Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands Read online

  CROWN JEWEL

  THE BATTLE

  FOR

  THE FALKLANDS

  By Peter von Bleichert

  Copyright 2013-2015. Peter von Bleichert

  Registered: Library of Congress; and, Writers Guild of America

  Proofread by Joseph P. Bogo

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including: photocopy, recording, or any information and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles/reviews.

  Books by Peter von Bleichert

  Fiction

  Fourth Crisis: The Battle for Taiwan

  Non-Fiction

  Bleichert’s Wire Ropeways

  Blitz! Storming the Maginot Line

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my teachers: Jonathan E.; Bruce H.; Paul M.; Karen S.; and, Panayiotis Z.

  And, a special thanks to: Robert N. (UK); and, Victor N. (USA).

  DEDICATION

  Michael Muxie, III (in memoriam).

  And, to those lost on both sides of the real Falklands War: ‘Sleep well you Bonnie Lads.’

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHARACTERS

  NOTES

  BRIEFING

  PROLOGUE: CABAL

  1: KALAT

  2: DOGO

  3: KELPERS

  4: WAYLAY

  5: DRAKE’S DRUM

  6: WHITE DOVE, WHITE HARE

  7: ARAPUCHA

  8: TANGO

  EPILOGUE: GRITTED TEETH

  CHARACTERS

  ARGENTINE REPUBLIC:

  Doctor Waldemar Amsel

  Mayor (Major) Ezequiel Vargas

  …and, Presidente de la Nación (President) Valeria Alonso; Almirante (Admiral) Javier Correa; Ministro de Defensa (Minister of Defense) Juan Cruz Gomez; & Capitán (Captain) Lucas Moreno.

  UNITED KINGDOM:

  Lieutenant Donnan Bruce

  Major Scott Fagan

  Aethelinda Jones

  Anne Jones

  Governor Roger Moody

  His Royal Highness Prince Albert Richard George James Talbot of York

  …and, the lads of 22 SAS Regiment, Squadron D, Air Troop; His Majesty King Edward IX; Eight-ball; Grey Bear; Henry Jones; Admiral Sir Reginald Nemeth; & the ‘Warrahs’ (Calvert, Fairbairn, Gubbins, McGregor, and Sykes).

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Commander Max Wolff

  …and, SEAL Team 5.

  NOTES

  A British Overseas Territory, the Falkland Islands are a stark, wind-ripped South Atlantic archipelago some 400 miles east of Argentina’s Patagonian coast, and 850 miles north of the Antarctic Circle. Comprising East Falkland, West Falkland, and 778 smaller islands, the Falkland Islands are roughly the size of the American State of Connecticut—about half the size of the country of Wales—and the capital is in the port city of Stanley on East Falkland. Falklanders are primarily of British, Chilean, and St. Helenian descent.

  BRIEFING

  The Argentine Republic claims sovereignty over the Falkland Islands.

  Called Las Islas Malvinas by Argentinians, the archipelago is viewed as part of the South Atlantic Department of the Province of Tierra del Fuego.

  The United Kingdom has never recognized this claim.

  Although Falklanders have expressed a clear preference to remain under British rule, in hopes of easing tensions, during the 1960s, London engaged in talks with Argentine foreign missions. The talks, however, failed to reach any meaningful conclusion.

  In the early 1980s, a ruthless dictatorship ruled Argentina. Accordingly, it suffered a crippling economic crisis. In an attempt to distract and unify its restive populace, Argentina initiated Operation Rosario on April 2, 1982, and invaded the Falklands.

  Argentine forces outnumbered the British garrison 10-to-one. Resistance was rapidly subdued, and within hours, Argentine forces occupied Government House in Stanley—the Falklands’ capital—and flew their flag over this symbol of British hegemony.

  British Prime Minister Thatcher—dubbed the ‘Iron Lady’ by the Soviets—immediately denounced the invasion. She roused her military, organized and commenced Operation Corporate, and dispatched a Task Group to retake the islands.

  After fierce air and naval battles, British forces landed on East Falkland. By mid-June of 1982, British marines and soldiers held the high ground around the capital city. Soon thereafter, the routed Argentine occupation forces surrendered.

  Despite this clear-cut defeat, Argentina has continued to claim the South Atlantic archipelago as her own. In 1994, the Transitional Provisions of the Constitution of the Argentinian Nation were amended, thereby alleging ‘legitimate and everlasting sovereignty’ over Las Islas Malvinas, South Georgia, and the Sandwich Islands, as well as the corresponding maritime and insular areas.

  With this legislation, the capture of said territories became a permanent and unswayable objective of the Argentine people…

  The near-future…

  PROLOGUE: CABAL

  "Wars are caused by undefended wealth."—Ernest Hemingway

  Buenos Aires—Argentina’s capital—grew up on the western shore of the estuary of the Río de la Plata. Sexy and alive, it bustled with nightlife. Its cityscape glowed restlessly in the dark, moonless night. People strolled in waterfront parks and among the eclectic mix of buildings.

  They ambled along the city’s wide avenues where traffic honked like impatient flocks of migrating geese, and scooters weaved in and out, buzzing like angry insects. Expansive plazas—cobblestone fields filled with fountains, statutes, trees, and vendors—allowed an escape from the jostling clamor. One of these urban oases was called Plaza de Mayo.

  Named for the month of revolution, Plaza de Mayo honored the war that had brought independence from Spain. Ironically, this war of freedom had also brought shackles to Argentina’s people as it concluded with the installation of the nation’s first military government: La Junta.

  On the plaza’s eastern edge sat a baby pink palatial mansion, home to the President of Argentina. La Casa Rosada, as the home had been named, featured a North Hall where tall, arched windows let the light of day flood in, but could stop all else, including bullets. The President of Argentina walked within this hall. Her name: Valeria Alonso. As president and commander-in-chief of the nation’s armed forces, she presided over the gathered nation’s Military Council. Her high-heels clicked on the stone floor as she stalked along the long, rectangular table, lecturing those assembled in the stuffy, bright room.

  Those assembled there included Minister of Defense Juan Cruz Gomez, and Admiral Javier Correa, among others. President Alonso tossed her hair back as she spoke, intimidatingly locking eyes with each of her subordinates. Her piercing eyes were dark brown, just like her long hair; both features gifts from her mother. However, those eyes also flashed with her father’s keen intellect.

  Her father, Doctor Waldemar Amsel, sat in his office—a concrete bunker far below the streets of Buenos Aires— watching his daughter on a video screen.

  Dr. Amsel was once known as SS Obersturmführer Amsel of Occupied Poland’s Sobibor extermination camp, a place where the crematorium ovens stayed busy and ash fell with the winter snow, tinting the ground a sickly grey. In the waning days of World War II, while the vengeful Russians were closing in on his death camp, he and the other officers h
ad commandeered a supply truck, taking it skidding along Polish back roads with the ‘Reds’ on their heels all the while.

  A droning engine then announced the arrival of marauding aircraft, and, as they raced through woods and along snow-covered fields, a Stormovik found them, dove hard, and strafed their vehicle. The bullets ripped through the canvas roof of the old Mercedes, and then into Amsel’s legs. With Amsel bleeding heavily and barely conscious, his loyal cadre took him to a doctor in Genoa, and, after a week lying bandaged in bed, he and his cohorts received Red Cross passports.

  Amsel was wheeled to the harbor and put aboard the transport ship Dodero. This rusting tramp was a cog in the intricate machinery of the ‘Ratline,’ the network that delivered fleeing Nazis to South America and other points around the globe. That rainy day at the Genovese docks, Dodero set sail for Buenos Aires.

  Amsel then healed during the long, slow voyage. When they arrived on the South American coast, he was met by Argentina’s Rodolfo Freude, an advisor to Juan Domingo Peron.

  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.”

  Six months later…

  1: KALAT

  “Innocence does not find near so much protection as guilt.”―Francois de La Rochefoucauld

  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.

  With sharp features, beady piercing eyes, a tall taut frame, and reddish blonde hair, Prince Albert was well-known for his cheeky grin, youthful cannabis indulgence and pub-crawling, and his healthy disdain for the formalities of royal title. Despite endless Al-Qaeda and Taliban threats against his life, Albert thrived in the warzone.

  Although he had once harbored dreams of becoming a painter or writer, his royal station, as well as a rigid father who respected no such silly pursuits, pushed him to armed service. After successfully completing general infantry and flight training, he had no intention of sitting by as his mates deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq. As Coróna Principem—Crown Prince—there were no allowances for Albert to be in such danger. Only after many heated arguments and emotion-laden threats to abdicate his title, had his father, the King, relented. With Afghanistan deemed safer than insurgent-ridden Iraq, Albert had been permitted to deploy on condition that he have his own security detail, that he assume a nom du guerre, and, should intelligence indicate the enemy had become aware of his presence, that he return home immediately. Therefore, Prince Albert—Captain Albert Talbot—became Captain Albert Smith, and deployed to Afghanistan where he was paired with his beloved Apache, as well as his vetted cockpit mate, co-pilot/gunner Lieutenant Donnan Bruce.