The inflatables sped past Middle Island, and out to the Argentine Sea, and as the ride grew rougher and the Falklands sank on the horizon line, a shape appeared ahead. It was long and black, and its back was covered with drops of water that sparkled in the moonlight.
“Look, mummy, there’s some sort of sea monster,” Annie said. Linda squinted to see the form that loomed larger and larger as they approached. Soon they were alongside the long, cylindrical hull of California. Commander Wolff stood there, as did the executive officer and other officers-of-the-watch. Despite the danger, they had surfaced the submarine for the rendezvous. The SEALs and their guests were hustled aboard. As soon as they were inside and the hatches closed, Commander Wolff returned his boat to her natural element: deep beneath the waves.
As Albert, Annie, and Linda climbed down ladders and stairs, California’s hull popped and groaned with submergence. Invited to share the captain’s quarters, they showered and got tucked into the bed and spare bunks. All three fell fast asleep.
In the morning, California met a launch from South Georgia Island’s British Antarctic Survey Research Station at King Edward Point. Albert, Annie, and Linda were brought ashore where they boarded a C-130 Hercules that skied its way from an ice field and into the air. From on high, Albert admired the rippled cobalt-blue ice of the glaciers. The land is bejeweled, he thought.
The Hercules met an air force KC3 Voyager tanker over the Atlantic Ocean. It maneuvered its refueling probe into a drogue that trailed behind the big twin-engine jet and topped off the Herky Bird’s tanks. Several hours later the Hercules landed on the long runway of RAF Ascension Island.
Silhouetted by the sunset, Albert, Annie, and Linda boarded a BAe 146 regional airliner for the final leg back to England.
“Son,” King Edward bellowed as Albert walked into Balmoral’s Drawing Room. The blue walls, gold trim, and plaid carpet momentarily mesmerized the Prince. Back in uniform, and hand healing satisfactorily, Albert longed for the soft shirt and pants Linda had gifted him. He shifted where he stood, itchy from the wool that draped his now thinner body, and again uncomfortable from the color and opulence of the room.
“Your Majesty,” Albert said with a formal dip of the head.
“Father. Father…Or, Dad, for goodness sake.” For the first time in ages, King Edward embraced his son. “Welcome home,” he whispered into Albert’s ear. Albert froze, unsure of how to respond, and then patted his father on the back. “Well, then,” the King pushed Albert back. He held him by the shoulders and shook him gently. “We owe those Americans thanks for getting you home safe.” Albert smiled, having learned that no British submarine had been near enough, and, that the American president — an admitted Anglophile — had insisted on lending a hand. “Well, let us celebrate your safe return. Come. We will have some lunch and tea,” he said, and then muttered under his breath: “And perhaps a warming drink or two.” Albert felt a bit frightened by his father’s joviality and familiarity, all of which felt forcefully exuberant. King Edward put his arm around Albert as they left the Drawing Room for the Gallery. Light streamed through the tall windows. The grey stone of the Gallery seemed warmer than Albert remembered, but the patterned carpet, as hypnotic as ever. King Edward and Prince Albert turned into the Corridor, then through the tall, intricately carved double doors that led to the Dining Room.
It has its own sky, Albert thought of the Dining Room’s vaulted ceiling. Although he had eaten and played in the room many times before, the paneled, portrait-laden walls had never stared at him so, the heights had never taken his breath away, and the carved wood had never made him wonder of the craftsmen who had spent a decade putting it together with chisel, flutters, gougers, parting, and veining tools. Albert was, as he realized in that moment, a changed man. He looked down the long expanse of the dining table and its gauntlet of chairs. The room had its own horizon and the table seemed to taper in the distance. Albert sighed as doors were thrown open at the far end of the Dining Room.
An attendant entered and announced: “Your Majesty. Your Royal Highness. Presenting Governor Moody and the Joneses.” In walked the governor, Annie, and Linda. The attendant bowed his upper body and head, and then closed the door as he retreated. Both ladies were dressed in summer dresses, visions of flower-covered beauty.
Linda and Annie quickened their steps toward Albert. He threw his arms up in a V and brought them down to embrace Annie as she jumped up at him. Governor Moody did a dignified stroll over. His suit was crisp, and his hair trim and groomed. He bowed his head as he approached the King. King Edward offered his hand and Governor Moody shook it.
“Your Majesty, I have spoken with the PM. Despite the fact that Argentine forces now hold the islands, and they walk its land and smell its air, we will get the Falklands back.” As usual, Moody wasted no time.
“Yes, yes. Of course we will. Your Excellence, Governor Moody, I must thank you; Thank you for delivering my son back to me.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Moody said, but quickly turned his attention to Albert. He smiled broadly.
Here was the boy he had seen so distraught, so tortured, now being hugged by two lovely ladies, and with a beaming smile that stretched his face to new lengths. When Annie and Linda finally released the young Prince, Governor Moody went to him and shook his hand. Then he pulled Albert in and gave him a hug, too.
“I’m proud of you, Albert,” Governor Moody said. King Edward seemed to take notice, a mix of surprise and jealousy on his face. Attendants entered with steaming pots of Darjeeling and Earl Grey tea, as well as sandwiches — cucumber and butter, tomato and cheddar, salmon and country pâté.
“Tea is served,” was announced. They all approached the vast table.
“An airplane could take off from this thing,” Linda said as she adjusted Annie’s chair. The little girl placed her chin on the thick wood.
Before Albert sat, his father took him aside, and, as if embarrassed by the admission, said: “I am proud of you, too.” He then embraced Albert, his last remaining son. While the hug was not strong and did not pull Albert in tight, Albert used the moment to rest his head on his father’s shoulder, to close his eyes, and feel as though he was finally home. He felt his father gently push him back, as though saying: ‘Control yourself.’ Albert straightened up, gave the well-practiced terse smile of royalty, and made for the table and the afternoon tea that had been set by the attendants.
Albert squinted to see through the clouds of dust that danced about. They twirled in pillars that climbed skyward. Albert smelled baking bread, and though the sun was blinding, he found he could look right at it. Filled with diamonds, the sky sparkled. Despite the wind, Albert could only hear his own deep breaths as he walked. He climbed over the lip of a hill and looked down upon Jugroom Fort and the Afghani village.
Donnan and the little girl stepped out from the hut beside the burnt-out wreckage of the missile-torn SUV. Donnan was in his flight suit and the girl wore a long, colorful dress, a piece of cloth wrapped about her hair. She carried a teddy bear. Both looked at Albert for a moment. Then, both smiled and waved.
Albert gasped awake and sat up. He breathed heavily and found himself drenched in a cold sweat. The tick of the clock was deafening and rain drops pelted the old window pane. Balmoral was surrounded by a moonless night that made the shadows in Albert’s room especially dark. Albert looked to the large chair that occupied the corner of his bedroom. He was certain there was someone seated upon it. Exhausted, he ignored the vision, and laid his head again on the cool, silk pillow cover.