Albert came face-to-face with an Apache. He saw his wan reflection in the cockpit glass. The helicopter’s belly cannon aimed right at him and the nose ball turret mount looked like a proud chin, jutting from between the cheek avionics bays. Slung from the stub wings he observed four Hellfires, and, on the opposite side, the launcher for CRV7 rockets and a single blue-bodied Stinger air-to-air missile. Albert reached out and touched the Apache’s cold metal skin.
He felt an electrical shock when he made contact. It had bitten him like the dangerous animal it was. A technician came around. Albert hoped the man had not seen the doubt in his eyes, and walked away. As he strode to the hangar office, he repeated to himself: Keep calm and carry on.
Everyone had assembled in the hangar’s office. The base commander strutted over, a print-out clutched in his white-knuckled hand.
“Gentlemen, we are left with several machines, and we are going to use them. Prince Albert has joined our ranks, and, despite my vehement protests, insists on taking to the air. Reports are sketchy. Here is what we know: At 0300, Argentina commenced invasion operations. We believe the opening moves included the seizure of an offshore oil rig, an attempt to assassinate or capture the Prince at Government House, bombardment of Stanley Airport, the landing of troops at Mare Harbour and Stanley, and what may have been a truck bomb at the marine barracks. We have also lost feeds from the three mountain-top radars, and must assume them to be in enemy hands or destroyed. As we all know, enemy commandos also tried to land here at Mount Pleasant. They did not succeed. However, saboteurs were able to destroy all but one of the Typhoons belonging to No. 1435 Flight. They got a Special Air Service EH101 Merlin. Just two of the recently delivered AH Mark 1 Apaches are intact, with one suffering minor damage. The Globemaster is safe, and we will evacuate the wounded and the governor with it. There are no friendly ships close enough to offer immediate assistance. His Majesty’s Ship Iron Duke left these waters four days ago and is probably half way to Portsmouth by now. As far as we know, we have no submarines in the vicinity. There is no word from the other towns on the islands, and we have been attempting to contact London. Unfortunately, it seems all the satellite relays have been disabled. It is also apparent that at least some operation participants were locals. So, we must assume some of the population is hostile. I would guess Argentina kept the initial invasion forces light to keep us from detecting their build-up, but we must also assume that heavier forces are on the way. With just one Typhoon left in theater, it is obvious that the enemy has air superiority. Regardless, we will use what we have left to challenge this status. Our plan is to defend our base — and by extension the approaches on Darwin Road, and the town of East Cove — as well as harass enemy operations until we receive instructions, are reinforced, or are relieved. Once the runway is clear, the Typhoon will escort the Globemaster out, with an Apache providing perimeter cover. We will keep the second Apache in reserve. We have also formed anti-air teams, armed with Javelins.”
A soldier entered the hangar and spoke with the commander. “Excellent. The runway is clear. Right then. The transport will fly out in ten minutes. Captain Talbot. Lieutenant Bruce. Man your Apache.” The base commander turned to the Typhoon pilot. Knowing the man would be going up alone, flying without a wingman for cover, he said: “Captain, to your aircraft.”
The C-17 Globemaster III had already lined-up with the runway and held for take-off. Beneath the strategic airlifter’s angled wings, four turbo-fans increased power. The Typhoon was already airborne, circling overhead at high altitude. All by its lonesome, it would try to keep enemy fighters off the C-17’s back.
Albert hovered the Apache near the base’s eastern perimeter fence. He was to handle any enemy anti-air teams that popped-up in the base’s surrounds. He scanned the terrain with the Apache’s night vision system. The exposed hilltops and wide-open ground would make it easy to spot any threats at a distance. He turned his head to the runway’s apron. The C-17’s bright strobes flashed and, with brakes released and engines whining, began to roll. Overhead, the Typhoon banked with a scream and “Greyling two-nine, on guard” came over the Apache’s radio as the fighter checked in.
Slowly at first, the big transport moved down the runway. Then, belying its size, it accelerated quickly. Donnan and Albert scanned the horizon for trouble. With nothing on their night vision system, they waited as the transport rotated and lumbered into the air. Its navigation and landing gear lights were immediately extinguished. The C-17 tucked its wheels away, and then banked south to avoid trouble.
“Bandits, inbound,” the Typhoon pilot reported, his voice strained by the high-G turn he was performing. “I count four. Greyling two-nine: Engaging.”
The Typhoon turned into the enemy four-ship. Determined to keep the bad guys as far away from the climbing C-17 as possible, the pilot nudged his throttles past the stop and into afterburner.
Raw fuel dumped into the engines’ exhaust, ignited, and kicked the Typhoon past Mach 2. Using its PIRATE — Passive Infra-Red Airborne Tracking Equipment — Greyling 29 recognized the shape of the approaching bandits. Flying triangles with twin streams of hot thrust, the British pilot knew he faced Mirages, a French-built delta-winged supersonic fighter aircraft. The Typhoon pilot looked to his weapon read-out.
Just one Meteor air-to-air missile was on its station, and there were only 300 rounds of 27-millimeter ammunition for the Mauser BK-27 revolver cannon. Looking through the canopy and off to his right, he lamented the fact that no one was on his wing; no friend to protect his six. The sky was awfully dark and the Typhoon was awfully alone. Regardless, Greyling 29’s pilot threw the aircraft at his adversaries and closed fast with them.
Donnan tilted the Apache’s night vision turret skyward as he attempted to locate the Typhoon. Stars streaked across the cockpit screens. Like comets, they trailed white and green. A solid green line appeared. Tail-fire… he thought. An air-to-air missile. Morse code-like tracer fire shot from the Typhoon. He witnessed two high-altitude explosions as the Typhoon bested two Mirages.
A big aircraft broke from among high-altitude clouds and rolled inverted. It was painted in tiger-striped greys, and sported the flag of the Argentine Republic high on both of its twin tails. Marked along the fuselage in black letters was: Fuerza Aérea Argentina. The aircraft was one of two J-11s in Argentina’s inventory, a pirated Chinese copy of the formidable Russian Flanker heavy air superiority fighter, provided to Buenos Aires in kit form as part of an ore-for-hardware counter-trade. At its stick was one of the Argentine Air Force’s best: Captain Lucas Moreno. As Moreno began to shed altitude, he kept the radar off to minimize emissions and instead relied upon a small fish-eye lens mounted in his Flanker’s canopy.
This infrared search and track system detected and displayed the heat emitted by his enemy, and thus found the British Typhoon as it trailed the last aircraft that belonged to a three-ship flight Argentina had assigned to patrol the block of airspace over the British airbase. When the Typhoon took to the air, they had raced in to engage. The Typhoon — a formidable machine with a skilled pilot at the controls — had, despite numerical disadvantage, turned the tables, and the Argentine Mirages let out a desperate call for backup.