The Huey landed near the Apache and several uniformed men emerged from the cabin door. As they deployed, Albert recognized the soldier’s weapons as FN FAL battle rifles, completely outgunning Albert and his little Glock. An Argentine officer jumped out. He had a submachine gun slung from his shoulder. Pivoting and pointing, he directed his men to spread out and search. Then, frighteningly, he seemed to look straight at Albert. A hot, prickly rush shot throughout Albert’s body. He ducked behind the rock and held his pistol close. He caught his breath, and, looking again, saw he had not yet been spotted.
Major Ezequiel Vargas swept his flashlight around the wreck of the downed British helicopter. He walked as his subordinates ran about. Vargas stopped at Donnan’s grave and lifted the cracked flight helmet off the stick. Looking inside, he read the owner’s name: Lt. D. Bruce written on a piece of masking tape; a mark Albert had not been aware of, and had neglected to find and remove. Vargas knew this name, had heard it in an intelligence brief. He also knew with whom this particular co-pilot/gunner had shared the helicopter.
“Albert Talbot,” Vargas snickered. “Crown Prince of the United Kingdom.”
As a member of the forces that had occupied Argentinian land and killed Argentinian sons, Albert was Vargas’s chief quarry for the campaign. That the Prince was on Las Islas Malvinas proved that Argentine preparations for war had gone unnoticed, that their deceptions had worked, and that the British considered another attempt to seize the islands by force as highly unlikely. Capturing the Prince would be Vargas’s royal prize, the ultimate leverage, a tool of barter worth the return of Las Islas Malvinas to the republic once-and-for-all. However, Vargas’s mission did not include desecration of graves. He was, after all, a soldier. Carefully, Vargas returned the British pilot’s helmet to its perch. One of his team approached and reported.
“Mayor, no se encontró ninguna señal de el piloto.” There was no sign of the pilot that had obviously survived the crash.
“Extenderse,” Vargas ordered his men to spread out.
Vargas spotted a boot print in the dirt. His trained eyes then scanned a circle around it. He saw a pressed tuft of grass where a man had lain. Vargas moved to it and crouched. He looked for the next telltale, and found it in a rock that had been kicked over, moved from the depression within which it had sat for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Vargas picked up the rock. He lifted his flashlight beam to float over a nearby crag. Defensible, protected from the wind. That is where I would be, Vargas thought. He signaled to two of his men, who ran over. Vargas swung his Star Z-84 submachine gun up to cover the two Argentinians advanced toward the cliff.
“Shit,” Albert muttered. He could feel the approach of an enemy in the primitive stem of his brain. The fatigued, though otherwise rational part of his mind, wondered wishfully if Argentine prisoner camps were as famous for steak as the rest of the country. He chuckled mirthlessly. He looked to his pistol, and then to the grenades. He had an idea.
Albert found a small slab of rock, placed it in the entrance to the grotto, and wedged a grenade beneath it. He pulled the pin, but made sure to keep the weapon’s safety lever from springing. He quietly collected his items and placed them in the rucksack. As he did so, he carefully avoided his little trap. He scurried out of the hole.
Wrapped in pitch-black night, Albert made his way along the cliff, away from where he heard pursuing footfalls. He balanced along a spit of rock and tucked into a vertical crevasse. There was a flash and a bang.
Albert peeked around the lip of rock. He saw smoke billow from the grotto. Two enemy soldiers had thrown in a grenade that would stun anybody inside, and with a nod to Vargas and then one another, stormed the grotto. A muffled explosion told everybody there that they had triggered Albert’s grenade trap. Within the confined grotto, the over-pressure and shrapnel had been lethal. Outside, Vargas swore and waved away the resultant smoke. He waited a moment and then entered. The slaughter he saw within was evident on his face when he reemerged. Frustrated, Vargas looked around. This time he caught sight of Albert’s head. Summoned by the explosion, other soldiers had arrived, too.
Clinging precariously to the cliff wall, Albert fought against his concussion-diminished balance. The rocky beach was not far below. So, when Albert lost his footing and grip on the nearly sheer cliff-face, he fell backward onto his rucksack.
The impact forced the air from his lungs. Albert gasped to replace it. He rolled against the cliff-base and slid beneath an overhang. He lay in the wet sand, caught his breath there, and then rolled over and up to flee. Flashlights danced on the beach around him. One blob of light settled where Albert’s body had left an impression in the pebbles. From above, came urgent shouts in Spanish. Shards of spalled rock began to fall around Albert. They’re coming down, he realized.
When he heard voices near, Albert, pistol at the ready, gathered his courage, and stepped out. Aiming up the cliff, he saw three forms rappelling down ropes. The gun barked as he emptied it. Having sent 17 bullets in just a few seconds, he managed to mortally wound two pursuers. One man fell to a pointed rock, the crack sickening Albert. The other dangled from the rope that had caught his ankle, and swung dead in the wind. Before Albert rolled back under the protective space, he caught Vargas’s cold gaze.
Vargas pointed at Albert. That jabbing digit said: ‘I recognize you; You are mine.’ Albert’s heart pounded from adrenalin. His hand shook when he tried to seat a fresh magazine in the pistol’s well. He finally found the space in the grip, smacked the plastic magazine home, and released the slide, chambering the first round. Albert felt his chest pocket. The bulge and weight of a grenade was evident. He heard the helicopter again. Its engine whined as it spun up and increased power for take-off. Albert tried to remember if he had seen any armament on the aircraft. Regardless, he decided he had better find cover.
An eerie silence enveloped the area. For a fleeting moment, Albert thought that the helicopter had departed the area, and sped off in another direction, but a roar washed this notion away, and the Argentine Huey dropped along the cliff-line. It dipped its bulbous nose toward where Albert had squeezed into a crack. It screamed in, and came parallel to Albert’s position.
Albert saw the flashes from the open cabin door. He heard the ricochet of the bullets that impacted around him, and swore aloud as he tried to stuff himself further into the folds of rock. He heard a blast from above. Albert craned his neck to see the source of the deafening sound. And then, another blast, making his ears ring. He saw smoke erupt from the helicopter’s engine pod and red lights flashing on its cockpit panel. Pilot silhouettes played their controls as they nursed the Huey’s single Lycoming turbo-shaft engine.
As a helicopter pilot, Albert could see the movements as frantic. Most pilot movements were controlled and fluid. However, these shadows moved with an air of panic. The smoke and human iterations said the machine had been injured. The Huey bucked as its problems were compounded by failing systems. The shadows in its cabin grabbed handholds. When stable, they shifted the aim point of their rifles. No longer focused on Albert, they were instead trained on the cliff-top. One of the rifles flashed. Albert heard the supersonic zing of a bullet travelling overhead. They’re no longer shooting at me, he thought. Another form in the Huey’s cabin smacked the head of the rifleman who had fired. The shooting ceased.