The sky glowered down on the city, it was grey, like the steel the ancient place was
famous for.  In the west the eye of the sun was lowering beyond the hills of Syria, blooding
the vast sword like sky.  Corporal Carmichael cursed under his breath, he hated this city; 
hated its people, its wheather, its first century Byzantine and its twelvth century Turkish
architectchure, but most of all, he hated being shot at.  Not that being shot at was all
that terrible in itself, but he hated not being able to shoot back.  At least in the Gulf,
or Liberia he had someone to shoot back at, even orders to do so (heck he even had medals
for shooting people) but here, there were snipers everywere, and he couldn't return fire
without setting of an international incedent.  It occured to the corporal that what he hated
was embassy duty.
	A young voice brought Carmichael out of his brooding reverie, "Hey sarge..."
	"God damnit Smith, I'm not a Seargent now, I was busted two days ago, shut up and
eyes front man!"
	"Yes sir.  But sir, remember that broad that passed us on her way in?"
	"yeah"
	"Well, you think that at the dance tonight..."
	"No Smith, and she's Company, so I wouldn't let her catch you calling her a "broad""
	"Company, like THE company?"
	"No Smith, like fucking Rebok Shoes, yes the god damn Central Intelligence Agency"
	"Oh"
	"That's right "OH", you'll stay away like she's a whore with the clap if you know 
what's good for ya, now shut up and soldier."
	All someone from the street could have seen of the conversation was two Marines, in
dress blues, standing at ramrod straight attention on either side of the large double doors
leading into the United States embassy.  The two spoke in lowly inflected tones and in the 
manner known to soldiers worldwide, without moving their mouths noticeably. 
	"God damn kids, always god damn kids playing soldier, and never enough warm bodies 
to go around, what is the Corps, no the States coming to these days?"  Carmichael stared off
into the western sky as the sun set, his eyes searching the setting sun for the meaning of 
it all.  Underneath the spit and polish, the swagger and bravado of a carrier NCO laid six
feet three inches of stringy muscle, the fifty year old skin of a thirty year old with to 
much sun, win, rain, and mud, smokey hazel eyes that couldn't decide on a color, and 
already thining sunwashed blonde hair.  And under that facade, common to most marines who 
ever qualified for dress emabassy duty, laid a frightened eightteen year old, who'd seen
and done to much for most sane people to stomache.
	"Uhh sir"
	"Now what?"
	"Do you hear that?"
Carmichael stopped his mind from gathering more wool, and brought himself into 
concentration; yes there was a particular sound, getting louder.  Carmichael cought himself 
before he could say that it was just the sea, for Damascus was not on the coast.
	"Oh shit Smitty, I think that's a crowd, and not a happy one knowing this damn 
city!"
	"Sir?"
	"Smith, get the seargent of the watch and tell him the Mike's got one of those itchy
feelings.  Go, now!"  As the young private made himself scarce, Carmichael bellowed at the 
rest of the Marines that were pulling guard duty that day, the ones not in dress blues.
	"Yo, Marines!  Get that gate closed, now!  Defensive postitions people, get those 
M60's ready, and somebody get me a rifle and a flap-jack!"  The previously quiet courtyard 
exploaded into a riot of activity, Marines readying to go to war.  One of first platoon's 
new privates brought Carmichael his M16 and the bullet resistant vest he asked for, 
affectionatley known in the ranks as a flap-jack.  He leaned his decrative M14 against the
embassy wall and threw the heavy kevlar plate ontop of his dress unifrom.
	"Great, trouble and I'm wearing "shoot at me" white and blue."  Carmichael grimaced
and removed his dress cap, "Don't want to look like an officer!"
	"Carmichael, this had better be good!"