They milled about in clumps and inspected the old engineering work. The tourists dispersed, spreading out over the outcropping and drifting toward the natural beauty beyond. They shot pictures with cameras and they gawked at the wondrous view. One oblivious woman had her face buried in a smartphone. Her thumbs typed another meaningless message. An older couple spoke about the days when the town of Chilecito rode the crest of a mining boom. The old Cable Carril had hauled load after load of copper, gold, and silver from the mines of La Mejicana, and delivered them to steaming trains on the valley floor.
The crowd of tourists thinned. Some headed to the trail while others wandered toward a field of grass and wildflowers that danced in the breeze.
Vargas nodded hello to a young woman who had noticed his Latin good looks but then, seeing the scar just beneath his close cropped hair, she winced. Vargas’s smile widened. The taught lips revealed one gold-capped tooth. Then Vargas flicked his tongue at her. Her flirtatious interest suddenly became uncomfortable recoil, and she turned and walked away. Vargas saw the congressman again, now alone and wandering about.
The congressman’s domain was La Rioja Province. Despite rabblerousing, he was free of care or concern as he began his weekly constitutionaclass="underline" a brisk hike along the old road that snaked along the path of the ropeway. Like a stalking cat, Vargas trailed, not far behind.
The congressman stopped beneath an iron tower perched precariously next to a steep drop. It held the wire rope up high, stringing it toward its next support. Wary of his footing on the eroded narrow road, the congressman took in the panorama. Vargas emerged from behind a large rock. Despite wishing to be alone and undisturbed, the congressman smiled nonetheless at a potential supporter/voter. When he recognized the look on Vargas’s face and the danger it implied, his smile faded, replaced by a grimace.
The congressman fumbled with his jacket, an amateurish attempt to draw the pistol holstered in the small of his back. Vargas was upon him quickly, long before the congressman felt the weapon’s curved grip, long before he could undo the leather holster’s snap. The shove Vargas delivered was hard enough to knock the wind from the congressman’s lungs, and certainly hard enough to start him over the precipice.
Vargas savored the shock in his victim’s eyes. He saw the spark of realization there, the realization that he would soon be dead. Vargas had seen this look before. He watched as the glaze of coming death replaced the moistness of life. The congressman’s sprawled figure became smaller and smaller as it fell, and, when he impacted the sharp rocks, his skull burst. A wet crown of red splattered on the beige dusty stones.
Vargas sighed. Even though his feet remained on terra firma, he too was falling fast.
3: KELPERS
“'Tis very true, my grief lies all within;
And these external manners of laments.
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief.
That swells with silence in the tortured soul…”
Prince Albert was jostled awake by turbulence. He looked around the cabin of the chartered British Airways jetliner’s cabin. A Special Air Service commando named Major Scott Fagan peered back at Albert with concern. Besides the seat occupied by this hyper-aware bodyguard, the rest of the jetliner’s first class cabin was empty. Albert smiled thinly, a signal to Fagan that he was fine. A curtain separated the front of the aircraft from the rest of the cabin.
Beyond this partition sat the others in Albert’s entourage, mostly well-connected journalists and government officials. Despite Albert’s request, the rest of his army unit suffered the confines and slung canvas seats of a Royal Air Force C-17 Globemaster III, so the jetliner was mainly empty. Albert detected the smell of fresh brewed coffee.
His ears were clogged. As people began fishing carry-ons from overhead compartments, the clicks of the latches sounded distant to him, and the background drone of the airplane’s engines was muffled. In an attempt to clear his ears, Albert pinched his nose and puffed up his cheeks. Then he felt a change in air pressure. The aircraft had begun its initial descent. We must be close to our destination, Albert surmised. He lifted the window shade, the blinding sun making him wince. It reminded him he had drunk too much the night before. The wispy clouds parted, and the green outline of an island appeared upon the vast blue ocean.
‘Speedbird 926’—the air traffic control call-sign of the Prince’s flight — emerged from a thick cloud bank that had settled over North Falkland Sound. The flight crossed the north coast of West Falkland at Pebble Island. Passengers pressed faces to the small, oval portals to survey the peak of Mount Adam and the town in its shadow: Hill Cove. Turning east over King George Bay, Speedbird 926 stepped down in altitude. It then banked over the scrubby island and broke over Falkland Sound, the waterway that separated the two main islands. Squinting through his headache, Albert recognized the geography of East Falkland, as well as locales from the Falklands War: Fanning Head, where 3 Special Boat Service had cleared Argentine positions; and, Goose Green and Darwin, where 2nd Battalion, Parachute Regiment had retaken the area from a large and well-equipped Argentine task force.
The aircraft banked low over Grantham Sound and along the Sussex Mountains, then pointed its nose at distant Mount Challenger and flew past Top Malo where a skirmish had been fought between elements of 3 Commando Brigade and determined Argentine Special Forces. On the horizon was Stanley — the capital of the Falkland Islands — and the airport where the Prince’s flight would land. He heard the distinctive whine of extending flaps, and a bang and suction as the landing gear lowered.
The British Airways jet floated in over Stanley Harbour. Albert saw the crossed runways that comprised Royal Air Force Base Mount Pleasant. Eurofighter Typhoons — sleek twin-engined, canard-delta wing, multirole fighter aircraft — were parked at the military airfield. There were Apache helicopters as well, one of which belonged to Donnan and Albert. This made Albert think of his mate who was being shuttled along with others aboard the giant military transport. ‘Flying steerage class,’ is what Donnan had called it. Albert missed the verdant British Isles — especially after the desolation of Afghanistan — so, even the grasslands of the Falklands felt welcoming. Vortices streamed off the wingtips of Speedbird 926 as it lined up with the single east-west runway of Port Stanley Airport.
The ground reached up. The airliner flared before gently settling upon the black asphalt. The tires screeched. The occupants heard the muffled scream of reversing turbo-jets followed by the squeal of brakes. The jetliner slowed and taxied toward the terminal.
Cabin pressure equalized with sea level and the flight crew opened the cockpit windows and poked two flags out: that of the United Kingdom — the ‘Union Jack’—and the Prince’s coat-of-arms. When they stopped rolling and the engines shutdown, Albert stood and straightened his tired body.
The cabin door yawned open. Cold, salty air blasted inside, bringing droplets from the drizzly grey day. Albert felt the damp in his bones and, surprisingly, missed the dry furnace of Afghanistan. An attendant deployed an umbrella and held it over Albert as he stepped on to the truck-mounted staircase that had ‘FIGAS’—Falkland Islands Government Air Service — painted on its ramped side.