily, the

C-17 was safe in themaintenance hangar andunder guard. Infiltrators gotthe rest.” He pounded hisfist. “Theymanaged to takeout the satellite link. So, Idoubt London even knowswhatisgoingon.”

“Infiltrators?” thegovernorasked.

“Locals. They hadworked on-base for years.One of them was a fuelbowser driver, and at least

onewas a trustedmechanic.They set explosives, and onecrashed a jeep into theBlindfire radar unit at thewest end of the facility.Without it, our Rapiersurface-to-air missile batteryisallbutuseless.”

“Fiends,” Fagankickedin.

“But it was not justlocals,” the base commandercontinued. “Theairlinerwasfull of Argentinian soldiers.

We have one survivor in theinfirmary with horribleburns.”

“And the Apaches?”Albertasked.

“Two survived; weresaved.”

Having not flownsince the attack on JugroomFort, and certain he wouldnever fly in battle again,Albert could not believe hisnextwords:“Getmeinone.”

“What?”

“We have to get youout of here; off the island.You cannot go gallivantingabout a warzone,” thegovernorsaid.

“I’m a pilot in HisMajesty’s Army, and onceyouweartheuniform,you’repart of the game. Service toourcountrywillalwayscomefirst,”Albertaffirmed.

“You are the CrownPrince. If anything shouldhappen to you…” the

governorworried.“Ihavecousins.They

can rest their bottoms on thebleeding throne. Get me toanApache,now.”

“Look, I’m yoursuperior officer, and I orderyoutostanddown.Iwillnottake responsibility for suchfoolishness,” the basecommanderasserted.

“Actually—regardlessof rank—as Prince, CaptainTalbothas theauthority,” the

governorstated.“A helicopter, then.

And a flight suit,” Albertspoke with calmdetermination.

“Yes, Captain. Themachines and some of yourmenareinthewesthangar.”

“Then that is where Iwanttobe.”Albertturnedtothe governor and MajorFagan. “Governor Moody,youwillgeton that transportand as soon as you are

beyond the range of enemyjamming, report what youhave seen. Tell London werequire immediatereinforcement.”

The governor onlynodded. Torn betweendeparting—leavinghispost—and the orders of hissovereign, he reluctantlycomplied.

Albert, theaccompanying marines, andFagan entered the hangar.

SeveralpilotsreadiedthetwoApacheattackhelicoptersthathad survived sabotage.Among the men wasLieutenantBruce.

“Donnan,”Albertsaidwithrelief.

The big Scotsmanbeamedback.

5: DRAKE’SDRUM

“Duty is the essenceof manhood.”—GeneralGeorgeS.Patton

Albert got dressed inthe hangar storeroom. Hishand shook as he lifted theheavyfire-resistantolivedrab

flightsuit. Heranhis thumbovertheroughembroideryofhis Afghanistan campaignpatch. His pulse pounded inhis temples, and a clickreverberatedthroughhisskullashe tensedhis jawboneandground his teeth. He had toconcentrate to slow hisbreathing, and he felt atingling in his extremities.He began to hyperventilateand squeezed his eyesclosed. In the pinkish

darkness,hesawfire,andtheblack silhouette of a littlegirl. Albert shook the imagefrom his mind. Instead, heremembered the governor’swords: It was an accident.Such things happen in war.Albert’s breathing slowed.Youweredoingyourduty,forKing and Country. Albertsteppedintohis