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 Suleyman'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 Suleyman'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 Suleyman'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."