"The world may politically, as well as geographically, be divided into four parts, each having a distinct set of interests. Unhappily for the other three, Europe, by her arms and by her negotiations, by force and by fraud, has, in different degrees, extended her dominion over them all. Africa, Asia, and America, have successively felt her domination. The superiority she has long maintained has tempted her to plume herself as the Mistress of the World, and to consider the rest of mankind as created for her benefit. Men admired as profound philosophers have, in direct terms, attributed to her inhabitants a physical superiority, and have gravely asserted that all animals, and with them the human species, degenerate in America--that even dogs cease to bark after having breathed awhile in our atmosphere...Let Americans disdain to be the instruments of European greatness! Let the thirteen States, bound together in a strict and indissoluble Union, concur in erecting one great American system, superior to the control of all transatlantic force or influence, and able to dictate the terms of the connection between the old and the new world!"
-Alexander Hamilton, Federalist 11
"Show me where globalization is thick with network connectivity, financial transactions, liberal media flows, and collective security, and I will show you regions featuring stable governments, rising standards of living, and more deaths by suicide than murder. These parts of the world I call the Functioning Core, or Core. But show me where globalization is thinning or just plain absent, and I will show you regions plagued by politically repressive regimes, widespread poverty and disease, routine mass murder, and—most important—the chronic conflicts that incubate the next generation of global terrorists. These parts of the world I call the Non-Integrating Gap, or Gap."
-THOMAS P.M. BARNETT, U.S. NAVAL WAR COLLEGE, The Pentagon's New Map
"British
Service-men were held for two days in June 2004 after apparently
straying into the Iranian side of the Shatt al-Arab waterway."
-Wikipedia
The Sheik and his town counsel chain-smoked British brand cigarettes, carelessly fuming them at their foreign guests in the Madan village's reed-roofed cinderblock guesthouse, over a diner of lamb and some of the remaining marsh rice. The town, like most Iraqi towns, is not tied into the world market, and the food set before them on ruddy clay plates are all they have.
The Sheik is a man of about seventy, with gray facial hair, and male pattern baldness. His skin is slashed in dark spots. He remains thoughtful in his countenance, taking long drags on his filtered smoke between every slow thoughtful phrase.
"Those forsaken jets scared the sheep for the last thirteen years straight. What have your leaders been thinking?"
Robin Molina used his trained speaking skills to lecture in a non-patronizing way, a difficult feat in this portion of the world. He excused America's leadership as weak over that period, and in their weakness, devised an unsavory way of pushing at Iraqi leadership.
"But in the current time, our leadership is not in such a frail state, and neither are our people."
The old Marsh Arab coughed in a weakened attempt at laughter.
"Very diplomatic, Boy, as long as your words don't get back to your former leadership. You have the ear of the Ma'dan, but please, eat."
No women sat at the rug, and most of the Arab men were of ages close to the Sheik. His oldest son, a man of just over thirty, was the youngest. He eyed the guests as one would poison.
The sheep had been slaughtered specially for a meal with the guests, Molina understood, and did his best to demonstrate how much he savored the gesture, without appearing to view his hosts with condescension. He genuinely liked the hospitable people, though secretly wished they'd quit smoking.
Of course he lit up too, just to fit in. Assimilating with these guys will be essential.
They stared at one another in careful contemplation, until they chased their meals down the esophagus with golden tea, and silently belched.
"That was delightful, Sir."
"You're welcome, Friend."
As mentioned before, UpLink's new heavy armored personnel carrier is based on the same concept as the Israeli Defense Force ("Zionists" to you Jihadists out there) heavy APC Engineer Corp types, like the Nagmachon, Nakpdon, Puma, and Nagmasho't, and Israel's "real" APC, the Achzarit.
Like the Achzarit, Sword operatives in Iraq drive a vehicle built up from a Russian chassis. Achzarits are built up from T-54/55s "liberated" from neighboring Arab nations, while Roger Gordian built his personnel carriers up from the Republican Guard's finest T-72s.
The gunning system up top is similar to the IDF's overhead weapon system (meaning you can shoot without sticking your head out) except Sword's system was built in Ohio, and fields more firepower in the .50 variety, rather than the Achzarits' .30.
Nigel got to drive, a process requiring the manipulation of a yoke, a steering mechanism like those used by bomber pilots.
In the back, Pete had a lot of questions for Robin.
"What did we accomplish tonight, Soldier," he asked conversationally.
Robin measured his reply carefully.
"Well, Sir, we established a friendly dialogue with an influential Marsh Arab Sheik. I think he likes us, or to put it more honestly, sees a way he can use us for his benefit. He must not be ruling absolutely, or else he would have made a proposal right there."
"Or else he's by nature just really slow to come to a decision," countered Paul tiredly.
"There is that," Robin agreed.
"He probably just needs privacy while discussing it with his inner circle," argued Nimec, "then he'll sleep on it, see if it passes his gut check, and invite back for further talks."
They dropped the subject, and stared out the small gun ports, perhaps gazing the stars, or following dust particles wafting to their rear.
Earlier
There is a small Texas gas refinery town of around three thousand that is said to pump noxious fumes that sting the eyes and cause feelings of nausea to those not accustomed to the refinery gases. The people that live there are said to get over it soon enough, and people of all ages go on with their lives as if it is normal to 'tough it out' breathing poison mist.
The Sword operatives entered Basra, a huge oil-refining town of 900,000, on the six-lane highway that crosses from Kuwait to Iraq.
Some British infantry halted them by the rock quarry to the left, where the team has their new infantry carriers. The Tommy in charge traps his SA80 under one shoulder very carefully, so it wouldn't break.
He spoke with a stifled Birmingham accent.
"How do. Just park these vehicles at the left of that shanty there, and your cars will be inside."
"Thanks."
"Pleasure, Chap."
Some of the other Tommy Boys unveil the garage contents; Roger Gordian's Fortiori T-72 based infantry vehicles. One was started up, puffing CO in the large hanger, but apparently not very long, because the contracted mechanics hadn't yet suffocated.
They parked where the soldier told them to, and exchanged welcomes with the pit crew. A heavy stereo played a local radio station with a terribly loud disc jockey.
"Good Morning Basra! This will be another bright day. Why? I've got a countdown. Ten, the sun is out, nine, I'm on the air, eight, electricity is up at least ten hours a day, seven, you aren't using flash-suppressing ammunition, six, the refineries are always burning off some gas, five, my listeners are bright people. What, I can dream, right? Four, some Yanks with yellow teeth are visiting, three, the brass is on an inspection tour, two, the press adores flash photography, and one, something always explodes here.
Right, fine, I'm not Letterman. I'll play a song, that fine?"
Pete and Tom told the soldiers where they planned to take the heavy monster, and asked what roads to take. They brought out a young butter bar, an officer of about thirty, who said he thought the expressway was hardy enough to withstand the tracked vehicle.
"I guess we'll give it a try," said Nimec, dubiously.
A few minutes later, they took the sixty-ton monster, weaving around Japanese motor vehicles. It turned out the road could support the vehicle, as it did every time the Republican Guard convoys marched these tracks through. How many times did they move mechanized forces down this roadway? Fighting had been heavy between 1980 and 1992, and the population fell nearly in half over that period. The refinery had been destroyed in Desert Fox, only to be rebuilt in time to smuggle 1.5 million barrels of refined oil into Syria before the war (source being Reuters).
They hold the route until Pete took the turnoff to the levee road, and northeast toward one of the few remaining marsh areas in Southeastern Iraq.
In one of the few remaining marshlands, they meet the Sheik at a tribal guesthouse, and talk about a number of things.
Molina handles the discussions, being the green beret trained for handling these talks. He artfully nudges conversation into those most dangerous topics, the ones most flammable. Steady now...
"Are the insurgents harassing you, sir? You want to know what we can do for you? Well, my government has a fantastic corp of engineers; just give us a chance, and we'll fix things. Are you upset over that whole Saddam draining the marshes thing? We are too, and sorry about that, but our leaders didn't foresee that madman being so crazy, sir."
That would be the forward and quick way of handling it, but the New Mexican kept the discussion sensitive, and before going, set some rules for Ricci, Nimec, Evens, and the others to follow.
The coming danger of reviving the marshes is that this could become a haven for rebels/terrorists/what have you, against the new government, as it was with past rulers. Negotiate with the sheik, and help out in daily chores with the men. Avoid female interests, because the Arabs won't like that, and show them how it is possible to live off desert land. Drive some of the hunters out in the sand, and demonstrate how to capture rodents and snakes, collect dew, and track. Also give them a shooting course, hand out rifles and ammunition, and do the same with radios.
If they could follow those rules, fine. After dinner, they drove a little further north, to set camp for the night.
"Did that go well?" Paul Evens, not sure how astute he was, asked a basic question, while spreading his bedroll.
The area they chose was a dead salt encrusted lowland desert where the palm dates looked dying and stunted. Rebels may come here, and if they do, well, that's trouble, but they have no chance of catching anyone off guard out in this dead land.
"Just fine, so don't worry about it."
Evens replied to Molina.
"I wasn't worried. I understand Ricci will be the sentry tonight."
"Yep."
