Albert emerged next to a toppled pile of paint cans that had concealed the door within the garage workshop. Fagan scanned the room. There were tables, racks of tools, and garden implements. He signaled Albert, who emerged, followed by the governor and his Uzi. The governor used his key to unlock the workshop door and opened it just a crack. He peeked through to the garage proper.
“All clear,” the governor proclaimed.
Albert and Fagan followed him to the garage where two Land Rovers were parked. The glow of fire flickered through the small windows lining the top of the garage’s door. The mansion is burning, the fact hit Albert. Again, using the key, the governor opened a wall-mounted lock-box. He removed a key FOB that would start one of the vehicles.
“I’ll drive,” Governor Moody declared. As the governor knew the roads, neither Albert nor Fagan argued. They piled into the Land Rover. Major Fagan took the governor’s Uzi, slapped in a fresh magazine, and handed Albert his nine-millimeter pistol.
“You get in back and stay down,” Fagan instructed Albert. With pistol in his dominant hand and the shotgun cupped in the other, Albert rolled over the rear seat and into the back of the Land Rover.
The governor started the vehicle and opened the garage door with a remote that hung on the shade. As the door rose slowly, the governor revved the engine.
Impatient with the slow door he yelled: “Sod it,” and reversed out, splintering the edge of the wooden portal. He spun the Land Rover around in the driveway, rocking its boxy body, and squealed its wide knobby tires.
Small arms fire plinked off the armored vehicle’s sides as the last of the enemy assault force had turned its fire from the mansion guards to the escaping Land Rover. Through a gun-port in the Land Rover’s door, Fagan sprayed bullets back at the offenders.
“We must get the Prince to Mount Pleasant,” the governor said as they sped away. He glanced at the burning mansion in the rearview mirror, and passed a fire truck racing there. The Land Rover’s engine revved and shifted through gears as they accelerated. “Anyone want some air? It is a bit stuffy in here,” the governor said with utter calmness. Albert and the soldier shared a smile of mutual admiration for the rock-steady governor.
The Land Rover’s wheels screeched as the governor turned past ‘1982 Liberation Monument’ and Thatcher Drive, and then onto Reservoir Road.
“Look out,” Albert yelled as they almost smashed into an ambulance pulling out of King Edward VII Memorial Hospital. They zoomed by Scotia House Bed & Breakfast where tourists had emerged to gawk at the raging fire at Government House. Darting through light traffic, they passed residences on the left, and the Community School and Library on the right, and then a satellite dish that Argentine guerillas had wrecked, by driving a delivery truck through the small complex’s perimeter fence
“London has no idea, do they?” Fagan asked.
The governor and Albert stole a glance at one another. Now on Darwin Road and quickly leaving the urban area of Stanley behind, the road narrowed and its surface changed from asphalt to loose gravel.
The Land Rover’s big tires and heavy weight came into their own, biting in and keeping the vehicle stable. With much of the city’s lights extinguished, it was easy to see the night aglow with scattered fires. Each illuminated rising columns of smoke. The three men stared ahead in silence.
In the vehicle’s squinted headlights, the road narrowed further, and, edged by drainage ditches, threatened to grab the wheels of the speeding Land Rover. Winding among hillocks, the vehicle began to rock back and forth as the governor skillfully followed Darwin Road. Albert looked out through the big rectangle frame of the rear window.
Two bright dots appeared in the tail of dust that the Land Rover left in its wake.
“Governor?” Albert mumbled.
“Yes, I know. We’re being followed.”
The governor stepped on the accelerator. The Land Rover lowered and pitched forward as more horsepower was put to the road. There was tapping at the Land Rover’s side and windows. What they first thought was kicked up gravel was in fact small arms fire.
Fagan grabbed the shotgun and opened a side window. Cool sea air blasted inside. He leaned out, and, with successive booms that made Albert’s ears ring, emptied the shotgun at their pursuer. Behind them, the bright headlights swerved.
Fagan chucked the empty shotgun to the front passenger seat.
“Uzi, please,” he requested. Albert handed him the square, stubby submachine gun. Fagan fired. Ejected cartridges clinked against the window as he emptied the magazine with a ripping sound. In the rear-view mirror, the governor saw tracer rounds trail off like laser beams. They sparked as they impacted the front of the pursuing vehicle. The chasing headlights swerved again. Then they tumbled one over the other as the pursuers crashed. One light flickered and extinguished as the wrecked vehicle came to rest upside down.
“Bastards,” Fagan yelled into the night, then leaned back in and kissed the stock of the Israeli-made weapon.
The speeding Land Rover went airborne as they topped a small hill. Zooming down the other side, they saw a big fire raging in the distance.
“That’s at the airport,” the governor concluded. A trail of fire shot across the sky. It reached from offshore and toward where the fire was already burning. A new fireball bloomed as it impacted the ground. “The airport is being pummeled.”
Fagan picked up binoculars and looked to sea, where a merchantman sat at anchor. It was a container ship, its decks covered by multi-colored forty-foot steel boxes, the kind that electronics and spare parts are shipped in. Except these seemed to contain surface-to-surface missiles.
Fagan watched as the top of a container lifted. A missile tilted up on its launcher and ignited. It slid off its rail and arced into the sky and at the island. Club-K Container Missile System, Major Fagan realized, recognizing the Russian weapon from an intelligence briefing. He panned his view over to Stanley’s dock.
At the dock, a small cruise ship was berthed. Men in uniform disembarked and made their way inland.
“My God, it’s a full-scale invasion,” Fagan said.
A shockwave shook the Land Rover. In the distance, a fireball mushroomed as it rose.
“That was the fuel tank farm at Mare Harbour,” the infuriated governor said. He had considered the attack on Government House as a terrorist attack, with potential perpetrators ranging from the IRA to Al-Qaeda, but it was now obvious that this was much more.
In stunned silence, Albert, Fagan, and Governor Moody sped along Darwin Road and toward the Royal Air Force Base at Mount Pleasant.
“The radio,” the governor realized. “In the glove compartment.” Fagan fumbled it open and revealed the small transmitter/receiver. He pawed at the microphone, stretched the coiled wire, and clicked the transmit button.
“Any station, any station, this is Major Scott Fagan, 22 SAS Regiment, over.” A warbling static was all they heard over the speaker. “There’s jamming.”
“Try again,” the governor advised.
“RAF Mount Pleasant, RAF Mount Pleasant, we are inbound with a special package. On Darwin Road, light-green Land Rover, diplomatic plates, over.” For a moment, they heard a response in English, though it was cut off by high-pitched interference. Then, briefly, there was Spanish.
“Culebra dos zero dos, tratando-”
A searchlight appeared. It reflected off the calm dark waters of Bluff Cove.
“What’s this then?” Albert huffed.
The armed scout helicopter announced its arrival with bright yellow flashes and a burst of fire from its slung machine gun pods.