On the other side of the coin, many people in-country simply drove like they had no cause for caution. Deciphering terrorists and average bad drivers in Afghanistan often proved to be difficult. An overwhelming inability to determine friend from foe was especially true on rain-drenched and cloud-darkened nights. To avoid killing potentially innocent people who held an affinity for the gas pedal, soldiers turned massive floodlights on approaching cars. Blaring brightness from the lamps was enough to blind any driver, so people not seeking to reach the post with an explosion would naturally stop. Those seeking to detonate would continue to drive despite the bright lights and would then be torn to pieces by machine-gun fire. Each of the soldiers on post had suffered the onslaught of fast-approaching cars. Several were unfortunate enough to have experienced a stop enforced by bullets. All were on hard-edged trigger fingers and willing to kill to stay alive.
Iman jammed his right foot into the car’s center pedal, slamming the brakes into a loud screech. The vehicle skidded across choppy blacktop on a slick road until the auto kicked slightly to the right and halted. Iman was blinded by overbearing white lights and obliged the implied order to stop.
An announcement was broadcast in Arabic: You have entered American-held territory. We are the United States military. Please turn around and leave this area.
Iman and Hasim yelled back in unison, and in Arabic, “We surrender!” They simultaneously realized they were screaming in the harsh-sounding native tongue and were not furthering their cause of identifying themselves as Americans. Hasim chuckled. Then he threw the rifle he commandeered from Fa’iz out the passenger window.
The disguised Marines sat still as soldiers yelled out scattered calls of “Weapon, weapon!” All the soldiers watched with heart-thumping fear, though they would not have been so worried had they known the hurried men were Marines. Yet Iman and Hasim were dressed like the enemy, looked like the enemy, and maintained rapport with the enemy. Furthermore, they were covered in blood and stank of months in a terrorist camp.
The two Arabs, still incognito, exited their car with hands high up in the air. Neither of them could see outward because of blinding lightbeams focused into their eyes. They were not able to determine what type of barricade they had happened upon or how many men were aiming weapons at their hearts. However, their every move could be seen within the enveloping light cast upon them from an American military post. The soldiers watched as Hasim stepped aside. He opened both of the right doors and the trunk. Iman opened both of the left doors and the hood. Then they stepped forward of the vehicle, casting shadows in the car’s headlight beams against far greater illumination from the opposing direction.
They were already soaked with rain and drenched in red. Each man knew how confused and scared the young soldiers were. Iman and Hasim had no desire to come so far, accomplish so much, in their mission through the desert only to be killed by their own. Each of them screamed, in English, “We surrender! We surrender!”
Iman acted first. He lay flat on the cold and wet ground. His arms were straight out from his sides. His legs were spread apart. His head was turned to the right with his eyes closed against the rain. Hasim did the same. He spread out over the ground and did not move. His head turned to the left so that he could face his brother. They lay in wait until a boisterous and bold voice ordered, “Private! Go check them out!”
The two men waited until they were met by soaked and scared soldiers. “We’re Americans,” Iman stated as he was being zip tied and patted down.
“We’re United States Marines on a SpecOps team. We surrender, and you have our cooperation,” Hasim reiterated their compliance. They understood that the soldiers were rightfully amped up about the seizure and detention of two Arabs claiming to be Marines.
“Ain’t no Marines I ever seen,” one of the Southern boys on post retorted as he zipped Hasim’s cuffs, plastic against skin. Iman turned to Hasim and chuckled, “Seems to be the same everywhere we go.” They both laughed as the soldiers jerked them to their feet.
The Arab men were officially captured as prisoners of war and brought to the post for a more detailed pat-down search. They knew an interrogation was on the immediate horizon. Hasim was void of weapons, information, and stomach content. Iman, however, was strapped with intelligence pertinent to his mission. The soldier, a very young private first class, was not sensitive to the nature of Iman’s journal or Rasa’s note found tethered to Iman’s leg. The soldier pitched it aside and forced the Arabs to their knees.
Iman announced through his beard and long hair, “We are United States Marines. That journal is full of intel that must be pushed up our very short, but very distinguished chain of command. I understand and appreciate your concerns that some long-haired rags are in your area of operations, but I cannot explain how important this is to our mission here in Afghanistan. I need to speak with Top most ricky-tick. Do you understand me, troop?”
If Iman was an enemy combatant, he had the junior soldier convinced otherwise. His banter and military-speak were clear. The demands were made by someone who clearly outranked the subordinate soldier. The troop saw no harm in calling his ranking first sergeant to speak with the captives. The Arab men looked and smelled like the enemy, but they sure didn’t speak or act like the enemy.
The soldier used his best judgment and great instincts to get higher command involved rather than push two more captives into the system. Then a military-styled waiting game ensued. The first sergeant, more an administrator than a fighter, took his time getting to the men on post. Several shivering soldiers and their prisoners, even if temporary in status, had to wait for their senior staffnon-commissioned officer to yield his time.
A squatty old man bellowed as he approached, “Who in the hell is dragging me out of my rack for a couple of hajis that should already be on a bird to Gitmo?” The chubby, bedridden soldier was typical of the anti-grunt. He boasted like a war hero but rested like a civilian. He readily engaged in war stories over hot chow and in the comforts of his tent. His stacks of paperwork were taller than any rifle he had ever seen. He was belligerent in his want for battlefield grandeur that was answered only with pencil and paper.
Iman and Hasim stood from their kneeling positions. “I’m Sergeant Iman Sahar and this is Sergeant Hasim Sahar, 1st Marine Division. We are on special orders…as you can see,” Iman said, referencing their beards and attire. “Our orders are classified, and we haven’t been living as Marines for the better part of eight to ten months. We need to get on the horn with 1st MarDiv Ops Chief. You can verify us. Codeword: Jericho.”
Dirty and tired, Iman gave the first sergeant every ounce of information he was allowed to divulge. The Army first sergeant ultimately didn’t need any further information. Had he simply made the radio call as requested, the Marines would have been confirmed without further obstacle. Iman and Hasim would be out of zip ties and in the showers. However, the first sergeant decided to start a proverbial pissing contest with two questionable men.
“You’re in no position to make any demands, haji. This is my post and I’ll say what goes in and out of the radio around here,” the old soldier said, grinning arrogantly at the captives. However, his grin disappeared as quickly as it arrived.
Iman stepped forward as to be heard only by the first sergeant. He tried to whisper so the senior soldier could save some dignity with his men in clear line of sight and hearing distance. “Listen, Top. Do not impede this process. Get 1st MarDiv Sec Ops on the horn now. Verify Jericho. My brother and I are on a team that report directly to the SecDef.” Iman let the first sergeant know how important a call to Division headquarters really was. “So, if you want to play this game, we can see to it that you don’t get an ounce of pension when you are dishonorably discharged on some trumped-up criminal charges…or you can make a radio call-out and verify us. If we don’t check out, you can beat me senseless and lock me away forever…but if we do check out and you block us further, that will be your butt in a sling for the re
st of your days…Top.” Iman finished his threat with a sneer and tried to maintain some means of mutual military respect for the ranking enlisted man.
The overbearing Arab spoke in the intimidating fashion known only to Marines. The first sergeant figured that Iman and Hasim were either on a legitimate mission, or Iman had simply found his way into a fit of lunacy through the haze of a widespread killing field. The Marine was willing to kill or be killed and would pay any necessary price later. Either way, the first sergeant decided not to roll the dice against a man claiming direct communication with the secretary of defense.
The first sergeant ordered his captives back to their knees. The Marines complied without resistance. They knew the tides of situational control would turn following a single radio transmission. Their time wasted submitting to the will of a round-bellied and pompous rank holder would soon be at an end.
The armed guards waited for Top to walk away before they started asking questions. “Somethin’ big is fixin’ to go down. Ain’t it?” one of the soldiers asked. He was an eager kid who seemed to grin at an oncoming fight. Iman and Hasim were amused by the Southern kid’s drawl. They found the thick accent to be heart-warming. They were once again among Americans and celebrated cultural and ethnic diversity. The Marines smiled.
The kid showed a respectful distance with his posture and where he aimed his weapon’s muzzle. Under normal circumstances, he would have pointed his weapon directly at captured enemy soldiers and stood over them to ensure minimal resistance. However, the soldier trusted the Arab men without any reasonable explanation beyond insight and instinct. He was not worried about them attempting to flee or fight. He, like the kneeling Marines, waited for the next order.
Top walked into the guard shack and demanded the radio. A soldier on watch handed the senior man a headset and stepped aside. The first sergeant then called in, “Bravo 2, Bravo 2. This is Post 43.” He waited for register then requested a relayed message to the 1st Marine Division Headquarters. The first sergeant felt as if he were about to find himself at the butt-end of a bad joke. He was calling in a big order all the way to the top of a dangerous food chain. He hoped that his reputation would not be tarnished by the transmission.
“Roger Bravo 2,” the first sergeant paused after receiving radio traffic. Then he continued, “Need to verify…Jericho,” the chubby soldier huffed into the headset. He was matter-of-fact in his attitude of dismissal. He was fed up with the notion of the call before any relay was made from Bravo 2 to 1st MarDiv. The first sergeant’s eyes widened with fear when the message was classified as Net Priority One. The once arrogant man listened as the codeword set into motion a flurry of transmissions to confirm Jericho. Then an unfamiliar voice came across the radio. “Post 43, Post 43. This is Omega. Jericho is confirmed. Treat them like they were your own. Out.”
Top handed the radio headset back to the watchman. He was speechless. His bloated ego deflated despite the remaining width of his belt. Then he turned and clumsily sprinted the short distance from the guard shack back to Iman and Hasim. The older soldier personally helped Iman and Hasim to their feet and cut each free of their restraints. He puffed as he moved, trying to catch his breath against the cold air and his portly shape.
“Welcome back, gentlemen,” Top said, changing his tone. “Sorry about the initial contact. I’m sure you can understand given how you look and everything.” Iman and Hasim agreed wholeheartedly. They were dressed like insurgents, had full beards, had unkempt hair, were in possession of an AK-47, and were covered in blood. They undeniably looked like trouble. Then the Marines commended each of the soldiers for their discipline and restraint throughout another odd situation in a warzone.
“Thanks for not killing us,” Hasim joked to the crowd of sentries. The group chuckled and greeted the men with handshakes rather than butt-strokes from the backs of any weapons. Natural curiosity and a desire for information led the soldiers into a series of questions. Iman and Hasim knew that they could not speak of any details surrounding their mission. They knew the soldiers did not have appropriate security clearances or a need to know what had occurred over months prior. Therefore, the two newcomers provided vague answers and surrendered nothing to their sudden allies. They smiled and accepted a nearly overwhelming return from the enemy’s grasp.
One of the soldiers announced, “Well, you’ve got bigger balls than me. Even if I was a haji, I couldn’t take smelling like that.” He waved his hand in front of his nose as he mocked the unbathed men. A collective chuckle turned into a barrage of banter among brothers-in-arms.
Iman and Hasim were happy to be back with their true kinsmen. Though they were still miles from Marines, they had returned to camouflaged utilities and combat boots. Unlike miscreant jihadists in the hills, Army guards were properly suited in body armor. Their weapons were clean. Their gear was appropriate for the dank desert setting. American soldiers were the direct opposite of those formerly surrounding the Marine spies.
Hasim lifted his arm and sniffed. “It’s not that bad if you dig your men musty,” he joked with the others. They all laughed before a low-ranking soldier was ordered to escort Iman and Hasim inside the post. The Jarheads were shown to the showers first. Then Top ordered that the Marines be taken care of as if they were dignitaries come to visit. They were given soap and towels. The soldiers provided the Marines with uniforms and boots. All items necessary to one night of survival on post, shy of weapons, were instantly issued to the brothers. They were then fed better than either had eaten in a very long time. They ate until their stomachs were uncomfortably full, in the comfort of an American-held territory, and under the guard of men they could trust. Jericho was confirmed.
RAGE
Special Agent McKenzee swiped his arm hard against the front flap of a large canvas tent set in the center of Army Post 43. A dank must, the smell that only old and worn military equipment could make, filled McKenzee’s nostrils. Rows of cots lined each side of wobbling, drab green walls. Wind kicked at the bottom of the tent and allowed a slight but piercing breeze to enter the large space. Packs and personal belongings were neatly staged, but small bits of trash and letters were scattering about in the winter draft. The tent was well kept by most standards but showed the signs of an Army post not common to those held by Marines.
All the gear was new and seemed unused. Sleeping bags remained on top of cots rather than being rolled and stowed. Vacant boots were set at the foot of each cot with the laces loose. Only two cots stood apart from the others, distinguishable by being occupied and kept in better order.
Iman and Hasim, true to the core of their Marine ethos, had their boots placed beneath their racks. The toes were turned to the underside, left side dominant, with the laces pulled tight and tucked neatly into the tops of the leather. McKenzee smiled at the sleeping Marines. I’m surprised they aren’t sleeping at the position of attention. McKenzee’s lighthearted thoughts fled the tent in a sudden chill. He realized that waking the men, considering their current state of rest and their prior engagements with the enemy, might be like poking a stick at a sleeping lion. The beast might simply stir to roll over if he was well fed and too tired to fight, or he might pounce to life and cut the man’s throat.
McKenzee cleared his throat loudly from across the tent, well outside of arm’s reach. Neither of the beasts stirred. They were resting, truly resting, for the first time in what seemed like a decade. The agent held no doubt that they were dreaming of time away. He shuddered at the nightmares they must have faced every time they closed their eyes. His skin crawled at what they must have seen. His heart ached for the things they had to endure just to get back home. Then he pondered in sorrow the idea that “home” was a war.
“Rise and shine, gentlemen,” McKenzee said in a waking tone. Both Marines sat up scared. The unfamiliar environment put them on edge, and they were ready to fight. McKenzee was thankful that they were not armed and he had the foresight to stay out of reach.
Iman saw Hasim. Hasim sa
w Iman. They were instantly comforted in the fact that they were still alive, but each man took a moment longer in registering the relative safety of the tent. Finally, they looked to McKenzee and realized safety was assured. Neither of them was doomed to live out the twisted dreams of the enemy. They were away from Jericho and among friends. However, McKenzee’s presence only meant that relative safety was set to end sooner than later.
“Give us a second.” Iman rubbed his eyes as he spoke to McKenzee. The Marine’s reaction to a familiar face was unnatural. He should have been excited to see the agent. He should have wrestled out of his warm sleeping bag and rushed to hug the operation leader. Yet he barely acknowledged the man.
“Do you have any gear or anything?” McKenzee inquired as to whether the spies were able to obtain any enemy equipment.
Hasim smiled. “Just what we borrowed from our Army brothers.” He waved his hand over the cots and sleeping bags. They were both drab in their unpressed Army camouflage uniforms. Their loaned boots were barely black, having been without polish for quite some time.
“Let’s make it quick. The bird’s waiting.” McKenzee clapped his hands once as he informed the Marines that a helicopter sat idle on standby. The Marines responded. They hastened their pace but refused to leave until they were set and ready.
Each man was happy to have so few items to handle. They rolled the borrowed sleeping bags into tight barrels of fabric and tied them appropriately. Iman and Hasim then folded their cots and stowed the equipment in a neat pile at the tent’s corner. McKenzee was mesmerized by the Marines for the few minutes taken to put things into place. They were clearly exhausted and had a golden ticket to walk away from minute responsibilities. They had permission to leave the mess for someone else to handle, but they were Jarheads. McKenzee could never understand why the Marines were compelled to leave borrowed equipment in a better state than when it was issued to them. To the agent, they were wasting time. To Iman and Hasim, they were leaving a lasting impression on their Army hosts. To the Corps, they were touching the dirt of Chosin and the cinder blocks of Hue.
Operation Jericho Page 11