The gear was properly set aside. The Marines bloused their tight-laced boots. Then they marched. McKenzee, in charge of a huge operation, remained intimidated by the warriors he did not fully understand. They were of a different breed, and one could only watch the men in awe as they moved. Their fists were curled tightly at the ends of their arms. Their shoulders were rolled rearward, and they were proudly erect with their heads up. They were exhausted, yet they scowled through gritted teeth and squinted eyes, ready for war.
Iman was the first to reach out and shake McKenzee’s hand. He gripped the agent’s hand and gave it a single hard shake. Then, as if to unburden himself, Iman handed his journal over to the CIA. “This is a record of our daily events,” Iman grunted to the civilian. Dust and earth from the book puffed against McKenzee’s chest.
Hasim added, “We both wrote our accounts in there. We were on alternating schedules in camp, so you might have some questions about the mismatched notes…but it’s all in English and all pretty self-explanatory.” The younger Marine reassured their leader that nothing was left out. McKenzee held all the information he needed for the remainder of their mission. Mission accomplishment was bound in cracking leather, covered in dirt, and weathered with hatred.
“Is this everything?” McKenzee asked while waving the book lightly.
“Yes, sir,” Iman lied. He held onto the folded note from Rasa. The brittle paper rested stiff against his thigh from the inside of his pocket. He withheld Rasa from the facts of the mission. He did not subject McKenzee to the idea of weighing one innocent life against the masses of evil in Jericho. Iman knew that the agent would pretend to consider halting the mission to save Rasa. He would do so out of moral obligation to humanity, to normalcy. Then he would reconsider the reality of war. He would surrender to the undeniable truth that innocent people die on the battlefield. Innocent people, those who do not leave the field, do not remain untouched by conflict. Iman had no inclinations to give McKenzee a reason for feigned pause.
Rasa’s note was impertinent to the overall mission. Therefore, the paper held no value for the Central Intelligence Agency or to any military unit in zone. However, Iman held it dear. The words, written by an unbroken woman, were his priceless treasure. The paper was something that could not be used by the Central Intelligence Agency or the Department of Defense, so it would be discarded. Iman knew that the message could not be replaced, so he withheld it from McKenzee, hoping only to hold onto Rasa forever.
“You’ll be debriefed at the command post,” McKenzee coached as he turned to exit the tent. Winter winds relentlessly slapped sadistic sand through the air. The special agent was well suited for the harsh occasions of weather. His thick coat protected him from winter’s angry sting. Iman and Hasim did not have the same luxuries of warmth and protective equipment. They tucked their chins into the tops of their borrowed camouflaged shirts. The Marines did the best they could to deal with the bitter cold. They knew they were expendable assets and were treated accordingly. They had no delusions or hopes for comfort in their near future. They could not wait to get back to being Marines, and they knew that any delay was going to be insufferable. They yearned for standard-issued anything that would provide some protection from the weather, from the country, and from the war. Each man hoped for the best the Corps would offer them once they arrived back in the command center.
Propellers chopped at the frigid air. Small bits of rock and heavy clouds of sand surrounded the bird as it lay in wait. McKenzee hunched over and ran to the side of the helicopter. Iman and Hasim followed in form. They ducked downward and jogged forward until they reached the helicopter’s side hatch at mid-hull.
The flight chief handed each of the men a Kevlar helmet and a flak vest through the open door as they approached the helicopter. Standard procedure called for everyone to travel with body armor because flying machines seemed to be magnets for small-arms fire all over the country. Iman and Hasim hated the battlefield all the more, but they appreciated having extra layers of gear to drape over their thin camouflaged utilities.
Collective hatred toward discomforts in the war zone amplified as the helicopter took to flight. The noise level pierced into the Marines’ eardrums. McKenzee covered his ears with headphones so he could communicate with the pilot and crew. Iman and Hasim marked the headphones in the same category as McKenzee’s coat. The agent was well taken care of while the Jarheads went without. They were left to shiver and stew in the silence of their thoughts.
Hasim’s teeth clenched as if his molars were engaged in a bitter battle against each other. He thought of the months spent away from the Corps. He was removed from the war and sent into a snake pit. For that, he blamed the Central Intelligence Agency and the minion with whom he had immediate contact. He tried not to glare at the face of the agency as McKenzee smiled and chatted with the pilot. Hasim tried to disguise his disdain for the civilian by looking away.
Instead, Hasim stared at the floor and continued in his thoughts. He had known that the snake pit was full when he volunteered to go in. He knew that the pit remained as full of venom as when he first arrived in Farhad’s world of hatred and misguidance. Then Hasim considered how many times he had been bitten.
Poisoned words from a false prophet, the head viper in the pit, still burned through the young Marine’s veins. Hasim remembered the messages of jihad. He remembered the ideology being forced into the minds of the uneducated and disenfranchised people throughout the camp. With his teeth attempting to crush each other through jaw-clenching opposition, Hasim grew more and more infuriated at the idea of rabid beasts operating in similar fashion all over the world. Such a waste of energy and faith…putting so much effort into something so fruitless. He cursed himself for ever having let go of his true principles.
Hasim began to question the depths of his resolve. He wondered at his moral courage to always do the right thing. The Marine, like many, was too strong to go with a current headed in the wrong direction. Yet he lost himself among people who would have killed him without a second thought, and smiled having done so. He had assimilated into the ways of a terrorist organization, so deep in his cover that he almost adopted their collective fate. Hasim knew that he had strayed from himself and would have been lost forever if not for his brother.
The young man cursed himself aloud, but no one took notice. The noise of the helicopter drowned his misery as propellers hacked at the air loudly above the hull. He buried his eyes to the floor and prayed for forgiveness. He begged for mercy. He was ashamed of what he had thought and felt while in camp, while away from his brother in the defense, and while away from the public war. Then he turned his hatred away from himself and was relieved to have killed the jihadist escorts in the open desert. Hasim felt, if nothing else, he had destroyed his portion of the enemy in penance. Tears filled his eyes, and he choked back a sob before regaining his composure.
Boiling inner turmoil nearly got the best of Hasim in the troop transport section of a bitter and cold helicopter. However, he was able to maintain a hardened shell of himself. His warrior exterior returned to shield his human interior from conflict. He looked to his brother, wondering what Iman must have been thinking against the noise of the flight. Hasim held his fist out to Iman. Iman answered. Their knuckles collided with assurance that no matter the course of the war, they would fight it together.
Hasim’s acknowledgment distracted Iman from his personal torment. Iman’s mind raced back and forth between his duties and his heart. He knew that they would get back to base and be debriefed. They would be required to give up every detail about the camp, about the routines and defenses, about the weapons and personnel. He knew that there was nothing to report other than bomb-making materials, a few crew-served weapons, small arms, a vast enemy, and a willingness to carry out any act of jihad ordered by Farhad. There was only one decent person among them worth saving.
The older brother’s mind stayed with Rasa. Please find a way to run before we return. Please get out
of there before we have to come back. Please, in the name of Allah, stay alive. He begged without a word, willing the woman to escape. Iman’s tortured spirit shredded in a disheartening reality that Rasa shared the same fate as the rest of the camp. One person, a woman unimportant to anyone other than Iman, was not enough to justify calling off the critical mission. She was forced to take a journey that led only to Hell Fire missiles and shrapnel-laden death.
Iman tried with all his conviction to keep his stomach from churning in misery. He prayed and considered the spiritual philosophy of the imminent attack. I feel that…I know that we were meant to be together. He silently sent his thoughts to Rasa. Allah put us on the same path for a reason. He put me in your life for a reason. You saved my life…and I know that it is my duty, to him, to save yours.
The older brother was not able to shroud his inner thoughts the way that Hasim had done. Anguish and worry spread across his eyes. His brow wrinkled, and he tried to prevent burning tears from flowing down his cheeks. He was in pain, and Hasim saw his brother’s agony.
Hasim tried to reassure Iman that everything would be okay, shoulder-nudging him to calm his nerves. However, they both knew that Hasim was lying to himself and to his older brother. The village, and everyone in it, was going to burn. The Marine spies would not be able to halt the impending attack without sacrificing need for want.
Iman swallowed hard and prayed again. Please…if it is your will to make them suffer…let Rasa go quickly. Show her your mercy. Please give her peace.
Iman and Hasim looked up from their plight-filled thoughts as the helicopter touched down with a bounce against a makeshift landing pad. The desert floor was unforgiving to the aircraft’s sudden and heavy descent. They had arrived. They were back among Marines, but they were strangers to base and most who resided within. Neither of the men recognized any of the faces in the landing zone. Their previous unit had been cycled out of rotation. The only remnants were the Marines on their team, men they had not yet encountered face-to-face. Men with whom they would travel into combat were to become their closest allies in a very short time.
Like all things in the Marine Corps, an air of hurry-up-and-wait surrounded them as soon as they landed. McKenzee was in a hurry to get the spies back to the command center. However, they arrived and the agent placed them on standby. They were left waiting in the cold, outside of a canvas city full of potential warmth. Once again, the brother Marines were stranded without the most basic provisions of comfort.
McKenzee ran from them to find whomever, but in his rush he dismissed the fact that they were still not in Marine form. Each of the men had long hair, full beards, and had not been clad in proper uniform for quite some time. They looked like jihad-driven terrorists, were clothed in United States Army uniforms, and had remnant blood in the crevasses of their faces where limited shower waters could not cleanse them of their pasts. They were out of place and found themselves growing more nervous among friends than they were in the midst of the enemy. They were nervous because Marines are far more dangerous to their foes than the untrained and undisciplined side of the fight. Marines, when threatened, would not hesitate to drop their targets into warm piles of wet meat. Each of the brothers stood out in a uniformed crowd, and they hoped that none of the surrounding warriors would suddenly feel ill at ease by an unfamiliar presence.
Iman and Hasim stood with their arms crossed, praying to keep some body heat from escaping their chests. They shivered. Their teeth chattered to slicing winter winds. Their entire bodies ached to the cold as their blood ran to ice.
“Who are you guys?” a boyish-looking lance corporal asked as he walked up from behind, surprising Iman and Hasim. The young Marine flung his heavy coat around Iman’s shoulders. A private first class, another junior Marine from the local unit, did the same for Hasim. While the brothers could not rely on their immediate superior to provide for them, they could rely on their fellow Marines.
The junior enlisted Jarheads saw two unarmed and freezing civilians standing outside. No one was under attack by anyone or anything other than the weather, so the Marines showed compassion for their fellow men despite obvious differences in appearance. The two boys-turned-men had no idea who the bearded newcomers were, but they shielded the weak and weary anyway. Iman and Hasim were quickly reminded why American heroes, especially those brave enough to serve in the United States Marine Corps, were such a phenomenal and effective force all over the world. They fought the enemy like fanged beasts from hell, but they cared for people with angelic compassion. While the enemy used civilians as human shields, Americans served as the shields separating the innocent from imminent harm.
The four men, a suddenly compiled mix of Marines, stood in a small circle trying to share their body heat. Iman and Hasim offered to alternate times under the protection of the heavy coats, but the subordinate Marines surrendered their warmth to protect others. “We’re…actually…Marines,” Hasim forced through a shiver.
The younger men laughed at such an outrageous claim. One of the youthful men gave a light tug on Hasim’s beard like a child at play. “I can tell. So, should we salute you, too?” The four of them laughed heartily together. The lance corporal and private first class assumed they were helping unknown civilians. The older Marines laughed at how ridiculous they must have seemed: out of uniform, out of regulations, their full beards swaying in the winter wind, and without any identification.
“It’s true. We’re sergeants,” Iman chuckled with a certain audacity. Then he was interrupted.
“Actually, gentlemen,” General Potts said as he snuck up on the group, “you’re staff sergeants now.” The four huddled Marines snapped to attention. None of them saluted in the war zone despite the officer’s high rank. The lance corporal and private first class reported themselves to General Potts.
“We were just trying to keep these men warm until we figured out who they are, General,” the lance corporal explained.
Potts smiled boldly. “I appreciate that, Marine. You did well. However, I’d prefer it if you didn’t worry about who they are at this time. I’ll take them from here.” The young Marines stood at attention again in the realization they were being relieved of their duties to the civilian-looking men. Iman and Hasim returned the coats to their rightful owners and thanked the men immensely for the temporary relief from stinging weather conditions.
The young men turned and said, “Good day, General. You too, Staff Sergeants.” The coat providers finally hustled in retreat back to the warmth of wherever they came from.
General Potts looked Iman and Hasim over. He initially took notice of their diminished weight, how their eyes were starting to sink deep into their sockets, and their overall lack of basic hygiene. He chuckled at their ragtag mix of equipment and appearance. “Let’s get you guys inside. We can debrief you while you clean up and get proper again.” Hasim and Iman smiled widely at the thought of being able to wash jihad from their bodies and spirits.
STANDARD ISSUE
Rome may not have been built in a day, but that’s just because you Marines didn’t have anything to do with the construction,” McKenzee laughed to an oddly mixed group of combatants. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said as he clapped his hands together and turned away. The agent jogged from the Marines as they staged on the edge of their pickup area.
Iman and Hasim stood alongside a small team of special warfare Marines from 1st Force Reconnaissance. The hardened veterans were masters of moving in and out of enemy territory without detection. They habitually infiltrated jihadist-held areas, gathered intelligence, and wreaked havoc upon armed insurgents when the mission dictated a need to deal death. The men were known as ghosts, demons sent to slay firstborn sons, and lived under the only purpose of destroying their targets by any means.
The Force Recon Marines waited for their lift into another combat zone within twenty-four hours of being briefed alongside Iman and Hasim. There was nothing new to the special operations Marines about being tapped on
the shoulder and receiving a kill order. However, the sudden additions to their tightly knit team were unexpected. Iman and Hasim made the combat-ready Marines more nervous than the thought of approaching the armed foes in the battle space.
Special operations units exist in a sense of brotherhood regardless of military branch or country of origin. From the day they volunteer for indoctrination training to the day they deploy, the men of special warfare assignments live on top of each other. They share barracks rooms in garrison. They are isolated from general populations in berthing areas aboard ships. They go to chow together. They dare not sleep unless their brothers stand watch. They dare not breathe unless enough air remains for all of them to inhale. Yet they stood with two strangers in their midst. The Force Recon Marines questioned if the greenest of the group could be trusted in the field.
Outsiders, hardly welcome in the same area in garrison, were certainly not welcome on Force Recon missions. Iman and Hasim met every qualification of outsider by Recon standards. Yet they stood ready for deployment in the field among the Force Recon team.
The two spies had taken part in several intelligence briefs building up to their launch order. The team was informed that Iman and Hasim lived among the enemy and would head the mission, but no other information was divulged about the newcomers. Therefore, the close band of brothers excluded Iman and Hasim from banter or reassuring fist bumps. The team made it clear to the spies that a proverbial welcome mat was already worn thin. However, the team was allowed no input as to who would tag along on the mission. Their orders were handed down by two generals, and no one among them was brave enough to argue.
Operation Jericho Page 12