The Melding

Beginning

Fallon felt rested when he awoke again. He was able to focus on the face above him. Not his dead mother. Another woman. Thirties. Blue gray eyes. Shining black hair. She did not look like a torturer. He told her that he would not talk. She smiled and revealed the gleam of a tiny jewel in her front tooth. She reached forward to touch his face. When he tried to grab her hand, he felt the leather thongs that bound his hands.

She cupped a hand over each ear. He jerked his head violently and tried to bite her arm. Laughing, she withdrew her hands. Another voice in the tent. A man with a deep large voice. Fallon couldn’t understand the words. They lashed a chengo strap across his forehead and the short sharp spikes bit into his skin, immobilizing his head. The man with the big head drew back and the woman leaned forward and spoke unintelligible sounds to him. The language of the Glade people was distasteful gibberish harsh to his ears. The words of a people who did not live by their word, who betrayed their own treaties.

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Again she cupped a hand over each of his ears. She inserted the tip of a finger into each ear cave and he shuddered with loathing when he felt a wet tendril search the canal deep within his ear. “Relax. There is no permanent damage,” she said. 

“You speak the language of the Jade people,” Fallon said.

“You speak the language of the Glades,” she replied. What kind of dark magic was this? He opened his mouth to speak but she shushed him as one would a babe. She closed her eyes. Fallon felt an annoying tingle on either side of his head. 

“They will attack tomorrow,” she said in a monotone voice. She was a Listener! He had thought the stories were myths. His feet struggled against their bounds. He opened his lips to scream but they were glued shut. “12 dozen warriors. Sarten is their leader.” The deep voice asked if they had energy. “He lost it when he fell from the cliff. The Fae woman has the energy.” The deep voice questioned her interpretation of Fallon’s thoughts. The Listening woman repeated herself. Perhaps the Fae warrior has kept some for herself, he asked? Listening woman shrugged. She could only say what Fallon knew. She was a mind reader, not a truth teller. The deep voice asked if Fallon’s people had warrior animals. “No. Their animals have fled south in search of food.” 

Deep voice scoffed. “Warriors without energy or animals. We will rid ourselves of these traitors and drive these pestilent people from our land. Disconnect. We will use him as a battering ram in the coming battle. Let this weakened warrior fall victim to the swords of his companions.” Fallon felt the slither of tendrils emerge from his ears and he fell unconscious.

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Alpen and Drindl donned their battle leathers and gathered their weapons. The first fingers of dawn stretched above the horizon as they emerged from the tent. All around them warriors flowed through the dirt aisles between the tents and out into the clearing between two great trees. From now until the moment of battle the few words spoken would be between a warrior and his apprentice.

The warriors took their places, lining up six feet apart. Alpen showed Drindl how to dig a foot wide hole at his feet. Drindl mimicked the warriors around them, piling the dirt outside the edge of the hole. Drindl knelt in front of his hole and put his hands palms down in the hole. He felt a tingling in his hands and feet. 

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He looked up as a woman poured water over his hands and pushed the pile of dirt into the hole.His fingertips pulsed as he kneaded the wet dirt like a dough. His fingers felt thin roots at the bottom of his hole. They caressed the tips of his fingers. His arms lengthened as he followed the roots down into the earth. He was part of the tree! Time and sky and dirt were one eternal stream. He withdrew his hands from the hole along with 12 dozen other warriors. He stood. Alpen turned to speak to him, to explain but Drindl interrupted, “I know.”

Drindl stood erect and faced forward. Along with the others he withdrew his sword. The steel glinted in the dawning sun. Forward he strode, slashing the air between himself and the warrior in front of him. Each warrior’s movement synchronized by the mind of their leader, Sarten. Each of them faced right, to the south. They would drive the conniving Glades into the ground and command the valley where the spring herds of Ibik journeyed to their summer breeding ground.

12 dozen feet fell in rhythm on the ground, causing alarm among the Faeries in their nighttime tree roosts. They flew out from the trees to the eastern hills, far from the coming conflict. As the warriors passed through the tree glen they flowed as fog between the trunks then coalesced in the meadow beyond. They lined up beside each other on the rise that sloped toward the army of the Glades. Drindl and Alpen were among those on the right of Sarten, who swung his sword like a scythe through the air. 12 dozen swords matched his killing stroke. Together they were one blade, the long blade of blood. They strode forward to meet the Glade army gathered on the opposite hill.

Behind the Lines

Beginning

A tik-tik bird pecked at Fallon’s ankle. Squatting in the brambles of the large bush, he stifled a startled cry. The curved beak opened to make its characteristic caw. The sound would attract the Glade soldiers who would want to capture the bird. It’s fruit diet made its meat sweet and succulent, a treat to soldiers on a campaign.

 He needed a diversion. He grabbed the beak, being careful not to twist the neck. He scooped up the body of the bird and launched it into the air. He heard the shout of the soldiers, then the startled bird caught wing and flew toward the stream and soldiers. Through the dense foliage of the bush, Fallon glimpsed two soldiers at the trunk of a giant buda tree. They looked up. He guessed that the confused bird sat on a branch in the canopy of the tree. One of them looked in his direction. He reached for his knife. His hand felt the empty scabbard and he jerked his head to look in disbelief. How had he not noticed? A swirl of wind rustled the grass and chilled his skin. He scanned the nearby ground for a branch, a rock, anything he could turn into a weapon.

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A faint cheap drew Fallon’s attention to the ground at his feet. He saw one chick peck at his boot, while three others huddled in the bush roots. He picked two berries from the bush, squeezed them and laid them on the ground. That would keep them quiet. The four chicks squeaked as they swarmed around the berries. The mother was sure to come back. He could only see the two soldiers. He couldn’t stay and he couldn’t leave. He gambled on their distraction and snuck away from the bush. The spring vegetation was soft and did not betray his movement as he slunk back toward the tree where he had fallen.

With a wider angle of sight he saw several soldiers. One dipped her hands in the shallow stream. Another brushed aside the reeds along the stream. What were they looking for? He turned to look at the two soldiers standing at the trunk of the tree. One soldier handed a shoulder bag to his companion, then started to climb the trunk.

Fallon’s heart sunk. They were gathering the energy that he had taken from the cliff cave. It must have fallen from his shoulder bag when he fell off the Faerie Queen. His instinct to run out of the cave had saved his life but given a big advantage to the enemy. His fear had condemned his fellow warriors to death. He deserved to die as well. If he found his knife he could take the woman warrior and the other who searched the reeds. Perhaps a third soldier before the other soldiers took his blood. He stayed hidden behind the wide tree trunk and studied the ground.

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Fallon slunk along the ground, gambling that the tall reeds would hide his movement. He glanced toward the woman in the stream, who was the closest. A shout and some talk that he didn’t understand. The woman made a gesture with her arm to the others. Fallon heard the chatter of the tik-tik bird’s beak as the three soldiers walked away downstream. Leaving? No, the woman continued upstream toward Fallon, searching the sloped ground on either side of the stream.

As Fallon waited for her to come closer, he planned his attack. The short throwing axe at her waist indicated her warrior skills. He would rush and block her arm as she reached for the axe. She would expect him to use his greater weight to overwhelm her. Instead he would come at her low, trap her legs and topple her before she could cry out to the others. With the wind knocked out of her, he could finish her. He was not practiced with a throwing axe but he could do great damage in close quarters with the other soldiers. He crouched as she neared the tree.

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She was turned slightly away when Fallon launched his attack. She turned toward him as he erupted out of the reeds. He saw her instinctively reach for her axe. Arms stretched, he lunged toward her. His right arm grazed her buttocks and he went headlong into the cobble that lined the stream bank. Baffled, he scrambled to his feet. She had disappeared. 

A sound above drew his attention. She had pulled herself up on the same branch he had shimmied down earlier. How had she jumped that quickly? She was Fae! The reeds has disguised her motion as she walked along the stream. She  crouched on the thick branch, her weight poised on her toes. She reached for the throwing axe at her waist. From this short distance, she would cleave his chest in half. 

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Fallon cast a hurried glance around him. No protection. She drew her arm back to send the killing shot. He ran toward the trunk of the buda tree, putting the branch between himself and the Fae. She snarled at him, then cupped her hand near her mouth and shrieked the call of an Alsace fledgling in mortal danger. Trickery! He had escaped those flesh tearing talons once that day.

The rustle of the leaves above signaled the descent of the predator bird through the canopy. Fallon flapped his arms and limped away from the tree as though wounded. He hoped he wasn’t so convincing that the bird would try to pick him up. He stumbled in the brush and fell to his knees. He heard the wings of the Alsace bird as it braked in the air above him. His muscles convulsed when the hot knives of the talons seized his upper back. He screamed out in rage and pain and the talons released.

As he fell forward to the ground, his arms were trapped behind his back. His jaw hit the ground but he recovered his wits and turned on his side to battle the bird. It rose in the air away from him. Through clouded vision he saw the Fae woman lean over him, then spit in his face. Next came a thud on his head and restful sleep.

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 Fallon awoke once when they lashed his wrists to a pole. His head dangled as they lifted him up.  The evening sun was low in the sky. He tried to look to his side as they carried him forward on the pole.

When he awoke, his lips and head hurt. A hand lifted his head, rubbed some ointment on his cracked lips then placed a cup to his lips. His dry throat ached as he drew the liquid into his mouth. The liquid was soothing but the effort was exhausting. The same hand placed a soft paper between his lips and he instinctively sucked at the anchloss leaf. The slight numbing of his tongue was pleasant and he felt saliva in his mouth. A cup to his lips again. The pain at the top of his head ebbed. Had his mother returned from the world of the dead to tend his wounds? He smiled and slept.

Before the Battle

The sound of a thousand winds battered Fallon's ears as he hurtled toward the canyon far below. It was the battle cry of a hundred demons who tore at his jacket, breeches and shoulder bag. He thrust his chest forward, his legs and arms swept back from his torso to avoid being somersaulted by the rushing air.

The tree lined stream below him grew larger. He hoped the branches did not break his fall and cripple him for life. A warrior without worth. He felt a tug on his left foot, then out of the edge of his vision the face of the Faerie Queen. The wind rippled the skin on her face as she grimaced against the wind. She maneuvered below him, her arms outstretched to make her wing membrane into a taut sail. His chest touched her back and he felt the slowing of his descent. She shuddered as she took on more of his weight.

His weight and inexperience in body sailing made it difficult for her to maintain a stable profile. They rushed through the air above the trees but continued to fall. She abruptly rotated on her side and dumped him into the tree canopy.

The leaves whipped his face and the branches cracked beneath his weight. He was stunned and briefly lost consciousness. He awoke to tugging and scratching. By the time he came fully awake, a half dozen Faeries had freed the shoulder bag full of energy combs and flown away.

As he inventoried his limbs for damage, a familiar squawking pierced the muffled air around him. If he had been fully alert, he would have been terrified to meet such a foe without stone or sword as a weapon.

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The great head and curved beak of an Alsace bird. Must be a dream, he thought. When he was a child, his daddy taught him to open his mouth wide and caw like a young Alsace bird. The bird cued off the pink mouth and sound, daddy said. Fallon had practiced but was never attacked by one of the birds. Now he did it like he had practiced many years ago. At edge of his vision, three Alsace fledglings joined in the banshee chorus. The large parent bird cocked its head, peered at Fallon with its killing eye, looked at its young ones, then launched away from the tree. Its wings rustled the leaves as they beat the air.

Still in a daze he lowered himself to the ground. He hurt terribly, his clothes were torn but nothing was broken. He looked at the sky to take his bearing and set off toward camp. In the still air he heard the sound of voices ricochet off the canyon wall to his right. Drindl and Alpen? No. The language used by the Glade people. He was behind enemy lines with no weapons - more vulnerable than a maiden. He ducked below a nearby bush. He heard several footsteps in the stream ahead. Two voices. Maddening not to understand what they were saying. Had they seen him fall from the sky? He glanced down at movement in the shadows at his feet. He had picked the wrong bush for cover.

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Drindl and Alpen checked the warrior tent when they arrived at camp. The setting sun threw golden shadows on the tents. Many people milled about in the alleyways between tents, but there was no sign of Fallon. They strode to Sarten’s headquarters and asked the guard outside for news. The guard pointed them to the mess tent where the energy combs were being prepared. More guards. Alpen asked for the Faerie Queen. A guard motioned him inside but blocked Drindl from entering. Alpen held up a hand to quiet Drindl’s protest. “A minute.” Drindl sighed.

Several Faeries gorged on energy at a table near the tent wall. At a table in the center of the large tent the Faerie Queen supervised several soldiers who prepped the honeycomb morsels. The sight of Fallon’s shoulder bag lifted his spirits. He didn’t see his friend though.

“Fallon?” Alpen asked the Faerie Queen.  “The warrior you swooped out of the sky. Thank you,” he added with a respectful bow of his head. Although she was not a warrior, she had behaved like one.

“He fell off. I’m sorry. The Faeries say he died. They retrieved the energy. He didn’t die in vain.”

“They were sure?” Alpen asked. He felt a big hole inside.

“Eye test. No reaction.”

Alpen nodded. He felt a profound need to be alone, to absorb the news. He waved toward the energy on the table. “Dawn battle?” She nodded. He thanked her and turned to leave. As he neared the entrance of the tent, he saw the sated Faeries. For a short time, they would be too unsteady to fly. Unlike humans, a Faerie sickened and died if they did not consume energy for several weeks. He usually couldn’t tell one Faerie apart from the other, but he recognized the odd slant of a hair tuft that distinguished the Faerie that had led them to the cliff. When had the Faeries eaten last? They might have been anxious to retrieve Fallon’s shoulder bag. Did they really do a thorough check for life signs? 

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He shook off his doubts. False hope in battle caused a warrior to lose focus. Outside the tent, the shadows had deepened. He shook his head at Drindl’s questioning look. They hugged briefly then turned toward the tent. “Tomorrow many Glade warriors will pay for Fallon’s death,” Drindl struck his fist forward as though stabbing someone.

“Don’t let your anger keep you from sleep tonight,” Alpen warned. 

His sadness caused him to toss and turn that night. He yearned for the physical comfort of his wife. When he was awakened an hour before pre-dawn he was relieved that he had fallen asleep. He was half-dressed in the darkness when he heard Drindl’s snores. This was the younger man’s first campaign. He put his hand over Drindl’s mouth and nose, then ducked away as Drindl erupted awake, striking at his unknown assassin. The other men laughed. Most of them knew the routine.

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 The warriors formed two lines leading into the mess tent. Each received their energy allotment and a portion of a meat and grain battle gruel. Alpen held Drindl’s arm when he began to put the energy in his mouth. Some warriors complained of tiredness or a minor illness and asked for an extra allotment. Alpen explained to Drindl, “Some warriors think that extra energy will compensate for experience and valor. My mentor in my first campaign thought that. Extra does not give more. The more comes from here,” he touched his chest with a fist, “and here,” he touched his temple with a finger. 

Sarten climbed up on a table and the warriors turned to him. “Fallon, A brave warrior, gave his life for this.” With his piece of the energy honeycomb, he toasted Fallon, then put the sweet papery morsel in his mouth.

“Hear, hear, we will avenge brave Fallon,” the warriors chanted and stomped their feet three times. A lone Faerie stumbled out from under the table. Sarten roared his displeasure. Would he kick the energy drunk Faerie? Alpen worried. 

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“Rid me of this creature who steals a warrior’s share,” Sarten bellowed. A woman hurriedly scooped the bird sized Faerie into her skirt and the crowd parted to allow her to exit.

Alpen was relieved. Might be bad luck to kill a Faerie before battle. He let the morsel partially dissolve in his mouth first before swallowing, then he motioned for Drindl to do the same. He lifted the bowl of battle gruel to his lips and slurped. Drindl made a face when he tasted the gruel. “The gruel feeds your muscles not your tongue,” Alpen told him. They finished the gruel, then tossed the earthen bowls in a pile.

“Bantams forward,” Sarten called to the semi-circle of warriors. Alpen pushed Drindl forward. There were eighteen new warriors in the crowd out of the hundred fifty gathered in the tent. The crowd parted to let the bantams stand in a line. “Left leg behind you,” Sarten commanded. Each one bent his left leg and that ankle was lashed to the right leg of his neighbor. Hopping on one foot they were rounded into a circle. 

Sarten led the chant in a booming voice. “We are many who fight as one.” Three times they thundered the words as they stomped their feet. Then Sarten came forward and pushed lightly against one of the bantams in the circle. Others followed. The bantams had to sense the push as a unit and keep their straight leg bent at the knee to shift balance with their neighbor. Finally, the crowd of warriors came forward and pushed the bantams from all sides. They failed to keep their balance and fell in a heap of flailing arms. The crowd laughed. 

“We are many who fall as one,” Sarten’s voice boomed. The warriors repeated the chant while stomping their foot. They untied the bantam warriors and helped them stand up. Their tied legs had gone to sleep during the ritual.

“We are many who stand as one,” Sarten called out and the warriors joined in three times. The ceremony was over. The warriors filed out of the tent. 

Drindl limped slightly as they walked from the tent. “I can see. Dawn is coming,” he remarked.

“No. That’s your eyes. The energy is beginning to take effect,” Alpen replied. “Let’s hurry. We will begin the melding that will unite us all.”

Treasure

1.

"I am weary of waiting." Alpen slid his sword into its scabbard.

Drindl slapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the sky behind Alpen. "The faeries have found an energy core. We can prepare for battle."

Altiss, the faerie Queen, stretched her arms to the sky. "Come here, my children!" The dozen or so faeries alighted on her arms then crawled beneath her cloak. She gathered her cloak about her and ducked inside Sarten's tent.

Alpen, Drindl and Fallon waited outside the tent. Sarten threw open the tent flap and stepped out on the damp ground. He pointed west. "A few miles. Take ropes with you. The energy cache is partway down a cliff."

"How much?" Alpen asked.

"More than enough." Sarten glanced at the sky, then put his hand on Alpen's broad shoulder. "Act swiftly and we will attack at dawn." The Faerie Queen emerged from the tent and handed a faerie to Sarten. It looked like a dove but with the head of a squirrel. Sarten handed the faerie to Alpen. "She will show you the way. I will wait until you return. Then we will sound the battle horn."

Alpen, Drindl and Fallon bowed their heads to Sarten and remained facing him as they stepped back. Sarten raised his hand in a gesture of formal dismissal. The three turned toward the warriors' tent.

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The last mile was a steep hike. The three warriors stood next to each other and looked over the cliff edge to the stream at the bottom of the gorge. The faerie chattered at them, then flew down the cliff and settled on a scrub tree growing out from the cliff.

"Drindl, you are the lightest. We'll lower you down," Alpen turned back to the ropes and gear in a pile on the ground.

"We don't even know if there is anything down there," Drindl protested.

"You don't like heights!" Fallon laughed. "Sarten will be surprised to learn that his warrior captain trembles." He slapped Drindl in the back and said, "I'll go."

"Is the rope strong enough for a fat-assed warrior?" Alpen chided.

"It's your ass you should worry about if you don't show some respect." Fallon grabbed the rope and a sling bag. He looked earnestly. "You saw the cliff cutaway  at the tree. I will have to swing out past the tree."

They nodded soberly. This was dangerous work. If Fallon survived the descent without smashing into the rock, he still had to get the energy stones and himself through the tree on the ascent up the cliff.

Drindl handed Fallon the short battle axe. "It will cut an arm off. Perhaps it can do the same to a tree limb."

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Fallon struck out at the faerie before pushing away from the cliff. Wrong move. The faerie nipped at his jacket in a game of tag as Fallon swung around the scrub bush. He spun on the rope as the momentum carried him in an arc away from the cliff. As he swung back to the cliff, he hit his shoulder hard against the rock. Numbness shot through his arm to the hand clutching the rope. He straddled a rock ledge and the gnarled trunk of the bush to stop the twisting. "Damn you!" He yelled at the faerie who settled on a branch and chattered at him.

Looking to his left he saw a small cave in the cliff. He tied off the rope on the bush, then tapped the rope 3 times to signal that he was OK. He pulled on the bush. It felt secure. He was relieved when the faerie flew away. He didn't understand the warning in that behavior.

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Fallon regained his balance on the ledge, bent sideways and discovered a deep darkness. This was a cave, not a shallow alcove in the cliff. He had no fire. Where was the faerie? Its phosphorescent feathers would have provided a dim source of light.

He closed his eyes to adjust them to the darkness. When he opened them he saw the faint blue glow of the energy core. Unsure of the ceiling height in the cave, he walked on knees and hands to the core.

The skin on his fingers tingled as he touched the honeycomb core. A taste? The extra energy would help him make the ascent up the cliff. No, the flood of sensation would disorient him for a few minutes. It was why a warrior could not recharge in the midst of battle.

He stuffed his bag with all that he could carry. A deciding advantage in tomorrow's battle. He turned as he felt a tug of claw at his ankle. Two blue tinged eyes emerged from a bed of straw next to him. His pulse accelerated. An active den! This wasn't the abandoned rook of thE giant Iris bird. There must be another entrance. Below the eyes, a pink mouth opened and the soft plaintive mew of a bear cub broke the dark silence in the cave. Fallon heard a low grunt and the scrape of a large body against the rock deeper in the cave. Mom was returning!

He stood in a half crouch and turned toward the cave opening. A growl from the great bear vibrated through the floor of the cave and trembled the bones in Fallon's legs. No single warrior could best a great bear, especially one which had been feeding on energy.

He felt the shudder of the rock as the bear launched its crushing weight toward him. He rushed out of the entrance and dove into the empty air. Better a quick death than the painful torture of tooth and claw.

Canadian Refugees

February 19, 2017

Since the election of Donald Trump as President of the U.S., there have been many reports in the press about the number of refugees fleeing into Canada.  While it is true that refugee flight has surged since the election, the numbers were growing during the Obama administration because the U.S. has a reputation as unsympathetic to refugees (see ref below). It might suprise most readers that Canadian refugee claims are lower this year than they were 15-20 years ago.

According to the Canada Border Services Agency, land border crossings by refugees have more than doubled over the past several years. However, the 7,023 refugee claims in 2016 were less than the 8,000 claims made each year from 1999 to 2004. (CBC report)

Because there has been relatively little media coverage, the general population paid little attention. Now that the press has turned their attention to the problem (see Note below), it appears to many of us that the election of Donald Trump is entirely responsible for the exodus into Canada.  Media coverage, or the lack of it, influences our perception of reality. Psychologists refer to this as attentional bias.

Note: Most of the first six pages of results from a search of "how many illegal immigrants fled into canada in 2015" were recent.

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Other resources:
Toronto Star - Refugees coming into Quebec 2016

BBC - Refugees coming into Manitoba 2013-2016

Canada is 15th on the list of countries receiving refugees

A June 2015 Atlantic article with several dozen evocative photos of migrants around the world

2014 American Immigration Council (AIC) report on unaccompanied children from Central America

Election Notes

Cleaning up my desktop and found a few notes on the election...

Before the elction, Tamara Keith with NPR (she's been traveling with the Clinton campaign this election season) noted that months ago Hillary made the decision to run as a 3rd term of Obama in order to draw in the black vote.  Some of her team warned her that voters want change after two terms.  Only H.W. Bush had won a third term in 1988.

They suggested that she hit traditional Democratic themes/constituencies, appealing to advocates of pro-choice, teachers and labor unions.  It was up to her to make the call and she made it.  She did not visit Wisconsin after the Dem convention.  She did not visit Michigan enough.

Congresswoman Debbie Dingell (MI) warned the DNC that she was getting a bad feeling talking to her constituents and that they needed to schedule in more visits.  They didn't.  They decided to concentrate on Florida, VA, PA and rely on MI and WI to vote Dem as they always had. All campaigns have limited resources and, like an army, must decide where to depoy those resources. Working class whites felt abandoned.  Hillary didn't get enough of the black vote in the urban centers to offset the defection by working whites to Trump.  Many political strategists thought Trump's "rust belt strategy" was nonsense, doomed to fail.  They were wrong.  Trump's team was right.

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Financing

As of early January, Clinton's lead in the national vote count is close to 3 million.  However, we don't elect a President by popular vote.  Through the mechanism of the Electoral College, the states elect a President.

Clinton's lead, or margin, comes down to 5 counties.  Take away the margin, not the vote count, but the vote margin in four counties in New York City and one county in Los Angeles and Clinton would have lost by 1/2 million votes.

Obama conducted a broad campaign in all 50 states.  It took a lot of money and human energy, both Obama's and the thousands of volunteers who campaigned for him.  In the 2008 campaign, Obama spent $745 million.  In 2012, his campaign spent $875 million.  In 2016, Clinton spent $1.4 billion and still neglected several rust belt states that Obama canvassed.

Neo-Con Philosophy

September 11, 2016

I read these somewhere but didn't write down the reference

Assumptions of Neo-Cons

1.  A strong country like the U.S. can bully weaker states into compliance with U.S. policy.

2. Force is superior to diplomacy

3.  Democratic ideals are hard wired into the human brain.  These ideals will flow into the anarchy created when a government is overthrown by U.S. military might.

4. Knowledge of local politics, society and culture is not important before using military force.