by David Evans
Later during the evening performance, Sebastian played Elton John’s Circle of Life from The Lion King, a favorite of Mona’s. Sebastian cast a glancing smile at her at the back of the crowded bar. She had no idea that Sebastian had witnessed what appeared to be a groping in the club. As per usual, she walked meekly to the piano to hand in her requests on a paper napkin. Sebastian deftly handed her one back. It read, ‘Don’t tell anyone, and hand this back to me later. Will meet you at Brandon Road, Stanley, at 10 am tomorrow. Bring walking gear.’
Half-hour later she returned the napkin with, ‘Can’t wait.’ Sebastian then played another Elton John song, Norma Jean, the relevance of the song lost on her.
Mona hardly slept all night with the excitement; she believed this could be the start of something wonderful. This, she thought, could be a new beginning in her life. She fantasized that she could just as easily create computer games from her powerful laptop on any ship she would follow Sebastian around on. Surely these entertainers could bring spouses on board.
The fantasies expanded, and before long she was pleasuring herself, which made the fantasies appear realer. When eventually morning came, she studied the port of Stanley on the Falkland Islands guide and found Brandon Road. It was several streets back from the 1982 war memorial, an easy twenty-minute walk, and off the beaten track.
The Falkland Islands, as the residents and its British protector call it, or Las Malvinas, as the Argentines proclaim it as their own, had seen a short but brutal war fought in the spring of 1982. It had been a British Protectorate since Britain had exerted the right in 1833. Stanley, named in 1845 after Lord Stanley, Secretary of State for the Colonies, was the only town on the island, with a population south of three thousand inhabitants. Stanley was the next port of call.
Sebastian hired a moped from the local hire shop just opposite the East Jetty Pier where the tender had brought him from the anchored ship some mile out in the harbour. He had ensured he had also taken two helmets. A driving license was not required, just cash and a credit card imprint in case of damage.
The majority of the cruise passengers queued at the tour buses to take them to see the gentoo penguins that frolic off the shore, or the smallest species type in the world, the rare rockhopper penguins, in a colony along the Berkeley Sound. Sebastian navigated through the throng and saw several of the guests walking along Ross Road to the memorial, those that were too set in their ways to pay the inflated tour prices. There was no one around when Sebastian picked up Mona, and insisted she wore the helmet.
***
It rains or snows in the Falklands for 250 days a year, and the wind chill from the wind and gales swept up from the Antarctic make the island inhospitable if you are not equipped with the right, heavy-duty outdoor clothing. Ned Jones knew this, as he had been here in 1982 fighting; at first against the poorly equipped conscripts, and later the better equipped and trained regular Argentine soldiers.
It was after the bloody fight at Mount Longdon. They were facing a heavily fortified Mount Tumbledown, the last hill stopping them from recapturing Stanley from the Argentine invasion force. The advance area had been mined heavily, as had a large part of the surrounding area.
Battalion headquarters knew Tumbledown was held by regular Argentine troops, and they had gun placements all trained on the advancing British troops. The Argentines expected that out of the attacking force of four hundred British troops, half would be dead or dying after the attack. The one advantage was the Argentines never put their ranking officers in the field or line of fire; they were all back in Stanley enjoying beer in one of the town’s three well-equipped pubs.
The British commanding officer had other ideas. The projected death count was too much to pay, and the political ramifications back home would have been severe. Between his forces and Tumbledown, where the Argentines had occupied, the Argentine junior officers had deemed a little hill called Sapper Hill, as a non-strategic point, and not worthy of troops.
The commander had the seventy Royal Marines who had initially fought off the Argentine invasion in Government House. He had been captured by the overwhelming Argentine forces, returned to the UK, and who on landing insisted on coming back on the troop ships. They crept over to Sapper Hill under the cover of darkness with as much ammunition as they could carry. They placed mortars at the bottom of the hill with several squaddies, with the orders to make as much noise as possible and create the illusion the main attack was coming from their position.
When the Royal Marines obeyed and kicked up a rumpus that made them sound like seven hundred and not seventy, they complied with the orders.
The 2nd Scots Guards, 4 troop Blues and Royals and Ned’s own 42 Commando Royal Marines then marched westward to the sea. They bypassed the minefields and tabbed seven miles.
At one stage, they had been pinned down by machine gun fire for several hours, and thankfully the peat surroundings absorbed most of the energy from the mortars being rained down on the troops.
A brave corporal attacked the gun position and killed the troops; at the same time, he had been shot several times in both legs. In a strange reversal, the corporal had been carried down off the mountain and, full of morphine, had been laid up against a rock. Four deserting Argentines had given themselves up to him and they now were kneeling with their hands on their heads. He maintained his gun on them for several hours through the pain and morphine, and for his bravery that day received the military medal awarded in the British army. Had he been an officer, he would have received the higher award of Medal of Honor. This ignoble practice was only outlawed after this conflict so soldier and officer would attain the same award regardless of rank.
Ned had been nineteen years old when fighting in this conflict. The last charge was one that would change his life forever. The orders were given by Major Kiszeley, “Fix bayonets and charge!” the officer in charge assessing that he would lose fewer men in a charge than being picked off by mercenary snipers and regular troops.
Killing a man from an airplane or mortar or even a rifle is one thing: it is sterile. You do not see the man’s eyes close or the agony that the round or shrapnel has caused him. You miss the visual effects of the blood, the shards of bone and torn flesh.
Using a bayonet is an entirely different matter. Ned was as professional as the others and charged. He plunged the bayonet into so many bodies, saw the horrors of war close up, and like so many that day, it never left him.
Ned was nineteen at that battle and had since suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. With horror, he had re-lived that battle most nights for the last thirty years. Neither the pills nor the countless visits to the psychiatrists had helped. This was a last-ditch attempt to cure him. It had helped other sufferers from this battle in the past. He had received funding for the trip to Stanley from the fund set up to help ex-soldiers.
***
Two days prior to the Classical Expedition weighing anchor in Stanley Harbour, Ned had flown into the airfield at Stanley. The first thing he noticed was that the vast crater from the historic Vulcan bombing of the landing strip was no more. Ned met a local guide. Geoff, who had been a civilian in Stanley at the time of the conflict, now worked as a battlefield tour guide and volunteered in the museum. He also helped veterans from both sides of the conflict.
Ned met him at the Globe Pub and found the surroundings strange. Machine guns mounted on the wall, Union Jack and St. George flags adorned the ceiling, with autographs of members of battalions who had served at the time of the conflict. Geoff gave Ned two options; a short visit to Tumbledown, or he could camp over for a night or two. Geoff assured him that seeing the mountain when it is at peace and the area tranquil would help him deal with the nightmares. Ned opted for the camping.
Geoff gave Ned a black Nissan SUV and directions to get to Tumbledown. In the back of the SUV were lightweight camping equipment and a stove, plus enough food and water in a backpack to last the short trip.
Ned parked up where Geoff h
ad told him to and quickly saw the stone which had a Union Jack painted on the face. This was the stone the severely injured corporal had lain against with his gun pointed at the four prisoners some thirty years ago, now enshrined in history by the local islanders.
Geoff had been right; the serenity of the mountain had been an enormous help. Instead of setting up the tent Geoff had supplied, Ned took out the shovel and did a scrape as he had done every time, so he could get some sleep during the conflict. A scrape is where the soldier scrapes out enough earth for him to lie down in and cover it with his Bergen. Ned slept that night under the stars without the nightmares. The following day he trekked across to Mount Longdon, ensuring he kept clear of the minefields, which thirty years on were still all around the island. He thought he would stay one more night.
It was a little after 11 am, and Ned was just packing up his gear, when he heard the muffled cry. It was not a loud cry, more a muffled sob; just the one, and then it was no more. Ned could not be sure that he had heard it, or if it was in his head. Sound carries across these mountains, and if indeed it was a cry, it could have been around the corner or half a mile away. He could not be sure, so that is why he went to investigate.
Ned could not believe what he saw as he appeared over the ridge. There was a man overlooking what looked like a dead, bloodied hairless woman. Sebastian had scalped her to enjoy his present at length. Ned shook his head. Was his mind playing tricks, or was this for real? Nevertheless, he ran towards the man.
Ned was now forty-nine years old. He had been ultra-fit in his day and close combat trained, but that had been thirty years ago. He had kept some semblance of fitness, and the fighting skills never really go away, but the reactions and strength diminish with time.
Sebastian heard Ned running at the last moment, as the peat dulled the sound of the pounding boots. Sebastian swung his knife arm around towards the noise and was completely surprised that the thrust was blocked, and the blade knocked out of his hand.
There was a thirty-pound weight difference between Ned and Sebastian, and that extra ballast assisted Ned as he landed on top of Sebastian and started to pound each fist into both sides of Sebastian’s skull.
Stunned and bloodied, Sebastian dug out the long-ago learned martial arts skills. He managed to get his hand out from under the hulk above him and pinch down on a nerve at the side of the neck, enough to make Ned yelp and lose the dominant position on top of the assailant.
Sebastian stood erect for a moment to gather his wits and strength. Almost immediately, Ned sprang back up and attempted to grab Sebastian by the arm to pull him in closer. Ned was going to try a bear hug to suck the strength from the lighter man. Sebastian was too fast, and he swerved one hundred eighty degrees on his right foot, thus making Ned lean forward, slightly unbalanced. Sebastian had his left fist up by his shoulder. He grabbed Ned’s arm with his right hand and brought down the left elbow straight on Ned’s forearm, snapping it immediately. Ned registered the pain, but adrenaline assisted him in carrying on with what started as an attack and was now a matter of defence.
Sebastian threw out his left hand in a classic karate chop; it was aimed at the bridge of Ned’s nose. Ned managed to block the attack with his good left arm and immediately tried to pull up his right to guard his throat and right side of his face, but the right arm would not work. Instantaneously he felt the searing jab to his Adam’s apple, and his knees crumpled under him.
Ned gasped for air, but none came. Sebastian knew it would take several minutes for the man to die. Never once did he consider putting Ned out of his misery; he just watched the man expire, slowly.
Finally, Mount Tumbledown had claimed back what it thought was hers thirty years prior.
A quick search of the body revealed car keys and Ned’s wallet and passport. Sebastian moved both bodies under a rocky outcrop, leaving them hidden from view. He retraced Ned’s steps, which were not easy to follow in the peat, and after thirty minutes he found Ned’s gear. A further ten-minute trek found the black SUV.
The sight of the four-by-four was the first thing to go right all day. There was no one to be seen for miles as Sebastian eased the vehicle up over the hill towards the bodies. He stopped at Ned’s camp and stowed all the gear into the rear compartment, and then completed the drive to the corpses. He placed Mona in the rear section and the man’s heavier body across the back seat. Sebastian was pleased to see that the tracks of the vehicle had almost disappeared as the peat sprang back, helped by the massive amounts of water encased below. He backtracked to where he had left the moped and, after checking the road, which he could see in both directions, lifted the moped-on top of the camping gear with some considerable effort.
Sebastian had travelled less than two miles before he came across the area he wanted. To the right, between the road and the sea was a minefield, depicted in pictures and words on signs and two small road barriers on either side.
Again, checking the road for several miles in each direction, he stopped a little short of the minefield. Quickly he removed the moped and two helmets from the back. It took several minutes to move Ned’s corpse into the front driver seat and place the foot on the gas.
Sebastian leaned through the open passenger’s door. The car was an automatic, and after setting the steering wheel in the right direction, he checked that the car was in the park. He leaned across and started the engine. Half-hanging out of the car, he placed the gear lever in drive and released the handbrake.
The car went at speed as Sebastian exited and had sufficient force and power to break through the flimsy fence surrounding the minefield. The car had travelled less than fifty yards into the field before small anti-personnel mine exploded, which destroyed the door of the car but did not stop the car’s forward movement. Then it hit the real thing, not anti-personnel that would blow a soldier’s foot right off, but the dug-in mines that would stop a tank.
The explosion was heard back in Stanley, and then the second after the car was flipped over and did a full three-hundred-sixty-degree turn in the air, it landed on another tank buster. Diesel takes a lot to ignite, but what was left of the car and surrounding peat were blazing away in the middle of the field.
Sebastian had not accounted for the noise of the detonation being so loud, never mind a second one. He looked in the mirror of the moped. His face was a mess from the pounding under Ned’s fists, and his clothes were a mess from the fight and exiting the moving car. There were sure to be police and fire engines on their way from Stanley coming to the sound of the explosions, and there was only one way in and one way out.
He had seen a farm on the map down the other way towards Two Sisters Mountain, and some help could be coming from there, too. There was no way the moped could make it over the peat bog the way the SUV had, and he was running out of time.
Mounting the moped, Sebastian kicked the engine into action. In the distance, he could hear the sirens screaming towards him. He drove a hundred yards down the road towards Stanley and turned around towards the burning field. He drove the moped at ten miles per hour and aimed for the untouched fixed guardrails that notify you that there is a minefield adjacent. The moped hit the barrier, and the helmetless Sebastian flew over the moped and over the barrier, landing in the mesh of the minefield fence.
Sebastian moved his hands to ensure he had not damaged the means to his living, and to his murderous hobby. New blood oozed from a deep cut over his eye and his left ankle was broken, then he passed out.
Sebastian awoke in the hospital several hours later with his ankle in plaster and several stitches to the gash above his eye; he also awoke to the tall, gangly policeman, Inspector Green.
The inspector had been employed by the Falkland Government and had previously been a detective in the London Metropolitan Police. He had been encouraged to accept the post, and there had been hints from his chief constable of fast-track rise through the ranks after his two-year stint, of which he had only served one month.
Several d
ays and three interviews later, the inspector was still not satisfied. The Classical Expedition, like all cruise liners, waited for neither man nor mouse. If you were not back on-board on time, staff or not, it sailed. The company’s agent, on hearing Sebastian’s plight, had passed the information to the company headquarters, and they authorized payment of the hospital bill. They also gave him the services of a local attorney when it became apparent the inspector believed that Sebastian had something to do with the deaths of Ned and Mona in the minefield.
“It doesn’t make sense; you hire a bike with two helmets, yet you say you were out there alone. The young lady was off your ship, and we know she liked to watch your performances. Ned had been on the mountain for two days, and we checked the mileage on the SUV. There was no way the distance indicated that he had been back to Stanley to pick up Mona, and no connection between them,” the inspector said accusingly.
“It’s all ifs, buts, and maybes. And wasn’t the soldier guy suffering from some mental defect? You have nothing to connect my client with the accidents apart from the fact that he witnessed the car go through the fence and lost control of the moped,” said James White, the rotund attorney the company’s agent had hired.
“That may be at present, but I want your client’s fingerprints, DNA, and passport. We’re sending the remains back to a crime lab in the UK to see what they come up with.”
“But that could take months! Are you going to keep my client here, in a jail cell, for several months?”
