The Bosporus is actually a big fucking river if you think of the Black Sea as being a big fucking lake. It consists of the Bosporus which is a narrow bit exiting from the Black Sea that Istanbul straddles, the Mamara Denizi which is a big lake, then the Dardanelles, which is another narrow bit by the Med (okay, Aegean, same diff). Rivers from Eastern Europe to the Stans dump to the Black Sea and the water, in turn, dumps through the Bosporus (I use it as a general name for the whole thing) into the Mediterranean. (In fact, there's a continuous outward current. It really is a river.)
Rivers have always meant trade. So the choke point, from back before there was history, for all that trade is the Bosporus. And people have been plying their trade on the Bosporus since they were moving better flints down from the Volga region. (Seriously. They've found sunken boats that had cargoes of flints. Like for making chipped stone knives and stuff. Way before history.)
Remember Troy? Forget all that shit about it being about Helen. Troy was one of the first major cities to control Bosporus trade. It got really rich on it, and the Hellenes decided they wanted the money. Simple as that. It's over at the entrance to the Dardanelles on the Aegean/Med side. Guy named Schliemann found it in the late 1800s using mostly The Illiad as a guide. Well, he found one of the cities that was, sort of, Troy. There were layers and layers he never got to.
Anyway, The Big City for controlling Bosporus trade pretty much since history had been written was Istanbul. And it had a special significance to the Turks.
The faction that had taken most of Turkey was never going to be able to really control things until they controlled Istanbul.
And whether they had the forces to take Istanbul or not, they didn't have the moxie. They needed stiffening up. They needed a little Viagra in the old pencil.
We were the Viagra.
The Air Force general burbled. Airbase in Incirlik was available as soon as they took Istanbul. How the two were linked I had no idea; they were about seven hundred miles apart.
The State Department guy babbled. Improved relations with the Turkish government. Stabilization of the whole region. Opening trade through the Bosporus links.
Nobody was doing much "trade" back then. Most shipping lines weren't operative. An opening up the Bosporus was no big deal. If we really wanted to help this guy, we could send a MEU over and take Istanbul. Trust me, we wouldn't make the mistakes that the Brits made at Gallipoli.
But for some reason it had to be "Farmer's Freaks." They wanted me to cross the Tauric range, in what was starting up to be a fucking iceage of a winter, and on the far side link up with notionally friendly forces and take a city that was a fucking fortress?
I let them burble. The brigade commander and my BC watched me nod in agreement.
When the two idiots wound down I nodded again.
"No," I said and cut the connection.
I walked out of the commo vehicle and looked at the on-duty RTO, who was looking worried for good reason.
"When they call back, tell them I'm unavailable."
And I made myself unavailable.
The Kurds had some running Humvees we'd left behind. About the only thing we'd left them. I found a Kurd who knew who I was, and wanted to know if I was married because he had a cute female cousin . . . and he was talking marriage mind you . . . and rode out of town.
I drove up to Centurion Ridge. I parked where from the marks a Javelin had been fired. I looked down at those pretty good fields covered in the wrecked trucks, tanks, Bradleys, in all the mess we'd made.
They were pretty good fields. Not as good as Minnesota. But with the right equipment and knowledge, they could be made to really produce. And, hell, just because all that shit was fucked up now, didn't mean it had to stay fucked up. Some of the engines down there were in pretty good shape. Find a busted up tractor, put one of those truck engines in it and you'd be stylin'. Pimp my tractor, baby. Hell, I could put a fucking Abrams engine in it. Burn up the wheat as I was harvesting but, hell, that would keep down all but the grassy weeds . . .
Might be some unexploded ordnance. French farmers dealt with that all the time.
I wonder how cute that cousin is? And it wasn't the first such offer I'd gotten. The Kurd general, who was related to the Kurdish president, had mentioned introducing me to his sister . . .
What was there for me in the States? What was there for most of my boys in the States? Families were dead. The government was screwed to the max. The cities were a nightmare and the Army wasn't being allowed to do anything about it.
Things would get pretty peaceful in this region pretty soon. Especially if we helped out in Baghdad. The Kurds were mostly Hurrians but they had all sorts of tribes in truth. Maybe it was time for a tribe of Americans.
They'd called me pretty late in their day. It was noon local when I said no. I sat there all afternoon. Watched the sun set. Watched the fields turn to silver as it got really fucking cold. I pulled out my poncho liner and wrapped up. I watched the fields get more silver as a thin moon rose over my shoulder. I slept. I dreamed and they were ragged dreams. Dreams of empire. Hell, the whole Middle East was ripe for the taking for somebody who had the right force and mentality. I saw myself on a throne. And I saw disaster and Mom calling me in from the fields and Dad's big hands working on a tractor. I dreamed of battles I'd been in and battles I'd never seen. I'd never held a shield or sword in my life and I saw those as well as if I'd lived it. I saw cohorts and just big groups of guys with bows and ragged cavalry charges. And I woke to the birds singing outside the room of my house and knowing I was late for school. That there was something I had to do and it was nagging at me.
They were the wrong birds. Magpies squawking in the pass. Ravens croaking their harsh cries.
Could those green hills of Kurdistan have ever been home? I don't know. Maybe. If they pushed me, they were going to be.
There was a radio in the Humvee. I'd had it turned off. I turned it back on, punched in the right frequency and called the commo van. I was coming back. Call the BC. I'll call back when I was ready, give me an hour or so.
I had a leisurely breakfast. I'd taken some pogie bait with me, every soldier carries some food with him, but not much else. I was going to need the blood sugar.
I tossed everybody out of the van again. I called back. I got put on hold, which I'd expected.
Took about fifteen minutes for the conference to come back up. Different group. Still the BC and the Brigade. And the Army Chief of Staff. And the Air Force Chief of Staff. And a different State weanie. This one looked less Weanieish. Sharper.
Chief of Staff, Army, opened.
"Bandit," and he called me Bandit, "we know what we're asking. We know. We can send replacements for your casualties. We can send you gear if necessary. Supplies. Whatever. But we need this done. And you're the guy who can do it."
"I was laying odds you were going to take a barbarian bride," the BC said. There were glares all around. Water. Duck.