“Just what you saw. Just my left knocker, there in the cellar,” Linda said with a crooked half-smile. She saw the seriousness in Albert’s stare, and summarized “No. He did not. His men tried, but he stopped them.” Albert looked again at Vargas, who scurried about the road, ducking between licks of fire and smoke, and giving orders. Albert wondered about the man. He saw him in the distortion of heat, and looked to be the demon Albert had accused him of being. Then Albert realized this was too simplistic, and wondered about his enemy’s true nature. He is just a man, Albert concluded. Just a flawed man…like me.
Vargas shielded his face from the heat and inspected the interior of the charred car his prisoners had escaped in. He saw only burning seats; no bodies. Vargas straightened up and scanned the terrain. Pointing, he ordered soldiers off in different directions. The Marder’s turret began to scan the area as its imagery system was brought to bear.
Vargas’s boots clanged on a cow grate that spanned the road. He ran his fingers through tall grass waving above the drainage ditch that marked the road’s edge. He could sense his quarry. Certain they were close by, he felt drawn to their presence. Vargas closed his eyes. His mind’s eye was like a drone, flying over the undulating earth, scanning the folds and troughs of terrain, and zeroing in on where the man, woman, and child hid. Vargas looked at the glass lenses of the Marder’s turret imaging system. He knew this lifeless bug-eyed bank of lenses would not be the way to find those that had escaped him.
Vargas’s greatest motivation was not a hatred for the British Prince, not lust for the woman, nor jealousy of the innocent ignorance still prevalent in a pre-adolescent girl, it was that Doctor Amsel would not accept any excuses. Vargas’s own reputation and standing stood starkly in jeopardy. He knew that if he did not capture Prince Albert and bring him back to be used as leverage, he too might find himself in the basements of the old building at Avenida 25 de Mayo. Vargas would rather kill the Prince than fail. He would rather die himself than fail. However, as he had learned unexpectedly, he would not harm the woman or little girl.
The ghosts of his own family had taught him this, as he stood over the bound child, his sharp V-42 combat knife in hand. Those animals had wanted to rape and hurt the ladies. Vargas, however, confirmed something he had suspected before: He had something in common with his British enemy, and had a semblance of chivalry. Although he had killed men before — men he saw as soldiers in a war against his homeland and regime — Vargas realized he, too, was truly a soldier. Tired of such musings, Vargas drew his Star pistol and strolled off. Soldiers asked after him, and, like the dogs they were, Vargas told them to stay.
When the moment presented itself, and before the enemy spotted them again, Albert, Annie, and Linda ran for the next hill, slipping and sliding. The rain was both a hindrance and a blessing. It limited visibility, weighed down the grass, and concealed their passage. They topped the hill and glided down the opposite side. Albert stopped them when he saw a small, olive-drab disk sticking out of the mud.
“What?” Linda asked as she looked about frantically. She tugged Albert’s shirt; her husband’s old one. “Let’s go,” she insisted, ignorant of the potential instant death which surrounded her.
Albert held Annie still. He raised his bloody hand up and signaled Linda not to move. She recognized the earnestness of his facial expression and froze obediently. Albert studied the ground. He saw more of the disks poking up from the ground. And then it hit him, others were arrayed behind them, between them, and where they had just been. Albert gasped when he realized another was right next to Linda’s foot.
“Don’t move an inch.”
“What are they?”
“Mines. Anti-personnel mines,” Albert said, knowing that, for every one he saw, there were likely several more buried types, and others still that were capable of stopping a tank. He wiped his sweaty face and leaned down to study one device, and recognized the pressure fuse as belonging to a Brazilian-made T-AB-1 land-mine.
“Mines?” Linda said and began to shake visibly. “Annie, stay where you are,” she told her daughter. He voice was as shaky as her body.
“See that disk by your foot?” Albert asked. “Whatever you do, keep off it…off of them.” Albert pointed to the other plastic shapes surrounding them. He realized the farmhouse represented an area command headquarters of sorts, and that the Argentines had sown the approaches with defensive fields. Turning, he could see their last steps, muddy footprints that had filled with rain water. Annie seemed to be beyond the edge of the field. Albert was thankful her little legs had made her slower.
“Okay. Step exactly where I do,” Albert told Linda. He moved slowly and carefully, and lowered his boot into the depression of his last step’s print. He realized Linda’s eyes were rolling back in their sockets; She was about to faint. She wavered and Albert struggled to support her weight. His mangled hand failed, and Linda almost dragged him down as she collapsed into the mud. Annie shrieked, and Albert waited for the explosion that would kill them all. If Linda’s weight triggered an anti-personnel mine, it would jump up out of the ground, explode a few feet up, and spray them with deadly shrapnel and ball bearings. If it were an anti-tank mine, she was likely too light to trigger it. However, if she did, there would be a massive explosion. They would all disappear, leaving just a pink mist floating over a crater. As long moments passed, nothing happened.
“Fancy that,” Albert said with a stressed giggle. For now, he thought, Linda was better off unconscious. He scooped Linda up and folded her over his shoulder. Albert sank into the mud and struggled to escape its suction. He squinted to see in the downpour, and, as gracefully as he could, egressed from the periphery of the minefield, and toward little, bawling Annie. When they were back on the slope, and he was certain they were clear of any signs of the minefield, Albert flopped Linda into the grass. With aching legs, he plopped down. Annie went to Linda and shook her. She was unable to rouse her mother.
“Your mum is all right, Anne. Don’t worry.” Albert rolled onto his belly, scurried up the hillside, and peeked over the crest. The rainfall continued to be heavy, and a mist had risen from the ground. He could hear the Argentine armored vehicle off in the distance, and the voices of a search party. A bell began to toll.
A church spire poked from the fog that blanketed the island. The bell rang out 12 times. Its din — despite the rain and intermittent rumbles of thunder — carried and echoed. Albert scanned east and saw a barn.
The barn’s roof shingles shone green with moss. Its brown wood wallboards were worn and weathered. Fronds of hay poked from between these boards, and little round holes showed where knots had fallen out of the wood. Albert decided this structure would be their immediate objective, a place to hole up, rest, and defend until nightfall. Linda moaned.
“Linda, come on, wake up now,” he said, gently patting her face.
“Mum. Mummy, time to get up,” Annie added.
Linda’s eyes opened and briefly rolled in their sockets. Albert lifted her head by the chin. She looked at him, and then to her daughter. Both girls smiled widely. Annie dropped onto Linda and mugged her with hugs and kisses. Then Annie peeled off her mother to hug Albert. She squeezed him as hard as her little arms could manage.
“I love you,” Annie declared to Albert. Those three words warmed him to the depths of his soul. They went in and uncovered the guilt, lifted it, and took it from his shoulders. Albert felt lighter, and he felt a nagging worry that he supposed fathers must feeclass="underline" that he had to do everything in his power to protect this little sprite, to keep her safe, and to shield her from evil and death, with his very own being if need be.