“Always,” Mike said.
“I know you intend to use the vehicles for the militia,” Vil said, hesitantly. “Black I can understand, but why red?”
“Red is nearly as hard to see in the dark as black,” Mike said. “Not that with their reflective coats that they’re camouflaged or anything. But that’s why red or black. You guys ready for issue and zero on Friday?”
“Yes, Kildar,” Vil said enthusiastically. “We’re looking forward to it. The Keldara are farmers, yes, but at heart we are warriors. We have been kept from the warrior path for too long.”
“I won’t get into the difference between the warrior and the soldier,” Mike said. “These days the definitions are getting a bit blurred, anyway. But to be a true modern warrior requires learning to be a soldier. At the same time, being a soldier will not be enough, I want all the Keldara to make the jump to modern warrior, a fighter who can both use initiative and obey orders.”
“We will try, Kildar,” Vil said uncertainly.
“I sort of hit the difference, there,” Mike said in explanation. “A warrior fights for honor and glory and to show that he has courage. He takes rash chances so that he can stand out. A soldier fights for the honor of a cause and, in the heat of battle, so that he doesn’t let his comrades down. They don’t take chances but, on the other hand, they’ll soak up the casualties if that’s what it takes to perform the mission and they don’t run.
“Warriors tend to have plenty of reasons to leave the battle and tend to get whacked when they don’t. They don’t work well in teams, don’t think of their fellow fighters as worth taking chances for, so they tend to fight badly. The mujahideen are warriors. They hit and run and when they try to stand up fight they get slaughtered by soldiers and modern warriors.
“Most American forces fall into the category of modern warriors. They fight for all the reasons of soldiers, they fight well in teams and stand to their salt when the chips are down but they don’t have a problem going the extra mile. If they see a better way to achieve the objective they’ll use initiative and courage to do so. They don’t take stupid chances but they don’t have a problem taking the hit if it means the mission gets accomplished.
“That’s what I’m hoping to find in the Keldara. You find it in some tribes around the world, the Kurds and the Gurkhas are the best known. The Keldara seem to have that same basic ethos. I hope I’m right because what we’re going to try to accomplish will require that you guys be beyond good.”
“I think I see,” Vil said, nodding. “There are things about the Keldara… I think we will be good for this. Give the Keldara guns and an enemy and the problem will be holding us back. We have a great hate in us and more courage than you might think for farmers.”
“And plenty of things you’re not discussing with your Kildar,” Mike said, apparently paying close attention to the twisting mountain road. “Like what that cross you wear actually means. It’s not a standard cross. It looks one hell of a lot like an axe. Maybe a hammer, but that would be really odd.”
“An axe would not?” Vil asked, carefully.
“There’s a tribe in southeastern Georgia that has various practices,” Mike said, shrugging. “Among other things, they have a spring festival that celebrates something like the story of the Golden Fleece. Medea was near here, it’s possible that they’re a remnant of the Medean tribe. You’re familiar with the story of the Golden Fleece?”
“Yes, Kildar,” Vil answered.
“Interesting,” Mike said. “I’d love to hear your version. ‘This asshole from Greece and a bunch of his drinking buddies showed up one day, seduced the king’s daughter, killed her pet dragon, stole the Fleece and made off with it and the girl. Then he dumped the girl, the bastard.’ But the point is that they also have an axe that is a symbol of authority. That path probably traces through the Greeks or the Medeans. A hammer, though, that’s pretty unusual. Assuming a Greek descent it would relate to Hephaestus, the Greek god of smiths. But I’ve never actually seen that motif in ethnology. Now the Norse used an axe as a symbol, especially in reaction to Christianity. Not like yours, but similar. However, the only Norse that got down here were the Varangian Guard of the Byzantine emperors. And I’ve scanned a couple of online sources and they don’t have that particular motif anywhere. For that matter, Constantinople is a long damned way from here. Most of the hammer symbols were late Norse. Early Norse hardly had any specific god symbols at all. The Gallic tribes used an axe as a symbol of authority for a while, but that’s a pretty long shot. And while you guys have some evidence of Norse characteristics, they’re awful muted. Cultural memes can hold out for a long time in isolation, I suppose. I’d love to get a gene typing of you guys, though. You’re either classic Caucasian types, the very base of the Aryan gene pool, or you’re some very odd transplants. I haven’t figured out which. On the other hand, I have figured out that you know, or think you know. Close?”
“Very,” Vil said, uncomfortably.
“You’ve got your secrets; I’ve got mine,” Mike said. “Don’t expect to find mine out any time soon. I don’t expect to find out yours.”
“Mr. Jenkins,” Hardesty said as Mike got out of the Expedition. “It’s good to see you. Will you be changing names again?”
“Not this time,” Mike said, grabbing his bags out of the back. “Nice simple visit to Uzbekistan. We may have to sit around for a couple of days.”
“I’ll attempt to restrain my enthusiasm,” Hardesty said, smiling faintly.
“Been to the Stans, have you?” Mike asked. “Vil, head back to the valley,” he continued as the Keldara took the keys to the SUV. “Don’t forget to stop by the Ford dealership. And get the oil changed and whatnot if you’ve got time.”
“Yes, Kildar,” Vil said, getting in the driver’s seat.
“And don’t ding it,” Mike shouted as the Keldara sped away.
“You have a minion,” Hardesty said as Mike boarded the Gulfstream.
“I do indeed,” Mike replied. “Minions, actually. Which is a different kind of headache than I’m used to. But now we’re away to Samarkand and I get to forget the minions for a while.”
“We’re preflighted,” Hardesty said. “If there’s nothing keeping us.”
“No,” Mike said. “Get me out of here before someone figures out a reason I have to stay. Let us waft to storied Samarkand.”
“You haven’t been in Uzbekistan lately,” Hardesty said, chuckling.
“Au contraire,” Mike replied, sitting in one of the front seats and buckling in. “But I can hope it’s improved.”
Chapter Sixteen
It hadn’t.
Samarkand of fable and legend was a city originally placed across the Great Silk Road, the ancient caravan trail from the Mediterranean to China. It had grown from a village to a powerful city, fat with tolls from the caravans, famous for its snow-packed melons, then been overrun by the Mongols and subjected to one of the more professional jobs of “rape, loot, pillage then burn.” It was rebuilt by the Mongols and subsequently captured by the Turks, the Persians, the Uzbeks and finally the Russians, although the order was often disputed. Each had left their mark on the city but the Russians had managed to do the most damage. If it were still in ruins from the Mongols, it would look better than what fifty years of Socialism had done to it.
The Samarkand of fable from Marco Polo’s travels had been a city of gardens, narrow alleys, romantic caravanserai and red-walled fortresses. Admittedly, it had probably been lacking in plumbing, but Marco Polo was no rose by the time he got there. The Samarkand that the Soviets left behind was a city of straight roads, ugly monuments and crumbling concrete. Uzbekistan had been officially “democratic” and “capitalist” for better than two decades, but the various presidents had all been kleptocrats and public improvements were low on their list of priorities. For that matter, land locked, virtually without mineral or oil wealth and having nearly zero industry, in the modern world Uzbekistan was the backwater of backwaters and one of the poorest nations listed in the CIA worldbook.