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.