Before Iman’s bold barrage, Farhad was regarded and respected as the final authority on any and all things in Jericho, as the village was unofficially named in initial mission briefings at the Pentagon. Even still, Iman turned to walk away from Farhad’s tent. The young man’s insubordinate tone was answered with a belligerent silence. Farhad made it very clear that he was delaying his discussion with Iman because of the younger man’s insulting behavior.
The veritable back-and-forth between enemy warriors nearly ended as Iman took his first step in the opposite direction of Farhad. “We can apparently discuss it in the morning,” Iman said over his shoulder, silently proclaiming a dose of finality in discourse.
Then the head rooster crowed into the whipping wind, “Allah has tasked you and your brother.”
Iman stopped where he stood. His back was still to Farhad. Iman half expected to be shot between his shoulder blades as he turned away from enemy hatred. He knew that defiance and insubordination were punishable by death, but Iman had nothing to lose. Farhad had already informed the brothers that they would soon be in Paradise. Iman saw no reason to prolong his misery. He was either set to die quickly at the hands of a less-than-worthy foe, or he was going to die in the commission of a terror attack. Either way, the young Marine had no intentions of freezing to death while waiting on some arrogant ass to blubber through guidance and direction.
Farhad continued, “Do not relieve Hasim today. I will send another to his post. When he is in, both of you come to me. We will pray together and I will give you instructions. Tomorrow, you will achieve your goals and move into the promised lands.” The old man’s breath froze in cold blasts of white fog as he spoke.
Mumbled gibberish fell from Farhad’s lips, but Iman was elated to know that he had been tasked to carry out a suicide bombing mission. Farhad had not yet informed Iman of his purpose. However, several months in camp let Iman know the true nature of the village. The intelligence he gathered through conversations and observations led him to believe that all present were set to have explosives strapped to their chests. Every man, woman, and child was susceptible to Farhad’s whim. He could point his crooked finger to any member of the camp and send a jihadist off to certain death. He could send them off to cause the certain death of many innocent people as well. The severity of damage was only contingent upon how many explosives the terrorists were able to obtain at any given time.
Farhad, unwilling to truly sacrifice for his cause, was the most cowardly man among the villagers. He was the only man in the camp falsely endowed with the powers of Allah. He picked and chose who would go and who would stay. He selected who would die and who would live. Yet he never made the choice to go himself. He always sent others to die for him. Even still, he was viewed as a glorious leader for his conspiracies to commit murder.
Despite several atrocious instances, like sending teenaged girls to bomb-laden deaths, Farhad was still viewed as a leader blessed with genius military strategies and an uncanny ability to speak directly with Allah. The old man had the collective village fooled by his masquerade of faith and devotion. He had everyone eating soiled oats from the palm of his hand, everyone but Iman and Hasim.
Iman was sickened by the jihadist headman and his antics of leadership. The Marine tried not to unveil his emotions for the sake of accomplishing his primary mission. However, he had watched as his brother started to slip away from faith and allegiance. He had listened to the reports of the villagers “successfully” detonating themselves in markets. He had seen what Farhad held with such blatant disregard, and Iman could not help but want what Farhad had. More so, Iman wanted the company of the woman Farhad favored the least among his wives. Iman hated the old man with every amplified moment that dragged on within the confines of camp. Yet he was intrigued by the elder’s words of announcement.
The Marine faced the cult leader. Hastily wrapped strips of cloth enveloping Iman’s face began to loosen, and snow immediately clung to his beard. His long hair was tucked tight into his turban. The burliness of hair and beard provided Iman very little protection against the need to shiver in the snowstorm. He loathed the presence of the extra hair and yearned to get back into military regulation. All the while, he was grateful to have the slightest shield against the stinging sleet.
Snow-covered and frostbitten, Iman stared at Farhad. The elder was done speaking, and Iman acknowledged the conversational pause. “What is the task?” Iman did not ask for guidance. Rather, he demanded elaboration.
Iman’s curiosity would have to go unanswered. Farhad had no intentions of answering any questions without Hasim present. The older brother would have to sit in his tent and remain in a state of standby until Hasim returned from the outer defensive position. Farhad could have answered enough to ease obvious concern, but Iman’s defiant posture was not to go unpunished. The old man was already sending Iman to die, so lashing the youthful pride out of a rigid body would have been to no avail. Farhad knew that anticipation, the not knowing, was torture enough to fulfill his need for revenge.
Farhad grinned. Iman noticed the corners of Farhad’s mouth turn upward under his frost-kissed beard. He wondered what might have amused the senior to such a mild degree.
The elder rudely stepped out of the cold and left Iman unanswered yet again. Iman grit his teeth and considered the idea of challenging the old man to a fistfight. He refrained. Rather than expedite his death warrant, Iman turned away once more. He trudged in concession through mounting wet piles of white. His feet plunged into the slop of snow and mud. His steps slipped unnaturally wide as the frozen and stubborn precipitation refused to stick to the ground. The air was frigidly crisp, but the ground resisted the weather’s hateful decline into a saturated cold.
The young man walked back to his tent, the horrible place he had come to know as home. He tucked his chin against his chest in a feeble effort to evade the cold. Then he breached the entry to his canvas domicile. Iman shook tremendously to get the snow off his body but achieved very little success in warming his appendages.
Inside his abode was warmer than the open air. Even the flapping walls prevented fast winds from whipping at him further, and for that he was thankful. However, the tent was still cold enough for Iman to see his breath. Blowing myself up might be a lot better than freezing to death, Iman joked to himself simply to try and beat back at the frost with his warm spirit.
Iman attempted to figure out how much time he had before he would see his brother again. He calculated the hours by prayer time, by a sentry’s walking travel time toward the defensive position from camp to relieve Hasim, and by Hasim’s walk back from the armed perimeter. Five hours. Iman ran the figure through his brain over and over until it became a mere four hours. Give or take some time for the snow, he’ll be in soon enough. Iman paced and rubbed at his arms to stay warm. He kept himself company with his thoughts and chattered mumblings.
He was four hours from seeing his brother. He would welcome Hasim with a hug and look his younger brother in the eyes. The piercing cold had a way of sending icicles into the soul of a man. A man torn could quickly become a man shattered in the midst of a brutal snowstorm. Iman knew the treacherous woes of having to endure self despite wind, sleet, and snow. Iman wanted to know that Hasim had not splintered from himself once again. The older sibling wanted to be certain that Hasim was ready to kill the real enemy rather than a soft target designated by a monster.
The inside of Iman’s tent gave just enough protection from the painful cold. He was able to force blood back into his fingertips. His sense of smell had not returned, but his vision and hearing were returned to near normal condition. His eyes no longer blurred as he regained focus. The ringing in his ears faded to a dull throb until he could hear his heartbeat just above ambient noise. He paced, back and forth, seeking only to remain warm against low temperatures.
“Brother?” Hasim called from the front flap as a gust of harsh winter breezed into the tent. Iman considered the possibility of passing tim
e, but four hours could not have disappeared so quickly. The cold slowed everything down, including time. Yet Hasim stood in the doorway of the tent despite Iman’s calculations.
The older Marine shivered but stood with a smile. He welcomed Hasim as planned. Iman embraced his brother. Then he inspected Hasim’s spirits.
Iman looked into Hasim’s eyes. He observed the younger man’s movements and actions. He listened to what Hasim had to say about any given subject. Then Iman announced, “Farhad has tasked us for a mission.”
The older brother spoke in a way that illustrated his assumptions about Hasim. Iman presumed Hasim was not aware of the duty, but the younger of the two reacted without pause. “I know, man. Farhad told me yesterday morning. I went to him and asked for a mission the way you told me to. He tried to send me off as a lone warrior, but I told him that I wouldn’t go without you…” Hasim lowered his head. The younger Marine could feel his brother’s questioning judgment blazing through him. Then Hasim looked up as his confidence and dedication returned. “I’m fine, man. I don’t know where I went”—Hasim referenced his slip into the idealism and extremism of Jericho —“but I’m back. I’m with you.” The younger man nodded to the front flap of the tent. “We’re going to handle this mess…then I’m going home. I’ve had enough.”
Hasim’s reference to home was beyond the war. He had been dealt all that he could handle. He’d had enough of the enemy. He’d had enough of the Central Intelligence Agency using him as a tool of destruction. He’d had enough of serving the ideals of freedom and wanted to start living them.
Iman nodded. He knew that Hasim was right. They would have to finish their mission for country and Corps. Then, once their mission was complete, they would be able to return home. They would be able to go back into their worlds prior to war. Each of them loved being a Marine, but they had not been given a chance to serve as Marines for the majority of their enlistments. They were used as spies at every turn, and each man lamented the closeness of the enemy. Each would have preferred to engage and destroy vermin from a distance. Yet they were face-to-face, living among their foes in Guantanamo and Afghanistan.
Once the Marines finished their chore for the CIA, they would have to go back home. Killing the enemy tasted of familiarity and human meat. Neither Iman nor Hasim had the taste for blood they had acquired through all their many days in training. They had lived among brainwashed adversaries for too long. They were given an opportunity to meet the infantry of the other side. No warrior should be provided such an occasion as it only creates pause in trigger pull. The monsters they knew to be the opposition suddenly had faces. They had mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, children of their own. They had lives and souls, no matter how rotten. The enemy seemed to be waiting, unaware of their yearning to be plucked from the war.
Iman and Hasim would have to escape from the camp only to come back and kill people they knew intimately. Their acute knowledge of the enemy made an attack feel like an act of betrayal rather than that of completion. The Marines had to coach themselves away from humanizing their opposition. They had to forget names and family ties. They had to become ready to destroy the people they were always meant to kill.
Hasim pumped his fists against the cold air inside the tent. Iman wrapped himself in everything he could find to get away from the bitter chill. Then Hasim quietly huffed, “We aren’t going to be armed when they send us. They wouldn’t want us to change our minds at the last minute.” Iman nodded, realizing that his little brother had gained a bit of wisdom about the group of terrorists over their extended stay in “Hotel Hell.” Their escorts would be carrying pistols or rifles. They would carry Russian surplus handguns with no more ammunition than half a magazine’s worth of bullets, or AK-47 assault rifles with so much ammunition they wouldn’t have to worry about spraying carelessly until they hit something. The Marines hated every facet of each thought that ran through their minds. They hated the terrorist mentality. Well-trained and well-aimed Marines sought precision engagement at all turns. Their enemy sought to destroy targets with no regard for collateral damage. Iman and Hasim would be subjected to the direction of the escorts without any ability to resist, and defiance would come with as much collateral damage as needed to end the brothers’ war.
Hasim and Iman knew that the enemy was brave behind an AK-47 aimed at paper targets and empty fuel drums. However, they turned into weak-kneed cowards when time came for them to fulfill their explosive duties. Suicide bombers, set to die in a blast of metal and fire, still had to be escorted by armed guards. Leaders like Farhad and many others had to force soldiers into carrying out their sacred duties. Yet the old man showed no suspicions as to why Hasim had approached with an eager emphasis requesting an attack order. Farhad didn’t question Hasim’s desire to die next to his brother either. The old man was just happy to have two eager soldiers at his behest. He would be able to sentence Iman and Hasim to death. The lead terrorist knew that they were willing to go without remorse or regret. He could send them under minimal escort. Little resources would be used to get them into place, and the village would suffer little more than the loss of two defenders in their absence.
Hasim pointed to the front flap of the tent. “Watch the door.” Iman moved to the forward portion of the tent without questioning his brother’s motives. Hasim offered explanation: “Knowing these idiots, they are going to give some load of garbage before we pray together one last time. Then the guys with guns are going to take us away before we have a chance to arm ourselves or get our stuff. So…” Hasim paused to look around. He slid Iman’s bedroll away from the pallet where it lay and stomped hard into the middle of a pallet slat. A long shard of old wood splintered into a sharp staff. Hasim picked the shard up and shoved it into the top of his boot. Then he covered the top of the makeshift weapon with the bottom of his pants.
Hasim left the bedroll to the side and moved the pallet. “You need to find somewhere to put this,” the younger Marine said, pointing to the ground. Iman knew that Hasim was referencing the secret journal but was not sure if the younger man knew about the note from Rasa. Iman wasn’t certain as to how much Hasim knew about the older brother’s time in camp. Iman never intentionally hid his feelings for Rasa from his brother. He merely thought that emotions would serve as nothing more than deeply engrained distractions that could compromise their mission. Therefore, he made no mention of how Rasa had drawn his heart into the war. He never spoke of feelings and love, for Marines are to fight without such human responses. They were dogs of war let loose to wreak a promised havoc upon the enemy. They were to carry out any mission, at any time, at any cost up to and including their lives with a smile on their faces and blood on their hands. They were United States Marines. They were Spartans, if Spartans had been better organized and even more eager to fight. There was no room for emotions on their battlefield. Iman continued such military mantra and did all he could to curb his infatuation for Rasa. He fought himself just to continue serving others before he tried to serve himself.
“Do you love her?” Hasim asked quietly as he traded places with Iman. Iman didn’t answer. No confusion or concern remained. Hasim had seen the note from Rasa and knew that Iman was smitten with the woman. The younger brother wondered if Iman would be willing to jeopardize their mission in an effort to save the woman. He questioned Iman’s ability to resist humanity and bring destruction to the tents where love hid within storms of fire.
“She’s going to die, man…with the rest of them,” Hasim said, reinforcing Iman’s fears. The young Marine continued, “They’re all going to die.” Iman still didn’t speak up. He just unearthed the journal and the note from Rasa. Iman seemed to ignore Hasim’s plea to reason. Then he lowered his pants and used strands of fabric to secure the information while Hasim stood watch at the tent’s flap. Iman tied it uncomfortably tight to his inner thigh. The frozen leather bindings of the journal sent chills through his body before he returned his pants to his waist. Iman looked to his broth
er for some sign that Rasa could be saved from the hell that was sure to come. Hasim offered no reassurance. There was nothing he could say or do to save the woman from her certain fate.
Iman solemnly covered the slight hole in the ground as if to cover a shallow and symbolic grave. He returned the pallet to cover the freshly turned soil, and the hiding spot was once again shielded from immediate observation. They would soon be gone from the place, but they still needed to hide their identity. Iman placed his bedroll back into normal order and looked to Hasim for an answer yet again. There was no reply to give. Hasim lowered his head sadly and asked, “Are you ready?”
Iman nodded and they exited the tent. Hasim stepped into the biting cold of the mountain air. His older brother followed, and they walked across the open courtyard together. Each man was bound for the outside of Farhad’s tent. They walked unaccompanied by anyone else in Jericho.
Had their call to jihad come in the midst of summer, the sanctimonious prayers and sermons would have been held in the open. However, whipping snow and howling winds beckoned the village to the front of Farhad’s tent. The Marines arrived first. Others took notice of their unspoken duties to the elder and joined them. People gathered from one tent to the next before they congregated in a shivered huddle.
Hasim fought off his want to snarl. This maniac is no better than any other leader of any other force. He thinks he is so much more righteous than us Americans and the British. Yet he is the man with the most authority and possessions in the village. Therefore, he gets to call the shots, send people off to die, and we have to stand in the snow while he remains shielded from the storm inside his heated tent. My god, I wish I could kill him right now. Hasim involuntarily twitched in the freezing weather, but his insides burned with hatred.
Operation Jericho Page 9