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

occurred a deafening blast.
    The Apache was slammed sideways.  Donnan hit his head against the canopy frame.  Albert lost his grip on the cyclic control.  The Apache rolled on its side and began to fall.  Cockpit lights flashed.  A whooping sound told of damage to vital systems.  Albert fought to right his spinning aircraft.
    They were hit again.  This time, sparks cascaded from an overhead panel, and smoke announced a fire that had erupted in one of the engines.
    Deep thuds.
    This meant the helicopter had absorbed more hits.  However, with the crew compartment and electronic bays swaddled in Kevlar blankets, Albert and Donnan were kept alive.  The Apache: stayed airborne.
    “Aircraft at six o’clock high.”  Donnan had spotted their prosecutor: a big twin-engine fighter.
    “Flanker?” Albert recognized the silhouette from training, although he had not expected such an aircraft type in-theater.
    Seeing smoke pouring from the British helicopter, Captain Moreno peeled off.  He was satisfied he had a kill, and he finally heeded his fuel level warning.
    Albert watched RPMs in both engines fall off.  Oil pressure indicators had pinned at zero.
    “Goddamnit,” Albert spat.  “Auto-rotating.”
    Around them, the Apache died.
    Albert dropped the collective and nosed the aircraft over as he disengaged power to the main rotor.  Using airspeed to control rate of descent, he pointed the helicopter at Falkland Sound.
    “I think we can make the opposite shoreline,” Albert said as he fought to control the power-off glide.  The Apache fought back.  Albert chose the landmark of Chancho Point as an aim point, and worked hard to keep the rocky peninsula in the windscreen.  The tail rotor bled off energy.  The Apache, unable to fight the torque, began a flat spin.
    Donnan reached up to brace against the rise in G-forces.  With hydraulics failing, it took all of Albert’s strength tomanipulate the flight controls.
    He grunted against the strain.  The world outside spun faster and faster and became a smudge of blue and brown.  Donnan closed his eyes to fight off vertigo, and Albert leaned against the cockpit wall to brace against the rotation.  Every time the blue of water became the brown of land, Albert nudged his crippled Apache in that direction.
    Land is better than water , his mind rationalized as it clung to consciousness.  If they hit water and were knocked out, the Apache would sink like a stone and neither would escape.  Albert adjusted collective pitch to increase the driving region of his rotor.  The descent slowed.  Albert judged that they were near sea-level.  He spotted the streaked brown of solid ground and raised the collective.  The rotor stalled and the machine dropped hard.
    A jarring crunch…
    And blackness.
     

6: WHITE DOVE, WHITE HARE
     
    “ Sometimes even to live is an act of courage .”―Lucius Annaeus Seneca
     
    A fraid to see the little girl’s burnt blood-covered face, clot-caked hair, and judgmental coal-black eyes, Albert tried to turn away.  Despite the attempt, he could not, however, and as usual, he was forced to behold the horror.  She was a shadow at first.  Then, for a moment, she became aglow with freckled pale skin and long blonde curls.  Her eyes flashed bright blue.  They were piercing and welled with sadness.
    “Wake up,” she whispered.  “You have to help me.”
    ◊◊◊◊
    Albert gasped as he awakened.  Fumes and ozone burned his nose and throat.  He coughed.  The wrecked Apache hissed and smoked.  Its fluids leaked.  An arcing electrical panel sparked and zapped in the cockpit.  Albert moved achingly, his vision clearing.  Donnan was slumped and did not move.
    Albert realized Donnan’s helmet was cracked.  Blood streamed from the torn opening.  Albert tried to raise his own head.  Sharp pain forbade it.
    “Donnan,” he mumbled.  The toxic air made him cough again, his breaths poisoned by the slow-burn of materials that made up the