Read Online Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands by Peter von Bleichert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter von Bleichert
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of Russian technology, the missile left its rail when Moreno squeezed the stick’s trigger, and, now freed, began to home on the heat generated by the Typhoon’s two turbofans.
The British pilot was focused on the last Mirage he trailed. His plane rocked back and forth as he stayed with the Mirage, sending whips of glowing tracer fire its way. He did not see the Thunderclap as it curled in, and, since the missile tracked passively, his systems offered no warning.
The Thunderclap detonated above the Typhoon. Its blast fragmentation warhead sprayed the Typhoon with shrapnel that tore the rear-half off of the aircraft. The Typhoon’s tank, ripped open and spewed its contents, and the fuel ignited in a bright, tumbling fireball.
Albert and Donnan saw the blast on the Apache’s screens. They followed the fiery wreckage as it plummeted down to icy Choiseul Sound.
“Hope that’s an Argie,” Donnan said, though his gut told him otherwise. Besides the thumping rotors, silence otherwise filled the Apache’s cockpit. A moment later, the loud quiet was broken by a crackle on the radio.
“Greyling two-nine, Mount Pleasant,” the base radioed in vain.
The transmission repeated once again.
Only static replied.
Albert scanned the sky for parachutes, but he spotted none.
“This is British garrison, Port San Carlos, British garrison Port San Carlos, over,” the radio hissed. “We’re under attack by superior enemy forces; in danger of being overrun. We request any and all immediate assistance.”
Donnan turned and looked back at Albert. Albert read the urgency of his co-pilots gaze and, in that moment, decided he would save his countrymen. He would mitigate his guilt with honor and pride.
“Fuel?” Albert queried.
“There’s enough.” Donnan had read Albert’s mind. Albert jerked the Apache into a turn, dipped the nose, and began speeding off toward the west. He looked to his navigational computer.
“GPS signal is weak. Likely being jammed. I’m taking us due west in the direction of the coast. We’ll follow Darwin Road, and then move along the shoreline.”
“Roger, mate, understood,” Donnan seemed eager for redemption as well.
A radio transmission came through. Mount Pleasant begged an answer. The base controllers had seen the Apache’s radar blip move from its assigned position and off their screen. Although there would be hell to pay and questions to answer, both men ignored the radio and instead focused on their cockpit instruments.
Flying at 180 miles-per-hour—the helicopter’s maximum speed—Albert skirted the Apache over the rocky ground. It was a moonlit blur above the tall grass and rock. Following his compass, Albert swerved the machine to avoid a lone wind-stunted tree that he used as a visual reference. The Apache came upon Darwin Road,intersected, and began to follow it.
The Apache flew over Swan Inlet and its adjacent ponds, and then over Laguna Ronde, Laguna Isla, and Laguna Verde. Its disturbance alighted flocks of kelp gulls from the waters. As the machine screamed overhead, its rotor-wash kicked up a fine spray from the still waters. The terrain this side of West Falkland shot by. It was rippled, squeezed, and molded into parallel undulating hills. The road veered south toward the town of Darwin, but the Apache continued west. The sun began to rise.
The dawn’s early light painted Darwin Sound purple. The helicopter reached the coast of the Argentine Sea. Albert banked to follow the cliffs glowing gold in the new light. The cliffs were licked by foam and seaweed-topped breaking waves. The Apache’s thumping blades scrambled sea lions from their rookeries, flopping into the cold sea. The scenery was beautiful and brought a moment of peace to Albert. With the machine’s rhythmic vibration and the penetrating warmth brought by the new day, both men felt tiredness settle in. Feeling his eyes drooping, and
The British pilot was focused on the last Mirage he trailed. His plane rocked back and forth as he stayed with the Mirage, sending whips of glowing tracer fire its way. He did not see the Thunderclap as it curled in, and, since the missile tracked passively, his systems offered no warning.
The Thunderclap detonated above the Typhoon. Its blast fragmentation warhead sprayed the Typhoon with shrapnel that tore the rear-half off of the aircraft. The Typhoon’s tank, ripped open and spewed its contents, and the fuel ignited in a bright, tumbling fireball.
Albert and Donnan saw the blast on the Apache’s screens. They followed the fiery wreckage as it plummeted down to icy Choiseul Sound.
“Hope that’s an Argie,” Donnan said, though his gut told him otherwise. Besides the thumping rotors, silence otherwise filled the Apache’s cockpit. A moment later, the loud quiet was broken by a crackle on the radio.
“Greyling two-nine, Mount Pleasant,” the base radioed in vain.
The transmission repeated once again.
Only static replied.
Albert scanned the sky for parachutes, but he spotted none.
“This is British garrison, Port San Carlos, British garrison Port San Carlos, over,” the radio hissed. “We’re under attack by superior enemy forces; in danger of being overrun. We request any and all immediate assistance.”
Donnan turned and looked back at Albert. Albert read the urgency of his co-pilots gaze and, in that moment, decided he would save his countrymen. He would mitigate his guilt with honor and pride.
“Fuel?” Albert queried.
“There’s enough.” Donnan had read Albert’s mind. Albert jerked the Apache into a turn, dipped the nose, and began speeding off toward the west. He looked to his navigational computer.
“GPS signal is weak. Likely being jammed. I’m taking us due west in the direction of the coast. We’ll follow Darwin Road, and then move along the shoreline.”
“Roger, mate, understood,” Donnan seemed eager for redemption as well.
A radio transmission came through. Mount Pleasant begged an answer. The base controllers had seen the Apache’s radar blip move from its assigned position and off their screen. Although there would be hell to pay and questions to answer, both men ignored the radio and instead focused on their cockpit instruments.
Flying at 180 miles-per-hour—the helicopter’s maximum speed—Albert skirted the Apache over the rocky ground. It was a moonlit blur above the tall grass and rock. Following his compass, Albert swerved the machine to avoid a lone wind-stunted tree that he used as a visual reference. The Apache came upon Darwin Road,intersected, and began to follow it.
The Apache flew over Swan Inlet and its adjacent ponds, and then over Laguna Ronde, Laguna Isla, and Laguna Verde. Its disturbance alighted flocks of kelp gulls from the waters. As the machine screamed overhead, its rotor-wash kicked up a fine spray from the still waters. The terrain this side of West Falkland shot by. It was rippled, squeezed, and molded into parallel undulating hills. The road veered south toward the town of Darwin, but the Apache continued west. The sun began to rise.
The dawn’s early light painted Darwin Sound purple. The helicopter reached the coast of the Argentine Sea. Albert banked to follow the cliffs glowing gold in the new light. The cliffs were licked by foam and seaweed-topped breaking waves. The Apache’s thumping blades scrambled sea lions from their rookeries, flopping into the cold sea. The scenery was beautiful and brought a moment of peace to Albert. With the machine’s rhythmic vibration and the penetrating warmth brought by the new day, both men felt tiredness settle in. Feeling his eyes drooping, and
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