What was happening in that four weeks?
Inside the berm, a lot of changes. We cleared an open area around our zone and rebuilt a FOB inside the LOG. (Fort Lonesome.) It was pretty big for even a company to hold but every time Fillup and me figured we had everything we could possibly need we thought of something else.
I'm from Minnesota. I don't know any Minnesotan, not a real Minnesotan, who's not a pack rat. It's in our genes. I could never have enough parts, rations, water, fuel, to satisfy me. Okay, maybe I was in the right place being an S-4. I hated being left to guard this fucker, but having it all? Mine all mine? The only person to tell me I didn't own it a face on a videophone who was way too far away to force me to do anything? Heaven.
Mine, mine, mine.
Speaking of mines.
We got Fort Lonesome minimally prepared to withstand a significant assault. Then we got started on securing the whole base.
We shouldn't have had to do it. But the ROE that came down on high (which we were still, technically, under) did not permit laying in mines. Don't know why we had so many of the fuckers, but we did. And we didn't lay the mines down first.
First came the outer perimeter fence. That was just to keep kids and dogs out. It took two weeks to lay in and used up just about all of our remaining military link. It was right at six and a half miles around the perimeter. That's one big fucking fence.
We put in gates by the main gate. (Later we played with that extensively.) The main gate had a series of berms, concrete barriers and such to keep suicide trucks from getting to it. The fence linked into the edge of those and we put in outer gates.
Then we got started on the inner defenses. More concertina. (The stacks were, to my amazement, dropping. Who could have known?)
Most of this was getting done by the Nepos. We had multiple patrols working, the gate guards, security for the workers on the fence and a reserve force. The troops didn't have time to do the manual labor.
I'd been pissed at getting the Nepos dumped on us but they were a godsend. Okay, first of all, the troops were, by and large, lousy cooks. The Nepos were decent. They tended to start to cook some odd shit without their British supervisors. If you let them get away with it we would have all been eating vegetarian curry and vindaloo. I'll admit I got a bit of taste for vindaloo but it was not shared by all the troops.
The nice thing, in my opinion, about vindaloo was that it was pork based.
There were problems. Oh. My. GOD were there problems. I'm not talking about security issues, either.
Electricity.
The power plant for the base was a big gas-turbine fucker. Nobody but nobody had any clue how to operate it. But there were back-up generators that were, essentially, diesel-electric railroad engines. Those the mechanics could figure out. And we had one fuck of a lot of diesel in the tank-farm.
We only needed power for the area we were inhabiting. The mechanics and a couple of the Nepos that had some clue about electric got those buildings hooked up to a couple of the generators. But we had a problem with power surging.
So we got on the phone to back home. No, we have no fixed date for your redeployment. You're doing a great job. Keep the faith.
(My fucking dad is dead you bastard and I'm stuck on the ass end of nowhere. All of the troops have gotten word that somebody in their family has died and to say the least morale should be shot. We're keeping it up by giving them shit to do but that's only going to last so long . . . )
Fine, fine, but we need to find somebody who has a clue about generators . . .
Hello. Commo. We had one radio tech. He was not a satellite radio tech. We had this big fucking communications van and no clue how to run most of the shit.
Fortunately, one of the privates in the company had spent time before enlisting working in a satellite shop in a cable company. He wasn't a satellite engineer, by any stretch, but when we lost commo with home for three days he finally figured out how to get us back up. (Without SkyGeek, in fact, this book would never have come about.)
The water for the base was a pipeline from the Shat that ran to a water processing plant. The plant was called a ROWPU. I had to look that one up. Reverse Osmosis Water Purification Unit.
About week three some bastard cut our water line. We had water for about three weeks at current use (big fucking tanks) but after that we were going to be dying in the desert.
Turned out the original base had been supplied by a deep bore well. There was water down there. We weren't all that far from the Gulf and the Shat. Water percolates. There were even limestone layers that carried subsurface water from the Zagros. That was actually what the well was tied into. Crisp, clean water. Don't know why they ever put in that fucking line. It was a tactical weak point.
Only one problem. The well had been rather radically disconnected from the water system. It wasn't even left as backup. Don't know why.
So we had to figure out how to reconnect it. We were not plumbers and so proved figuring that out. And then figure out how to get the very deep water up to the surface.
"Head pressure" does not always have to do with something obscene. I'm a farmer. I understand head pressure. Farmers use wells a lot. However, this one was a holy mother of a bitch of a big, deep well. We got it done.
React, adapt, overcome. We did one hell of a lot of that.
We got the mines laid in. We even found a stack of signs that warned of mines in multiple languages. We shot some guys in a pickup truck who were trying to sneak in the back way. We filled in all but the main gate entrances to the base.
It took two months of work, mostly by the Nepos. But we got the base surrounded by multiple lines of fencing, mines and such whot. We even found a complete "video surveillance" system that had never been installed. We installed it. The reserve platoon monitored.
We fed and watered refugees. There had gotten to be a fuck-load of them. And they'd apparently established some sort of governance body. At least there were guys with guns (scavenged from attackers) who strutted around with angry expressions on their face.
Feeding and watering of the refugees had gotten to be a massive chore. Again, handled mostly by the Nepos. We now had to send out two mortar carriers to carry all the rations. Each of them towed a water buffalo. (A large water tank that had spigots on it.) The refugees would get handed a meal. (We'd found the yellow stuff by then. Some people waved the old MRE wrappers after the first couple of "refugee" meals. Apparently they hadn't realized that was a pork patty and wanted more.) They had to figure out how to get their own water. Doing it that way increased the time but just handing out that many meals increased the time.
Sometimes the guys with guns took a meal away from somebody right in front of our eyes. That really stuck in people's craws. But we weren't going to get off the tracks to give the meal back.
A couple of weeks after that sort of thing started to happen, one of the guys with guns took away a meal from a woman and then started beating on her.
Each of the tracks was manned by a track commander at the .50, two Nepos to hand out meals and three guys with rifles for security.
One of the guys with a rifle shot him.
There was a lot of shouting. More guys with guns came out. The woman ran to the track. The TC jacked a round into the .50 and fired a burst over the camp. The Stryker that was sitting back on overwatch gunned its engine and rolled forward a couple of feet.
Things settled down. The lady was allowed to scramble on the track. Others came over. They were shooed away. Meals were passed out until they were gone. The tracks came back to base with an extra body.
That was the first refugee we let in. It wouldn't be the last and, yeah, that had issues, too.
Specialist Stephan Noton's ass was in a very deep crack and he knew it. The track commander wasn't real happy, either. He had just brought a refugee into the camp.
What was worse was, well . . .
Salah wasn't gorgeous. But after this long in the desert and no fucking women around at all . . . She was seventeen according to the translator and as far as she knew all her family was dead. She had lived in Abadan all her life and was a very good Moslem as far as that sort of thing went. She was a nice girl. We didn't question her about specific events. I didn't want to know if she'd been raped or how many times. Yes and many was probably the answer. I also didn't want to know how she'd been surviving in the camp. But apparently whatever she'd been doing wasn't good enough for at least one of the guys with guns.
I could see the thought percolating through the heads of the troops. Most of them had, at this point, been out feeding the refugees one time or another. And despite the conditions there were quite a few females out there better looking than Salah. And we'd been away from women a long time.
And when you've been starving to death in a desert, you'll do a lot for a cracker and a bottle of cold water.
Hell, I was thinking it.
But I had some capacity to think with my topside head. And various thoughts were percolating. Some of them had to do with maintenance and support.
The Nepos were doing most of that. But as the major construction ran down, I'd been thinking about other uses for them. A company was not enough guys to hold this place against any sort of serious attack. Yes, we could draw back into Fort Lonesome but that wasn't the mission.
We believed as an article of faith that sooner or later we'd be "relieved." Maybe some other unit would be sent out to replace us. Maybe we'd be ordered to just leave all the shit behind. My personal choice was to destroy most of it in place. But something was going to happen. Uncle Sam was not going to leave us out here to grow old and die.
But if we got a serious attack, and one was bound to happen sooner or later, we couldn't do much about it. Unless we had more troops.
And the Nepos were just sitting there.
Well, no, they weren't. They were cleaning our clothes and fixing our food and maintaining some of the support equipment while we were defending the base. Sidenote: It takes ten people to keep one infantry soldier functioning in battle. Yeah, many of those are really "rear echelon motherfuckers" (REMFs) but that also includes cooks, techs and whatnot that are absolutely vital to an infantry unit. We'd been left with a few techs but damned little "other support." "Other support" was what the Nepos were doing.
But as the main job of getting the defenses in place was winding down, I started to give some thought to other uses for them.
Yes, they weren't Ghurkas. But at this point I trusted them to hold a gun while behind me. At least if they could hold a gun and not have an AD. Thing being, I wasn't going to tell the troops they now had to cook. Laundry, sure. Cooking? Not these guys. And the troops were already busy.
Women could probably figure out how to cook and clean. And, hell, it would relieve some other pressures. Might create new ones, but there were some pressures building up right before my eyes I did not care for.
By the way, the Nepos were not entirely straight. Oh, I'm not saying they were all queer as a three-dollar bill. I think it was more like prison, maybe a function of their culture. Samad had a slighter built Nepo who always seemed to be hanging around and that he bunked with. Sure. They were just friends.
For that matter there was, I was pretty sure, at least one "couple" among the troops. I didn't give a shit as long as it didn't affect the unit and it didn't seem to. Don't ask, don't tell.
(For clarification: Once Samad got a wife, I never saw hide nor hair of male "close personal friends." And he thinks the question is funny. Most things the Nepos and Americans see pretty eye to eye on. Some things not. Different cultures.)
So. There was an argument for bringing some of the refugee females, if they were amenable, into the camp. When we got relieved, pardon the pun, we could write them off as "locally hired support staff." Whoever was incoming could deal with that.
The question was, what would the nature of our "relief" be? A new unit to sit on the junk? Or leave it all behind? Or destroy it in place?
In the first case, well, camp followers rarely worry about which camp they're following. There might be some broken hearts and pining. Get over it.
In the last two, though, which at one level I considered likely enough to be formulating plans in the back of my mind, there were . . . issues.
Say that we were told "destroy everything, we're coming to get you." (By the way, that would mean coming in by helo. There was no way we were going to work through the airport at this point. Iran had no government. The place was slowly being reorganized under local strong-men. It wasn't until later that such got functional in the Abadan area and when it did . . . Well, ahead of myself again. Point is, we weren't going out by 747.)
If we got extracted we might be able to argue for extracting the Nepos. But a bunch of local civilian women? Uh, uh. Which would probably leave them worse off than before.
I knew my logic was getting messed up. Normally, I could see a situation and make a decision without any real difficulty. Things were black and white. This looked like shades of gray and I wasn't good with gray.
So I took a walk.
Somebody, probably an overzealous engineer lieutenant, had put a "sentry walk" up on the berm near the main area of the base. It was a lousy item, defensively. We didn't have sentries walk the parapets because normally they'd be dead meat for a sniper. But the area faced southeast, where there was fuck-all for miles and we had thermal imagery cameras set up so anyone approaching, especially at night, would be detected at artillery ranges not sniper ranges.
It was, therefore, a decent place to walk and pace.
I think it was the character Horatio Hornblower who used to pace all the time. I didn't. Pacing, to me, was a sign that the commander didn't know what to do. But the truth was, I didn't. And pacing did help me think.
So I put on my battle rattle, headed up to the parapet and paced.
The night was clear and damned cold for Abadan in the summer. The wind was from the east, down off the mountains as it often was. And it was a cool breeze, lemme tell you. But it also helped me think.
I knew that two aspects of the question were fucking with my logic. The first was "female" and the second was "refugee." I'll take the second first.
About fifteen years back was the only time I think it made the news. But UN aid workers in two or three areas were trading refugee supplies to underage refugees, male and female, for sexual favors.
That was, to say the least, a violation of honor. The people were, hands down, scum. They were given a trust and they violated it.
I was contemplating doing something that was, on the surface, identical. Violation of honor? Would I be "scum" even in my own eyes?
The answer depended simply on whether it was the logical decision given all the factors. That led to the "female" part.
Males have a notable fall-off in long-term critical decision making in conditions of sexual cues. And this situation was one huge sexual cue. So I first had to eliminate, for the time being, the term "female."
One way would be to ignore the females, maybe do something to improve the situation but not bring them into the base, and bring in males.
I could not, in good conscience, take in the local males. After disastrous experiences in the first part of the Iraqi occupation, the military never hired locals or even Islamics for anything where they could be a threat. One remaining hardcore that we let in undetected could gain access to the ammunition and explosives on the base, there was no way to control internally with the forces I had, and do untold damage. Bringing in male refugees for support was out of the question.
Females, by the way, did not have the same security risk. Females in most of the local societies were trained, very early, to be nonviolent followers. They were extremely compliant. That would create its own issues, but it virtually eliminated them as a security threat.
I also was going to have to dig out another decision making tool I often used when unsure. "What would Sergeant Rutherford do?"
Sergeant First Class Rutherford had been my platoon sergeant when I led the Scouts. A harder, colder, more stoic NCO I never met. Talking one time he told me that his secret to getting things done was "Do one thing every day that you don't have to do immediately and you don't want to do." A better definition of stoicism I've never seen. And a better way to get stuff done I've never found.
But the question was, what would he do in this instance? How would he make the decision?
Frankly, he would be able to ignore the fact that he was considering females. Not because he was gay, but because he was an ultimate stoic. I was not, and knew it.
So I did a little change in my mind. I quit thinking of females.
I imagined that there was a group of males, say Salvadorans, who had somehow gotten caught in the refugee camp. Because they were not locals, they were being abused by the guards.
Item One: I needed more hands. There were too many tasks I felt necessary to complete the mission for the personnel I had on hand.
Item Two: I could not trust the local males.
So I imagined the females as these hypothetical Salvadorans. If I had a group of non-Islamic males in the camp from a friendly country, would I bring them in to help out?
Oh, hell, yeah. The logic, that way, was clear. Thinking of the potential support in terms of a bunch of Salvadoran former workers that got left outside the walls made it clear it was a rational decision. What would Sergeant Rutherford do? Bring in the Salvadorans.
Okay, but they're not Salvadorans. They're females. They are compliant local females who will do just about anything for a cracker and some water. If they weren't that compliant before, they were now from the reports I was getting from the camp.
That left the question of how to deal with them inside the walls.
Rule One included the rule "No Fraternization." Fraternization is a nice way of saying "Don't fuck the local females." (It was assumed soldiers wouldn't fuck the local males which in numerous instances turned out to be erroneous. But I digress.)
The way that the Army maintained Rule One with a bunch of horny young soldiers was to virtually eliminate contact with local females. Units went out from the FOB on missions and then returned. Mostly for very good security reasons. But the point was, there were no local females inside the base and when males ran into them outside they were a) on a mission, b) in the company of a large number of other males and c) not going to be around long to chat.
In this case, they were going to be in long-term contact with local females.
A military maxim says: Never give an order you know won't be carried out.
Giving an order you know won't be carried out just makes the commander look like an idiot. "Rule One is still in effect" and mixing horny soldiers with compliant local females wouldn't work. Period. Why?
Some of the soldiers were just going to flat ignore it. They, too, would be affected by the reduction in critical decision making in the presence of sexual cues. I'd have guys slipping away from security posts to screw because that was when they could get away with it.
And the girls weren't going to stop them. Why? Compliance and "anything for a cracker." They would also see the males as their protectors.
Giving an order that's unenforcable reduces trust in the commander's decision-making capability. How can you trust somebody who's stupid enough to give an unenforceable order? That means that unit combat efficiency goes down as the troops second-guess their commander.
Trying to enforce Rule One would, therefore, be worse than saying "Here's the girls. They're yours."
If, however, I put in place logical and rational restrictions under the circustances, it could be handled. Rotas, etc. If the guys knew they didn't have to slip away for a quicky, they wouldn't. They'd do their jobs.
Some of the guys would probably be such paladins that, at least at first, they'd take their "rota" as a chance to snuggle with something comfortable. Others were going to use the girls like the Kleenex and towels they were jacking off on already. There would be issues between those two types. That's what sergeants are for.
And they'd get their tubes cleaned. With a bunch of testosterone laden males stuck in the middle of nowhere, no real way to get home, etc. I was looking at the sort of potential mutiny that led to the Bounty, anyway. Right now, if the guys mutinied, they could set themselves up as local lords and fuck Rule One. There was no indication, at all, we were going to ever get relieved. I'd had the question practically every day. I knew there was talk. Heading that off was a good thing. Getting their tubes cleaned was a way to head that off.
In the end I made, I think, the logical decision. The haunted eyes of Salah, multiplied by hundreds in my head, had nothing to do with it. I'd eliminated that, I'm pretty sure successfully with the "Salvadoran" argument. I think Sergeant Rutherford would have approved. (Found out later he died in Savannah. So I never got to ask. Voodoo fuckers.)
The question remained: How to bell the cat?
Up to this point we were having as little to do with the refugees as possible. We tossed them food from the safety of our tracked vehicles. We treated them like a pack of wild dogs.
But we had Salah for information. Apparently after the attack when we'd killed the whole convoy, some of the men of the camp had grabbed the guns. The leader, at this point, was called Abu Bakr. That probably wasn't his real name, since it was the name of one of the successors of Mohammed. But he had the largest family group in the camp and his family had managed to grab the most guns. The shots we'd heard had not been happy noise. His family or people he trusted had the guns. She'd been on the outs with one of his cousins which had led to the incident that had her in the camp.
She didn't know a whole bunch of the people in the camp. But when it was tacitly suggested that we might, maybe, be interested in bringing some women in for support, she nearly broke down. Apparently things were not going well for women at the moment.
Side note: Any feminist who is against modern technology is an idiot. Okay, I'm being redundant but it's true. Women seem to make up a large majority of the "if we all just returned to nature" kumbaya movement.
Modern technology and Western culture are the only things keeping women from a life of utter hell. Every society where social order breaks down it's not necessarily "the poor" who get hit hardest, it's the women.
Kumbaya only works when you've got guys like, well, me keeping guys like Abu Bakr from making your life hell.
End of side note. I could go on, but I won't.
Maybe later.
Was I going to be a total paladin? Oh, hell no. I told her what I needed, about thirty females, young, decent looking, who would cook, clean and provide other "support functions."
Note, I was working through Hollywood, the translator.
"Other support functions, sir?" Hollywood asked.
"What's that Shia thing about "temporary brides"?"
Shia and Sunni. Think Catholic vs. Protestant but more so. I'm not going to get into a five thousand word treatise about the difference. I did note, though, that Abu Bakr was normally a name that would be associated with the Sunni and this was a Shia region which made things in the camp . . . interesting. But one of the things with Shia is that they have this . . . tradition called "temporary marriage." A mullah can "temporarily marry" a Shia female to a guy and for the time that the temporary marriage lasts, say one hour and that will be two hundred bucks, she is legally married and thus does not suffer "dishonor." The "mullah" gets four and you get one, go find another sucker with two hundred bucks, bitch.
Use "pimp" as a translation for "mullah" and you're getting a very accurate picture.
"Uh, we'd need a mullah for that, sir."
"Yeah, and it's a violation of so many regulations I don't want to begin to list them. Rule One, for example. But we need the hands and we need to be relieved. You an Islamic?"
"Uh, technically, sir."
"Good. Then tell her you're a mullah. I'll get you a pimped out Caddy when we get back to the States. Spinners and what-not. Maybe a big hat with a feather."
"I'm not a mullah!"
"I don't care how you explain it to her, as long as she gets the picture."
I don't know how he explained it. She got the picture.
She didn't even mind. Let me put you in her perspective.
You're a seventeen-year-old girl. Your father—who has been your boss your whole life and will be until you are married and your husband becomes your boss—is dead. Your whole life has been ripped apart. You are barely holding onto life in a desert. You have no control over your life or over your body. Once a day a big metal tracked vehicle comes out of a place and there is food and water. Maybe you are allowed to keep some of it. From the look of Salah, not much. You only get a bit of water, less than most Americans drink in an hour. And it is hot (not as hot as normal, but up in the 90s) and men take you whenever they please and any way that they please and usually more than one at a time.
Beyond the berm is paradise. So far, despite being surrounded by men, you have not been raped. You have been given more food than you've seen in months. You can have all the water to drink that you like. You can even dream of having a shower or a bath, something you haven't had in months. You're in air conditioning.
And all they are asking, asking mind you, is if you're willing to work at cooking and cleaning and, oh, yeah, spending some time on your back. Probably in a bed not the hard desert floor. You're not being told, mind you. You may not quite realize that, you may be thinking that they're being nice now but will change their mind soon. But you're being asked. And asked if others would be willing.
Oh, HELL yeah.
When you've been slowing dying in the desert, you'll do a lot for a cracker and some cool water.
I knew that was the reason she was answering in the affirmative. Did I feel like a heel?
Oh, HELL no.
Because I knew that my guys, and the Nepos, would treat them gently or I'd damned well beat the shit out of them. We'd seen what was going on in the camp. We'd seen the lines from time to time. That was probably when some girl, maybe Salah, was being put in her place. Rape is a technique of power. You teach a bitch, be that a guy in prison or a female under your control, who is boss by raping them. It is very nearly the ultimate loss of control over one's body.
I couldn't take in all the female refugees. But I could do some good in the fucking world. Gray good, but still good.
But how to bell the cat?
I decided that the best way to bell a cat is kill it. Hell, talk about good in the world . . . Hmm . . .
The next day, bright and early, Strykers started rolling out of the front gate of the camp. Nobody was moving in the direction of Abadan except the continued trickle of refugees. There were, in other words, no secondary threats. Good thing because most of the company was buttoned up and coming to call on the refugee camp.
At first people got up and started heading towards the road thinking that it was the daily food and water ration. We'd shifted to morning for various reasons so that was reasonable.
But as more and more Strykers rolled out, the people set up a wail. They thought we were leaving.
The Strykers formed up around the gate, then rolled down to the camp. Then they spread out to surround it.
Each of the Strykers had the commander "out and up" in his cupola. The Strykers had been slightly redesigned over the years so the commander's cupola was now a circle of armor which just his head peeked over. They were not good targets.
What were good targets were the two guys on the top deck. Of course, each of them was holding a military grade sniper rifle. So you weren't going to get many shots.
Behind the Strykers were the mortar tracks with their water buffalos and a ten-ton truck.
The lead Stryker waited until the rest were arrayed and some communications were effected. There wasn't much cover in the refugee camp. Hell, it was surprising that everyone hadn't died of exposure. I was getting ready to start fixing that.
But the first and most important thing was to establish who was boss.
When everything was in place, we rolled up to the edge of the refugees.
Let me try to do justice to this picture.
Take seventy-four cars and array them randomly in the desert. Not all were cars. There were four SUVs, nine minivans and fifteen pickup trucks.
Off to one side put more cars and such but they're all blackened piles of rubble.
Scattered in and around these cars and such, place whatever you can imagine for shelter. Tarps held up by twine. Plastic sheets. Blankets serving as tents.
Into this throw garbage. No food, mind you. Call it trash. Inorganic. I was getting ready to deal with the organic trash.
Add in some small personal posessions. Pile those somewhat less randomly around a cluster of six of the minivans and two of the SUVs. Anything of any real value, put in that cluster. Hell, there were even some unopened MRE and "halal" bags.
Throw in about a thousand people. All of them unwashed. Most of them not in amongst the cars. Just scatter them around the desert, just sitting there. No fires because the nearest wood that wasn't under our control was ten miles away.
There is an almost unnoticed open area between the majority of these survivors and the cluster.
Add in some dug holes that were supposed to be where people shat and pissed. They weren't used much. Add in a lot of piles of human dung, huge clouds of flies around same.
Picture Strykers opening up around this area that covered maybe four acres of hell. Troops unass and start moving through the outer periphery of the refugees. They stop well away from the cluster. They are moving in three-man teams. One guy turns to the rear, the other two face inward. All of them, as if by magic, take a knee with their weapons pointed at the ground. They're in the midst of the crowd.
The crowd gets the picture and starts moving. Away from the cluster.
All of this takes place before the troop door of the lead Stryker lowers. Around from the back comes an officer in a dapper uniform. He is carrying not a single weapon. He holds a swagger stick and uses it to wave away the flies. He is, however, wearing a radio and headset.
He is wearing sunglasses.
He is followed by six troops in heavy armor. Their weapons are not down. They are up and training on anyone near him who might be considered a threat. Two face forward, two to the side and two backwards, walking carefully to avoid the filth.
In the midst of this cluster of troops is a seventh, equally well armed. He is followed by a young woman in a blue jumpsuit that looks as if it has recently been removed from a package. Her hair is clean and brushed. She is clean and brushed.
The Stryker has parked as close to the cluster as it can without running over refugees or their meager posessions. It is a short walk to the edge of the cluster where a number of armed men are now up clutching AKs and looking very angry.
The unarmed and unarmored officer does not appear to care if they are angry. He doesn't appear to notice them. He is whacking at flies and smiling and nodding at the few refugees who are too tired or despairing to move out of the way.
Out of one of the minivans comes a large man. He is at least six feet two inches tall and broad with a hard, dark face and black hair. He is carrying an light assault machine gun and bandoliers crossed across his chest. Also two pistols and at least four knives. He is clean shaven but otherwise closely resembles the sort of pirate Sinbad may have had to deal with.
The officer, by the way, is looking down at him. The officer is . . . not small. However he is unarmed.
There are more armed men emerging. They appear to have been resting in the clustered vehicles. A few young women follow them out. Some of them very young.
Do you have this picture clearly? Fourteen armed and angry men. An unarmed captain who is clearly happy to see them. Refugees scrambling to get out of the line of fire. Heavily armed troops in an array that can cover most of the angles of fire.
It's a clear morning, just after dawn, still reasonably cool but looking to be another hot one.
"Hollywood," the officer says, languidly, raising the swagger stick. "Front and center."
The large, armed, man starts saying something angrily. The interpreter cuts him off and gestures to the officer.
"My name is Bandit Six. I am the commander, pro tempore, of Titan Base. Translate."
This is translated. The large, angry man says something and the others laugh.
"Yes. Having completed all of our initial preparation missions within the base, it seems time to do something about the situation outside the walls. We also require some assistance."
A glare.
"Indeed. We will be taking thirty of your ladies to handle camp chores. And they will be the younger and prettier ones."
A female head is peeking out of the minivan the large man had vacated. The girl is probably twelve. She has a large bruise on her cheek and a cut lip. Her clothes are tatters.
The large man is now more angry and speaking quite angrily. He reaches for one of his pistols and draws it, possibly to wave in the air.
"Open fire."
The officer does not flinch. The six troops and the interpreter hit the ground and light the area up. The young woman hits the ground.
The officer stands there. The large, angry, man explodes apart from a .50 caliber round, blood and less identifiable bits splashing on the officer. The officer does not flinch. He simply waves away some more flies. Rounds crack past his ear, he feels a tug from one on his lower left arm.
When the firing stops, he smiles.
Troops move in and ensure all the vehicles are clear.
"Hollywood, find someone in this rat-fuck who can be put in charge. Have Salah start rounding up the girls. All of these for starters. Don't add any of these below the age of . . . sixteen to the thirty count. Any chosen who have children can bring them as well. And if they might not be their children, that's okay, too."
The camp was moved. Some of the refugees had to be carried, but they all survived. It was moved to the other side of the road. A man who said he was a mullah was put in charge. He never carried a gun. (He was later recognized as one of the "diggers" from the first few days. The guys who got off their ass to bury the bodies. Good enough.) Others were found to carry the guns. The example of Abu Bakr was pointed out to them. Food and water distribution was rationalized. Tents and cots were brought out. A roadblock was put on the road to control who came out to the camp. Latrines, eventually a kitchen, etc.
Of course, that brought more refugees. But . . .
Some good in the world. For a time. A moment.
Pax Americana. It's like a gnat in a blast furnace in the Middle East.