by Isaac Hooke
In a field nearby, recruits of all ages shot at plastic bottles filled with dyed water. Everyone wore fatigues: there was desert digital, desert plain, and forest digital. Probably American-made.
Abdul skirted the center of town, where some kind of urban combat exercise was taking place. Ethan spotted several armed recruits in fatigues and balaclavas, hunched outside a doorway. Two recruits ducked inside the concrete house at the same time, one going high, the other low. Another militant filmed the whole sequence on his cellphone, while two civilian children watched quietly from the second-floor balcony across the street.
Abdul led them to an obstacle course, where a group of recruits surmounted hurdles such as barbed wire, wooden logs, and climbing nets. It looked like a playground compared to the obstacle course Ethan had experienced in his own SEAL training. Patterned tarps camouflaged much of the course.
An instructor in a black turban was shouting encouragement at the recruits. Beside him a man maybe ten years older than Ethan watched with folded arms. He wore fatigues patterned in desert-digital, and his head was wrapped in the same red and white-checkered keffiyeh that Ethan wore. Acne scars pocked his lined face. He had an aura of command about him.
"Emir Haadi," Abdul said in respectful tones.
The pockmarked man looked over his shoulder questioningly.
"New recruits." Abdul nodded at Ethan and the other operatives.
Haadi broke into a fatherly grin. "Welcome home, brothers." His Rural Saudi accent was the Arabic equivalent of Appalachian English, so thick that Ethan barely understood it. "Come, let's get you processed."
The emir led them inside one of the low-slung concrete houses and sat behind a steel desk. He offered each of them bottled water.
"Your hegira went well?" Haadi said.
"As well as could be expected," Ethan answered, sipping his water.
"You are from Riyadh?"
Ethan nodded.
"I recognize the accent," Haadi said. "Tell me, how is the Euphrates River this time of year?"
Ethan frowned. "There is no Euphrates in Riyadh."
Haadi smiled. "No, there isn't."
"There is a lake, though," Ethan continued. "In Al Sallam Park."
Haadi's eyes became distant. "Ah, Al Sallam Park. It is beautiful this time of year." He abruptly pointed at their rucksacks. "Place your packs on the table, please."
The emir rummaged through their belongings: Qurans, duct tape, flashlights, batteries, matches. He paid no attention whatsoever to the USB sticks, instead homing in on their passports, which he set down on the table in front of him.
Haadi discovered the satellite hotspot and frowned. Ethan had elected to bring it along after all, in case the Islamic State was stupid enough to let them keep it.
"What is this?" Haadi said.
Ethan kept his cool. "Personal wifi."
"Laptop, okay. Phone, okay. This, not okay." The man set it aside.
Ethan glanced at Aaron, who shrugged in an I-told-you-so manner.
Next Haadi had them spread their legs, palms on the wall, and patted them down.
Haadi discovered their phones, which he didn't care about because there was no cellular network coverage. When he found the TruPulse 360s, he activated each device in turn and confirmed they were indeed range finders and nothing more. He also came across the lockpick kit Ethan had, and after a quick search through the picks and bump keys, he placed it alongside the other "allowed" items.
Finished his search, Haadi returned to his desk, flipped open a laptop, and typed up the information from the passports. With the built-in webcam, he snapped a photo of each of their faces. Ethan had gotten angry with Aaron earlier for sharing his photo with Maaz, but that was nothing: now Ethan's picture was stored in a terrorist database for real.
"Do you have a Dawlah tazkiyah?" Haadi asked. That meant a character reference from someone already part of the Islamic State.
Ethan shook his head. "We know no one here." Sam had hinted other embedded assets were already in play, but she was loath to reveal their identities, as was only right.
Haadi furrowed his brow. "As Saudis and Yemenis, I would have expected otherwise. There are many radical mosques that could have vouched for you. How did you get here?"
Aaron repeated the story about how he'd gotten in touch with a public Kik Messenger account associated with the Islamic State.
Haadi pressed his lips together. "So you didn't actually know your recruiter personally?"
"No."
"The route you took for hegira is more typical of Western holy warriors. And if you were Western fighters, I would be forced to run a security background check. We've caught their intelligence agents in our midst before. It won't happen again, not on my watch."
Ethan thought about what Sam had told him about choking off recruits by forcing the Islamic State to perform more thorough vetting. So it was already starting. Good.
Haadi tapped his lips. "But you're not Western fighters. So I will allow you to recite the pledge of bay'ah"—allegiance—"to the Islamic State. Raise your index fingers."
Ethan clenched his right hand and lifted his index finger, forming that oft-mimicked gesture posted online by Islamic State supporters. Most Westerners had no idea of the symbolism behind the act, but it alluded to the belief that Allah was the only God, one of the five pillars of Islam and a component of the daily prayers. There is no God but Allah, Muhammad is the messenger of God. Those words, known as the Shahada, were written on the black standard of the Islamic State itself.
The gesture also symbolized the wielder's willingness to die for Islam, the one true faith, and reaffirmed the group's dedication to wiping out all other inferior ideologies. They wanted one God, one religion, one state. Worldwide.
"In the name of Allah the merciful we hereby swear allegiance," the emir said.
"In the name of Allah the merciful we hereby swear allegiance," Ethan and his companions repeated.
"To the Prince of the Faithful."
"To the Prince of the Faithful."
"And the Caliph of the Muslims."
"And the Caliph of the Muslims."
"Abu Bakr al-Qurashi." That was a name the leader of the Islamic State, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, used to claim descendance from the Prophet.
"Abu Bakr al-Qurashi."
"Allahu akbar!"
"Allahu akbar!"
Haadi returned their rucksacks and brought them to a supply house, where they picked out fatigues in their sizes, but did not put them on. Then he led them back toward the obstacle course.
On the way, he said, "I am the emir of the camp, but I also personally run the orientation brigade, which you are now a part of. All new recruits start with me until the class-up to war training. You are at a bit of a disadvantage, because you have arrived near the end of orientation, and after this Sunday, day of rest, you will be assigned to the war brigade. But, Allah willing, you will quickly adapt."
At the obstacle course, Haadi walked straight to a youth who had finished early and was waiting on the sidelines for the next round to begin.
"Ibrahim," the emir said.
A village boy just out of puberty, Ibrahim snapped to attention. He had the features of a Syrian. Probably conscripted from the locals.
"Assign them to quarters and get them changed," Haadi said. "Then bring them back."
"Any chance of breakfast?" Aaron asked hopefully.
"The life of the mujahid is austere," the emir said.
Ibrahim led them to a concrete house on the northern outskirts of the village. Inside, the blankets of other mujahadeen were strewn across the floor, with backpacks serving as pillows. Ibrahim found an open area near a crumbling wall and instructed the three of them to set down their rucksacks.
"You will notice there are no locks," Ibrahim said with a wide smile. "You do not have to worry about thieves. No one will steal from you here."
Ethan and the others changed into the fatigues Haadi had given them.
&nb
sp; "You are from Yemen?" Ibrahim said on the way back to the obstacle course.
"Saudi Arabia," Ethan corrected him.
"We have people from all nationalities here. Omani. Afghani. British. French. And you know, it is amazing. Without Islam to bind us all, we would probably be at each other's throats. But instead we love one another. We don't all speak the same language, but we don't have to. There is always someone to translate. We are all brothers."
It sounded similar to the propaganda Ethan had heard spouted by recruits online.
He was distracted by a faint buzzing in the sky, nearly identical to the sound of a small Cessna. He glanced skyward, squinting. Though he couldn't see it, he knew a drone, probably an MQ-1 Predator, was up there somewhere.
"They don't bother us," Ibrahim said.
"Not yet," Ethan countered.
"They won't attack," Ibrahim insisted. "The mighty West is afraid of us."
Ethan chuckled softly. "Which is exactly why they will attack, eventually."
After a day of physical training, with pauses for prayers, they returned to their quarters and a cook prepared a supper of chicken and rice, which they ate with their hands in the dining room under candlelight.
The atmosphere was almost festive. Without a doubt, everyone was overjoyed to be there. The fifteen other recruits introduced themselves, but Ethan forgot most of the names the instant he heard them, though he noted there were a proportionately high number of Osamas and Muhammads in the lot. If he ever needed to call someone by name, by guessing one or the other he had a good chance of getting it right.
"I still can't believe I'm here," an Osama said in Arabic. A young militant beside him translated the words into English for some of the others. "We are achieving the dreams of our beaten down brothers, brothers who have been stepped on and humiliated for the last century, simply for what they believed in. We fight for a Caliphate, for what we believe in, defending our fellow Muslims.
"Already the West has pledged resources and training to our enemy. And they promise airstrikes will come, soon. Let them do their worst, I say, because even if we lose, we win. We will drain the West of its resources, sending their economy into collapse. It costs them a trillion dollars to wage war against us. It costs us almost nothing. Only our lives. And that is no cost at all, but a gift. We end this war in paradise, but the infidel, he ends it in hell."
"Takbir!" someone shouted. That literally meant, "the term for god is great." In the Islamic world, instead of applause, someone would shout "takbir" and the audience would respond with "Allahu akbar."
"Allahu akbar," the group replied on cue.
"Takbir," someone repeated.
"Allahu akbar."
"Takbir."
"Allahu akbar."
And so the evening went.
Later, they dispersed throughout the house to relax in their assigned berthing areas. Most of the recruits studied the Quran in groups by candlelight or flashlight. Heated arguments erupted about the various hadiths, or traditions, therein. The name of Allah was bandied about in nearly every sentence.
Splashing and scrubbing sounds came from the adjacent room. Ethan peered past the door and observed some of the recruits washing clothes in a basin. The water would be from the communal well, as there were no working sinks or taps.
What sounded like a diesel motor abruptly started up outside.
"Power's back," an Omani said. He was a Muhammad. He had a laptop plugged into the wall and the blue charging light on its side had activated.
He produced a power bar, and those with phones plugged them into the available outlets. Ethan's own cellphone was almost fully charged, so he didn't bother charging it. However he did check to see if there was a carrier signal. Nope.
Laptop in hand, Muhammad sidled over to Ethan. "Do you have FireChat?"
Ethan shook his head. "What's that?"
"Off-the-grid instant messaging. It uses wireless mesh networking to allow us to connect our phones without any cellphone coverage. We can use it to exchange messages in battle, or to plan operations. Here, I'll hook you up." Muhammad produced a cord and plugged it into his laptop. He looked at Ethan expectantly. "Your phone?"
Ethan reluctantly handed his smartphone over, and watched very carefully as Muhammad launched an application called MobieGenie on the laptop.
"It is okay, I'm not going to hack your phone," Muhammad joked.
Ethan smiled politely.
When the youth was finished, he disconnected the phone and showed Ethan how FireChat worked. Watching the scrolling messages, Ethan was underwhelmed to discover that the exact same debates occurring in the adjacent rooms regarding the Quran were taking place camp-wide via the texting app.
Muhammad proceeded to install FireChat on the phones of Aaron and William. The two operatives scrutinized the installation process just as closely as Ethan had, and seemed similarly disappointed when they finally ran the app.
The generator shut down half an hour later and the call for lights out came.
As Ethan lay there in the dark, he heard the distant buzz of a Predator drone. The unmanned aerial vehicle was only performing surveillance. Still, when the approval for airstrikes came, the training camps would probably be among the first targets.
Sam would lobby for a delay until she was certain where her operatives were. Even so, she was only a small player in a political board game whose participants spanned multiple countries, agencies and militaries. She had no guarantee of getting what she asked for.
Selous Scouts, Ethan thought. Why the hell did I ever agree to this?
He smiled grimly.
Because it's my job.
9
The following days were a blur of PT (physical training), which included several four-mile jogs and obstacle course runs. Ethan had intended to act like the exercises were harder than they were, but he didn't have to do much pretending: the program was difficult. He was definitely feeling his age.
The brotherhood and camaraderie among the young men was incredible, and helped him get through each day. Indeed, the esprit de corps was so infectious that Ethan had to constantly remind himself not to become attached to the youngsters. They were jihadis, he reminded himself. Single-minded fanatics willing to die for a cause they didn't truly understand.
On the second day, during a rotation on the obstacle course, while climbing the rope net, Ethan closed on a militant named Hatam, a dark-skinned British-Pakistani whose eyes blazed with zeal. As Ethan approached, the man kicked him in the ribs; Ethan slipped and would have plunged the five meters to the ground had he not managed to grip a lower rung in time.
Hatam continued over the top with a triumphant smile, and as he passed Ethan on the way down he called him a "pig fucker" through the net. So much for the camaraderie. It seemed even jihadist training camps had their share of dirtbags.
Ethan confronted Hatam behind a house later, during a break. "You have a problem with me. Let's work it out."
Fear flashed in Hatam's eyes for a moment, though the zealous flames quickly overwhelmed it. "There is no problem."
"Good." Ethan slammed his fist into Hatam's abdominal region. The man doubled over, retching.
Hatam didn't bother Ethan after that.
There were classroom sessions, too. Some involved a few biased geopolitical topics, such as the "petrodollar system" that guided US foreign policy in the Middle East for the past several decades, and the Sykes-Picot agreement that drew the artificial borders of Iraq and Syria after World War I. However, the majority of the topics were religious in nature, such as the benefits of martyrdom and the requirement of jihad. The students recited phrases such as "dying in jihad is the greatest glory" and "killing infidels pleases Allah."
A lot of class time was devoted to the Islamic State's rendition of sharia law. Insulting Allah, the Prophet, or Islam was punishable by death by beheading. As was spying, renouncing Islam, or engaging in homosexuality—though homosexuals were sometimes tossed off tall buildings for
variety. Adultery: death by stoning. Thievery: amputation of the left hand. Armed robbery: amputation of the left hand and right foot. Masturbation: eighty lashes. Drawing graffiti, spreading slander, smoking cigarettes or drinking alcohol: eighty lashes plus a three-day jail sentence for the first offense, and one month for the second. Failure to obey the dress code: fifty lashes.
Throughout everything, the students dropped whatever it was they were doing to pray at the required intervals, five times a day. A certain loud, pompous instructor gave the sermon after Friday prayer; he exhorted the youths to keep fighting, and to never give up in the face of the infidel. He reminded them that if they died in the service of Allah during their sacred jihad, they would wake up in jannah surrounded by nubile women. Sadly, judging from the gleaming eyes around Ethan, most of the recruits believed it.
As the week wound down, an Islamic State minibus arrived, and those in the later phases of training boarded. After the bus left, Ethan and the others immediately classed-up to War Training I. All that meant was in addition to daily PT and obstacle course runs, they also low-crawled beneath live fire, engaged in hand-to-hand combat, and practiced target shooting. For the latter, the weapon of choice was an AK-47 assault rifle, though they also trained on Soviet-made Makarov pistols—Aaron sarcastically referred to them as macaroni pistols, and sometimes during practice, when he was out of earshot of other jihadists, he quietly sung, "he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni."
Their training was rounded out with a few sessions on PKM machine guns, M-37 mortars, and RPG-7 grenade launchers, though only a few students got to fire those because of supply limits.
Ethan and the other two operatives pretended to have zero military training in the beginning, and purposely shifted their aim when practicing target shooting. As the days passed, they allowed themselves to "improve," so that soon they were near the top of the class in terms of marksmanship.