18/7/467 AC, Isla Real, Quarters #1
The phone rang. Lourdes answered it, then called out, "Patricio, it's Adnan on the phone for you. The secure line."
Carrera patted her posterior lightly and took the phone. "Carrera."
"Pat, you bastard, what do you think you're doing?" Sada shouted.
"Huh?"
"You're going to war in Pashtia and you forgot about me," the Sumeri chided. "And I thought we were friends."
"What are you talking about, Adnan?"
"You're going to war again," Sada explained, "and you haven't asked me for help? What kind of friend is that? What kind of friend leaves a friend owing a debt and doesn't let him try to pay it back. Harrumph!"
"Ohhh. Well . . . I thought you had enough problems at home."
"My biggest problem, friend, is that you've got Qabaash hiding his head in shame and throwing things at walls because you're leaving him out of this. Look, this is the deal and I won't take no for an answer. Over the next week Qabaash and one light infantry brigade—the Salah al Din—from the Sumeri Presidential Guard are going to fly to Thermopolis, along with the cohort from the Legion I have here. Don't worry about the expense; I'll cover it. The oil market's been very good to me."
"That's a good brigade," Carrera conceded, "and I'd appreciate having my cohort back, but, again, can you afford to lose it?"
He heard Sada sigh into the phone on his end before he explained, "Barely, but yes. Right now, Pashtia has problems because the lunatic Salafis lost here. If they win in Pashtia, they'll come back here stronger than ever."
"Adnan, if—no when—they lose in Pashtia, they'll come back to Sumer anyway."
"Yes, that's true, my friend. But if they lose in Pashtia, they'll come back here much weaker than they will if they win. So not another word. Qabaash and company are coming."
Carrera, unseen by Sada, nodded his head. There is faithfulness. There is honor. Thank God for you, Adnan.
"I'll be expecting them, friend," Carrera said. He saw Lourdes mouthing "Ruqaya?" and asked, "Is your wife there? Lourdes wants to chat."