by John Ringo
"I don't know about worth your time," Mike said. "It's purely personal."
"Anyone who can pick up the phone and call the President is worth helping, Mr. Jenkins," Wangen said, chuckling.
"I haven't talked to the boss in . . . months," Mike said. "And for reasons that are going to be really obvious this is something I'd rather never get to his ears. So, Mr. Wangen, exactly how discreet are you?"
"If it's not a matter of national security I can be very discreet," Wangen said, curiously. "What's the problem?"
"I inherited a damned harem," Mike said, rolling his eyes at Nielson who was grinning. "The reasons are complicated and I'll explain it when we're together, if you want. But I need a harem manager. One of the guys I got for training the locals said that there are a couple of guys around Uzbek that have traditional harems. I need to talk to one of them about where in the hell you get a harem manager. I'm not going to try to keep a bunch of teenage girls in line myself. I don't have a big enough club around the house."
"My heart bleeds," Wangen said, chuckling. "My wife is pushing fifty and going through the 'change.' But I know a guy that fits the profile. I'll give him a call. When are you planning on coming out?"
"I've got a plane on the way from England at the moment," Mike said. "I figured I'd be there by tomorrow morning. Sometime tomorrow work?"
"Probably," Wangen said, hesitantly. "I'll have to call the sheik and check on his schedule."
"I can hang out for a day or two," Mike said. "I just need to be back by Saturday."
"That can be arranged," Wangen said. "Let me give the sheik's people a call and see what I can arrange."
"Thanks," Mike said, hitting the disconnect. "The plane's on the way. Given how long it takes to get to Tbilisi I probably should be leaving," he continued to Nielson.
"We've got it handled," Nielson said. "Take off. You realize you're running away from a group of teenage girls?"
"Oh, certainly," Mike said, standing up and folding away the satellite phone. "Women are the root of all evil. And teenage girls haven't learned to use their power for good. There is a reason that harem doors had bolts on the outside."
* * *
"I need to get a helicopter," Mike muttered as he bumped over the road to Tbilisi.
"Pardon, Kildar?" Vil said. Mike had brought the Keldara along to drive the Expedition back to the caravanserai. But he wasn't about to trust him to actually drive with Mike in the car. The Keldara had many traits Mike had come to admire, but their driving style was pure third world.
"I said I need to get a helicopter," Mike replied. "This road is awful. But maintaining the damned thing in the valley would be a pain in the ass. And taking the Expedition means the reaction team has to use one of the Family's. Stop by the Ford dealer and tell him we need two more SUVs. They don't have to be Expeditions, Explorers would do, but they have to be four wheel. And black or red."
"Yes, Kildar," Vil said. "May I ask a question?"
"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 g
ot 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.
At least it had been prior to September 11, 2001. With the attack by the Al Qaeda on New York and Washington, the need to remove the Taliban in Afghanistan was self-evident. There were two ways open to attack Afghanistan, another land-locked country. The easiest would be through Pakistan, which had high quality roads and railroads and the port of Karachi to supply through. But the Pakistani people, especially those in the northern territories, were closely linked to the Taliban-supporting tribes in Afghanistan. Pakistan could provide a small measure of support, but it would be minimal, and safe basing was out of the question.
Uzbekistan, however, had already entered into various agreements with the United States prior to 9/11 and many of the forces fighting the Taliban were related to the Uzbeks. When it became evident that using Pakistan was impossible, the U.S. had, instead, poured its military wealth into this flat, land-locked, country. Special operations and air force bases had been built, contracts had been let and servicemen and women had poured into the country. In short order, the number-one employer in Uzbekistan had become Uncle Sam either directly, by hiring people to work on the bases and construction contracts, or indirectly by providing goods and services to off-duty soldiers and airmen.
And fabled Samarkand had become the target of choice for those off-duty service personnel. If for no other reason than the quality of its whores.
Mike remembered spending one seriously drunken four-day weekend in Samarkand. Despite being a Moslem country, the influence of the Uzbeks, one of the many tribes of "Mongols" that had overrun the Middle East in ancient times, was strong. Liquor was legal and prostitution was considered just one of those things. Girls from Russia had flooded into the country to supply "services" to lonely American lads and Mike had taken full advantage. The team had just come off of nearly two months of straight combat ops and, at the time, it was all TDY. The TDY pay-out had been . . . sizeable. And he'd blown damned near all of it on booze and girls. At something like five bucks for a blowjob and twenty for around the world, he'd screwed himself silly. And barely been able to remember it for all the booze.
Good weekend.
In response to the increase in business, Hilton had, thank God, built a hotel. Mike considered that as he looked out the windows of the hotel at downtown Samarkand. The last time he'd been here he'd ended up staying in some really lousy bordello the whole four days. Literally lousy; he'd had to thoroughly de-louse when he got back to the base. In a Hilton that worry wasn't an issue.
The Hilton was close to the center of downtown and fairly new, which meant that something had been destroyed to put it there. Mike hoped that it was one of the horrible Soviet six-story tenements that infested the city. The decaying tenements were perfectly square, at least in design—no Soviet builder could actually make something perfectly square—and unadorned. So was Bauhaus architecture, but it used pleasing lines to create something that was only mediocre. The Soviets had managed to create buildings of oppressive ugliness without really trying. Unfortunately, they were generally ringed around the center, though, so it was more likely to be some traditional building or buildings.
Samarkand had one notable feature that was post Soviet: the Mosque. For some reason, Islamic countries had gotten into a battle over who could build the mosque with the highest minaret and onion dome. Not to mention the most surpassing ugliness. Aesthetics definitely took a back seat. The Samarkand Mosque was a grotesque building that dominated the view. The older houses, shops and mosques that huddled near it were dwarfed by the thing. It looked as massive as the Great Pyramid, although Mike knew that was an exaggeration. Baroque in the extreme, covered in murals, most of them made of rather cheap ceramic, and "gold" that was mostly anodized aluminum, the thing was a monument to tasteless excess. It was the perfect counterpoint to the Soviet block architecture that was its antithesis in style. With each equally ugly in amazingly different ways, the circle of ill-conceived architecture was complete.
Mike wondered what the Keldara would make of all of this. As soon as countries became "independent," whether of Soviet domination or theological domination or Western domination, they jumped into capitalism with both feet. And their heads up their butts. They created the shape of capitalism in skyscrapers and . . . well, big mosques even. But they couldn't create the social base. Uzbekistan had various positive factors that could permit it to grow and thrive. Hong Kong had done so with less, although they were anything but landlocked. But the concept of simply digging in and doing was foreign to so many cultures. The "Protestant work ethic" was a rare thing indeed. In cultures like this one, actually doing work was considered a social abasement. Management was one thing, getting your hands dirty another.
It was the main reason, after the Islamic influence, that east Asian countries were firing away on all cylinders, with admittedly some boo-boos, but countries like Uzbekistan were stagnating. In east Asia, everyone understood the concept of working as hard as you could to make a dime. In west Asia, it was verboten. And they still had the "command economy" idea in their heads from the Soviets. As if that had worked.
He was wondering if the Keldara could make less of a hash of things when his moody reflections were interrupted by the buzz of the sat phone.
/> "Jenkins."
"Mr. Jenkins, this is David Wangen from the embassy, how are you today?"
"Fine," Mike said, wondering why Wangen didn't go on scrambler, then realizing he was probably using an unsecure line.
"I've met with Sheik Otryad and he is willing to meet with you," Wangen said. "This evening at his compound outside of town. Are you available?"
"Yes," Mike said. "I've seen Samarkand before so I can skip the sight-seeing trip. How do I get there?"
"I'll have a car sent from the embassy," Wangen said. "They'll know how to get here. About five?"
"Works," Mike said, frowning. The ways were being greased big-time and he didn't know why. His negligible connection with the President was unlikely. Far more likely, someone wanted something.
"I'll make sure the car is there."
* * *
At a bit before five Mike was down front in one of his new Harrowgates' suits, a briefcase in hand containing his sat phone. Precisely at five a Cadillac limousine pulled up front and an American riding in the front passenger seat got out and opened the back door.