Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup (12 page)

The two people with him, an elderly man and a fully veiled woman of undisclosed age, probably his parents, attempted to calm the individual and hold him back, but he broke free of their grasp and pointed accusingly at Ethan.

"Your Caliphate is not a paradise, but a hell! You are the same as the Assad pig. Worse! You do not follow Allah, or Muhammad. You are followers of the devil!" He began cursing the Islamic State, Allah, and Muhammad. A crime punishable by beheading.

Other people in line gave him room, not wanting to be close when the shit hit the fan.

"Shut up you fool!" Ethan told the perpetrator, glancing over his shoulder.

Kaleem was going to come out any moment, and when he did, the man was as good as dead.

T
he man wouldn't stop cursing.
 

Ethan shook him. "I'm trying to save your life!"

The perpetrator made a grab for Ethan's AKM, which still hung from his shoulder. Ethan deftly sidestepped, maneuvering behind the individual. He wrapped his forearms around the man's neck in a sleeper hold and squeezed.

The man clawed at Ethan's arms with his nails. The mother cried out. The father wept, ripping hair from his beard. "Please!" the father shouted.

The perpetrator went limp in his arms and Ethan released him, lowering him gently to the ground. The man began to stir immediately.

"What is going on here?" Kaleem announced in an authoritative tone. He paused to take in the scene. The collapsed individual on the ground. The wailing mother. The weeping father who had pieces of his own beard in his hands.

Ethan did his best to project calmness and authority. "This man fainted. Probably from heat exhaustion."
 

The Hisbah glanced at the people in line, who held their tongues in complicit silence, and then he rushed inside the bakery and returned with a glass of water. He knelt, elevated the perpetrator, and held the cup to his lips. "Drink, brother. Drink."
 

Ethan felt his insides knot up. He expected the man to start cursing again any moment, but thankfully the blackout seemed to have brought him to his senses, so to speak, and he remained silent.

The Hisbah helped him stand, and the individual thanked him profusely. As did the mother and father. All three of them were careful not to meet Ethan's eye as they returned to their places in line.

* * *

That night found Ethan back in the cafeteria of the barracks, eating dinner with the other members of Wolf Company. Like the evening before, the overhead lamps remained powered, despite the nightly blackouts affecting the rest of the city. The militants were drawing electricity from the distribution grid at the expense of the common people, apparently.

After supper, he lingered in the cafeteria, perspiring profusely: the place felt like an oven. Eventually William and Aaron finished eating with their own respective units and joined him.

"So, what news?" Ethan said.

"Only the first day and I'm already sick of chicken and rice," William said. "That's all they eat. Chicken and rice for breakfast. Chicken and rice for supper."

"Bread for lunch," Aaron added.

"Don't even get me started on the bread." William shook his head. "Whoever said variety was the spice of life forgot to mention it to these guys."

"Any leads so far?" Ethan asked.

"Too early," William answered. "I'm just getting operational."

"You're on checkpoint duty, too?"

"Ordinarily, but today my company handled crowd control during a public 'smash and burn' of haram goods in Clock Tower Square."

"Haram goods?"

"You know, cigarettes, shisha pipes, alcohol."

"Ah." He turned toward Aaron. "And what about you?"

The other operative shook his head. "Bomber watch."
 

Ethan frowned. "Bomber watch?"
 

"Yeah," Aaron said. "My guys pile into two technicals, then take up positions in random areas of Raqqa and sit there all day on the anti-aircraft guns, waiting for Assad to send his MiGs and L-39s on low altitude bombing runs."

"You do know that the air force basically stopped using MiGs and other fighters months ago, right?" William said. "Too costly. I think Assad has lost what, half his fleet by now?"

During the initial stages of the Syrian civil war, because of the few precision-guided weapons the air force possessed, the aircrafts were forced to fly low to release their payloads, placing them dangerously close to the rebel anti-aircraft artillery. William was right—those tactics had cost the air force dearly.
 

"Oh I know," Aaron answered. "It's all about barrel bombs these days. But try telling that to the muj. They're all new guys. Anyway, so far it's been fairly monotonous, but let's just say as soon as I hear a passing helo, I'm ducking for cover. The other fools can martyr themselves."

Barrel bombs, essentially airborne IEDs, were dropped by Mi-8 transport helicopters above ten thousand feet, beyond the range of most MANPADs and anti-aircraft guns. Made from components costing only a couple hundred dollars, the bombs were essentially oil barrels filled with chopped rebar, explosives, and jet fuel. Though the helicopters would hover in place before the drop, it was still impossible to aim with any reasonable accuracy from that height. As such, massive collateral damage was inflicted, usually resulting in severe civilian casualties. That a government would use such a weapon against its own people was morally reprehensible, to say the least. The IEDs were so heavy that sometimes they crashed straight through the roofs of buildings before detonation, taking down the entire structures and their occupants in one blow.
 

"But as far as leads go," Aaron continued. "When I got back today I befriended one of the men on patrol duty outside. A fellow Yemeni."

"And what did this fellow Yemeni tell you?" Ethan asked.

Aaron rapped his fingers against the glass, as if deciding whether to divulge what he had learned or not. Finally: "The Yemeni let slip that foreign journalists are being held inside another building in the complex here. I'm not going to say which one, operational compartmentalization and all that, but man, apparently the journalists are being treated brutally by the British jihadis guarding them. They beat them multiple times a day. Waterboard them for no reason. It's like the Brits want payback for all the bigotry and contempt they faced back home or something."

"You really should tell us what building they're in," Ethan said.

Aaron shrugged, saying nothing.

Ethan looked at him crossly. "You're going to try springing them on your own, aren't you?"

Aaron shot him a Cheshire cat grin. "Nothing I like more than roughing up a few pompous bullies."

As Ethan had mentioned, all three of them were lone wolves. But even so, there were
times for teamwork. Was this one of them? He regarded Aaron uncertainly. The man was one of the best operatives in the field. If Aaron thought he could spring the journalists on his own, then he probably could.
 

The three exchanged small talk for a while longer. As Sam had predicted, it was good to be in the company of men who were not religious radicals for once, men who wouldn't take offense and accuse him of being a kaffir for speaking his mind. He was getting tired, however, and soon bid his friends farewell.

Ethan stopped by the computer room, intending to update Sam, but when he saw the long queue of militants waiting for a free system, he left.

Back at room three-ten, he found most of the others reading the Quran, either alone or in groups. Ibrahim and Osama were playing Call of Duty on their laptops, taking advantage of the working electricity. Harb watched. Most video games were prohibited under the Islamic State's harsh brand of sharia, but no one in Wolf Company seemed to care. Everyone knew that sharia didn't apply as strictly to the foreign fighters, a double standard they were happy to exploit. Throughout history, those with the guns made the rules—and flaunted them.  
 

Raheel, Sab, and Jabal weren't present. When he asked Harb about the trio, the youth told him they didn't sleep there. "They are married."

"Married?"

"Yes. After dinner they return to their apartments to be with their wives, then come back in the morning."

"So everyone here right now doesn't have a wife?" Ethan regarded the remaining militants under a new light.

"Yes," Harb said. "Many left their wives behind in their home countries. Abu-Zarar and emir Abdullah, for example."

"What about the rest?" Ethan said. "I thought the Caliphate provided wives? According to the smuggler who brought me here, every foreign fighter gets one."

"Well he lied. There simply aren't enough to go around. And besides, not all of us want the burden and distraction of a wife while waging jihad."

"You can't tell me you don't want to be with a woman before you die," Ethan said.

"Why does it matter?" Harb said. "When I will have a limitless supply of women in the afterlife?"

Ethan suppressed a sigh and left Harb to the computer game.

He retrieved his charger and plugged his Android phone into a spare outlet on one of the power bars. He returned to his spot on the graduated floor and spread out his sleeping bag, intending to catch some Zs early. Though any of the other members would have readily welcomed his company, Ethan thought it best to continue maintaining his distance. On the one hand he had no desire to get too attached to anyone, and on the other he didn't want to risk saying something that might blow his cover.

Nearby, Suleman was reading the Quran softly while the emir listened. Abdullah made eye contact with Ethan and waved him over.

"Yes, emir?" Ethan said.

"Sit with us."

Ethan complied.

Abdullah nodded at Suleman to continue. He read a passage related to jihad. "Kill the infidels wherever you find them. Capture them. Besiege them. Waylay them in ambush."

That was the commonly quoted "sword verse" from the Quran used to justify violence against the infidel.

"But if they should repent," Ethan said, completing the verse. "Let them go on their way. Allah is forgiving, and merciful."

"Oh, but the West will not repent," Abdullah said. "It will not." Abdullah tapped his chin. "Life is one great jihad. We must all fight. We are all at war, if not with the kaffir, then ourselves."

Ethan nodded slowly. "I can agree with that."

Abdullah studied him. "You are not like the others. You don't have the same fire in your eyes. The same zeal."

Ethan remained silent. Was it so obvious what he was?

"I can see the conflict in you, Abu-Emad," Abdullah continued. "You are fighting a great battle with yourself. You want to be here, and yet you do not. You want to take up jihad, and yet you do not. But I tell you, be at peace with yourself, because you have done the right thing. It is your duty to defend Muslims wherever and whenever the kaffir assault them. Just as it is your duty to help establish the Caliphate. Someday, inshallah, you will come to understand that you have made the right choice."
 

"Thank you," Ethan said.

"But one thing I must warn you of." Abdullah's voice became stern. "If you ever let any of us down, or betray us in any way, I will kill you myself. Do you hear me, Abu-Emad?"

Beside him, Suleman's eyes burned with their fanatical fire, as if he yearned to see Ethan die by Abdullah's hand.

Ethan ignored that gaze and, mustering as much conviction into his voice as he could, he said, "I will not let you down, emir."

"Allah yusallmak," Abdullah dismissed him.

Covered in sweat, Ethan lay on top of his sleeping bag and closed his eyes, but repose did not come for many hours, even after lights out. The heat troubled him. As did Abdullah's words.
 

If you ever let any of us down, I will kill you myself.

He thought of Suleman's fierce gaze, and he knew that Abdullah wouldn't be the only one who'd want to kill Ethan should his identity ever become compromised.
 

Even so, he resolved that tomorrow he would become fully operational.

T
he next morning during breakfast Ethan excused himself, claiming he had to use the washroom. He abandoned the militants and rushed upstairs, but instead of heading to the toilet he made a beeline to room three-ten.
 

Ethan proceeded to rummage through the various belongings and backpacks of the company members. Whenever he found a passport, he set it down and snapped a picture of the photo page. Though the identities were of limited value, he wanted to start gathering at least some intel, and that was a good start.
 

Sometimes he found a militant's smartphone tucked away. On the Android models, all he had to do was pop the case and look behind the batteries to expose the serial number. He'd take a snapshot and then quickly replace the battery, closing up the phone. For the iPhone 4 model he found, he used one of his lockpicks to eject the SIM and then photographed the serial number engraved on the tray.

Those numbers would prove useful to any JSOC or DIA embeds in the country, who likely had Stingrays with them—devices that imitated the signature of cellphone repeaters. Basically laptops with GSM cards, the devices could trick phones into connecting and sending their serial number and geolocation. When actual network coverage was available, the Stingray could perform a man-in-the-middle attack, allowing the device to listen in on calls, texts and Internet packets while forwarding the data on to the real tower. Of course, with the encryption technology employed by jihadis today, most of that data was worthless, especially when Voice Over IP was used to send the encoded calls and texts. Even so, the geolocation data still allowed for tracking, as long as the serial number of the target was known.
 

Again, not super valuable intelligence, but a good beginning.

Ethan had just put away one of the phones and was about to replace the passport of the Tunisian who called himself Baghdadi when a voice arose from behind him.