Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands (15 page)

Albert slid down the wall and onto his bottom.  Annie and Linda simply stared at him.  Their eyes begged Albert to think of a plan of action.  He had none to offer.  Annie and Linda jumped when they heard the explosion, and then Annie cried at the gunfire that followed.  Albert and Linda held their breath, eyes wide as they awaited the impact of fire, as they waited for rounds to rip through the walls, and to tear into them all.  Annie just cried louder and began to hyperventilate.  She would pass out soon, Albert thought. 
Probably better for her
.  Albert and Linda looked to one another when they heard a shout that could only be English.  Albert jumped up and peeked out again.

The Argentine infantry fighting vehicle was burning.  A fountain of fire erupted from the vehicle’s upper hatch, and a jagged hole in its side belched smoke.  Dead bodies lay scattered about, each grotesquely posed.  Forms emerged from the grass.  If not for their movement, their camouflage made them all but invisible.  Albert saw one of the soldiers lowering a thick pipe from his shoulder.  He recognized it as the launch tube for a British NLAW anti-tank weapon.

“Could it be?” Albert wondered aloud.

“What is it?” Linda asked, excited by the look on Albert’s face.

“I think--”  He looked out again.  “I think we’re saved.”  Albert recognized Major Fagan.  “It’s Fagan.  It’s the SAS.”  Albert slid the barn door open, stepped out, and waved.

Seeing a man in civilian clothing, the SAS troop ran toward him with their rifles at the ready.  When Major Fagan recognized Albert, his relief was evident.  He signaled his men to fan out and encircle the barn.  Then, with a big smile, Fagan approached Prince Albert.

“Captain Talbot,” Fagan said as he stomped one foot after the other, and snapped a crisp salute.  “Thank goodness you are all right.”

◊◊◊◊

Albert, Annie, and Linda ate everything the commandos could put out.  There was peanut butter, jelly, and crackers; franks and beans; and an orange drink full of electrolytes and vitamins.  One of the men—a Lieutenant Hayden—folded the food wrappers and made intricate animal shapes.  He gave them to Annie.  She placed them in the grass and played.  Major Fagan told Albert it was time to move.

As they all marched single file across the land, Fagan explained that via a captured Argie radio, they had learned of Albert’s presence in the barn.  They passed the burning Marder.  Albert buried Annie’s face in his chest so she would not see the dead soldiers.

One of the SAS—a Welshman—began to hum a tune.  Soon, the entire SAS troop sang softly as they weaved their way along a cow path:

“May this fair land we love so well/ In Dignity and freedom dwell/ While worlds may change and go awry/ Whilst there is still one voice to cry/ There'll always be an England/ While there's a country lane/ Wherever there's a cottage small; Beside a field of grain/ There'll always be an England.”

They all came over a hill and looked down upon the horse farm.  The Argentine surface-to-air missile battery had been blown, and its wreckage continued to smolder in the field.  From the hilltop, a trench-line was visible.

The trench had been dug around the farmhouse, and had small sandbag-lined redoubts; ceiling-less rooms excavated from the countryside.  Behind the wider main line stretched a smaller, shoulder-width travel trench.  It made Albert think of World War I, but also of one-dimensional thinking.  If Albert were in an Apache and saw such earthworks, he would spray the area with his rockets to remind the defenders that there were three dimensions to space, one of which was air.  However, Albert now moved on the ground, in infantry territory.  He suddenly understood the doctrinaire types that had ordered the trenches dug.  He saw that part of the trench-line had been filled-in, used to bury those killed when, in close quarter combat, using handguns and grenades, and under the protection of their sniper, the SAS had swept the trench line.  Albert could see one neat mound of dirt in the grass.  He looked questioningly to Fagan.

“His name was Ravensdale.  He jumped on an Argie grenade; saved his mates.  I’m putting him in for a Meritorious Service Medal.”

“I’m sorry,” Albert offered.  Fagan nodded thanks and walked off to hide the emotion that came with losing a close friend on the field of battle.

Fagan signaled his men to form a perimeter, and then sent a few of them to check the farmhouse and stables again.

Completing this sweep, they commandeered an Argentine troop truck and jeep from the farmhouse garage, and transferred petrol from a tractor.

Albert, Annie, and Linda rode in the jeep with Major Fagan and two others, while the rest of the SAS troop followed closely in the truck.  Annie succumbed to the smooth road and vibration of the engine, and fell deep asleep in Linda’s lap.

“Where are we headed?” Albert inquired of Fagan.

“Button Bay.”

◊◊◊◊

A black phantom, the American nuclear attack submarine United States Ship
California
hovered off the shallows of the Falkland’s Choiseul Sound, just east of Lively Island.  USS
California,
of the vaunted
Virginia
-class, had recently come out of repair and refit at Electric Boat in Groton, Connecticut.  Exercising in the deeps of the Puerto Rico Trench, she had been ordered to race to the South Atlantic.  Captained by Commander Max Wolff,
California
had made a speed course for latitude -52°, longitude -55°, and arrived on station within days.

California
had then poked her stealthy electronic surveillance and photonics masts above the rolling surface, and sucked in new orders from an orbiting satellite.  Wolff was handed the printout and a cup of coffee.  He read them with little reaction, though when he passed them to his executive officer, the man’s brow furled, and he uttered a single word: “Interesting.”  Wolff then ordered a stealthy approach to the islands some 120 miles to the west.

Among
California
’s load-out of Mark-48 torpedoes and Tomahawk cruise missiles, the boat sported another deadly weapon: US Navy SEALs.  SEAL stood for Sea, Air, Land Teams.  Each team comprised a 13-man platoon, and
California
had aboard Team 5 out of Coronado, California.  The SEALs had been briefed, and now prepared for the coming action in the submarine’s staging berth.

A burly, balding lieutenant was the officer-in-charge.  Known as ‘Bullfrog’ to his fellow SEALs, he had eaten lots of dirt, sand, and water on many missions, including with Task Force K-Bar which cleared the cave complex of Afghanistan’s Zhawar Kili; the team that surveyed the Iraqi oil terminals of Al-Basra and Khawr al-Amaya; and, as a participant of the Al-Faw campaign.

The SEALs donned black rubber wetsuits that made them appear their namesake, and they gathered their dive equipment and weapons.  A petty officer entered the staging berth.  He informed the operators that the submarine was in position and had clear scopes.  Grunts of acknowledgment met this news, as the men continued about their routine.

One operator inserted a magazine into his .45 caliber Universal Self-loading Pistol, press-checked for an empty chamber, and holstered the firearm.  Bullfrog mounted a tactical light to the Picatinny rail of his Mark-17 Special Forces combat assault rifle.  Although some SEALs carried the Mark-16 which fired the standard 5.56-millimeter NATO, he preferred the -17, chambered with the larger 7.62-millimeter round.  Bullfrog finished his preparations by attaching a large ammunition drum to his rifle, wiggled it to assure proper seating, and then grabbed for his 9-millimeter sidearm.  Slapping a magazine into the handgun, he racked the slide and manipulated the decocker, lowering the hammer for safe carry on a chambered round.  Bullfrog then turned his attention to the rest of his teammates.

The assistant officer-in-charge loaded his own weapons and the platoon chief was busy distributing grenades to the others.  The platoon’s leading petty officer delivered a brief speech to the SEALs, reiterating their roles in the mission, as well as the ever-present price of failure.  Then, one by one, the SEALs looked to their leader.
 
Bullfrog stood, occupying much of the space in the cramped compartment.

“Okay, we are all jocked up,”
he said.  “There are 1,600 fathoms beneath the keel.  We’ve got a two-mile round trip using scooters from the sail.  Wally, that’s you,” he pointed at one of his team and got a nod in return.  “Ops team is using re-breathers.  Okay, ready to get wet and sandy?”

“Hooyah,” was the answer that echoed in the berth.  Nine SEALs entered the lockout trunk
located just aft of
California’s
sail.  Once inside, Bullfrog clanged the hatch shut and spun its wheel tight, as the SEALs got out their Dräger re-breathers—small self-contained breathing units that filter exhaled air and supplement it with fresh, all without releasing telltale bubbles.  With everyone’s fins, tanks, and re-breathers in place, Bullfrog got a thumbs-up from the men.

Bullfrog actuated a lever that jutted from among pipes on the trunk’s wall.  There was a trickle from a screen mesh-covered outlet, and then a rush of icy seawater as the chamber began to flood.  Clumps of foam spun as the water rose quickly in the confines.  Once the trunk was full and equalized—matching the pressure outside
California
’s hull—Bullfrog looked for a second round of thumbs-up from his SEALs.  With everyone’s equipment working properly, he got the confirmation he needed.  He unlocked the outer hatch.  The SEALs swam up and out of the trunk, and into the blackness of the Atlantic Ocean.

Emerging from the submarine’s steel casing, the SEALs gathered by the hatch, a pod of warrior animals hovering in the deep. 
California
was rock steady as she hovered beneath the undulating silver surface.  Fighting a current, the SEALs followed glowing green lights toward the boat’s sail.  The first swimmer shone his light there, while another SEAL swam over to the storage lockers dotting its vertical side.

One locker was opened.  Several bullet-shaped black scooters were removed and distributed to the team.  Although each man was a world-class athlete, the vehicles would cut down on transit time and unnecessary fatigue.  Another locker sprang open.  A SEAL pulled out two plastic cylinders that contained collapsed inflatable boats.  Four more SEALs exited the lockout trunk on
California
’s spine and swam to assemble with the rest of their team.  With the trunk’s outer hatch shut, Bullfrog took a compass reading, and pointed into the distance.  They started their scooters, moved along the submarine’s hull, and then passed over
California
’s extended dive planes and domed bow.  Headed for the outer beach of East Falkland Island’s Button Bay, the 13 combat swimmers were quickly swallowed by dark waters.  With her special forces away,
California
nosed down and went deep.

◊◊◊◊

A thick soup of shore fog veiled the rocky sand of Button Bay’s beach, and gentle waves rhythmically lapped it.  There was a glint off a diver’s mask.  Gaping barrels and silhouettes emerged from the surf.  The SEALs slowly and silently came ashore and disappeared into the swaying brush that lined the beach’s crest.

Up the embankment, just beyond the line of seaweed that marked high-tide, among clumps of tall grass, the members of SEAL Team 5 waited.  They were plants and rocks to anyone who might have been watching.  They allowed Fagan and his SAS troop to walk up on them before standing.  Bullfrog looked to the woman and child accompanying the Prince and the SAS troop.

“Who the hell are these people?” Bullfrog demanded, his eyes and teeth standing out bright against the black grease paint on his face.  “I have orders to retrieve one royal pain in the ass, no one else,” he said, with the apparent contempt of a colonial.

Albert turned to Fagan, and said: “Major, I am not leaving this island without them.”

“Captain, I will get them to safety, get them to Mount Pleasant air base.”

“Negative.  They are coming with me.  That’s an order.”  His eyes bored into Bulldog.

Annie and Linda looked to Albert and smiled.  Major Fagan went to the American.  They huddled for a talk.

Annie shuffled over to the other Americans.  These were the first she had ever met, and could not resist asking where they were from.

“New York,” one SEAL said.

“Oh, I have seen it in movies,” Annie grew excited.  “And you, mister?”

“California.”

“Oh.  Ever been to Disneyland?” she asked with a bounce.  The SEAL smiled and nodded yes.  Annie pointed to the next man.

“Elkhart, Indiana.”

“Never heard of it,” Annie declared, and the SEAL chuckled.  She continued, “Mister?”

“Florida.”

“Florida.  Sounds nice and warm.”  Annie turned to the next shadow that knelt in the grass with his rifle pointed at the dirt.

“Texas, little missy.  Austin, Texas.”

“Ever been to the Alamo?” Annie asked, having read all about the famous fort in school.

“All right,” Bullfrog interrupted, “That’s enough chit-chat. Let’s get out of here.”

Annie mumbled, “Sorry,” and retreated to her mother’s arm.  She whispered that the Americans spoke English in a funny way.

A few moments later, Albert, Annie, and Linda were aboard inflatable boats and motored with the SEALs out onto Choiseul Sound.  The SAS took up position on the beach to cover their escape.  Albert waved to Fagan.  Fagan waved back.  SEALs were prone in the bows, searching for Argentine patrol boats.

The inflatables sped past Middle Island, and out to the Argentine Sea, and as the ride grew rougher and the Falklands sank on the horizon line, a shape appeared ahead.  It was long and black, and its back was covered with drops of water that sparkled in the moonlight.

“Look, mummy, there’s some sort of sea monster,” Annie said.  Linda squinted to see the form that loomed larger and larger as they approached.  Soon they were alongside the long, cylindrical hull of
California
.  Commander Wolff stood there, as did the executive officer and other officers-of-the-watch.  Despite the danger, they had surfaced the submarine for the rendezvous.  The SEALs and their guests were hustled aboard.  As soon as they were inside and the hatches closed, Commander Wolff returned his boat to her natural element: deep beneath the waves.