O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [80]
The size of the Marine Corps contingent at the Naval War College doubled with the arrival of Second Lieutenant Zachary O’Hara. Ben believed that he had found a new right arm to replace the one he had lost on maneuvers.
Because of the major’s longevity, modest needs, and respect, he was assigned to a small but lovely cottage on one of Coaster’s bluffs, with a view to the bay. Boone had an orderly and with his per diem and poker winnings, he was able to afford a maid and a cook. Many were the flag officers who wore a path to Ben’s door for a drink, a fine meal, and most of all, an evening of wisdom.
The “whiskey” hero had a sharp tongue to match his sharp mind. He could be intimidating. Ben’s kind of power intrigued the power cult of Newport. He was on everyone’s elite list. When the beast in him arose, in quarterly cycles mostly, he had no trouble linking up with a fine lady.
After a dinner beyond Zach’s normal fare, he took up a rocking chair next to Ben’s on the porch overlooking the Narragansett.
“I’d like to run something past you, Major,” Zach said.
“As long as it’s within budget.”
“The empty space down from our office. I have a use for it.”
“You’d suffocate. Can’t get cross-ventilation in there.”
“Suppose I use it only at night or on cool days.”
“What for?”
“Building scale models like the ones they have here for naval battles in the lecture halls.”
“Those admirals look like croupiers in Monte Carlo shoving battleships instead of gambler’s chips around.”
“Well, this is a war college.”
“You’re not here to play board games. A good general keeps a battlefield in his head.”
“I’m just a lieutenant, sir.”
“You studied the Battle of Marathon at AMP?”
“Yes, sir. Captain Storm taught that one personally.”
“Refresh me, Zach.”
“Four ninety b.c. comes to mind.”
“Close enough.”
Ben stopped his rocker and swept his arm in a semicircle. “If you look closely, you’ll see the Persian fleet.”
Zach squinted and studied the nothingness before him.
“Yes, sir, I see it.”
“Well, what’s going on?”
“The way the squadrons are moving, there must be six hundred boats, trières. Maybe between fifty and a hundred oarsmen on each of three levels. Another thirty or forty crew and infantry—that is, heavy and light bowmen and enough arrows to run a three-day battle. Supply boats with food and water, maintenance and ordnance crews, engineers.”
“Miss anything?”
“There are a hundred boats pulled with a hundred oarsmen, each, and each carrying five horses, cavalrymen, and handlers.”
“To what end?”
“Darius, the Persian emperor, has won the largest empire in the world. He had to use great resources to hold a line against the Russian tribes to his north. Crossing the Libyan desert is a bone in his throat. It was time for him to take the Greek option.”
“Which was?”
“He had installed governors and garrisons in the Greek provinces, but they were loosely held and in a constant state of rebellion. A few years earlier, Darius had sent a fleet to punish the city of Eritrea for failing to pay its taxes. Athens came to the aid of Eritrea and the Persian fleet was badly mauled by the sea. Darius was a sore loser. The Greek provinces, anchored by Athens and Sparta, had to be punished and brought under control. In truth, Darius was coming on to move the boundaries of his empire. Beyond the Hellenic region lay Rome and Gaul and all of Western Europe.”
Ben Boone was somewhat impressed. He threw an attack of questions. Many of the answers had to be a matter of personal analysis. Zachary O’Hara was intensely joined.
“This was a cumbersome fleet with primitive vessels and spit-to-the-wind navigation. It crossed the Aegean and rolled up the Cyclades Islands, constantly needing more supplies and conscripts. It takes a lot of water to keep six thousand galleymen rowing and a lot of shovels to get rid of the shit from five hundred horses. They moved up on the Macedonian coast, north of Athens.”
Zach was on his feet scanning that ancient horizon, pressing