by Isaac Hooke
Ethan thought back to what he himself had been doing when he was thirteen: chasing girls in the schoolyards and malls, not fighting for his life in a broken country for some war he didn't understand.
Next Abdullah introduced Fida'a and Raheel. Both of them glanced up from their meals to give the fist and forefinger salute.
"They are recent college graduates," Abdullah said. "Abu-Fida'a majored in the arts, Abu-Raheel the sciences."
"I wanted to be a journalist," Fida'a said. The man had eyebrows so thick that Ethan wondered if they impinged on his vision and bestowed a hairy ceiling to the world. "But defending my brother Muslims in Syria from the Assad regime was far more important."
Bashar Al-Assad, the official president of Syria, ruled from the southwest corner of the country in Damascus. In 2011, when the Arab Spring movement spread to Syria, with protesters demonstrating in favor of democracy and free elections, Assad squelched them with violence, causing civil war to break out. The air force bombed rebel-owned territory, often utilizing highly-inaccurate "barrel bombs" that resulted in massive collateral damage. Chemical weapons were employed. Civilians died by the truckload. The attacks rarely made the international news.
It was an overtly sectarian war. Various Sunni rebel groups including the Free Syrian Army and the Islamic Front fought openly against the Shia government forces and militias. Initially the rebels seemed to be winning, and conquered large swaths of territory. Then in 2013 the Islamic State entered the war.
At first the rebel groups cheered the arrival of the Islamic State, as they were fellow Sunnis, and they made plans to fight together. Unfortunately, suicide bombers from IS infiltrated their command structures and began assassinating their leaders. The rebels fought back, fighting a war on two fronts, but quickly lost territory, allowing the Islamic State to assume control of most of the country's oil and gas production.
Ethan looked at Fida'a with pity. He and the others truly believed they were liberating the country from the Assad regime. Fida'a couldn't see that the Islamic State was a parasite organization that had moved in to take advantage of a destabilized nation. All the Islamic State had done so far was "liberate" the locals from the very people who had fought on their behalf.
"Abu-Fida'a is Algerian," Abdullah continued. "While Abu-Raheel is Indian." The name meant fearless. "An Indian who speaks Arabic. Who would have thought? It is true our religion unites the world."
Next Abdullah introduced two men in their early twenties. Beneath their fatigues were the bulges of toned muscles.
"Abu-Jabal and Abu-Baghdadi are our heavy gunners," Abdullah said. "Both hail from Tunisia."
Ethan didn't actually consider the bulky PKMs hanging from their shoulders heavy guns, but he nodded politely.
"Greetings, fellow holy warrior." Jabal got up, shook Ethan's hand in a vise-like grip, and gave him a kiss on either cheek. His name meant mountain.
Baghdadi merely nodded from where he sat. "Welcome, brother."
Abdullah pointed out the men beside them. "Abu-Yasiri is our second youngest in the company, at fifteen. Like Abu-Harb, he's a local conscript." The indicated youth nodded. His kunya was derived from the family name of a descendant of the Prophet.
"And Abu-Sab is our resident Qatari."
"Salaam," a dark-skinned man said. He was too young to grow a beard, and wore a white keffiyeh tied with black cord. His name meant Lion.
Abdullah gestured at the big man seated across from him. "And that is Abu-Zarar, a ferocious fighter from my native Afghanistan." Zarar appeared to be in his forties, and had shrapnel scars covering the right half of his face. He towered over everyone present, even while seated. His chest was at least twice as big as that of an ordinary man.
"Abu-Zarar is one of my brothers from the days when we fought the Taliban," Abdullah said. "He is a formidable warrior. He once took three bullets in the chest and kept fighting long enough to shoot down five Taleb and carry a wounded man a mile to safety."
Zarar inclined his head. "Allah was with me that day."
"As he is everyday," Abdullah said warmly. He turned toward the last person at the table. "And finally we have Abu-Suleman. An Iraqi."
Ethan recognized the bronze-skinned man who had led the physical training session. His face was gaunt, angular, with a wide jaw and broad brow. One of his cheeks was darker than the other, as if he had suffered some sort of blunt trauma that had never fully healed.
But the feature that stood out most for Ethan were those eyes, which burned with a zeal far greater than any he had ever seen. Zeal and condescension. Those eyes seemed tortured somehow, too, as if Suleman had witnessed unspeakable things. Or committed them.
"Abu-Suleman is our official sniper," Abdullah continued. "So with your arrival, Abu-Emad, we now have two." He gave Suleman a sly look. "He's not used to competition. He'll have to step up his game."
Jealousy momentarily flashed in Suleman's eyes, but he lowered his gaze so that Ethan could no longer read him.
"Allah-willing, no man will ever outgun me, emir," Suleman said, his voice sounding extremely subservient. "I will not fail you. I will fill ten pools with the blood of the kaffir before I am done." Kaffir meant infidel.
Abdullah smiled grimly. "I know you will."
Suleman glanced at Ethan. The fervent zeal shone brighter than ever in those eyes. "It is good that you have come to wage jihad, brother. We need more devout Muslims. People who understand what we are trying to build here. People who hate the kaffir as much as we do."
"We will build something great," Ethan agreed, doing his best to sound enthusiastic, though the man made his skin crawl in that moment.
"Abu-Suleman also serves as my second," Abdullah said. "I have never known a more loyal man."
Suleman smiled appreciatively, like a dog petted by its master.
Fida'a abruptly produced a smartphone and prepared to take a photo. Some of the militants retrieved balaclavas from their cargo pockets and covered their faces. Ethan thought it wise to hide his own features, so he wrapped the bottom part of his keffiyeh around his mouth and nose so that he looked like a bandit.
When they were suitably attired, they all made the fist and forefinger gesture, and Fida'a snapped his picture.
"We often take photos and videos of the brotherhood," Abdullah explained. "And post them on social media. You must do this, too."
Ethan nodded. "I'll bring my phone next time." Of course he had no plans to abet the Islamic State's recruitment efforts.
When the meal was done, Abdullah led the men from the cafeteria. On the way out Ethan passed near William, who had just finished eating with his own unit.
"So, what do you think?" Ethan asked his friend quietly in Arabic. He didn't dare risk his cover by speaking English—even in hushed tones the language would be readily identifiable.
"I think we're in for an... interesting operation," William replied.
"The only easy day was yesterday," Ethan said, quoting a Navy SEAL motto. The slogan sounded wrong, somehow, in guttural Arabic.
twelve
The next morning after PT and breakfast Abdullah led the unit to the parking lot and told Ethan to ride with Suleman. Ethan hopped into the passenger side of a bright and shiny Mitsubishi L200 pickup. Harb jumped into the rear bed to babysit the modified ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft gun that squatted there.
"Where are we going?" Ethan asked Suleman.
"Checkpoint duty," Suleman answered, driving from the compound and pulling behind the four other vehicles of Wolf Company. Though it was early, the road traffic was already heavy.
"So, what do you think?" Suleman asked.
Ethan was slightly perturbed at hearing the exact same question he'd asked William the night before, and he wondered if Suleman had overheard. He studied the militant's profile and decided it was a coincidence.
"It's everything I dreamed of," Ethan said, resorting to the stock responses expected of him. "Finally, I feel like I'm part of something bigger than myself. Li
ke I'm making a difference. Like I truly belong."
"You are from Saudi Arabia, yes?" Suleman said.
"I am."
"Our brothers there, they cannot make a difference in your country?"
"Not as much as they could if they came here," Ethan said.
"The brothers could plan a martyrdom operation against the embassies, and do their part to show their support for Dawlah. Urge them when you post on social media."
Ethan shook his head. "I can tell them, but the security in Saudi Arabia is extremely tight, my friend."
Suleman grunted in disappointment, as if he thought Ethan was somehow not radical enough, despite the fact he'd come all that way to wage jihad in the name of the Islamic State.
Into the conversational gap that followed, Ethan said, "I'm surprised it's so busy this early."
"Everyone rushes to get to work in the mornings, while the power is on," Suleman said. "At noon, when the electricity is cut, you won't find many shops open. At this time of year, when it is so hot, most close for siesta anyway. When the afternoon prayer is done, the roads quickly clear, so that by the time of evening prayer the city is dead. After dusk, the traffic picks up again as the night cools. Some shops re-open, using diesel generators for power, only to close again after ten so that everyone can get home by curfew."
Ethan saw a band of a niqab-wearing women who flourished Kalashnikovs. They looked like black-clad stormtroopers from Star Wars. Suleman explained they were part of the Khansa'a Brigade, a group of thirty women enforcers who earned around two hundred US dollars a month patrolling the streets and ensuring other women obeyed the rules. Basically the female version of the Hisbah, or morality police.
The lead pickup in the convoy lurched to an unexpected halt. Led by Abdullah, four AK-wielding militants leaped out of the bed and began setting up a checkpoint.
"Put your radio on channel two." Suleman parked the Mitsubishi L200 behind the other pickups and got out.
Ethan activated his radio and flipped to the pre-programmed channel, then joined Suleman, who had taken up a position on the sidewalk along with three others. The remaining militants handled the street traffic, conversing with each motorist individually before letting them through. A long queue of vehicles had already formed.
"What exactly are they looking for?" Ethan said.
"Weapons, mostly," Suleman said. "If a motorist has arms of any kind on board, we're going to impound the vehicle and imprison the driver and passengers, because they are most likely rebels. Also, no scandalous music must be playing on the radio."
Ethan returned his attention to the sidewalk. "And what about us?" Pedestrian traffic was just starting to ramp up.
"We perform random searches for weapons, cigarettes and cellphones. If we find a smartphone, we check that they do not have any obscene music, or any illegal photos of the city."
"Okay," Ethan said.
"We must also watch that the men and women are properly dressed and behaved. For the women, this means full veils and abayas. For the men, proper hairstyles, and no short pants. Both sexes must wear loose clothing. The women must not talk too loudly. And so forth."
Ethan felt his brow furrow. "Sounds like we're doing the job of the Hisbah."
"There is some overlap with their jobs, yes. We must all do our part to enforce sharia while we are here." Suleman formed a fist with his free hand and raised his index finger. "We are all Hisbah, in a sense. Just because you are not officially a member of the morality police, is it not your duty, as a devout Muslim, to ensure the law is obeyed? That Allah is pleased?"
The day passed slowly. Ethan didn't see anyone improperly dressed, and those men he patted down had neither weapons nor smartphones. Suleman always looked inside the piles of flatbread people carried from a nearby bakery; apparently the craftier citizens tried to smuggle cigarettes that way.
Suleman made a point of greeting veiled women and their chaperons, mostly to ensure the women answered with a feminine voice—he explained that rebels sometimes tried to sneak past in niqabs. He and Ethan often checked the IDs of the women and their chaperons to ensure the males were properly related: they were required to be either brother, father, or husband.
"This is good," Suleman announced. "Every day fewer and fewer violate our laws. It is a sign that we are succeeding. Crime rates are almost nonexistent. We are creating a heaven on Earth here, Abu-Emad. We really are."
About ten minutes before the call to prayer, shops started to close, and the flows through the checkpoint waned to nothing. One young man came jogging past about five minutes before the call, and Suleman scolded the youth. "Hurry up, you slow-footed fool!" He fired his rifle into the air, making the youth run faster.
"Now you are showing the proper vigor!" Suleman said. "Allahu ahkbar!"
"Allahu ahkbar!" the youth answered.
The members of Wolf Company maneuvered their vehicles so that the empty road was blocked off completely, then they raced toward the nearest mosque as the call to prayer echoed through the air. By then the city had become a veritable ghost town as the last stragglers hurried into the mosque, and Ethan had the eerie sensation that the voice of the muezzin served as an air raid siren or some other herald of doom.
The main prayer hall was full, so Ethan and the others were forced to use the overflow in the balcony, which was equally packed, though men made room for them. The overflow was ordinarily reserved for women, but since the female gender was relegated to non-entity status by the Islamic State, and no longer allowed to pray in the mosques, the men were happy to use it.
When prayers were done, the group made its way down the stairs with the rest of the congregation.
"Do you notice how many come to pray?" Suleman said fervently. "I told you we were succeeding here. Creating an Earthly heaven."
Ethan's eyes drifted over the departing crowd and settled on a man dressed in a white thawb with a matching cap on his head. He wore an external harness with a pistol holstered on the side and a two-way radio secured to the front. Despite the close confines, the crowd managed to give him a respectful berth; he was like an oceangoing icebreaker—the densely packed men yielded before him like ice before the bow.
"Who's that?" Ethan said.
"One of the Hisbah." Suleman glanced at Ethan knowingly. "You envy him, don't you? Look at the respect other men show him. Greater even than they show us." His voice was filled with awe. All of a sudden he shoved Ethan forward. "Go ahead, join him in his rounds."
"But—"
"All of us should walk fully in the shoes of the Hisbah for at least one day." Suleman turned toward Abdullah, who was just behind. "Emir, may Ethan join the Hisbah for the rest of his shift?"
Abdullah regarded the receding figure of the Hisbah thoughtfully. "We have more than enough mujahadeen to man the checkpoint. By all means. It will be good for him." He turned toward Ethan. "Abu-Emad, go introduce yourself."
Ethan reluctantly made his way toward the man. He told himself it wouldn't be so bad—he never knew when a good intel opportunity might present itself, after all.
Ethan moved through the crowd and flagged down the Hisbah.
The individual in question had a well-maintained Abe Lincoln beard, with placid features and gentle eyes. He smiled calmly at Ethan. "How can I help you, brother?" He spoke perfect formal Arabic, and there was a knowing twinkle to his eye, as if he thought himself privy to knowledge hidden from other men.
"What is your name, brother?" Ethan said.
"Abu-Kaleem," the man answered.
"I am Abu-Emad. I would be honored to come with you during your shift today. If you would have me."
Kaleem's grin deepened. "Of course, brother! Let me inform my deputy." Kaleem spoke quietly into his two-way radio, and then rested a hand on Ethan's shoulder and led him from the mosque.
Together they toured the streets at a moderate pace, following what was apparently Kaleem's beat. They moved from shop to shop, inspecting the goods. Kaleem explained that it w
as his job to ensure everything sold was of good quality, and that the shopkeepers weren't overcharging people.
Kaleem passed a pile of garbage bags on one street corner that reached chest high, and he conscripted several passersby to remove "that eyesore" immediately. Ethan suspected the conscripts would simply dump the trash in a nearby alley or ditch.
Kaleem continued on his way, eventually stopping beside a clothing shop. He carefully scrutinized the windows before going inside.
A fully veiled saleswoman stood in one corner like a black ghost. She bowed her head immediately. A male salesman, probably the shopkeeper, nervously approached. "Salaam, blessed Hisbah."
Ethan thought the tanned, slightly overweight man was in his forties, though his full head of hair betrayed no gray—the unnatural sheen made Ethan think it was dyed. He had a lazy left eye, the half-closed lid making the other eye bulge in comparison. The absence of a beard was conspicuous.
"Salaam," Kaleem answered distractedly.
"What may I do for you today, blessed Hisbah?" the shopkeeper said. Ethan noticed he was trying very hard to use formal Arabic rather than colloquial Syrian.
Kaleem grinned widely but didn't say a word. He moved about the shop imperiously, inspecting the clothing and price tags as suited his whims. He paused beside one particular item of clothing. "This one is too expensive. You are cheating the citizens of their hard-earned money. Lower the price."
Ethan had the sense Kaleem was putting on a show for his benefit.
"Yes, blessed Hisbah," the shopkeeper said.
"Let me see your IDs," Kaleem said.
He studied the documents the man and woman produced. "You are husband and wife?"
"Yes, blessed Hisbah."
Kaleem returned the IDs and approached the sales counter from the far side. Ethan had remained near the entrance, which afforded him a clear view of the counter's opposite flank. As Kaleem neared, a young man was flushed out from behind the counter, toward Ethan. The teen stayed low, trying to keep from Kaleem's sight. He obviously hadn't realized Ethan was there, because when the youth saw him standing by the entrance, his eyes widened in fear.