Crown Jewel: The Battle For The Falklands - Plot & Excerpts
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief. That swells with silence in the tortured soul...”—William Shakespeare Prince Albert was jostled awake by turbulence. He looked around the cabin of the chartered British Airways jetliner’s cabin. A Special Air Service commando named Major Scott Fagan peered back at Albert with concern. Besides the seat occupied by this hyper-aware bodyguard, the rest of the jetliner’s first class cabin was empty. Albert smiled thinly, a signal to Fagan that he was fine. A curtain separated the front of the aircraft from the rest of the cabin.Beyond this partition sat the others in Albert’s entourage, mostly well-connected journalists and government officials. Despite Albert’s request, the rest of his army unit suffered the confines and slung canvas seats of a Royal Air Force C-17 Globemaster III, so the jetliner was mainly empty. Albert detected the smell of fresh brewed coffee.His ears were clogged. As people began fishing carry-ons from overhead compartments, the clicks of the latches sounded distant to him, and the background drone of the airplane’s engines was muffled. In an attempt to clear his ears, Albert pinched his nose and puffed up his cheeks. Then he felt a change in air pressure. The aircraft had begun its initial descent. We must be close to our destination, Albert surmised. He lifted the window shade, the blinding sun making him wince. It reminded him he had drunk too much the night before. The wispy clouds parted, and the green outline of an island appeared upon the vast blue ocean.‘Speedbird 926’—the air traffic control call-sign of the Prince’s flight—emerged from a thick cloud bank that had settled over North Falkland Sound. The flight crossed the north coast of West Falkland at Pebble Island. Passengers pressed faces to the small, oval portals to survey the peak of Mount Adam and the town in its shadow: Hill Cove. Turning east over King George Bay, Speedbird 926 stepped down in altitude. It then banked over the scrubby island and broke over Falkland Sound, the waterway that separated the two main islands. Squinting through his headache, Albert recognized the geography of East Falkland, as well as locales from the Falklands War: Fanning Head, where 3 Special Boat Service had cleared Argentine positions; and, Goose Green and Darwin, where 2nd Battalion, Parachute Regiment had retaken the area from a large and well-equipped Argentine task force.The aircraft banked low over Grantham Sound and along the Sussex Mountains, then pointed its nose at distant Mount Challenger and flew past Top Malo where a skirmish had been fought between elements of 3 Commando Brigade and determined Argentine Special Forces. On the horizon was Stanley—the capital of the Falkland Islands—and the airport where the Prince’s flight would land. He heard the distinctive whine of extending flaps, and a bang and suction as the landing gear lowered.The British Airways jet floated in over Stanley Harbour. Albert saw the crossed runways that comprised Royal Air Force Base Mount Pleasant. Eurofighter Typhoons—sleek twin-engined, canard-delta wing, multirole fighter aircraft—were parked at the military airfield. There were Apache helicopters as well, one of which belonged to Donnan and Albert. This made Albert think of his mate who was being shuttled along with others aboard the giant military transport. ‘Flying steerage class,’ is what Donnan had called it. Albert missed the verdant British Isles—especially after the desolation of Afghanistan—so, even the grasslands of the Falklands felt welcoming. Vortices streamed off the wingtips of Speedbird 926 as it lined up with the single east-west runway of Port Stanley Airport.The ground reached up. The airliner flared before gently settling upon the black asphalt. The tires screeched. The occupants heard the muffled scream of reversing turbo-jets followed by the squeal of brakes. The jetliner slowed and taxied toward the terminal.Cabin pressure equalized with sea level and the flight crew opened the cockpit windows and poked two flags out: that of the United Kingdom—the ‘Union Jack’—and the Prince’s coat-of-arms. When they stopped rolling and the engines shutdown, Albert stood and straightened his tired body.The cabin door yawned open. Cold, salty air blasted inside, bringing droplets from the drizzly grey day. Albert felt the damp in his bones and, surprisingly, missed the dry furnace of Afghanistan. An attendant deployed an umbrella and held it over Albert as he stepped on to the truck-mounted staircase that had ‘FIGAS’—Falkland Islands Government Air Service—painted on its ramped side.A cheer erupted from the waiting crowd, and small Union Jacks waved frantically. Albert rendered a smile. A ceremonial guard stood in formation at the bottom of the stairs. At rigid attention, they formed a gauntlet that led to several waiting vehicles. A military band struggled to be heard above the howling wind.◊◊◊◊Despite inclement weather, Albert rode in a convertible and waved to loyal subjects. In the other vehicles—mostly armored Land Rovers—heavily-armed men comprised the motorcade’s security detail. The procession made its way along Ross Road on Stanley’s waterfront.Young girls screamed like at a Beatles concert, old men saluted, and, among the throng, Argentine eyes took note. The vehicles rolled by Christ Church Cathedral and Whalebone Arch, passed Victory Green, and then on toward Government House where Albert would be welcomed by, and become a guest of, Governor Roger Moody.The motorcade turned from Ross Road and onto the shady grove of Government House Road. Albert saw the whitewashed stone mansion where he would stay.Perched on a small hilltop, Government House stood over a manicured lawn where cloud shadows, caught in the erratic wind, played their ways across the grounds. It had big windows that looked out over the sea, staring as though waiting for a love’s return. The mansion’s northern façade was dominated by a conservatory, and tall brick chimneys poked from its green-grey roof. Smoke from warming fires floated from their caps before being caught and carried away by the stiff and ever-present breeze. Built in 1845 and home to all London-appointed governors since, Government House stood watch over Stanley Harbour.◊◊◊◊Albert sat cradled in an overstuffed wing chair next to a roaring fire that warmed him. A butler stood by to refill the Prince’s heavy crystal tumbler with whiskey. Depression and jet lag had combined to exhaust Albert. He felt sleep was upon him. The drink was slipping from his relaxed clutches. A pop from the walls awakened Albert with a spasm. The old building cooled in the evening. Its bones—beams and joists—had been crafted from parts of whaling ships that used to ply the rich waters around the Falklands. They made sounds as if they were still being stretched and twisted by the sea.“Your Royal Highness,”
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