Day of Reckoning

by G. Michael Hopf

  One of the victims, unhurt, sprinted away after a recruit failed to execute the command.

  “Stop him!” the man yelled.

  The lone victim was chased down easily and executed.

  Mo looked back to his victim, his blade still at her throat.

  Seeing the opportunity, Malik pushed Mo aside and slid his blade across her throat.

  At first the cut bled slowly, then gushed.

  Mo watched as her life literally drained out of her eyes. She gave him one final look then dropped to the floor.

  The man looked at the bodies in front of the recruits minus the one who allowed his to escape. He walked up to him and asked, “Brother, what’s your name?”

  “Mohammed.”

  Mo shuddered when he heard the name because it was also his.

  “Mohammed, what happened?”

  “I, um, I couldn’t, I’m sorry. I don’t want any part of this. Just let me leave,” he said, his voice quivering.

  “Let me see your knife,” the man said.

  Mohammed handed the knife to him.

  “You’re a disgrace. How dare your parents honor you with the name of the great prophet,” the man said and, in the blink of an eye, took the man by the hair, pulled his head back and sliced Mohammed’s throat.

  Mohammed struggled at first but soon the loss of blood tempered his resistance.

  The man kept cutting and with a single twist and pull, removed Mohammed’s head. He held it up and yelled, “This is what we do to those who oppose us, because opposing us is opposing the will of Allah. We are The Bloody Hand, we are Allah’s one true army.”

  Ankara, Turkey

  David rubbed his sore eyes. He and Joram had been up for what seemed liked countless hours. While he was exhausted, Joram was as fresh as when they started. His stories were not only informational and would give anyone who read them insight in the inner workings and day-to-day life of an ISIS member, but the way Joram told them, they were exciting. He sometimes caught himself leaning in with excitement and when he did he had to remind himself that these weren’t just stories but the confession from a former member of one of the most lethal terrorist organizations in the world.

  It had taken David a while to settle down. He had met Joram before and there were many ways to describe their relationship but trust wasn’t a word he’d ever use.

  The first hours of the interview covered his departure for ISIS and how he’d been received and processed. He described an organization that had a surprisingly sophisticated internal governmental structure. When he first arrived in Raqqa, he was shocked to see he wasn’t alone in being a fresh recruit. He didn’t expect he’d be the solitary newbie, but when he first stepped foot out of the back of the Toyota truck, he saw a group of well over a hundred new men and some women who had traveled far, some as far as Australia and the United States. What he found interesting was that a good number weren’t Muslim by birth but converts. The ISIS Internet-recruiting campaign was working, it had been a success. He hadn’t spent much time online but after conversing with many new recruits he found they had made their minds up after viewing videos and posts showing ISIS victories as well as the life they’d be living under the Islamic State. All the new recruits he spoke to gave similar responses, as if they were speaking from talking points. What was visible to him in all the fresh faces was a mixture of fear and excitement. None knew for sure if they’d ever return to their homes, but like him, they didn’t seem to care because the promise of adventure and conquest was too alluring.

  Joram described that his first few days in Raqqa were spent at the Homs embassy; this was where Syrian natives had to apply for legal status in the Islamic State. He then was transferred to the Border Administration Department so he could be naturalized. He found this humorous, as he was Syrian and Raqqa was technically in Syria, but the Islamic State thought differently. To them, he and all who traveled there were immigrants and had to be processed and documented. There he had to pass a citizenship test, which was administered ironically by an Iraqi. Through his first few days, a pattern emerged. Nearly everyone he met, specifically those in the ranks of ISIS, represented dozens of nations around the world. The Islamic State was truly an international destination.

  His citizenship test consisted of a series of questions mainly about why he wanted to be there and why he was seeking the life of a holy warrior. He described how he was nervous about his answers but decided to just be honest. For all his concerns, his answers passed muster, allowing him to move to the next phase, indoctrination.

  Indoctrination was handled by the Sharia court. There he gave David a vivid illustration of an intensive educational program taught by several high-ranking clerics. Calling it education wasn’t accurate, it was nothing short of brainwashing to all new recruits that they should hate and seek to destroy all nonbelievers, including fellow Muslims. They used Muhammad’s teachings found in both the Quran and the hadiths to help validate their viewpoints. Joram described being fascinated by parts of the hadith, specifically from the Sahih Bukhari, where it described warfare and jihad. He had heard of the book before but hadn’t really studied it growing up.

  Joram was born a Muslim and to say he practiced the faith honestly was not true. Like many Christians and Jews worldwide they might associate themselves with a religion for cultural reasons but many didn’t truly practice their faith. He was like many twentysomethings around the world, but he also had many advantages that a lot didn’t have. He grew up to a well-to-do family in Damascus, went to good schools, was well educated, liked music, movies, and just about anything that came from America. He often sported the latest fashions, was active on social media and was never caught without the latest tech gadgets. In fact, he was fortunate enough to have spent several summers in Europe. There he found friends and did as any young man would do away from his parents; he drank, played and flirted with women. When the clerics at the Sharia court showed him the direct quotes from the Bukhari he was shocked. Now immersed and surrounded by many who had become devote, he found it intoxicating to be a part of something much bigger than him. With each day, he examined his past life and concluded that it had been corrupted by the West.

  Joram paused and sat looking down at his folded hands. The seconds turned to minutes, making it an uncomfortable situation for David, who sat patiently.

  “Everything okay?” David asked, unable to control his desire to break the silence.

  “Yes,” Joram replied, taking another cigarette out and lighting it with the one he was already smoking. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

  David stared at him. He could see the creases and wrinkles on his face were more pronounced than he remembered. It was as if Joram had aged a decade or more. But what was to be expected after living a life he had for three years. The life, usually short, of a mujahedeen wasn’t easy.

  Joram opened his eyes and said, “I witnessed my first execution shortly after going to court.”

  “A beheading?” David asked.

  “No, nothing as noble as that type of death for this man,” he replied, taking another long drag off the cigarette.

  David searched his thoughts for all the murders he’d heard or seen on the Internet connected to ISIS. Many gruesome images came and he couldn’t guess nor did he want to. “What happened?”

  “The man, a Jordanian, was accused of providing coded messages to the Syrian government.”

  “So, he did it?”

  “Yes, he was guilty, but his punishment was more severe than the crime.”

  “Was he a spy? Like a legitimate spy sent from Assad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you’re sure he was guilty?”

  Joram paused. “Are you asking me if I saw the evidence against this man?”

  “How do you know if he actually did it?”

  “I don’t. I never saw anything that connected the man to the crime, I just assumed that he had.”

  David nodded.

  “I�
��m not saying this in any way to show support for his sentence, but how do you know anyone does commit a crime? You hear about a murderer and you see his face on the news but have you seen the evidence? Were you there?”

  “I see your point.”

  “I mention that because you seemed to be making a pointed accusation that I should have somehow been privy to the evidence against this man.”

  David didn’t respond, he just stared.

  “Do you research every person’s case to ensure they’re innocent before your country executes someone?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “You trust that the system works.”

  “Well—”

  “Don’t mince words. You trust the system, just say it,” Joram pressed.

  David didn’t reply; instead he asked, “Can we move on? None of this is pertinent.”

  “I’m like you, I trusted the system I walked into,” Joram said, defending his past actions and motives.

  “Our systems aren’t the same. You can’t find moral equivalency in them.”

  “Oh, really?”

  David put his pen and pad down and shuffled in his seat. “My country might not be perfect, but we don’t go around murdering people.”

  “You don’t?” Joram mocked.

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Tell that to the millions of innocents over the years who have died from your bombs or soldiers.”

  “That’s war. There is always collateral damage.”

  “Islamic State is also at war.”

  Frustrated by the spin from Joram, David stood up and began to pack his bag.

  “What are you doing?” Joram asked.

  “I’m tired, hungry and I think it’s best we continue this later.”

  “No, no, please stay. I have so much more to say.”

  David stopped and said, “No. I won’t be subjected to condescending bullshit. If you have a story to tell me, then tell me and please leave out the parts where you find justification for what ISIS does or that the US and ISIS are no different.”

  “But there are similarities.”

  David slung his pack and glared. “We are not the same. I go searching for the truth regardless of affiliations; I don’t join death cults who murder innocents in cold blood because they drew Muhammad on a piece of paper.”

  Joram stood and held out his hand. “Please, I’m sorry, don’t leave.”

  “I’ll come back later, but right now I need a break.”

  “No, please stay. Let’s talk more. I’ll just share my experiences, no politics.”

  David walked to the door but was stopped when Joram grabbed his arm. “Please stay.”

  David looked at his grasp and said, “I’m tired and hungry, I’ll come back in a bit.”

  “Please return quickly. I have much to tell and not enough time to tell it,” Joram said.

  David hesitated.

  “Are you staying?”

  “No, I’ll be back soon, but you worry me. Are you safe?”

  “No one is ever really safe, are they?”

  David scrunched his face, unsure what that comment meant. “I need a break. I’ll be back soon.”

  Joram grabbed David’s arm again and said, “Make sure no one follows you back. I can’t stress the importance of our privacy.”

  “I value privacy. I won’t say a word and I’ll be careful. Now, please let me go.”

  “Fine, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Yes, soon, bye,” David said, rushing out. After the door closed he sighed heavily. Their hours-long interview had drained him. He needed some food, rest, and a shower; then he’d be back. He looked both directions down the hall. A bit of paranoia gripped him then. Was he truly safe? And what would happen if ISIS found them together? He shrugged off the concerns. He needed Joram’s story and nothing was going to stop him.

  Over the Indian Ocean

  Brennan found the hum of the C-17’s engines soothing. With his head rested against his pack, he began to drift off.

  “What the fuck!” Vickers yelled.

  Brennan sprang up and looked.

  Near the aft of the plane a group of Marines and SEALs were standing, all huddled around Princess, the name they’d given the female drooler.

  “What’s going on?” Klyde said, rushing past Brennan to see what the commotion was about. Even though he hadn’t encountered the droolers during the raid, Brennan insisted he join the team. He needed men he could trust, and Klyde was just that.

  Vickers hollered, “Sergeant Brennan, get over here.”

  Muffled screams and howls drowned out much of the cross talk and chattering.

  Brennan hurried over. He pushed past several people so he could see.

  Owens was shaking his head and chuckling. “I think we’re about to have a baby.”

  “Seriously?” Brennan asked as he finally got his eyes on Princess.

  Straining under the restraints, Princess gnashed her teeth and howled in pain. For their protection, she was strapped to a gurney, which was encapsulated in a thick clear plastic to ensure no contamination. It was all attached to a metal cargo pallet and secured to the floor.

  “It’s hard to tell,” Brennan said, trying to get a good look, as the plastic distorted his view.

  “Look at her belly,” Owens said, unzipping a small section. He inserted a long rod and lifted her shirt.

  “Don’t unzip that. We don’t know if we’ll get contaminated,” someone hollered.

  Owens looked back and said, “They think it’s blood borne. We’re fine.”

  “Fuck that,” the man said backing away.

  Several Marines recoiled when they saw the violent thrashing and movements in her lower abdomen.

  “Where’s Sanchez?” Owens asked referencing Petty Officer Third Class Sanchez, the team corpsman.

  “I’m here,” Sanchez answered.

  “Well, Doc, thoughts?” Owens asked.

  “I’d have to say the child is in distress,” Sanchez replied.

  Owens chewed on his lower lip. He gave Brennan a look and asked, “I don’t think we should do a thing. We can’t have you getting in there with her.”

  “I agree, but what if she and the baby die,” Brennan asked. Taking Princess to Diego Garcia was their mission, period.

  Princess wailed in pain.

  “I should do something, maybe a shot to ease the pain,” Sanchez said.

  Princess cried out in pain. She looked at her stretching and expanding belly and growled.

  Sanchez took a step closer and grabbed the zipper. He was torn about what to do. He struggled as competing instincts played out in his thoughts. Should I provide care, or should I get away?

  “Sanchez, step back,” Owens ordered.

  “But she needs help.”

  “She? I don’t think so. I’m not letting you inside that enclosure,” Owens said.

  Sanchez hadn’t deployed to the island and was one of the few on the team who hadn’t had direct contact with the droolers.

  Princess’ body tensed as she tried to free herself from the tight bindings. Her stomach heaved and grew even more. She cried out and feverishly tried to get loose.

  “We do nothing?” Sanchez asked.

  “Nothing, just observe. I can’t risk any of you getting infected.”

  Princess began to convulse and scream.

  Brennan watched her belly in horror. He could clearly make out what looked like a hand pushing up.

  The men groaned and showed their own disgust at what they were watching.

  The distinct sound of bones crushing and grinding came from Princess. Her screams turned to whimpers then silence. Her body went limp.

  “I think she’s dead,” Brennan said.

  “I’ll check,” Sanchez said stepping towards the enclosure.

  Owens grabbed him. “No. Leave her be. Look at her mouth, look!”

  Sanchez cocked his head and watched in amazement as thick dark red blood began to pour out of her mouth
.

  “Are we sure this thing is zipped up tight, no holes?” Brennan asked.

  “I guess, fuck, I don’t know. But we can’t let her contaminate the plane and all of us,” Owens said.

  “Holy shit, look at her belly!” Vickers cried out.

  She was dead, but the child was still alive and struggling to free itself of the womb.

  Sanchez reached to unzip the enclosure.

  “NO!” Brennan snapped.

  “But the baby,” Sanchez said.

  “For all we know that baby is not a baby, but one of those things,” Brennan said.

  “But what if we’re wrong,” Sanchez said, his gaze going back and forth from Brennan to Princess.

  Princess’ belly stretched and expanded with greater intensity.

  Brennan could now make out the baby’s head pushing straight up. He forcibly pushed Sanchez back and asked, “Would a normal baby do that?”

  “What the fuck?” Klyde blurted out, his hand over his mouth.

  Other men howled and vocalized their disgust.

  Brennan looked back at Princess. Her stomach was stretched to the max, like a balloon ready to burst.

  A tear appeared just above her belly button.

  Freaked out, Owens said, “What the hell?”

  No one moved as they stared at the gruesome sight. It was like they were in a trance, their gaze fixed on the horrific scene.

  The split tore wider and suddenly a head pushed through the ripped flesh. It looked at them and let out a hellish scream.

  A couple of men began to vomit.

  As if he was acting the part in a low-budget horror movie, Klyde screamed in fear.

  In all his years and after witnessing some of the worst a battle zone could offer, Brennan was in shock. This wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen.

  The baby pulled itself out of the belly and, with remarkable agility for a newborn, lunged onto the floor.

  That was enough for Owen. He ripped his pistol from his holster and pointed it.

  “No, you can’t shoot in here,” Brennan barked.

  Owens knew Brennan was right. He lowered the pistol and put it back in his holster.

  Vickers pushed his way through the huddled men, a large wrench in his grasp.