Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands by Peter von Bleichert Read Free Book Online Page B

vehicles.
    “I’ll drive,” Governor Moody declared.  As the governor knew the roads, neither Albert nor Fagan argued.  They piled into the Land Rover.  Major Fagan took the governor’s Uzi, slapped in a fresh magazine, and handed Albert his nine-millimeter pistol.
    “You get in back and stay down,” Fagan instructed Albert.  With pistol in his dominant hand and the shotgun cupped in the other, Albert rolled over the rear seat and into the back of the Land Rover.
    The governor started the vehicle and opened the garage door with a remote that hung on the shade.  As the door rose slowly, the governor revved the engine.
    Impatient with the slow door he yelled: “Sod it,” and reversed out, splintering the edge of the wooden portal.  He spun the Land Rover around in the driveway, rocking its boxy body, and squealed its wide knobby tires.
    Small arms fire plinked off the armored vehicle’s sides as the last of the enemy assault force had turned its fire from the mansion guards to the escaping Land Rover.  Through a gun-port in the Land Rover’s door, Fagan sprayed bullets back at the offenders.
    “We must get the Prince to Mount Pleasant,” the governor said as they sped away.  He glanced at the burning mansionin the rearview mirror, and passed a fire truck racing there.  The Land Rover’s engine revved and shifted through gears as they accelerated.  “Anyone want some air?  It is a bit stuffy in here,” the governor said with utter calmness.  Albert and the soldier shared a smile of mutual admiration for the rock-steady governor.
    The Land Rover’s wheels screeched as the governor turned past ‘1982 Liberation Monument’ and Thatcher Drive, and then onto Reservoir Road.
    “Look out,” Albert yelled as they almost smashed into an ambulance pulling out of King Edward VII Memorial Hospital.  They zoomed by Scotia House Bed & Breakfast where tourists had emerged to gawk at the raging fire at Government House.  Darting through light traffic, they passed residences on the left, and the Community School and Library on the right, and then a satellite dish that Argentine guerillas had wrecked, by driving a delivery truck through the small complex’s perimeter fence
    “London has no idea, do they?” Fagan asked.
    The governor and Albert stole a glance at one another.  Now on Darwin Road and quickly leaving the urban area of Stanley behind, the road narrowed and its surface changed from asphalt to loose gravel.
    The Land Rover’s big tires and heavy weight came into their own, biting in and keeping the vehicle stable.  With much of the city’s lights extinguished, it was easy to see the night aglow with scattered fires.  Each illuminated rising columns of smoke.  The three men stared ahead in silence.
    In the vehicle’s squinted headlights, the road narrowed further, and, edged by drainage ditches, threatened to grab the wheels of the speeding Land Rover.  Winding among hillocks, the vehicle began to rock back and forth as the governor skillfully followed Darwin Road.  Albert looked out through the big rectangle frame of the rear window.
    Two bright dots appeared in the tail of dust that the Land Rover left in its wake.
    “Governor?” Albert mumbled.
    “Yes, I know.  We’re being followed.”
    The governor stepped on the accelerator.  The Land Rover lowered and pitched forward as more horsepower was put to the road.  There was tapping at the Land Rover’s side and windows.  What they first thought was kicked up gravel was in fact small arms fire.
    Fagan grabbed the shotgun and opened a side window.  Cool sea air blasted inside.  He leaned out, and, with successive booms that made Albert’s ears ring, emptied the shotgun at their pursuer.  Behind them, the bright headlights swerved.
    Fagan chucked the empty shotgun to the front passenger seat.
    “Uzi, please,” he requested.  Albert handed him the square, stubby submachine gun.  Fagan fired.  Ejected cartridges clinked against