by Isaac Hooke
"Yes," Ethan whispered. He terminated the Kurdish rocketeer, and in rapid succession shot two more men by the doorway. The Dragunov reports echoed loudly from the surrounding buildings.
He heard a shout from below. A Kurdish mortar man had spotted him.
Ethan ducked beneath the building's edge. A soft thud drew his attention to the terrace immediately beside him.
A grenade had landed on the rooftop.
thirty
Ethan snatched up his Android and USB stick and then rolled away from the grenade. He fell through the trapdoor and the bomb detonated as he passed inside.
He landed on the stairs and slid down several steps, jarring his back and neck. He arose unsteadily, dismissing the friction burns to his exposed hands, and descended the rest of the way to the first floor. In the kitchen, he leaped over a table—cognizant that it might be booby trapped—and dove through a shattered window to land in the alley between the home and its neighbor.
He slunk to the edge of the house and remembered to turn off his radio before he peered past. At the front of the building, two Kurds had assumed positions beside the entrance. He watched one of the rebels enter high, the other low.
Ethan doubled-timed from the alley, heading north, hugging the line of houses. He heard the sudden belt-whip of incoming bullets—shards broke away from the bricks beside him.
He dove into a nearby house, through a door hanging off its hinges. He moved away from the entrance and crouched beneath the broken front window. He lifted the barrel of his Dragunov experimentally, placing it slightly higher than the windowsill...
The reports of an AK sounded from the street outside and wood splintered from the window frame above him. He pulled the Dragunov back down.
Pinned.
He slunk deeper into the house—a rocket propelled grenade detonated in the foyer behind him. The explosion hurled him into the hallway beyond.
He hurried toward the rear of the home; the back door window revealed two Kurdish troops standing outside, about to break in. He raised his Dragunov to take them out when gunfire erupted from the fore of the house. Bullets zinged past.
He leaped to the side, into the closest available room. A lavatory. The smell of raw sewage from the backed-up toilet was nearly overwhelming. Hopefully, any attackers coming into the room would flinch at the stench, giving him a half-second advantage.
He splashed through the inch deep sewage and vaulted into the empty tub. He turned around so that he was lying on his back and then aimed his Dragunov at the entrance. The weapon was overkill at that range, but he had nothing else.
He heard movement in the hall beyond. The shadow on the wall told him a rebel lurked immediately outside the room. Judging from the shifting of that shadow, his opponent was pieing the room—moving his body in an arc to slowly scan for aggressors, a technique prescribed by many urban tacticians.
You should have just tossed a grenade, bro, Ethan thought.
A sliver of his foe became visible in the doorway and Ethan fired.
The piece of the man vanished from view and Ethan heard a wet thud. Glancing over the rim of the bathtub, he saw the dead Kurd bleeding out on the sewage-soaked carpet beside the entrance.
Someone shouted unintelligibly in Kurdish nearby. Another shadow appeared on the wall, but before the next man could present himself, gunshots came from the far side of the house. The shadow retreated.
More shouts. More gunfire. Screams of pain. Two final shots. Silence.
He heard muted footfalls, and the harsh whisper of guttural Arabic.
"Brothers?" Ethan shouted in the same tongue.
"Yes," came the response.
Ethan abandoned the tub and sloshed through the sewage. Warily, he peered past the doorway. Three Islamic State militants were spread out at different points in the hall. They wore balaclavas with the Shahada written on it. Their assault rifles were aimed at him, but they lowered the weapons almost immediately. Ethan was suddenly glad he was wearing his own Shahada headband.
Behind the militants he saw the body of another Kurdish rebel. Glancing toward the front of the house, he spotted two more fallen Kurds.
"Thank you, brothers," Ethan said. "They had me pinned."
"Come, we retake the line!" the closest man said. He had a Tunisian accent.
Ethan joined them, glad to leave that foul-smelling bathroom behind; together they cleared the home and then returned to the street.
Outside, other Islamic State squads ducked from house to house, clearing out any trapped Kurds. He saw some mujahadeen set up a DShK in the middle of the street and open fire at a Kurdish position further to the west.
He cleared another home with his new group and adopted a sniper position on the rooftop. As he scanned the road he spotted Kurdish rebels all over the place—trapped behind bullet-ridden pickups, Jersey barriers, piles of rubble, or inside doorways. Ethan resisted taking a potshot at any of them. Still, he made sure to keep a very low profile.
He radioed Abdullah and discovered, incredibly, that both Wolf Company squads had held out, and suffered no casualties. The emir thanked Ethan for the aid he had rendered.
The fighting continued all that day, proving intense at times, but as dusk approached the militants finally regained the territory lost to the Kurds.
Aaron checked-in before Ethan was about to shut down for the day. Because of a shortage of men, Aaron had been corralled into the house clearing; when the line had collapsed, he was pinned with his unit, and couldn't activate his RF antenna without drawing attention.
At that point Ethan realized William and Aaron's original assessments were correct: it was far too dangerous for operatives like themselves to function on the front lines. He decided that after his tenure on the front was done, he'd definitely get the hell out. His final gift to the Islamic State would be the bombing of their new forward camp, whose location he would discover when his unit rotated out of Kobane. He urged William and Aaron to leave sooner, but they refused to abandon him.
That evening, after he rejoined Wolf Company, Ethan sat near Harb, who read the Quran on his cellphone while he waited for Raheel to fetch supper and water.
"Salaam," Ethan said.
"Salaam," the thirteen-year-old replied. Though he smiled, Ethan could sense the weariness in the boy.
"How was your day?" Ethan said.
Harb glanced at Abdullah, who lounged across the room, and lowered his voice. "Terrible. Abdullah won't let me fight. He always makes me stay back, guarding the rear."
Ethan nodded in pretend commiseration. "How would you like to wage real jihad?"
Harb's eyes widened. "What do you mean, Abu-Emad?"
"I have been entrusted with a secret operation by the Caliph Baghdadi himself, Prince of the Faithful, and I want you to help me. Would you like that?"
The youth's eyes widened naively. "Yes! Tell me what I must do."
"First, you must swear to secrecy on the Quran. No one else can know of this."
The youth held out his phone, which had the Quran app still active on it, and placed his right palm over the screen. "I swear, by Allah and the Quran, under threat of eternal damnation, that I will tell no one of this mission."
"Good. I will let you know what to do in a few days."
Harb's brow furrowed. "Can't you tell me now?" The impatience of youth.
"No. I said in a few days."
Harb sighed. "Okay. Thank you, I guess."
Ethan had resolved to save Harb. The youth was far too young to die. Though how he would explain to the thirteen-year-old that they were going to travel among the infidels, Ethan had no idea.
He noticed Suleman's suspicious gaze. Had the man been watching him the whole time? Best not to linger beside Harb too long; he didn't need Suleman questioning the youth later.
Ethan was about to leave when Harb spoke again, his voice little more than a whisper.
"This operation was entrusted to you by the Prince of the Faithful himself?"
&nb
sp; Ethan nodded gravely. He glanced at Suleman, but the man had returned his attention to the Quran in his lap. Good.
Harb smiled, though it seemed touched by sadness. "We're going to be martyrs, aren't we?"
Ethan hesitated, then gave the answer he thought the kid was looking for. "Yes."
Harb's eyes assumed a distant look. He lay back contentedly. "When I die, all of my virgins are going to look like Brenda Locks."
Ethan chuckled softly at the irony. "Brenda Locks? The kaffir Hollywood actress?"
Harb grinned mischievously. "Yes."
"How does a youth of your age, living here, even know about Brenda Locks?"
"Oh I know, believe me." He had a sly look in his eye. Ethan suspected one of the older jihadis had been showing him videos on his phone. "Some of the virgins will be blond Brenda Locks'. Some will be brunette. Some black-haired. But they will all be her. Pearl eyes, white skin, supple breasts, forever wet vaginas."
Ethan shook his head, unable to hide a smile.
"Each time I bed her," Harb continued. "No matter what version I choose, I will always find her a virgin again. And I won't have to rest, because my erection will be eternal. Yes, that is quite literally paradise."
Ethan grinned sadly, because the youth was completely serious. He ruffled Harb's hair and left him to his reading.
* * *
The third day proved slow. After two useless hides, Ethan decided to try something taller, and ended up at a mosque. He made his way through the burned-out insides, climbing the counter-clockwise spiral staircase of the minaret. When he reached the topmost balcony he found another sniper already using the location.
The man was lying prostrate on his back, rifle barrel pointed at Ethan. "Salaam."
"Salaam," Ethan answered warily.
"What brigade are you part of?" the militant asked in a Lebanese accent.
"Wolf. Under Emir Abdullah Hazir Al-Afghani."
Apparently he believed Ethan, because he lowered the rifle.
"What about you?" Ethan said.
"Emir Haadi's Swords," the man replied proudly. He shoved the barrel through a gap in the stone banister and peered through the scope. For the first time, Ethan realized the weapon was an M24A2 sniper rifle.
"I am Abu-Osama," the man added.
Of course you are, Ethan thought. "Abu-Emad."
Ethan stepped beneath the muqarnas decorating the roof-like canopy and sat down behind Osama. He didn't want to get too close to the rail in case some Kurdish sniper was milling the balcony.
"Where are you from?" Ethan said, eying the man's weapon enviously.
"Amrika." America.
Ethan resisted the urge to answer in English. "Your Arabic is very good."
"I was born to Lebanese immigrants in Detroit."
Ah.
"Jihad is our duty," Ethan said.
"Jihad is our duty," Osama agreed. "I made my hegira last year. Traveled to Beirut to meet my two cousins. The three of us crossed into Syria. Operatives from Jabhat Al Nusra helped us through territory controlled by the Assad pig, as well as rebel-owned lands. We joined Al Nusra, but then our commander switched sides to the Islamic State."
Ethan nodded. "Where are the two cousins who came with you?"
"Paradise," Osama said proudly. "I will join them soon, Allah willing."
Ethan debated whether to expedite the man's journey to paradise. It was his operational duty to disrupt and destroy Islamic State targets from within. That included targets from heads of state to snipers. No cog on the Islamic State terror machine was considered too small—the sniper might someday be responsible for the death of American citizens if the US ever decided to put boots on the ground. Besides, that M24 would fit nicely in Ethan's arsenal. And as an added bonus, he didn't know the man, so he wouldn't feel guilt.
He quietly pointed his Dragunov at the back of Osama's head.
"I sometimes dream of my home in Detroit," Osama said without looking at him. "The wife I left. The small child. I want to go back, but I am afraid the American government will arrest me. So I stay." He sighed. "My brothers in the Caliphate are all I have left now. Men like you. I am proud to have you at my side. Very proud. When I see you again when you are standing before the gates to paradise, I will tell Allah, that man fought beside me for what is right and good. That man fought for Islam."
Feeling like a scumbag, Ethan lowered the rifle. He didn't need to brutally execute the man, and certainly not merely to assume ownership of some rifle he coveted. The chances Osama might someday kill a US soldier were minuscule anyway.
Ethan bid the jihadi farewell and in twenty minutes he had attained another hide, a bedroom on the top floor of a three-story apartment.
Over the secure chat application he once more asked William and Aaron to leave, but his fellow operatives refused to obey. Ethan told them it didn't make sense for them to stay, and he promised to join them as soon as he got the coordinates of the new forward camp for the bombers.
Can't abandon you, bro, Aaron sent back as Constrictor. We're staying. We're in this together.
He's right, Death Adder added. If something happened and you needed immediate exfil, having us on the other side makes getting to you a helluva lot more difficult.
Half an hour before dusk, Ethan made his way back to his unit. He'd targeted just two buildings for Doug that day, and only one bomb had actually dropped.
When he rejoined Wolf Company, he noticed three missing members.
"Where's Ibrahim?" Ethan said, concerned for the sixteen-year-old.
"Shot. Raheel brought him back for medical treatment."
"What about Jabal?" Ethan asked.
"Dead."
An urgent notice came over the two-way radios. "The infidels are pushing forward near Forty-Eighth Street. All units in the area, attack! I repeat, all units in the area, attack!" The accent sounded very odd.
"Up!" Abdullah said. "Up!"
thirty-one
Wolf Company dashed into the street, following the sounds of gunfire. It wasn't completely dark yet, but Ethan would have a hell of a time targeting anything, even with the PSO-1's illuminated reticule. Broken glass crunched underfoot as the unit hastened past the burnt-out husks of several buildings.
They rounded an intersection and started to take incoming gunfire. Abdullah waved the unit back immediately.
"It's a trap!" the emir said as they huddled against the house. "There are no brothers here. We have fallen for a Kurdish trick!"
The sound of Kurdish DShKs raked air, and bricks at the edge of the house fell away in large shards.
"Back!" Abdullah said.
They fled the way they had come. Gunfire seemed to be going off all around them.
Harb tripped.
"Come on, kid!" Ethan tried to help him up, but as soon as the thirteen-year-old was on his feet again he collapsed. Ethan hauled the teen over one shoulder and carried him.
The unit retreated, finally reaching the safety of the Islamic State lines again. Mortar men and machine gunners covered their rear.
When they took shelter in a nearby abandoned house, Ethan lowered Harb to the floor. The thirteen-year-old coughed sickly.
Ethan retrieved his smartphone and set the brightness to full, illuminating the kid. His mouth was wet with crimson fluid. Ethan directed the glow downward, toward his body. Harb's shirt was blood-soaked—he hadn't worn any body armor, as none of the Kevlar jackets fit his small size.
Ethan lifted the bottom hem of the shirt and Harb moaned. Suddenly he squeezed Ethan's arm.
"I failed Abu Baghdadi," Harb gasped.
"You didn't fail." Ethan held the Android's screen over him, illuminating the multiple gunshot wounds the kid had taken. Ethan felt a sudden helplessness, and an overwhelming sense of sorrow. Why, out of all them, did Harb have to die? The youngest, most innocent of them all?
"Failed," Harb repeated. "The... mission."
"Stop saying that. You're the greatest martyr I've ever known."
Harb coughed up blood. "Really?"
"Yes. Allah has called you to his side."
"Brenda... Locks," Harb managed.
Ethan looked into Harb's face and did his best to hold it together. "That's right. Brenda Locks. She's waiting for you, brother. She's all yours."
Harb smiled wistfully and then closed his eyes. His respirations became slower with each passing moment, until all breathing finally ceased.
Ethan shut off the cellphone, welcoming the darkness. He took pride in being a big, tough man. Someone unaffected by emotion. He never cried—it was a sign of weakness.
Yet his face was wet with sorrow then.
"Why do you grieve?" It was Suleman's voice. "He is in paradise now, with our brothers. And his father. He is free now."
Ethan didn't trust himself enough to answer Suleman. Instead he lay down and closed his eyes.
* * *
The next day the surviving militants helped move Harb to the backyard. They donated the rationed water from their canteens to bath his body, then wrapped him in a linen sheet purloined from one of the bedrooms. They prayed the Salat al-Janazah, the Islamic funeral prayer, and buried Harb with his head pointing toward Mecca. He wasn't the first member of Wolf Company they had buried, and probably not the last, but even so, Ethan felt his loss more keenly than any of the others.
Goodbye, my brother. I hope you find the paradise you dreamed of.
During the burial Ethan noticed Abdullah had been shot the previous night as well—he had a red tourniquet wrapped tightly around his right calf, and he walked with an obvious limp.
The unit had only just finished burying Harb when heavy shelling erupted from the Kurdish lines and they were forced to hunker down in the house.
The report soon came over the two-ways and FireChat that the Kurds had attained Tall Shair Hill to the west of the city, and were using it to bomb the Islamic State positions.
At first, no one did much talking while the shells whistled in. They all knew that a bomb could easily land on the house. They were quite literally in the hands of Allah.