Iman was usually a fantastic shot. He was capable of striking man-sized targets at the center ring from hundreds of yards away. The Corps taught him how to adjust for wind and elevation, weather, and minutes travel on moving targets. He prided himself on the honed craft. Iman knew that he could likely outshoot every man in the camp, including his brother.
A prideful and angered man stepped to the firing position. He shouldered his rifle. Hasim watched as his brother swallowed the broken shards of his pride. Iman squinted, faking fear, feigning intimidation, and depressed the trigger. Bullets flew free from the end of the rifle, and Iman missed every barreled target only a few short yards away.
Two Marine Rifle Experts stood among a chuckling enemy squad. Each of them was deafened by whining in the inner ear created by shooting an AK-47 without hearing protection. Missed targets, torturous noise, and a grinning devil at the end of an empty weapon; such was their war on terror.
TORN
I man was reminded of boot camp. Just as he grew weary of any single activity, he found another lying in wait at the behest of men for whom he really did not care. Farhad’s guided weeks of indoctrination were followed by initial weapons training. The weeks of weapons training were followed by obligatory time in defensive positions. Every day was like the day before. They woke. They prayed. They defended. They ate. They prayed. They slept. They prayed. They defended.
The droll existence and constant barrage of reinforced propaganda chiseled at Hasim’s edges. Much like a hostage succumbing to the symptoms of Stockholm syndrome, he continued to identify with the villagers. He connected with those who were otherwise disconnected from the world. He moved further from his own reality and more toward the life of a minimalist. Hasim wondered if he would be able to kill the foes or if he had developed new enemies in the course of his stay. If he held a defensive position in the event of an invasion, would he defend to the death? This was his war. Each day seemed to drive a new wedge between Hasim and America. Each day seemed to drive a new wedge between Hasim and Iman.
Iman saw that his little brother was tearing away from reason and reality. However, he only saw fractures of Hasim in small fractions of time. Iman and Hasim relieved each other in the defense immediately following Asr. Otherwise, they were separated to serve Farhad’s purposes. They saw each other only in passing as one would leave base camp for the fighting holes along the ridgeline and the other would leave the fighting holes for base.
Afternoon prayers gave each man a chance to make peace with Allah before sending his brother into a world of danger. One was tasked to live in the belly of the beast they aimed to eventually destroy. The other was tasked to guard the beast from being destroyed by others. Their time among the enemy set them so far apart that they were in a constant state of turmoil. They were conflicted within themselves, with each other, and with those who would kill them.
Farhad, a maniacal mastermind, noticed the brothers’ bond early on. He knew that Iman and Hasim would be invincible together. He also had a gut feeling, a diabolical intuition, that the brothers could not be trusted. Therefore, he had them divided. The leader, seeking the approval of his herd, set them apart rather than have them killed without evidence of betrayal. The old man knew that he could not order the brothers’ deaths without fallout from the village, no matter how loyal the village was to their chieftain.
Farhad concluded that if they were true to the cause then he did not want to lose able-bodied fighters. If they were dedicated, he did not want to lose the chance at sending two more suicide bombers against soft targets across the world.
The elder continually lurked like a vulture circling above dying meat as Iman and Hasim relieved each other on post. He observed short conversations turn into shorter greetings. He watched as the greetings eventually turned into silent pats on the shoulder in passing. The leader watched every day until he was satisfied that the brothers were splintered. He knew his success was realized in driving a wedge between them. Their unity was gone. Their solidarity was shattered.
Iman still glared back at Farhad from time to time. Hasim no longer seemed to care enough to acknowledge either of the men as he moved from one position to the next. Farhad knew that he could finally send them on separate missions if the situation called for one man instead of two. He knew he could send Hasim to carry out a lone objective, but he still questioned Iman’s commitment. Even after weeks turned into months, the elder could not bring himself to trust the young warrior Iman. Everything inside Farhad told him that Iman served a higher purpose, but Hasim’s dedication to the cause cloaked the fact that they were actually American spies.
Farhad’s distrust for Iman followed the undercover Marine around. Iman was given more hardship and heavier duty than any other member of the camp. Farhad kept Iman at a distance from the other members of the fight. He didn’t want the young man to influence others away from an immediate willingness to obey Farhad’s orders. However, the elder could not have the defiant man killed without suffering a backlash from Hasim. A brother’s blood ran deeper than any call to jihad. The false imam knew it to be just as true in the eyes of the brothers he watched closely with apprehension nearing fear. Therefore, Farhad had Iman loosely followed and monitored in and out of camp.
Outside of camp, Iman’s defensive position was the only one that was regularly checked. Other defenders secretly used narcotics, smoked cigarettes, hid pornography in the trenches of their holes, and carried out other ungodly deeds in their solitude. Iman knew that Farhad was looking for a way to get rid of the outsider by any means that even Hasim could not resist under Islamic law. Iman was too smart to give Farhad an excuse. He did nothing more than stand ready over his rifle and pointed into the blank wilderness of the desert.
When Iman refused to fail his faith while in the defense, Farhad had him followed inside the camp. Farhad tasked his second and least-favored wife, Rasa, to ultimately spy on Iman’s activities. However, she was not to be coy or deceiving about the deed. She was ever present and was meant to report back to Farhad with anything unusual, anything at all that might lead to further inquiry of the young Marine.
Iman knew that Rasa followed him and watched him. He felt her eyes on him from the moment he returned within the guarded perimeter to the time he bedded down in his tent. She was up before him in the mornings, prayed next to him, followed him during their separate chores, and observed his every move inside the confines of the village.
Rasa, by nature, was not a nosy person. The soft woman, strong despite her frailty, would have been happy to go about minding her own business. She had no real interest in reporting Iman’s activities back to Farhad. She had no interests in Iman that would serve the greater purpose of a common good. Rasa’s interests in Iman were less pure. She was as forbidden to look at him with lust as he was forbidden to look at her. However, their developing intrigue was unmistakable and natural.
The American spy and the terrorist’s wife were of similar age. To Rasa, Iman was the pinnacle of her physical desires. He was the antithesis of her husband. Iman was well built, young, and had gentle eyes despite his rough hands. Farhad was old, unappealing, and had evil in his eyes. Rasa hated to be around Farhad, let alone be mounted by his lust-filled body, but she had little choice otherwise.
As a young girl, Rasa was abandoned by her family. The men of her world joined terror organizations or were killed by the Taliban. Women in her family were executed for having opinions. Rasa was orphaned by a culture of war before she was abducted as an unnaturally young bride for the tribe elder. She was strong-willed at first, but Farhad spent years beating the spirit out of her. He whipped and raped her until she was broken. She served him more as a slave than a wife. His early sexual assaults left her so badly damaged as a child that she was unable to have children as an adult. She could not serve him as a childbearer. Her service to Farhad then became to watch Iman and report all things, no matter how miniscule. Otherwise, she was beaten without mercy and tasked to do better the ne
xt day.
The days Iman saw bruises and cuts around Rasa’s eyes made him want to kill the entire village even more. His time there let him know that all innocence was lost. There were no unarmed noncombatants in the camp. Everyone in camp was focused on war, prayer, and conflict. Iman’s sense that no good existed in the village was heightened by the collective camp reveling and mourning the loss of two young women. Farhad called them “women of Allah” when he announced and praised their deed.
The old man had ordered two fourteen-year-old girls into a market full of armed American servicemen. Once the girls were in the market among his enemy, he had their escort dial a cell phone number. The phone was attached to a bomb strapped around one of the girl’s chest. The teens detonated together, holding hands like scared school kids, and murdered a crowd of people. The world news reported the treacherous affair as an atrocity. Farhad reported the bombing as a glorious victory.
Iman, the vigilant spy, continued his true labor in the face of menial tasks and Rasa’s presence. The Marine would return from his chores, his training, and his defense posts. Following Ishah, he would praise Allah for another day of life. Then he would go into his tent and seal himself off from the rest of the jihadists. He would wait.
The spy waited for the world to go quiet around him. Then he spent every late evening conducting the same activities. He pulled his bedroll away from the wooden pallet. He shifted the heavy wooden pallet to the side. Then, no matter how cold or raw his fingertips were, he clawed at the cold earth until he uncovered his journal.
The leather binding was dry-rotted. Edges of the paper inside the journal were brittle and flaked away at the lightest touch. The journal was new the first time he snuck the book into the ground. It was disheartening to see the bindings decomposing with time because the journal reminded Iman of how long he had walked in the lions’ den without any foreseeable hope for departure.
Each rain or snow brought with it a certain level of anxiety that Iman’s many notes would be lost to precipitous weather. However, he had no other place to keep the journal from discovery. The ground gave the best disguise when he was away from his tent tending to the defensive positions. The small rat hole he dug beneath his bedroll served him well, but he continually got the feeling that his luck was nearing its end.
Iman made up his mind. He and Hasim had gained more than enough knowledge to justify the destruction of the village. The only person worth saving was the barren-bellied woman who watched Iman’s every move. However, killing her would give her the peace she needed to finally rest. Iman ached at the idea of taking life from the woman he had grown to love from afar. She was as much a part of his day as the sun. Seeing her eyes beyond her veiled face became Iman’s reason to wake in the morning. Her long burqa could not shroud her from his want. Yet he thought it merciful to bring her a swift death, an end that he knew she prayed for every day and night.
Asr came and went. The late afternoon prayer was done. Then Rasa followed Iman across camp. They exchanged glances, silently connecting in affection and lust. She walked at his pace as to observe him and report back as tasked. It was her front, her ruse of sorts. She really walked at his pace to watch him, to be with him.
Iman’s feelings for Rasa, equally bright in an emotional flame, kept him walking slower and slower as days passed. He did what he could to prolong his time with her distant company. Her eyes told of her beauty. Iman wished he could know her completely, beyond her scars and into the depths of her being. He never held such want, such desire for anything or anyone before. At his very core he knew that Allah had put Rasa in his life so that he would know love amidst hatred. The knowledge made Iman ache at the thought of how empty his life would be without Rasa, his nosy spy, the object of his undying affection.
Rasa turned from the edge of camp and went back for her report to Farhad. Iman had done nothing unusual, but she was going to advise Farhad of what he already knew. She dared not suffer another beating if she could avoid it altogether. She hoped that Farhad would only push her away with his foot rather than kick her from his path.
Iman looked back over and over until he could no longer see Rasa disappearing into the tents. Once she was gone from him, he focused his efforts on getting to Hasim. The many days prior had gone to silent exchanges between them. He decided that their next exchange would not be the same. Iman refused to allow another dominant silence means for further impediment in communication between him and his brother.
The older Marine reached Hasim’s defensive position as the sun’s bottom edge met jagged mountaintops. Snow covered the ground and little protected either man from the harsh elements of winter. Iman watched as Hasim crawled out of a shallow-set grave where a machine gun and watchman rested at the camp’s perimeter. Hasim was cold, distant, and quiet. He had been alone for a full day and should have been eager to discuss prior events with his brother. Yet he was removed from his surroundings, from his reality, from his family.
Iman assumed that Farhad would not dare stand out in a winter chill to watch the brothers’ exchange. Hasim made no effort to resist as Iman shoved his way into the hole. The space was tightly confined but provided room for movement. Iman looked into his brother’s face and no longer recognized Hasim.
“Hasim.” Iman shook his brother. Hasim was jarred awake. He seemed to come out of a coma to the familiar sound of his brother’s voice. “Hasim, it’s time,” Iman announced through chattering teeth. “It’s time,” he repeated.
The light returned in Hasim’s eyes. Iman watched as his brother and closest friend returned to him. Hasim, the Marine, rolled his shoulders back and sat up anew. “What do you mean?” he questioned, ignorantly amused. Hasim acted as if he had forgotten his purpose there.
“It’s time for us to get out of here, brother.” Iman’s hands dug into Hasim’s shoulders with excitement. They were both eager to leave the place that held so much deceit and danger. “But it rests on you, Hasim.” The happiness in Iman’s voice faded to coach Hasim with a more serious tone.
The air thickened between them before Iman continued. “Go to Farhad and ask for a mission. He trusts you. He will give you a task…probably to blow yourself up. Make sure that you do not accept the task if I’m not included. Make sure that he tells us both to go…together.” Iman watched as Hasim’s eyes went distant once again.
Iman wasn’t sure if Hasim was freezing to death or if he was so far removed from reality that the Marine struggled to continue. “Brother! Do you know what day it is?” Iman asked. Hasim just shrugged. Iman laughed, “It’s Christmas!” Iman chuckled at the notion of two Islamic terrorists wishing each other a Merry Christmas. However, Iman’s real intentions were to remind his brother that they were not Islamic terrorists. They served no purpose of jihad. They had no business among murderers but to destroy evil men.
Iman looked into his brother’s eyes. He smiled and silently begged for Hasim to come back to him. “It’s Christmas,” Iman said, reminding Hasim of the American Christian tradition they loved as kids and fought to protect as men.
Iman could not hold back his tears when Hasim answered, “Well, then…Merry Christmas, Marine.”
Hasim returned to his mission. He found the steadfastness he had buried in the desolation of being a terrorist. He was back and he understood what he must do. He must beg Farhad for a call to jihad, for Hasim and his brother to carry out the will of Allah. Then he had to betray the village he embraced so blindly only moments before. The Marine was back on duty and the brother returned home in war.
RAHAB
Fear shook Iman’s entire body with a trembling shiver as he knelt inside his tent. The ends of his fingers were worn into raw meat as he clawed at the earth. He hoped that some fit of exhaustion had forced him to bury his journal deeper than normal. He hoped he had simply forgotten how deeply concealed it was in the soil. He scratched at loose dirt and rock until he reached ground too packed, too hardened, for his sore fingers. Hope was lost.
Fresh
ly turned topsoil sat in a mound around a small hole where the corner of his pallet and bedroll normally lay. Panic. Anguish. The burning in Iman’s fingertips coursed up his arms and found its way into his chest. The physical pain of ripped flesh shifted into the tormented sorrow of a torn heart. The pressure of dirt crammed under Iman’s fingernails became pressure inside his brain. Iman’s every thought of inevitable demise yearned to be scratched free all at once. He closed his eyes, rolled his fists, and pressed his knuckles hard to each side of his aching head. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled the panic from his soul. Acceptance.
His identity would soon be revealed to the village. The camp would soon know Iman as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or more so a shepherd among wolves. Hasim, his only brother, was certainly set to die by his side. Iman tried not to cry at the thought of having failed, having led to his brother’s beheading. He fought back tears for his mother. He held onto pride for his father. He shook his head for Command.
Iman’s thoughts raced back and forth. Maybe Hasim moved it before he left for his shift. Maybe I dropped it and forgot to bury it. Maybe Hasim destroyed it. Maybe Farhad will relieve us of our burdened heads.
The thought forced a chill down Iman’s spine. He was not afraid of death. Had he been afraid to travel into Paradise, he would have never accepted the suicide mission from McKenzee. Rather, he was afraid for Hasim. He was afraid that his little brother had strayed too far from faith and had been routed to hatred by enemy vessels. Iman hoped against hate, prayed for his brother, and ached to beat Farhad before Farhad had a chance to strike first.
Maghrib. Exalted tones bellowed from a broken voice through whipping cold winds. The top of the sun was disappearing behind the crest of western mountains. Iman had to push beyond the pain, past his scraped fingers, and move his things back into place. He had to do it quickly as to not be late for prayer. He had to hurry despite the fact his identity was compromised. Iman had to maintain that he was not the man who had written detailed logs of information in American English. He needed to keep his alternate identity, his terrorist self that was ready to detonate a bomb in a schoolyard. Maybe I’m just exhausted and confused. Maybe I’m not digging in the right place. I have to hurry.
Operation Jericho Page 7