Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands Read Online Free Page A

through the day’s dispatches.
    On top of the pile of papers, the first report stated that a UK-based petroleum company had made a significant discovery of light oil in the resource-rich seabed that surrounded the Falkland Islands.
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    “You do not look well,” King Edward said to his oldest son.  Even though Albert sat, arrayed in full military dress and seated within the splendor of Buckingham Palace’s blue drawing room, he knew the comment was likely true.  Since the incident at Jugroom, Albert had been drinking heavily.  He and Donnan started indulging just after the battle, just as soon as they landed at Camp Bastion.  Their first victim was a bottle of single malt whiskey Donnan had kept in his foot locker.  After the golden elixir was gone, it was downhill like a wheel of cheese for them both, as they dispensed with Russian vodka, Indian gin, and even a cube of black hash.
    Donnan had punched the Special Air Service bloke who tried to slow them down, and got a broken arm for his mistake.  When flight orders came in, Albert claimed to be sick, and an American doctor who had come to examine him took one whiff of the fumes that emanated from his pores, he shook his head, and signed the medical release.  By then, all of Camp Bastion—as well as all of Afghanistan for that matter—knew about the Prince’s presence.  With the news, half the Brits on base had tried to leave gifts of delicacies and liquors at Albert’s private barracks, though the SAS contingent never let anyone get too close to what the whole camp had previously believed to be just an air conditioned supply shed.
    “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Albert finally acknowledged the King’s statement.
    At the moment, Albert hated his father only slightly more than he hated himself.  Despite the red and gold carpet, and the portraits of ancestors whose heavy judgmental gaze fell upon him, Albert wanted to spit on the floor.  He swallowed hard, instead.  He closed his eyes to fight off a headache that felt like a creature moving within the folds of his brain.  In the pink darkness behind his lids, Albert saw the missile hit the Talibani SUV.  He had seen this image—dreamt about it—every night.  In the vision, the little girl emerged from the fire, bloodied and charred, and asked Albert what she had done to make him so mad.
    Among the room’s fine art was a globe made in 1750.  Albert remembered playing with it as a child, spinning it, and when it stopped turning, he would look to see what exotic locale had ended up under his thumb.  Regardless of the place, he would always say to his older brother: “Perhaps we will go there someday.”  Upon it, he saw the Durrani Empire—present-day Afghanistan.  In the late eighteenth century, its borders had stretched into Iran, as well as modern-day India and Pakistan.
    “When we are in private, you may address me as, ‘Father,’” the King said.
    “Yes, Your Majesty.”  Albert’s reply was distant and monotone.
    King Edward huffed with frustration.  His first born son, Henry, had been killed during a stag hunt at the Royal Hunting Reserve at Balmoral Castle.  It had been the King who found his son’s body with a hole in his chest, slumped over a rock by the River Dee.  At his son’s feet was the dropped and discharged rifle, a lick of blue smoke wafting from its bore.
    Albert had always been the King’s afterthought, second place to Henry’s accomplishments and talents.  Now he was heir to all the empire and kingdom.  Although he always loved Albert, the King felt let down by his younger boy.  After all, a King’s progeny should not exhibit the frailties of other common folk; he must be hard, strong, and adhere to a timeless preordained model.  When Albert’s musings of art and literature had replaced business, hunting, and warfare as preferred loves, the King concluded that he and Albert were not cut from the same jib.  A butting of heads and stubborn wills