Despite many surgeries in Argentina’s best hospitals, Amsel remained wheelchair-bound. It was in this chair that Amsel had turned inward, trained his substantial intellect, and nurtured knowledge with a voracious appetite for the written word.
Amsel sat among the rows of tall tome-filled shelves at the University of Buenos Aires’s library, where spears of light pierced the reading room’s arched windows and illuminated the piles of leather-bound books that surrounded him. Surrounded by paper ramparts, he greedily consumed the contents of classics and revolutionaries alike. All the while, the beams of day light crossed the desk and climbed the shelves, marking the passage of so much time. It was within this library that Amsel was noticed by, and met, an Argentinian student named Beatriz.
Beatriz had looked beyond Amsel’s shattered legs, past his cold eyes, and peered deep into Amsel’s mind. It was there, among the twisted folds and spongy matter that Beatriz became enamored with him. It was there, in the darkness of a foreign mind, that Beatriz was seduced. One night — fascinated by the immobile professor who had taught her more about her world and self than any other— Beatriz had straddled and mounted Amsel. Their daughter, Valeria, was born nine months later.
One day, not long after, Beatriz found Amsel’s SS Totenkopfverbände pin. The ‘Death’s Head’ had adorned Amsel’s black cap as he ordered women and children to the showers. It was the only memento of those ‘happy days’ he had kept. His vanity backfired, however, as Beatriz found and studied the silver skull and crossbones. With Valeria squirming and screaming in her bassinette, Beatriz confronted Amsel and, during the argument, Amsel stabbed Beatriz. Her frail young body then folded on the kitchen floor where she bled out.
After this ‘cooking accident,’ as the police had labeled it, Amsel raised Valeria on his own, providing her with an education, several languages, and the belief that power was life’s ultimate goal. Valeria had grown quickly as Amsel’s temples greyed, and as his sharp nose came to support thick glasses. Meanwhile, he had become a trusted advisor to the Argentine government.
Amsel was admired for his cold, hard political advice and vast repository of information. Soon thereafter, the government had the university bestow an honorary doctorate upon him, and it was from this point on that the former Nazi became Doctor Waldemar Amsel, or, to those who sought his counsel, simply, ‘Herr Doctor.’
Like any good Nazi, Amsel despised Communism, and was happy to be instrumental in the design and implementation of Operation Condor, Argentina’s Guerra Sucia—the ‘Dirty War’—during which Amsel handpicked most of those to be ‘disappeared.’ When Argentina’s economy faltered and indignation spread, threatening the dictatorship, Admiral Anaya convinced then-president General Galtieri that an invasion of Las Islas Malvinas was just the nationalist ticket they needed. Amsel, with first-hand insight into British determination, and with an understanding of their military capabilities at the time, warned the regime against such an undertaking. Although history had shown these men wrong and Amsel right, they had all come and gone. Amsel, however, remained. As for the British, Amsel thought, that was then, and this is now. Amsel re-tuned his gaze to the video screen. Valeria flowed around the room and the squirming ministers.
Valeria had taken her mother’s surname for political purposes. Thanks to her father’s powerful allies, she experienced a meteoric rise in the National Congress and soon rose to the presidency. Through his daughter, Amsel — a master marionetteer — had pulled the strings of the Argentine Republic. He watched as Valeria addressed the Military Council. Despite his advanced age, he yielded to his one admitted weakness and lit a cigarette. Amsel smiled broadly. He was filled with pride in his daughter; his creation; his progeny. Close to making those who had toppled the Reich bleed, Amsel overflowed with happiness, and he chuckled. Through wisps of blue tobacco smoke, Amsel focused on the office video screen and turned up the volume on the small desktop speaker. Although his Spanish was permeated by a Germanic accent and never quite became fluent, and despite Valeria’s native rattling diction, Amsel understood and savored each of her words.
“Since the War of the South Atlantic…” Valeria’s husky voice demanded attention, and invited no questions. “…the British armed forces have been gutted, and their precious Royal Navy is a former shadow of itself.” She had studied the speeches of Bill Clinton, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Barack Obama, Evita Peron, and Ronald Reagan — all speakers she and her father admired — and borrowed articulation and nuances from each, incorporating them into her own style. While the words were carefully compiled by her father, Valeria’s presentation was totally her own, and was made all the more effective by her stunning beauty.
“The aircraft carriers Hermes and Invincible—two names we will forever despise — have been scrapped,” she said. “Their successors — the white elephants of the new Queen Elizabeth-class — have been delayed and plagued by technical problems, and the rest of the British fleet represents half the numbers of the 1980s.” Valeria paused to stare at Admiral Correa. He fidgeted as these points to sank in. To the admiral’s relief, Valeria moved her laser gaze to the air force’s brigadier general, and continued: “The Harrier jump-jets have been retired, and the new F-35s meant to replace them are broken albatrosses, lacking in numbers and are perpetually grounded with one difficulty after another. The British air force no longer has any long-range strike capability, and their army and marines are exhausted from combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. On top of this, their economy is in recession, and the British people are tired from years of expeditionary combat in questionable wars; wars that have drained both treasure and blood.” Valeria cracked a smile. Although happy to let blame fall on the usual suspects, she knew Argentina’s Secretaría de Inteligencia—the nation’s intelligence service — had been responsible for at least half a dozen ‘terrorist’ attacks against British forces in foreign theaters. Like setting plaster, her face again hardened. Valeria continued, “Our own economy is…unstable. This is not due to any fault of our own. It is, however, due to an international banking system dominated by London and New York. A system that punishes us like naughty children. A system that threatens to undermine the hard work and deserved glory of our people.” The volume of Valeria’s voice had risen to emphasize this last word, and then quieted again. “And what is the solution?” She did not wait for volunteered guesses, but provided her own short answer: “Oil and the revenues it brings.”
1: KALAT
“Innocence does not find near so much protection as guilt.”
The Apache, like most United States combat helicopters, had been named for native peoples of the North American continent. The tribe had deservedly been known as fierce warriors, cunning tacticians, and for being led by strategic-thinking chiefs. The Apache assault helicopter was a black and foreboding dragonfly; a formidable tank-killer and general ground support aircraft. The choppers sported air-to-surface missiles, and, slung beneath its sleek fuselage, an automatic cannon. One of these awesome machines sat on the asphalt and concrete tarmac of Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.
It had been built by AgustaWestland in the United Kingdom, and belonged to 662 Squadron, Royal Army Air Corps. The helicopter featured a radar dome atop its four-bladed main rotor. Slabs of thick ballistic cockpit glass surrounded two figures moving within. In the rear pilot’s seat fidgeted His Royal Highness Prince Albert Richard George James Talbot of York — Prince Albert to most.