Harry Turtledove - Alternate Generals II

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Alternate Generals II
Edited by Harry Turtledove
American Mandate
James Fiscus
September 1918. World War I nears its end in Europe, and the Ottoman Empire offers to
surrender to the United States. The British, eager to keep the French out of Constantinople and
the Straits, urge President Wilson to accept. A month later, a small American force steams into
the Golden Horn. At the Versailles Conference, America accepts a League of Nations Mandate
over Constantinople and other parts of Turkey. General of the Armies John Pershing commands
American forces.
Smedley Butler stood on the upper walk of the GalataTower, the streets of Constantinople's
European district winding down the low hill to the Golden Horn and the Bosporus below him. The iron
railing was hot from the late August sun. He stared east across the dark blue water of the Bosporus to
the shore of Anatolia. Smoke rose from Üscüdar, the shattered Asian suburbs of the imperial city, where
Dwight Eisenhower and his company had died as Turkish Nationalists drove American troops from
Asiatic Turkey. He looked south over the narrow flow of the Golden Horn to Stamboul, the ancient
center of Constantinople. The minarets and domes of Süleyman's great mosque were bright in the early
afternoon sun, as were the slender towers of the other great mosques of the Ottoman sultans.
"Will the Nationalists move more men across, General?" The young marine second lieutenant
commanding the observation post shifted nervously.
"No need to. Mustafa Kemal already has an army behind us. Besides, we have the Governor
General's yacht to help."
TheU.S.S.Arizona rode at anchor half a mile off the Golden Horn, her twelve 14-inch guns aiming
beyond Butler to the Thracian Plain and the Nationalist army infesting the city. Aft of her rear turret, an
awning blazed white in the afternoon sun, shading Governor General Albert B. Fall's reception for the
allied ambassadors. Smedley handed the binoculars to the lieutenant and turned to enter the ancient stone
tower. Butler's movements revealed a wiry toughness earned from three decades' campaigning as a
marine.
Explosions slapped behind him. He spun around as another explosion banged across the water. A
white fountain spouted from the far side of theArizona . Smoke, gray turning black, billowed over the
ship. Shock froze Butler for an instant.
"Call Army headquarters. Order Colonel Patton to full alert."
Butler was breathing heavily from his charge down the interior steps of the tower as he jumped into
the rear seat of his open staff car. "Customs dock."
Smedley's aide and Army liaison, Major Shaw, asked, "General, what's happened?" Shaw's gaunt
face showed his concern.
Butler gripped the top of the door as the car bounced down the cobbled street. "Explosions on
Arizona . Can't tell if the Navy blew themselves up or if the Turks are attacking." The blast of the car's
horn forced a way through the crowd of European and Turkish pedestrians. The third and fourth stories
of the stone and wooden houses loomed over the Rolls Royce as it slid around a sharp corner onto
Istiklal Street. The driver swerved, just missing a small red trolley car, and accelerated toward the water.
* * *
The explosion twisted the deck ofArizona from under John Pershing, hurling him against the aft
turret. He dropped to one knee but refused to fall further. A cloud of oily smoke swept across the
battleship's fantail. Pershing pulled out a handkerchief and tied it over his nose and mouth. "Damn little
good this will do."
"General Pershing, sir, are you hurt?"
The concerned face of an ensign hovered above the general. "I don't think so, son." Pershing stood
slowly, testing his balance, feeling his sixty years. He coughed deeply, trying to clear the smoke from his
lungs, but only drawing in more. "How is the ship?" He reached to straighten his hat and found it missing.
"Don't know, sir. Captain Hahn and Admiral Kessler were both forward showing some pasha
around. With the general's permission, I must get to my station."
"Go." The ship jerked and listed heavily to starboard. Civilians attending the reception shoved past
Pershing to the railing. Pershing saw an Army major who commanded the governor general's honor
guard. "Reynolds, organize the evacuation here. The Navy is busy trying to save the ship."
"Sir."
Pershing scanned the deck for Governor General Fall's shock of white hair, seeing him far aft,
surrounded by a small cordon of aides. As he neared Fall, Pershing called, "Is your launch near,
Governor?"
Fall ignored Pershing, helping an American oilman toward a rope ladder recently tied to a stanchion.
He turned to Pershing. "Best hurry, General."
Pershing heard a woman's scream of "Sally," and turned. An American woman bent to help a girl of
about five, who sat on the deck holding her leg and crying. Blood stained the hem of the child's yellow
dress. An older girl in a matching outfit clung to the woman, her eyes wide with fear.
Pershing shoved his way back to the small group, and knelt by the youngest girl. "Here, let me see."
Pershing gently examined the girl's leg, which had a slight cut. Emptiness gripped him, as he realized the
girl was only a year or two older than Mary Margaret and that the older girl was near Helen or Anne's
age, when all had burned to death before the war. He glanced up at the woman, filled by memories of
Frankie, dead in the same fire. He forced himself to concentrate on the present, glad that his touch
seemed to comfort the girl. "I don't think it's serious, Madam."
The woman looked down, fear fading as she recognized Pershing. "General, is the ship sinking?"
"Not till you're safe." Pershing spotted Reynolds. "Get these people to the launch, Major."
A rumbling explosion—felt through the deck more than heard—shook the massive battleship.
Pershing stumbled asArizona listed further. At the fantail, he helped a wounded sailor climb over the rail,
and felt the man slip from his hands into the arms of sailors on a local caique. He glanced at his hands,
seeing the blood and blackened skin that had peeled from the sailor's arms. Pershing wiped his hands on
his uniform, trying to ignore the charred-lamb stench of burned human flesh.
"General Pershing." A Navy lieutenant, his white uniform covered in grime, saluted. "Sir, the fire's
near the forward magazine."
"Can you flood it?"
"No water pressure. Please abandon ship, General."
Pershing fought his instinct to stay, to help the wounded, knowing his command was ashore. "I'm
sorry, Lieutenant." Pershing turned to the stern and climbed down into the steam launch, crowding onto a
deck packed with sailors and a few civilians. Fall and the oil tycoon stood on the far side of the launch.
The boat dropped away from the battleship on the fast current, moving out of the heavy smoke
from burning bunker oil. Pershing yelled to the boatswain at the wheel, "Get us around to the bow so we
can see the damage."
The launch sliced through the calm water toward the dreadnought's bow. TheArizona 's port side
appeared undamaged, but the ship's heavy list stabbed her 14-inch guns upward, twelve great barrels
silhouetted against the sky. The launch rounded the sharp bow.
The foredeck ofArizona vanished in a ball of flame that billowed above the tall masts. Pershing
saw—or imagined, for he was never sure—both forward turrets lift upward before crashing back through
the main deck. The shock of the explosion smashed into Pershing, knocking him into the crowd of
sailors. Sound roared over him. He raised his arms in protection against falling debris.
The dreadnought shuddered and rolled. Her tall basket-weave masts dipped into the Bosporus, her
guns jutting upward. The screams of crewmen flung into the sea rose above the death rattle within the
armored hull. The ship vanished beneath the roiling surface. Oil carried fire across the blue water.
* * *
Old Glory and Butler's red flag with his single brigadier's star snapped in the wind as Smedley leapt
from his still-moving car. A growing throng of Turks and Europeans crowded the small plaza, voices
raised in half a dozen languages Butler recognized, and a dozen he didn't. Black smoke rose from the
burning oil markingArizona 'sgrave. Smedley stared in shock at the flock of small boats circling, seeking
survivors. "It only took me ten minutes to get here. Battleships shouldn't die that quickly."
A marine sergeant, a stocky, powerful man with gray hair and a face lined from decades of
campaigning, saluted sharply. "The swabbies say Turks floated a mine to her on the current, but nobody
knows, General."
"Where's Pershing, Sergeant Cooper?" Butler always felt rapport with Cooper, a relic of the old
Marine Corps whom he remembered from the march on Peking and the Panama Battalion.
"With the Governor General, I hope, sir. His launch is picking up survivors."
Butler glanced around the long, narrow promenade, only a few feet above the swiftly moving
Bosporus. Four- and five-story stone and brick buildings, mainly occupied by European or local
Greek-owned businesses, crowded the waterfront in a jumble of pastels and stonework. Behind them,
buildings climbed the low hill to the medieval gray stones of the Galata Tower with its layer-cake crown
of balconies. The crowd grew rapidly, and Butler's hand brushed his holstered .45 at the thought of yet
another riot sweeping the city.
Smedley relaxed slightly as two trucks loaded with marines bounced to a stop. "Good timing,"
Butler said. "Major Shaw, keep the promenade clear, but go easy. The city could go up like a ton of
dynamite. Don't light the match."
"I understand, sir." Shaw saluted.
"Sergeant, where's your phone?"
Cooper pointed to a low wooden shack. "Inside, General."
Butler stepped into the small guard post, his boots clicking on the plank floor. He cranked the
handle on the phone.
"Headquarters, Lieutenant Zack."
"General Butler here. Is the garrison on alert?"
"No, sir. Not without Colonel Patton's orders. I'm trying to reach him, sir."
"Where is Colonel Patton?"
"Not quite sure, sir. He's playing a polo match against the wogs, General, over in Stamboul." The
answer came with obvious reluctance. "Civilizing them, he said."
Smedley Butler took off his broad-brimmed campaign hat for a moment and wiped sweat from his
forehead with his sleeve, brushing his dark hair back, using the gesture to bring his temper under control.
"Full alert. Now. Send the Army to reinforce the perimeter."
"Yes, sir."
"Marine riot squads into the streets. If the residents of Stamboul see this as a signal to attack
foreigners, the sultan's police won't stop them. Send every vehicle you can spare to move the wounded
to hospital."
"Yes, sir, General."
"Damn Patton!" Butler said in a harsh whisper as he walked from the building. "Aristocratic bastard
should be on duty, not playing polo. No wonder the Turks ambushed him in Armenia."
"We finally have some ambulances, sir." Sergeant Cooper saluted. "And the governor general's
launch just landed."
Butler glanced at the flock of aides circling Fall as he walked away from his launch. The governor
general's shock of white hair was like a flag in the center of the crowd. His voice, loud as always, carried
his New Mexico drawl across the plaza.
Butler pushed through the gaggle of sycophants around the governor general. "Governor Fall, was
General Pershing injured?"
"Nigger Jack's playing nurse . . ." Recognizing Butler, Fall sputtered to silence, then continued, his
voice petulant. His bronzed face, white hair and drooping mustache made him look like a carnival
pitchman. His blue eyes were narrow and cold. "Pershing is still on my launch. Bring him to me, General
Butler."
Pershing's normally immaculate uniform was covered in soot and dirt. He helped a sailor, whose
right leg twisted hideously at the knee, stagger to the dock. Butler took the sailor's other arm and the two
generals eased the man to a stretcher.
"Glad you made it ashore, General. We were afraid you'd been caught in the explosion."
"There were children aboard. I could not abandon them to a fire." Pershing's voice broke slightly as
he talked.
"I understand, sir," Smedley said.
"General Pershing, we must talk. Now." Albert Fall's drawl cut through the cries of the wounded.
He indicated the tall, chunky oilman he had escorted from the sinkingArizona . "You have not met Mister
Walters. He landed from thePrincess Matoika yesterday to sign a new concession with the sultan's
government. We must stop the Nationalists, General. They refuse to honor the sultan's agreements."
"Mister Walters, you will excuse us, sir, as this conversation may involve military matters," Pershing
said. Fall started to object, then followed Pershing and Butler into the nearby guard shack. "General
Pershing, the Army has allowed Mustafa Kemal and his followers to become an irritation. Get rid of this
bandit."
"Mustafa Kemal and the Turkish Nationalists have just driven a hundred and fifty thousand Greek
troops from Anatolia. He has twenty thousand of his men at our backs in European Turkey." John
Pershing's tone made his contempt for Fall clear. "We have twenty-five hundred troops holding our
perimeter and General Butler's fifteen hundred marines holding the city. If we stay in Constantinople and
the Turks attack, we die, Governor. We must evacuate."
"I give you orders, General. You do not order me," Fall nearly shouted.
"I advised President Wilson to reject this mandate. He did not. With Wilson gone, President
Harding refuses to send more troops, and yet you block a diplomatic solution with Mustafa Kemal. The
American Mandate is over, Governor."
"I am not here to surrender American interests to a wog," Fall said, his New Mexico drawl thicker
as his voice rose again. He pulled out a cigar and lit it, not offering one to Pershing or Butler.
"You don't defend American interests, Governor. You defend American companies," Butler said.
"You ordered the sultan to revoke European oil concessions and give them to Americans. There is a
price for that. The French signed a treaty with Kemal last year. The British are about to. You have
isolated us from European help to defend your racket."
"We do not need Europe, General Butler. You didn't run from the Niggers in Haiti. Why do you run
from the Turks?" Fall puffed a cloud of cigar smoke into the air.
Butler spun and walked to the far side of the room so as not to strike the politician. Fall's voice rose
behind him, "General Pershing, remove this man from his command."
"No, Governor, I shall not."
As Fall stalked from the guard shack, Butler stepped back to Pershing. "My apology for losing my
temper, sir."
"None needed, General Butler." A smile softened Pershing's expression for an instant. "You have, I
hope, informed your father and the Naval Affairs Committee he chairs of developments here?"
"Yes, sir. I am told Harding still loves the man. Mister Fall raised much money for the party."
"Money is power, General, but I too have contacted friends in Washington." Pershing coughed
heavily, clearing the tightness from his lungs. "I will not have my men die in this city to save Albert Fall
and his cronies a few dollars." * * *
The evening sun burnished the calm surface of the Golden Horn and sparkled from the forest of
minarets rising above the Ottoman capital. Jazz flowed from the Pera Palas hotel behind Butler. His fresh
uniform and the lack of his .45 increased the peaceful feel of the night, but he knew the feeling was false.
Butler turned his back on the city and watched Sergeant Cooper cross the veranda. They exchanged
salutes.
"How's the city?"
"Five men beaten by a mob over in Stamboul, but not seriously hurt. Antiriot squads showed up and
the Turks ran."
"It won't be that easy stopping the Turkish army," Butler said, wishing again that America had never
accepted the Turkish surrender and been drawn into the politics of colonies and oil.
"General Butler, I talked to a Turk who was in the sultan's navy during the war. He saw torpedo
tracks in the water."
"Where was he?"
"On a caique offArizona 's starboard side."
"Could it be a translation error?"
"No, sir. He worked for the British Embassy before the war. Speaks English good enough."
"I want to meet him tomorrow, Sergeant." Butler returned Cooper's salute, and walked slowly into
the Pera Palas, tucking his hat under one arm, and passing through paneled hallways to the bar. The
room blazed with electric lights.
Straight and trim in a clean uniform, Pershing stared out a window at the brief twilight. Lieutenant
Zack stood with several American and British officers a few feet from Pershing.
Zack saluted Butler, who repressed a smile. "I respect your salute, Lieutenant, but I'm uncovered.
You've only seen me under arms, when I keep my hat on indoors as you Army boys do all the time."
"I forgot, sir."
"That's all right, Lieutenant." Butler moved on to Pershing. "General Pershing . . ."
Pershing held up one hand. "Georgie Patton was killed this afternoon, General."
"How, sir?" Butler felt the shock of the news twist his gut.
"He was playing polo. Shot from the crowd by a sniper. Fifth man this week. As usual, no one was
caught." Pershing took two Scotches from a passing waiter and handed one to Butler. "The surgeon said
he was killed by a ball from an old musket. Something left over from the days of the Janissaries. Georgie
might have liked that." He raised his glass. "Colonel Patton!" He drank deeply.
Butler echoed Pershing's toast, thinking at the same time that not much had been lost with Patton,
except a commander who wasted his men in battle. Butler was certain that if Patton hadn't been
wounded in Armenia he'd have stayed in command and played Custer. Never would have fought his way
back to Trabzon the way Bradley did. Pershing's voice yanked Butler from his thoughts.
"General Butler, your news?"
"Yes, sir. We found a man who saw torpedo tracks beforeArizona exploded."
"Nonsense." A rear admiral Butler recognized as one of the governor general's toadies moved
closer. "The Turks don't have a submarine and we'd have seen a surface ship. He saw a school of fish."
"The Turks captured a French boat during the War that we have not recovered. Several German
boats are still missing in the Mediterranean." Pershing's voice rose in anger. "You are not doing your job
if you don't know that, Admiral Simon. Now that you have replaced Admiral Kessler as chief of my
naval forces, you will correct your inattention. General Butler's suggestion is credible."
* * *
"Even if the Turks had a submarine, they couldn't run it. And if they could get it away from the
dock, they couldn't hit all of Asia with a torpedo." Fall stood in the center of his darkly paneled office,
puffing clouds of smoke from his cigar.
"The Turks couldn't stop the British at Gallipoli, either, but Mustafa Kemal did. And he couldn't
drive the Greek Army into the sea." Pershing's anger flared at the politician. "Look across the Bosporus
to Anatolia. You'll see Mustafa Kemal's army, not King Constantine's."
"The British destroyed themselves at Gallipoli, and the Greeks are little but wogs living in ruins their
fathers left them. American civilians will evacuate on thePrincess Matoika , along with your wounded.
After they steam, you shall defeat the Turks," Fall said. "We will not surrender our concessions."
Pershing coughed heavily, waiting for his breath to return before talking. "That liner will carry five
thousand men, women, and children. She can not leave the Golden Horn if the Turks have a submarine
waiting."
"TheMatoika will do as I order, and so shall you, General," Fall said. He turned his back on both
generals, dismissing them.
Butler and Pershing stalked down the hall in the Palazzo Corpi, their footsteps echoing in unison
through the old American Embassy building. "I'd like to know how much that bastard skimmed from the
oil concessions," Butler snapped.
"At least as much as Gulbenkian, according to a cable from Washington," Pershing said.
"Mister Five Percent and his American twin."
"Except that Fall took the money under the table," Pershing said, thinking, Charlie Dawes is a
wonder at finance, and that's what it took to get that information. Always good to have the right man in
the right place.
Marine guards snapped salutes as the two generals walked quickly down the wide steps set in the
building's classical façade. Pershing led the way back toward the Pera Palas. He stood a moment
listening to the clear notes of a Dixieland pianist.
"Find that submarine and destroy it, General."
* * *
Late morning, and the summer's heat was already building. A pack of wild, raw-boned dogs lazed
in the narrow street. Some snapped over scraps of food tossed by passing Turks. Butler and Cooper,
both dressed as merchant seamen, instinctively avoided the pack's spoor.
"I suppose the dogs keep the rats under control," Smedley said to Cooper in a near whisper. Butler
knew that the two marines stood out, but hoped to draw less attention on foot than in his car. The anger
of the city was directed at the American military. Civilians had been relatively safe.
The three- and four-story buildings, their upper floors overhanging the street, dimmed the afternoon
sun. The brightly painted houses often had irregular shapes, built to match the turns of the street as it
wound up the hill. The Turkish women who came to the Para Palas or the other European buildings north
of the Golden Horn often dressed as Europeans. Here in Stamboul, long skirts, headscarves, and thin
veils covered most of the women. Some of the men still wore turbans and baggy pants and jackets
instead of the fez and European suits.
The street opened into the tree-filled plaza around the mosque of Ahmed I. Six minarets stabbed
gracefully into the sky around the massive structure. Ranks of small domes rose as if to support a great
central dome. The two marines moved quickly past the low arches surrounding a courtyard attached to
the main building, passing the Egyptian and Roman obelisks that had once decorated the Byzantine
Hippodrome.
Butler and Cooper skirted a marine antiriot squad that watched the vendors in an open market. The
two marines entered a side street that led them away from the gray domes of the Sultanahmed and
wound their way through a new pack of curs. The dogs refused to move for mere pedestrians. The street
widened at an intersection. A dozen dogs stared at each other in the middle of the plaza, teeth bared and
hackles raised, protecting the territories of rival packs. Other dogs slept in the shade.
"There's Süleyman," Cooper said, indicating a tall, powerfully built Turk who waited in a coffee
shop across the intersection. The Turk's black suit and dark fez gave him the look of a merchant or
bureaucrat. Süleyman stood as the two marines joined him.
"Süleyman, this is General Butler."
"Efendim." The Turk bowed slightly, his voice carrying respect without subservience. "Brave men
died when your ship sank, Efendi. May God show them mercy."
The marines accepted cups of strong, sweet coffee from a waiter. "Süleyman Efendi," Butler said,
"you saw torpedo wakes?"
"Evet, Efendi. Three or four." Süleyman indicated several Turkish men standing across the street.
"The waiter is my cousin, but it is better if we talk in the back where we are not watched." He wiped
coffee from his thick, black mustache, and stood, moving his six-foot frame with the ease of an athlete as
he led Butler to the rear of the building. Cooper stayed in the coffee shop, watching the street.
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 Süleyman talked.
"Süleyman, 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?"
Süleyman 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," Süleyman 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 linerPrincess 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 Süleyman.
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. "Süleyman, stay here with the gunners."
"Efendim? Hayir. I fight beside you." He held up his Thompson.
"Are you tired of Stamboul, Süleyman, 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.
Thirty yards from the first buildings, flame stabbed into the night. A machine gun spat tracers,
dashes of light crawling toward Smedley, then whipping past him. Four marines spun backward into
darkness.
Smedley fired the Thompson in bursts toward the source of the tracers. He pulled down on the
forward grip to keep the gun from climbing. His shells chugged out with a deep roar. The line of marines
fired and screamed curses as they ran into the machine-gun fire. Men died and fell.
Butler leapt a low ditch, Süleyman beside him. Both fired into the machine-gun team as they landed.
A rifle butt whipped out of the darkness. Butler fired, letting the Thompson rise, spewing shells across the
soldier's body.
A Mauser jabbed from an open door. Süleyman fired. The enemy rifleman staggered back as shells
slammed into him. Butler sprinted between a series of low sheds, closer to his target with each dash.
He paused in the shelter of the last building as a dozen men, including one of the sappers, caught up
with him. A long, narrow dock separated them from the sub, and Smedley saw figures moving behind
piles of supplies.
Butler whipped off his campaign hat and held the Thompson at his side. He ran into the open,
gesturing wildly behind himself, Süleyman at his side.
A figure on the submarine called, "Kiminiz?"
Süleyman called back in Turkish.
Half a dozen men separated from the shadows ahead of Butler. One shouted, "Dur! Dur!"
Smedley fired, holding the Thompson's barrel down but letting it sweep from right to left across the
group. Men fell or spun into the darkness clutching wounds. As the last round spat from Butler's
Thompson, an officer in a long gray coat stepped into view.
Butler dropped the submachine gun, feeling the sling's pull on his shoulder, and clawed at his .45.
The officer's pistol snapped up and Smedley dove aside. A bullet tugged at his sleeve. Smedley fired as
his pistol rose, the upward recoil of the automatic sending his second round into the Turk's gut. Beside
him, Süleyman screamed as a Mauser shell slapped into his chest. A burst of Thompson rounds swept
Süleyman's killer from the dock.
Smedley ducked behind a stack of cargo and changed drum magazines on his Thompson. He
pointed to three marines. "Hold here if the Turks attack."
Butler leapt for the sub, landing heavily on the foredeck. He scrambled up a ladder to the conning
tower, firing at a figure in an open hatch, but missing. Smedley reached for the closing hatch. The metal
slipped from his fingers as it clanged shut.
"Here, sir!"
Butler dropped back to the foredeck as a marine fired into an open torpedo-loading hatch.
Smedley grabbed the hatch cover and nodded to the marine, who pulled a timer and hurled an explosive
pack into the depths of the sub. Butler slammed the hatch closed. "Get off! Now!"
The marines jumped to the dock as a deep explosion shook the submarine. Roiling bubbles of air
erupted from the ruptured hull. The flash of tracers stabbed toward Smedley again, and he heard the
rattle of a German-made machine gun from the warehouses.
The slow thud of Thompsons echoed from the buildings. The Maxim stopped firing. Cooper's voice
called from across the dock, "We got this lot, but more are coming."
A marine private stared at the body of a fallen Thompson gunner, who had taken a burst of
machine-gun fire in his head. "God, it took off Roland's head."
"Steady, Warren, steady. Carry him out, son."
Butler hoisted Süleyman's body and dashed for the buildings, followed by the surviving marines with
the other dead and wounded. At the warehouses, he dodged around a shattered Maxim gun and three
dead Turks before letting two of Cooper's men take Süleyman's body.
"The camp is clear, General," Cooper reported. "About twenty dead wogs. The rest took a shine.
Judging from the lights, a convoy's coming up the main road, sir."
"All right, back to the boat. Fast." Butler felt sweat, or Süleyman's blood, on the back of his neck.
* * *
Mustafa Kemal walked to a sideboard and picked up a crystal decanter. "Raki, General?" Kemal
poured two glasses and handed one to Pershing.
Pershing sipped, the anise-flavored liquor sweeping all other taste from his mouth.
"In the field, I denied myself the pleasure of raki, but we are here as friends." Mustafa Kemal drank
again. "General Pershing, give the American people the thanks of my nation. Your occupation saved us
from the British and the French."
Pershing saw the trap, and smiled. "I believe our presence has helped the Turkish people."
"Your charitable organizations spared the people of Istanbul much suffering and saved many
refugees from starvation. Let us forget your attempt to invade Eastern Anatolia. I am sure you wish to as
well.""We have much to discuss."
"No, General Pershing, we discuss only how you leave Turkey: as an enemy driven from our land or
as a friend who leaves in peace."
"If you try to drive us out, we'll have a million men here in six months."
"We sank your dreadnought, General. We will sink your fleet as it tries to rescue you, or give you
aid." "Not with the same submarine, Kemal Pasha. We just sank it," Pershing said. If, he thought, Butler
is on schedule. "Constantinople remains under the protection of our navy."
"That gives you the guns of your cruisers and destroyers. It does not give you more troops."
Mustafa Kemal smiled. "We drove out the Greeks, and will drive you out as well. If your troops stack
摘要：

AlternateGeneralsIIEditedbyHarryTurtledoveAmericanMandateJamesFiscusSeptember1918.WorldWarInearsitsendinEurope,andtheOttomanEmpireofferstosurrendertotheUnitedStates.TheBritish,eagertokeeptheFrenchoutofConstantinopleandtheStraits,urgePresidentWilsontoaccept.Amonthlater,asmallAmericanforcesteamsintoth...

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