Lieutenant Gibson, the officer in charge of the team, felt it necessary to reiterate the importance of Hasim and Iman following specific guidelines. The officer was concerned that the strangers would do something stupid in the field. He was worried they would make too bold of a move or accidentally make too much noise. Any activity outside of patient and calculated maneuvers could compromise the entire team and get them all killed. Gibson nearly begged the brothers to be mindful of all things at all times. He worried less about mission accomplishment and more about the welfare of his Marines. Lieutenant Gibson, unlike many other junior grade officers, did not regard his missions as opportunities for medals. He only prayed that he would not have to send any letters home to grieving parents.
As far as Gibson was concerned, Iman and Hasim were nothing more than observers from Intelligence Battalion. They were along for the ride despite his request to leave them behind. He had dismissed the fact that the spies had already lived among the enemy. Regardless of how the lieutenant felt, the brothers were not observers or hitchhikers. They were invaluable assets that he would soon need. Gibson might not have appreciated how important the new Marines were to accomplish a critical mission, but Iman and Hasim understood their purpose within the team. They did not have a need for acceptance into the unit. They needed only to move into Jericho, destroy the enemy, and ensure Farhad would never spread another word of hate again.
Harsh winds kicked dirt into the painted faces of the team. The Arab brothers had full beards only a day before, so the stinging sand was new to them once again. They were freshly shaved. Their hair was once again cropped and field-ready. Their uniforms and gear were much newer than the issued equipment of the war-ready Force Recon Marines, men who had regularly deployed their instruments of warfare for nearly a year in-country.
Gibson continued to bark meaningless orders and elementary guidance until he saw a helicopter approach the landing zone. The lieutenant turned to his men and yelled, “Get ready, boys. Here she comes.” He nodded to the inbound bird and started to step away from Iman and Hasim. However, his departure was interrupted.
Iman reached out suddenly and grabbed a fistful of the lieutenant’s sleeve. The men were already at full charge with adrenaline. Their every sense was amplified. Each of them was looking for a fight, but none of them was looking to turn the skirmish inward. Iman took hold of the lieutenant, breaking all Marine protocol in the respect for rank, only to get the man’s full attention. However, Iman was harsh when he jerked the officer in for an insubordinate verbal exchange.
“We aren’t some pencil-pushing punks reading out satellite imagery. We…” Iman let go of Gibson’s sleeve when he realized he was bordering the edge of assaulting an officer. He pointed to Hasim and himself. “We were the spies. We were the eyes on the ground gathering the intelligence. We are the source of your mission, and we certainly don’t need to be talked down to.” The noise of an approaching helicopter kept Iman’s words held privately between himself and the officer. The staff sergeant continued, “We are very well trained and well equipped for this job. You are in support of us, not the other way around. Sorry to grab you like that… sir, but if you want to take issue I certainly suggest you take it up with General Potts or Gutzwiller…or the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Gibson stood speechless at Iman’s brazenness. Under any other circumstances, the lieutenant could easily bring Iman up on insubordination charges under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. He could have the Marine stripped of rank and privilege. Being that Iman grabbed the ranking man’s sleeve, Gibson could have had him thrown in the brig for assault. Instead, Gibson stood in awe of Iman’s boldness.
Iman knew that he was wrong to grab the sleeve of any officer under any conditions. However, he had finally reached his breaking point with finding roundabout ways to circumvent rank. Iman and Hasim answered to a very short chain of command. Iman grew weary of not receiving needed support at every turn in his mission. Gibson just happened to be on the final receiving end of the staff sergeant’s frustration.
“Let’s go, Marine,” the lieutenant said, trying to assert his last bit of authority over Iman. Gibson might have outranked the spy Marines, but it was their mission. Iman made the issue abundantly clear, and Gibson could do nothing more than accept that the unknown Marines were backed by very important people. The spies were tied to the Pentagon, and the Force Recon Marines were assets at the CIA’s disposal.
Gibson was running from Iman as much as he was running to the helicopter. Hasim chuckled, patted his brother on the shoulder, and ran to the bird. Iman considered his actions for only a second longer than the others. He knew that he approached Gibson with reckless abandon and could have paid a dear price. Yet he got away with the infraction. Then he ran to the waiting helicopter with a chuckle and rejoined the team.
The heavily geared Marines piled into the back of a Super Stallion helicopter. They methodically dropped their packs to the deck and settled with their equipment between their feet. Each of their rifle muzzles pointed downward. They had magazines inserted into their weapons, but no rounds were charged into the chamber.
Hasim reached over and took Iman’s rifle. Iman sat back and strapped a canvas seatbelt across his lap. The buckle hooked then snapped. He gave the belt a solid tug to make sure it was secure. Then he took the rifles from Hasim. Hasim fastened himself in the same fashion. Both men were satisfied that they were locked into place and ready to go. They would be safe against turbulence or any other unforeseen problem midflight.
The rest of the Marines followed their lead. Most crew chiefs would not give a thumbs-up to pilots if the troops in transport were not strapped to the seats. However, Force Recon and other special operations units were accustomed to foregoing basic safety requirements. They so often had to get off helicopters deep in enemy territory that expedited exits were expected and encouraged. In-air precautions held little weight against the need for pilots to evade certain areas quickly. Belted Marines would have just an additional step to disembark the bird. The extra step translated to more time on the ground. Additional time on the ground created a greater window of opportunity for the enemy to shoot down an American helicopter.
Even still, Iman and Hasim kept to their most basic training. They would unhook the safety straps upon the chief’s two-minute warning preempting arrival, but a lot of time would lapse between takeoff and roping into the enemy zone. Ample time to be shot down by some rogue insurgent, armed with the right equipment, filled the air around the helicopter. Every man knew the reality that helicopters make for tempting targets to the enemy. They all would have preferred to punch in on the ground, under the cover of night, but time constraints trumped that which was preferred for that which was mission critical.
The operation’s clock was set from the secretary of defense’s order to execute. He issued a universal attack order and set all the twenty-eight strike teams in motion across the globe. Groups similar to Iman’s were mounting counterinsurgency warfare in a well-orchestrated series of assaults on several international terrorist organizations. The enemies’ names—Al Qaeda, Hamas, Hezbollah, or any other identifier—were irrelevant. Jihadists all over the world were set to die in a simultaneous slash at the throats of Islamo-Nazi beasts plaguing the world.
Iman’s stomach flipped over as his body sank into the bench beneath him. The Super Stallion’s powerful engine whined. Long propellers chopped hard at the air until the bird bounced its fat body off the ground. The helicopter jumped free from the earth and defied gravity as it thumped into the sky.
The airborne machine swayed to the torque of its top rotor. The tail rotor stabilized in the thick air of initially low altitude takeoff. Iman’s stomach eased as their altitude increased. The air thinned and the helicopter vibrated less against reduced invisible friction. Higher passage was less turbulent. The men understood firsthand why the large bird was known as the “Cadillac of the Marine Corps.” It made for a smooth ride, or at least smooth enou
gh to rival an old Coupe DeVille with blown shocks and too much weight in the rear end.
Hasim patted the back of his hand on Iman’s chest. Then he pointed to the hatch at the aircraft’s rear. The ramp was opened only slightly to the sky until the bird pitched into a steep climb. Iman smiled at the optical illusion of being thrown to the ground from an incredible height. Then he considered the probable safety of the ramp relative to the hole in the floor that would soon drop out from beneath them. The Super Stallion’s hell hole would relieve the bird of its cargo. Bottom hatches would create the open space needed for the Marines to fast-rope to their destination. However, that time was not set to arrive for a while to come.
The helicopter was traveling at over a hundred knots per hour, but they had more than two hundred miles to go. They would be in the air for some time yet. Iman knew that the pressure on the backs of his thighs was going to force his legs to sleep. He knew that the impact from his landing was going to hurt, so he tried to think of less foreboding issues. He thought of killing the enemy and being done with the war. He thought of his mother and father. The young man wondered what his father must think of his Marine sons. He knew that the old man was proud. Even still, Iman contemplated the complexity of his situation. He was an American. He was a Marine. He was an Arab. The trinity of his being was constantly in conflict. Americans cursed Marines. Arabs and Americans killed each other. Marines cursed and served them all.
Hasim looked at his wristwatch. Soon. We’ll drop in, patrol to the southern defense, kill them, and have a line of sight on target by tomorrow morning. Tomorrow…this will be done. It will finally be behind me…a memory I will spend the rest of my life trying to forget.
The younger brother then looked to Iman. Hasim felt sorry for his older sibling. While the fight might find its way behind Hasim, Rasa’s death would sit with Iman for the rest of his days. Hasim knew that his brother was going to be tormented into eternity. Then he wondered about duty and sacrifice. He understood their duty was to win the war. He questioned the notion of sacrifice.
Iman’s sacrifice was obvious. He was to let Rasa slip into Paradise. Hasim hoped, for Iman’s sake, that lost love would be found on the other side of death. He understood that such a reunion would be the reward of a just and loving God. He smiled at the idea. Then the younger brother began to consider what his call to sacrifice would be. Hasim initially thought he might have fulfilled his sacrifice. He considered the possibility that his sacrifice of self, while in Jericho, was the loss he had to suffer before coming back to the side of the just. He wondered if losing himself in the bowels of Islam was enough.
Hasim looked at his older brother. He could see that Iman was deep in his own thoughts and might need some reassurance. Hasim only assumed that Iman’s mind remained wrapped around his heart. He knew that Iman longed for Rasa, but she was lost to the war. She just didn’t know it yet. Hasim nudged Iman, hoping to send some sort of condolences through the thick tension.
Hasim realized that the sacrifice he previously pondered was neither real nor enough if he had to question its validity. He returned to question what his sacrifice would be just as he received and sent a message down the line. Two minutes. He held up his index and little finger. “Two minutes,” he tried to yell over the noise of the helicopter. “Two minutes,” he repeated to the next Marine in the row.
The obligatory correspondence was done. Hasim and Iman returned to their worlds of distraction. Their moment of pause let them flee the war. The younger brother retreated home. The elder stayed with his love. Then their retreat into self was interrupted.
Blaring red lights inside the troop compartment flashed. The buzz of a warning mixed with screams and prayers suddenly more audible than the helicopter’s roar. Hasim’s eyes were wide with fear. Iman prayed. The helicopter trembled, smoked, and plummeted into a dark spin.
RESCUE
Sergeant Thompson, a young squad leader from Tennessee, called out, “Twenty-four! We’re two down!” He looked around trying to identify the dead. Iman, having been the last one out of the downed helicopter, knew the answer. He yelled to Sergeant Thompson, “Calm down. It’s Lieutenant Gibson, and I think maybe Perez.”
Corporal Perez, surprised to hear his name called out as a casualty, answered back. “It ain’t me, Staff Sergeant. I don’t see Jackson anywhere though.” Everyone looked around for the missing Marine, Corporal Jackson. Perez was accurate in his assessment. Corporal Jackson and Lieutenant Gibson were the barely recognizable figures that lay mangled in the back of the helicopter. Iman was able to identify Lieutenant Gibson because of their previous close encounters conducted with discontent and limited respect. However, Corporal Jackson’s remains left little that might have allowed Iman to recognize the broken man. Meat hung from bone. Death twisted Jackson’s face, and Iman was sorry that he had not known the Marine better. Iman was sorry that he and Jackson had not met under more favorable circumstances. He was sorry that Jackson had to leave so badly torn that his mother would not be able to look at his face for a final goodbye from an open coffin. Iman swallowed hard.
“Sorry about that, Perez,” Iman answered. He sat down involuntarily. The staff sergeant had a sudden sharp pain at his side. Yeah, they’re broken. Iman agonized over the fractured ribs on his right side. He winced and grimaced but maintained his ability to lead.
“Are you okay?” Hasim moved to aid Iman once again. Iman sat up the best he could. He ached to the splintered bones but was able to continue breathing. No bone fragments pierced his lungs. He was not yet sentenced to death. Iman considered the pressure in his chest, wheezed, and grunted against the invisible bricks piled onto his sternum. He was hurt, but he was alive.
Iman looked around. He and Hasim were the ranking members of the team. They were to take charge and carry out their mission. Injured or otherwise, they had the most stripes on their collars. They knew the mission. They knew the enemy. They knew how to proceed. Therefore, their intentions were to carry on despite the crash and the loss of good Marines.
Losing Marines did not sit well with any member of the team. Iman huffed in pain but disguised his discomfort as disapproval toward the losses. Iman’s injuries were invisible, but Hasim did not share any such luck. Blood trickled out of Hasim’s helmet. The gouge in his forehead left a piece of flesh hanging limp. The tip of the skin strategically dripped red trails around his eyes, but not through them. He was still able to see despite the wound.
Iman could barely breathe. He needed a moment to catch his wind. “Contact!” one of the Marines yelled. The rest of the able-bodied fighters pointed in the same direction as the screaming and shooting Marine. Then the rest of the team squeezed their triggers until nothing remained of an approaching imminent threat.
Hasim and Iman assumed control of the two squads. They directed one man from each team to go check the dead enemies. The junior men responded. They sprinted to the slain advancers and confirmed the teams’ kills.
One of the men was carrying a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. The tube was empty. The Marines assumed he was the one lucky enough to have shot down a helicopter with an unguided weapon. The insurgent had killed Marines. However, the man was not lucky enough to live his days in false valor. The insurgent and his partner dripped the last bits of their lifeblood into the desert floor. The dryness of the sand slurped at the red liquid until the enemy faded to nothing.
Iman gave an order through a grimace. “Sergeant Taylor…if that fuel hasn’t gone up by now…it’s probably not going to. Let’s get the bodies out and move them away from the bird. Camo the dead so we can recover them later if possible. If the bad guys know a bird went down, they are going to come looking. We don’t want to see our brothers on the Internet.”
Sergeant Taylor understood the order and grabbed several other Marines for the task. One by one, they pulled the dead free from the crash. Iman watched the men work only for a moment. Then he asked Hasim to go and identify the dead enemy combatants.
The older brother hoped against fate. He knew there was a low probability that two jihadist camps would set up right next to each other unless it was by accident. The dead were most likely from Jericho. Iman turned to Hasim and softly ordered, “We should check those men.” He pointed at the fallen enemy lying in the desert sand. “See if they are from our target.” Iman identified the jihadist camp under a military identifier rather than reiterating its codename.
Hasim rushed to the dead insurgents. Hours of training and preparation eluded him momentarily. He nearly rolled the bodies left and right to search their remains. He refrained. Hasim did not move the bodies. In a last second of reason, the younger brother realized his task was not to check the dead for intelligence and weapons. He was only beside their limp bodies to identify the men and determine if they were from Jericho.
Both of the dead men were lying face-up to the desert sky. The Marines had done well to tear the enemy soldiers apart. The former jihadists were splayed open and shredded beneath blood-splattered holes in their flesh. Hasim smeared coagulating pools of red from the insurgents’ heads and necks. He looked at their hollow faces and did not recognize either man. He decided the slain were either newcomers or they were of another tribe. Yet he still did not move their bodies in search of more information. The spy knew that many of the terrorists in the area would set booby traps with their dying breaths simply to kill any Marine sent in search of the deceased.
Hasim left them unstirred and ran back to Iman. He then gave a report of his findings. “I don’t know them,” Hasim huffed, “and tell everybody to leave them. I didn’t check them for trip.” Hasim panted as he used Marine jargon to inform the others the bodies were dead but not cleared to kick out of the way.
The idea that two rogue terrorists were running around the desert passed through Iman’s head. Then he realized the thought was foolish. Survivability was next to nothing without the protection and provisions of a nearby village. He knew that Jericho was a beehive, but he worried that it might have only been a single hive in a colony of enemy wasps.
Operation Jericho Page 13