Harry Turtledove (Editor): Alternate Generals II

The carcass of a recently butchered goat hung by the back door, the metallic scent of its blood filling the small storeroom in which Butler and Suleyman talked.

"Suleyman, why do you help us?"

"From the time Sultan Mehmet captured Constantinople until this day, my family served the Osmanli. If I betray the sultan, I betray my family."

"But you help foreigners?"

"You support the sultan. Mustafa Kemal does not."

Looking at the man, and judging him, Butler decided to trust the Turk. "Can you find where the Nationalists keep the submarine?"

Suleyman smiled. "Efendi, I do not need to find it. Near Bursa a cove shelters the submarine."

"Can we send in ships?"

"Mines would sink your ships before they reached the cove, Efendi."

"How close can we land?"

"A march of one hour. I will guide you."

"Tonight, then."

"Allaha ismarladik," Suleyman said, ducking through a rear door.

Butler rejoined Cooper, already selecting his raiding force from the marines he'd brought from France. He finished his coffee, which was now cold.

"We still have men across the street watching close, sir," Cooper said.

Five Turks dressed in European suits stood arguing, but always with one man watching the coffeehouse. A crowd followed the gestures of the men as they pointed to the coffeehouse. One man stepped forward and pointed at Butler and Cooper, shouting, "Amerikalilar!"

The dog packs, roused by the crowd, stirred.

"The mob will catch us before we make the guard post, sir," Cooper said.

"Stay here." Butler ducked into the storeroom and returned with the goat carcass. He dropped an American five-dollar gold piece on the table. "That should buy a new goat. Back to Sultanahmed. Straight through the dog packs. Go."

Cooper shoved several Turks aside, clearing the way for Butler. A tall man grabbed Butler. Smedley slammed the dead goat into the Turk's face. A few steps carried the marines into the intersection. Dogs snarled and scurried aside. Butler turned and hurled the goat back into the center of the square. It landed between the packs as several men started to follow the marines. Dogs from each pack pounced on the meat. Instantly, curs poured from the shadows, filling the street with fifty or sixty fighting dogs. The men fled into a shop door. The din of snarling and barking drowned the shouts of the Turkish mob, trapped on the far side of the canine sea.

John Pershing and one aide crossed the veranda of the Pera Palas. Pershing glanced at the distant Golden Horn, seeing the bright lights of the liner Princess Matoika , knowing the ship was already packed with wounded soldiers and marines. He walked quickly through the hotel's garden to a closed limousine.

Pershing and his aide climbed into the back seat. The general's orderly, Frank Lanckton, sat behind the wheel, a Turkish officer in the front seat beside him.

The Turk glanced back at Pershing. "The Ghazi waits."

Pershing nodded, tapped Lanckton on the shoulder, and said softly, "All right, Sergeant, let's get where we're going." The general leaned back in the seat. Fighting the Germans had been easy, he thought, backed by the power of an America enraged to war. The enemy was clear, the mission direct. In Turkey, Pershing's men died one or two at a time in ambushes and probing attacks on his lines, as the Nationalists sought to free their nation. Pershing could not view them as his enemy. Feeling the tightness in his chest left by the heavy smoke, Pershing coughed deeply. He leaned back and closed his eyes as Lanckton swung the car slowly into the empty street and drove toward the docks.

Butler crouched just over the crest of a low hill, feeling rather than seeing the marine scouts around him in the darkness. His attack force had steamed from Constantinople two nights before in an old Turkish ferry, and crept along the European coast of the Sea of Marmara for a day. Nearing the Dardanelles, the marines transferred to a fast Navy patrol boat and dashed east for the Kemalist submarine base near Bursa, landing at night and marching across a headland.

Below him, light seeped from warehouses facing a long dock, illuminating mounds of supplies. A door opened and a flood of light revealed the low conning tower of a submarine. Inland, a dozen huts were crowded together. The camp's perimeter remained in darkness. Smedley shifted his weight, and the Thompson gun slung on his shoulder slipped. He grabbed the submachine gun before it could bang against the tree.

Marine skirmishers edged down the hill. Butler studied the base several more minutes, trying to pick out its defenses, then ducked back across the crest and dropped to kneel beside Cooper and Suleyman. The three squads of Butler's attack force were spread along the hill. Two men in each squad carried packs of explosives.

"BARs are dug in to cover our withdrawal, sir," Cooper said.

"Good." Butler turned to their Turkish guide. "Suleyman, stay here with the gunners."

"Efendim? Hayir. I fight beside you." He held up his Thompson.

"Are you tired of Stamboul, Suleyman, to risk your life?"

"Dawn will find us back in the city, inshalla."

Butler nodded in the darkness, his nerves tightening as he waited. After what seemed hours, he heard a whisper of sound and a Marine private dropped beside him.

"Barbed fence halfway between the base of the hill and the huts. Fifty yards of cleared ground between the fence and guard posts at the edge of the camp. Bunkers every one hundred yards. Turks had pickets out at the base of the hill. They don't now."

"Move out, Sergeant. Let's sink that sub."

Ten miles north of Constantinople, John Pershing's launch bumped against a low seawall set between a European-style mansion and the Bosporus. He stepped from the rocking boat onto the landing of the compact, classically styled summer home of a merchant or diplomat from Pera. The front door of the building opened as the engine died. A man's voice, speaking in French, said, "General Pershing, welcome to Anatolia. May we find peace tonight."

Not waiting for his aide, Pershing stepped into the light streaming from the building and answered in the same language, "Thank you, Kemal Pasha. Between us, we shall."

Pershing followed Mustafa Kemal down the entrance hall into a large drawing room. The Turkish leader was a slight man, wearing a gray military tunic and jodhpurs. Unlike his photographs, the Turk's rectangular face was clean-shaven. His steel-gray eyes studied the American as Mustafa Kemal shook hands with Pershing. "I am sorry Governor Fall would not meet with me."

"I come in his place, and with the authority of the United States Government," Pershing said, continuing to speak in French. "Marshal Kemal, please accept my congratulations on your victory over the Greek army."

"I asked the Turkish people to fight for every rock in our country, and they did. We fight now to make the nation modern, to take our place again in the world."

"Meeting you, Kemal Pasha, I know you will accomplish your goal," Pershing said, keeping his gaze on the Turkish leader, feeling the power of the other man's personality. But you won't do it easily if America decides to fight, he thought.

Every sound in the night screamed for Butler's attention. Metal clanged on the dock, followed by an easy call in Turkish and laughter at someone's clumsiness. The weight of spare drum magazines tugged at his equipment belt as Smedley worked his way down the hill.

He concentrated on placing each step, testing gently for firm footing before adding his full weight. Gravel rattled in the darkness as his men moved down the gradual slope, and he silently cursed their carelessness. The skirmishers directed the attackers to breaks they'd cut in the few strands of barbed wire circling the base.