I'm a captain. They're the Gods. This was not going to be good no matter how it turned out.
Look, yes, I hated the Bitch. Still do. But she was, after all, the President. Anybody who sits in that chair carries a certain mystic chill. The weight of history, etc. She was sitting in the same position as George Washington and Lincoln and Reagan. Yes, she looked as if she wanted to eat my brains. But she still was the President. Making fun of her in abstract was one thing. Looking her in the eyes was another.
I resolved to put the words "robot" and "zombie" out of my lexicon.
"Captain, I'm told that all standard conceivable methods of extracting your force are impossible to effect at this time."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"And you have . . . issues with moving your troops over to Israel."
"Yes, ma'am. The security situation in southern Iraq is notably unstable and the Israelis refuse to accept my Nepalese attachments or the local contractors. It would be . . . dishonorable to simply leave them behind. I hope to get them to the U.S. Barring that, to some area of relative safety."
The "security situation" I'd thrown in just to throw her. But the Nepalese were a major telling point.
The "Ghurka Meme" had infected the reports. Overnight, it seemed, we turned from being evil murdering destroying bastards to "heroic fighters." You see, the news media had noticed that we had little brown brothers we were helping. That made it all right and good.
Getting the Nepos out was probably right up there with getting us out in her mind.
"So how are we going to get you home, Captain?"
"The Ten Thousand, ma'am."
"Excuse, me?"
Yeah. Shows how much she knew about military history.
Group of Greek mercenaries from various city states at one point hired out to a pretender to the Persian throne. This was between when they'd kicked Persian ass at Thermopylae and Marathon and before Alexander ended up teaching the Persians who was the real boss.
Their side lost. Not far from here, again. Hey, there's a lot of history in this area.
Anyway, they ended up fighting their way home. Look up "Anabasis."
What I was proposing was the same thing.
We were going to march to the sea. The Black Sea in this case. Well, part of it. Sort of.
"Anabasis?" the Chief of Staff asked.
"Yes, sir. Bosporus, actually. I think the Greeks might be more willing to take us in."
"Turkey is not willing to permit your movement," the secretary of State said, cutting off that suggestion.
"There is no Turkey," the Chief of Staff said, giving him the exact value he deserved. "How are you going to cross the Bosporus, Captain? There's a very unfriendly Caliphate in the way."
Fuck.
"Dardanelles?"
"No bridges."
"Cross that strait when I come to it," I said.
The Prez might have been a fuck-up but she wasn't a complete moron.
"So you're suggesting that you march through Turkey to Greece, Captain? Can you do that?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said. Fuck it. I was fucked anyway. If the Chief of Staff didn't like it he should have sent me a fucking MEU. Or something. "I have sufficient supplies to take the full unit, including attachments, to the Bosporus. And beyond."
"The security situation in Turkey is not the greatest, Bandit," the Chief of Staff said.
"Yes, sir. Duly noted. I'm better prepared than the Ten Thousand and I've got better troops."
The last was debatable. Those Greeks were kick fucking ass motherfuckers. But I had to say something.
"Approved. Break this down."
That was it. No "good luck." Nothing. Just "Approved."
You know, Johnson used to get on the radio and order around companies. We lost that war.
Then there was the question of the Greeks. Would they let us in? All of us?
"Oh, sure. No problem, buddy. By the way, could you bring some supplies?"
There was one Greek government. Not four. One. All the surviving ambassadors agreed and there was even a U.S. Embassy still open. They'd had some major issues, still did. But they were, well, the Greeks. Sure, they hadn't won a war since Palatia. But they'd been fought for and over and through for centuries and they just kept being Hellenes. As long as there was enough mutton, retzina and ouzo they were good. A company of infantry replicating the Ten Thousand's march. Oh, hell, yeah! Come on over! We'll bring the ouzo! You're cute, you know that? How's your butt look?
Great. Problems settled. All we had to do was fight our way through Iraq and Turkey, over some stone bitch mountains which were already starting to fill up with snow, dragging along some Nepalese irregulars, who might be some good in the mountains come to think of it, and a trail of camp followers.
This was starting to feel too much like the Ten Thousand.
And I hadn't even found out the bad parts, yet.
Chapter Ten
Uno Problemo
There were a few details to work out. I paid my second in-person visit to the refugees.
The "mullah" who had taken over was a guy in his forties. He had, somewhere, scrounged up traditional Islamic dress and never actively carried a gun.
Let me explain the quotes. A mullah is, technically, nothing more than a teacher. That's actually the translation of the word: Scholar. He's not a priest specially annointed by God through a chain from some distant past. The Islamics simply don't have that. They have some people, like Hussein Jr. in Jordan, who are descendants of the Prophet and therefore specially important. But they are not necessarily or even commonly mullahs. A mullah is more like a rabbi, but even rabbis tend to go through an elaborate preparation for their posts. The only fixed requirements for a mullah is that he has completed the Haj, the annual pilgrimage to Mecca, and that he reads Arabic so he can translate and "explain" the Koran, which is a fairly baroque and in place opaque document.
(These "explanations," by the way, are called "fatwahs." A fatwah is not always a license to kill although it often seemed that way to Westerners since those were the only fatwahs we ever heard about. A fatwah can be something as simple as whether you can talk on your cell phone while doing your morning ritual washing. No, by the way. And, yes, there's a morning ritual wash. Why do Islamics often smell like the backside of a camel? Because it's based on people washing in the DESERT. Water is not required. Trust me, as OCD as Mohammed was (and he was very OCD) if he'd been around for modern conveniences he'd have added "And use water you morons! And soap! And maybe some fucking deodorant! You all smell like camels' butts!")
Down south and to a certain extent anywhere in the Bible belt you'll find small churches all over that are set up by a "preacher" who then brings his personal version of the Word of God to people every Sunday. Such preachers range from guys with multiple degrees in divinity (one of the schools Al Bore failed, by the way) or theology to some guy who can barely read the Bible.
Now you know what mullahs are. They're guys who a) went on the Haj, b) can or fake that they can read the Koran and c) convince people to give them money to preach.
And among the Shia they occasionally act as pimps. It's a funny old world.
This mullah seemed a decent enough guy. Whether for propaganda reasons or faith he seemed, also, to be trying to live the life that Shia mullahs had tended to live prior to the Mad Mullahs taking over Iran. That is, he advised and suggested how things should run, but didn't actually run them. Not under "shariah law." It's kind of like, a guy may be one of those small town preachers. He can still run for office. But if he's smart he doesn't bring God into every discussion of a bill. By the same token, his advice and suggestions were taken. Look, I wasn't going to tell them how to run their little society as long as it ran.