“Bollocks,” the governor shouted.
The Land Rover swerved and leaned precariously as geysers of dust erupted along the roadside. The silhouette of the enemy helicopter flashed again, and the sound of its three-bladed rotor hacked at the night. Albert studied the aircraft’s silhouette as the governor did his best to avoid the bullets that impacted around them.
“That’s a Chinese Z-11. Twelve-point-seven-millimeter guns,” Albert recognized.
“Our armor cannot stop that big a round,” the governor said. He yanked the wheel over. The Land Rover left the confines of the road, bouncing hard. Albert hit his head against the roof. The governor swerved the Land Rover through the wet grass and mud as he tried to make it a difficult target. They rounded a boulder dropped eons ago by a receding glacier. On the other side was a vehicle full of men.
One had a rocket tube on his shoulder. There was a blinding bright flash, and the governor skidded to a halt, but the missile streaked over them. Albert, the governor, and the major ducked and braced as an explosion rocked the Land Rover. Turning around, they saw the helicopter, swallowed by fire, fold in half and drop to the rocky ground. Bits of earth and rock pitter-pattered on the vehicle roof. In the Land Rover’s headlights, they recognized the men as Royal Marines.
“Hurrah,” the governor shouted.
They approached the main gate of Mount Pleasant air force base. Beyond the fence-line, at the end of the base’s runway, sat a wrecked jetliner. Firefighting foam surrounded its scorched fuselage, and smoke curled from where its ceiling had burned through. The governor recognized the jetliner’s tail markings as belonging to the Chilean national airline, though the jet seemed to be an older model, one that did not belong to this airline’s modern fleet. Then Governor Moody remembered his war-game briefings: enemy special forces would land by ship and aircraft, likely commercial ones using distress calls to open otherwise closed doors. In the case of RAF Mount Pleasant, it was apparent the attempt had failed. Beyond the wreckage was a big yellow bulldozer that had been parked on the runway. Moved there in haste, it had sheared the jetliner’s landing gear, ripped open its belly, and caused it to crash and burn.
Fagan pointed out several other smoking piles of metal on the airfield’s apron, and saw one of the base’s fire trucks spraying what appeared to be a destroyed helicopter. Despite the inferno it had suffered, Albert recognized its form as belonging to an Apache. He wondered if it had been his loyal machine.
Led by the marines, the Land Rover approached the main gate’s sandbagged heavy machine gun positions. A guard signaled them to halt, and, with his pistol brandished, approached the vehicle.
“Hello,” Albert said to the stunned officer.
“Blimey,” was all the man could say. He signaled for support. Several others jogged up carrying their SA80 carbines. Albert got out and was encircled, a shield of flesh and steel formed around him.
“The governor,” Albert insisted. The governor abandoned the vehicle and joined the Prince in the middle of the circle. “I owe you my life,” Albert shook his hand.
“A life certainly worth living,” the governor said with a smile. Albert nodded acknowledgement. With Major Fagan in tow, they all moved inside the base’s perimeter and to the main building. Once there they were introduced to a very busy looking officer, Mount Pleasant’s commander.
“There is a transport waiting on the tarmac. As soon as we clear that wreckage,” the base commander said, pointing out a window to the burnt-out jetliner, “We will have you on your way.”
“What’s that all about?” Fagan queried.
“An airliner transmitted a mayday — claimed engine trouble — and we cleared it for an emergency landing. Then all hell broke loose. When we realized what was happening, I had heavy equipment driven out, and the tower warned them off. As you see, they did not heed this warning. The airliner landed smack on top of a bulldozer. The enemy assault force was consumed while strapped in their seats,” the commander said. Although he was glad his men did not have to contend with them, he nonetheless felt sadness for the means of their demise.
“Which of our aircraft survived the attack?” Albert asked.
“One Typhoon and a few helicopters. Luckily, the C-17 was safe in the maintenance hangar and under guard. Infiltrators got the rest.” He pounded his fist. “They managed to take out the satellite link. So, I doubt London even knows what is going on.”
“Infiltrators?” the governor asked.
“Locals. They had worked on-base for years. One of them was a fuel bowser driver, and at least one was a trusted mechanic. They set explosives, and one crashed a jeep into the Blindfire radar unit at the west end of the facility. Without it, our Rapier surface-to-air missile battery is all but useless.”
“Fiends,” Fagan kicked in.
“But it was not just locals,” the base commander continued. “The airliner was full of Argentinian soldiers. We have one survivor in the infirmary with horrible burns.”
“And the Apaches?” Albert asked.
“Two survived; were saved.”
Having not flown since the attack on Jugroom Fort, and certain he would never fly in battle again, Albert could not believe his next words: “Get me in one.”
“What?”
“We have to get you out of here; off the island. You cannot go gallivanting about a warzone,” the governor said.
“I’m a pilot in His Majesty’s Army, and once you wear the uniform, you’re part of the game. Service to our country will always come first,” Albert affirmed.
“You are the Crown Prince. If anything should happen to you…” the governor worried.
“I have cousins. They can rest their bottoms on the bleeding throne. Get me to an Apache, now.”
“Look, I’m your superior officer, and I order you to stand down. I will not take responsibility for such foolishness,” the base commander asserted.
“Actually — regardless of rank — as Prince, Captain Talbot has the authority,” the governor stated.
“A helicopter, then. And a flight suit,” Albert spoke with calm determination.
“Yes, Captain. The machines and some of your men are in the west hangar.”
“Then that is where I want to be.” Albert turned to the governor and Major Fagan. “Governor Moody, you will get on that transport and as soon as you are beyond the range of enemy jamming, report what you have seen. Tell London we require immediate reinforcement.”
The governor only nodded. Torn between departing — leaving his post — and the orders of his sovereign, he reluctantly complied.
Albert, the accompanying marines, and Fagan entered the hangar. Several pilots readied the two Apache attack helicopters that had survived sabotage. Among the men was Lieutenant Bruce.
“Donnan,” Albert said with relief.
The big Scotsman beamed back.
5: DRAKE’S DRUM
“Duty is the essence of manhood.”
Albert got dressed in the hangar storeroom. His hand shook as he lifted the heavy fire-resistant olive drab flight suit. He ran his thumb over the rough embroidery of his Afghanistan campaign patch. His pulse pounded in his temples, and a click reverberated through his skull as he tensed his jawbone and ground his teeth. He had to concentrate to slow his breathing, and he felt a tingling in his extremities. He began to hyperventilate and squeezed his eyes closed. In the pinkish darkness, he saw fire, and the black silhouette of a little girl. Albert shook the image from his mind. Instead, he remembered the governor’s words: It was an accident. Such things happen in war. Albert’s breathing slowed. You were doing your duty, for King and Country. Albert stepped into his flight suit and zipped up. He donned his light blue beret, and tucked his flight helmet under his arm. He mustered his strength and entered the hangar.