Operation Jericho Read online

  The elder stepped back as Hasim raised the pistol to the back of the boy’s head. Hasim’s heart jumped into his throat, and his hand trembled without control. Thoughts of survival and self-sacrifice raced around his mind. He wanted to carry out his mission and do what was best for the War on Terror, but he did not want to do so at the cost of murdering a teenaged boy. Hasim panicked as he placed his finger across the trigger. Then he looked to Iman, searching for an answer as to what he should do. Iman’s heart pounded to get out of his chest as he watched Hasim aim a pistol at the base of the boy’s skull. He just nodded and closed his eyes, not wanting to see what Hasim was about to do.

  Hasim prayed, silently begging Allah and the boy for forgiveness. Tears flooded his eyes. His stomach turned. He wanted to vomit and flee for his life. Then he gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes as he pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Hasim nearly dropped the pistol to the noise of an empty chamber. He fought to stay on his feet despite his shaking knees. He tried to keep from vomiting from fear and remorse even though the gun was not loaded. Iman joined Hasim in the fight for composure.

  The old man and many others laughed heartily into the mountain air. They laughed as if Iman and Hasim were the butt of some very sick practical joke. “This,” the man said, taking his pistol from Hasim’s shaking hand, “this is my oldest son, Rami.” The blindfolded teen removed the cloth from his eyes and stood with a wide smile. Then the man continued, “I am Farhad.” His laughter dulled and he put his arm around Hasim’s shoulders.

  “Come. Come. We have a tent for you. You are welcome here.” Farhad led Iman and Hasim to a tent tucked away from the center of the camp. The canvas flapped at the hard mountain winds, but the structure of the tent was heavy and steady. They knew that little would protect them from the elements of winters or summers in Afghanistan, and the tent certainly was not going to be enough for comfort. They hoped to be away from the place sooner than later. Farhad showed the men inside the tent. Their bedrolls were raised from sharp rocks by wooden pallets. They were provided several old blankets along with sleeping bags. A wash pan sat on top of a brittle milk crate in the corner of the large tent. In the opposite corner was a bucket that held the remnant smell of its purpose.

  “Welcome home,” Farhad said, coaxing them inside before giving a description of the camp’s events. He described, in great detail, chores that were to be conducted on a daily basis. However, the chores were only to be carried out between prayers.

  Iman and Hasim were familiar with the calls to prayer, but they were still American in their thoughts of homage. They internally anticipated grouping prayers together so that they could remain efficient in their earthly chores. However, their new brothers were devout to the idea of five prayers at five separate times of the day. There was room for nothing other than service to Allah in the camp. Everything else was just to kill time before killing the enemy.

  ACCEPTANCE

  Fajr. The sun had yet to peek over encompassing mountaintops, but the camp was awake. They bowed to Mecca and prayed. Their foreheads pressed to the ground beneath their prayer rugs. They welcomed the morning by thanking Allah for a new day.

  The call to prayer ended and the day’s chores whipped everyone in camp into a whirl of people. Those who woke hard were still fumbling in the dark. People with early spirits moved in habit and found their way around quickly.

  Hasim and Iman hoisted themselves from their prostrated positions and rolled their rugs. They stowed the woven fabric into the front corner of their tent. Then they stretched to the onset of daylight. Still relatively new to camp, their only chores were to continue their studies.

  The morning prayer was their twenty-second in camp. Three weeks among the enemy gave the Marines time to at least conduct a meet-and-greet with nearly everyone in the village. The unkempt Jarheads had taken time to shake hands with every man and teenaged boy they encountered. Each tried to memorize names the way that partygoers would work a room of socialites. They teased relationships to the edge of mutual gain. If someone could not benefit their existence, comfort, or mission then the person was not committed to memory. There were too many terrorists to keep track of, all on an individual level. Farhad, his sons, the lieutenants in charge of varying sects, and the suspected bomb builders were the only guerillas deeply imbedded into Marine memory banks.

  Iman’s dedication to service and his ever-present drive for mission accomplishment set him apart from his brother. Hasim, devout in his faith, had to be reminded that relationships were fragile. To Hasim, everyone in camp was a Muslim first, and he found commonality with them. Iman, quietly at night and silently during the day, nudged Hasim’s mindset. The people they met were false-friendly. They would execute Iman and Hasim without a second thought if the spies were found out.

  Weeks spent with the mujahideen let the Marines learn a very harsh truth about the village. The place was home to no one under fourteen years of age. The women were held as wives, but wielded weapons alongside the men in the makeshift town. All the children were years into their combat training and ached for an opportunity to kill infidels. Each day brought a new realization that every person in the area was worthy of a military-driven death.

  Iman yearned to be away from the jihadists. He wanted to pass the information to Command. He wanted to assemble the team that would deliver a blow into the heart of terrorism. He wanted to finish the job. Hasim, on the other hand, just hoped that death would come quickly to the people of the village.

  Hasim sat cross-legged and leaned forward to the religious lecture hoisted from Farhad’s gullet. Iman, deep in his resolve against the enemy, adopted a posture opposite that of Hasim. Iman sat back on his hands with his legs stretched out in front of him. Hasim was involved while Iman seemed to distance himself from the others inside the tent. The older brother went as far as a near faux pas by exposing the bottoms of his feet, but he aimed the soles of his boots at no one in particular. Farhad took notice but remained steadfast in a lecturing posture.

  Despite their opposing sitting postures, Iman and Hasim looked at Farhad with an equal amount of intrigue. Iman was astounded at how Farhad could twist and contort the words of the Koran to meet the jihadists’ needs. He was taken aback by the level of justification that could be derived in and out of scriptural context. Iman fought back his urge to loudly and hatefully dismiss Farhad’s rationalization of evil. He bit his tongue early and often.

  Farhad spoke with such fire and force that he was able to sway spirits. Hasim sat among future murderers, but he dismissed the fact for feeling. The young Marine was enthralled by the improvised imam’s speeches and use of scripture. He was drawn into the call to war, ironically setting him at war with himself. Iman, watchfully concerned, sat with his brother and did not sway.

  Hasim’s interest in the messages of hate was not based on any willingness to accept empty justifications for violence against innocence. Rather, Hasim was taken with the thought of saving the other villagers. He knew that there was no hope for Farhad, the sons, or the most trusted of men in camp. They were too involved, too deeply buried in their own filth to be cleansed. However, Hasim looked over the rest of the village as if he were their guardian angel. He looked to the youngest men of the group, knowing they were still children. The Marine believed that if he could only reach the teenaged warmongers before they were brainwashed by Farhad, he could save them from the hell that was sure to come.

  Iman began to worry. He saw how Hasim was connecting emotionally and spiritually with the rest of the villagers. Iman’s concern grew each day that Hasim spent with Farhad. The older zealot seemed to have a great deal of influence over the younger brother’s personal involvement in the mujahideen. Iman knew that he and his brother would have to remove themselves from the enemy. They would have to disconnect if the Marines aimed to indiscriminately destroy their foes. Hasim knew it as well. Yet the younger brother was unable to tear from the village without tearing himself apart.
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  Farhad’s words were drowned out by Hasim’s innermost thoughts. I understand now, Allah, how the people here stand against America. Your messenger is right. This land is divided by your many tribes. However, they are united under the single call to fight invaders. I understand how so many young men would answer the call to protect their homes. I’ve seen the excesses and filth that American culture has to offer, and it will only drive a wedge between you and your people.

  The light in Hasim’s eyes was glazing over with the notion of one-track death. Iman watched quietly as Hasim faded from a steadfast Marine to a dirt-ridden jihadist. The older brother spent more time paying attention to his brother than the leader.

  Iman, exhausted from maintaining silence against stupidity, was thankful for Zuhr. The noon prayer time was sounded and would be followed by lunch. Everyone in the village would bow and pray. Then they would all sit in a sense of community and fellowship to eat lunch. Bits of goat and small portions of rice would be divided throughout the village. Iman and Hasim, as a two-man addition to the population, would spread the rations a bit thinner for another day.

  After lunch, the people would return to their chores. Iman and Hasim anticipated that they would return to the religious lectures. Hasim saw the studies as misguided reinforcements of faith. Iman considered the time as a means of brainwashing illiterate and disenfranchised people to carry out the biddings of evil men. Hasim continued to hope for the village’s salvation while Iman prayed for its demise.

  Farhad had observed Hasim’s reception and Iman’s resistance to the messages. The leader knew that Hasim was ready to move into the next phase of training. However, he questioned Iman’s willingness to kill infidels. The elder waited until the men were done eating. He watched them from across the open common area where meals and ceremonies were held. Farhad observed how they interacted with each other and with others in the group. The false prophet openly stared at Hasim’s smile and Iman’s frown. He watched until he was satisfied.

  “Hasim!” Farhad called loudly over the low roar of the community. Hasim looked up from his light conversation and met eyes with the head jihadist. The young man stood quickly and responded as a teacher’s pet would run to the front of a class. Iman watched as Hasim jogged to the older man.

  Iman sat nervously as the two religious warriors spoke. He made no effort to hide his stare. His curiosity heightened when Hasim shook his head matter-of-factly before nodding toward his older brother. Hasim and Farhad spoke outside of any range that would give Iman the ability to hear their conversation, but he could see that his brother was staging a request of the aged jihadist. Iman cursed himself silently as he wondered if Hasim would give over to the enemy.

  Hasim’s conversation with Farhad ended as the younger man walked back to Iman. Farhad watched from a distance. He waited for any correspondence between the two brothers, but was surprised when Hasim returned without Iman raising any questions. Hasim simply sat back down, next to his brother, and continued as if nothing happened. Farhad knew that he could trust Hasim, a man who traveled the earth with his brother but would travel into Paradise alone. The leader would grant Hasim his request.

  Lunch ended. Everyone went back to their chores. All sacrificed and suffered. Yet no one suffered their labors more than Iman. His gut turned into knots with every sentence bellowed by the babbling bastards of Allah. Steadily, he endured the task. He considered his suffering as his penance for the deaths he would soon cause.

  A short line of young men filed into the tent where Farhad would hold his next session of religious indoctrination. Their small bellies were full enough to thwart hunger pangs. Soon the rice from the meal would expand to its maximum potential and create an illusion of satisfaction. The undercover Marines were not strangers to hunger and could withstand inevitable pain, but they were as grateful for the small portions as everyone else in camp.

  Iman and Hasim were the last two men in line, and they were stopped outside the tent’s entryway. An armed guard stepped between them and the tent to impede their attendance at the next lecture. The brothers were suddenly confused and concerned within a single heartbeat. Their fears were not calmed as the rifle-wielding man seemed to look through them simultaneously.

  “Move,” the man quietly ordered. He nudged Iman rearward with the side of his AK-47. Any other time, in any other place, the small-framed Arab could not have bullied Iman or Hasim. Under professional circumstances, the man of little stature would have never been able to get close enough to bother them. However, the jihadist was armed with a fully automatic assault rifle. The Marines were empty-handed and surrounded by those willing to kill. They decided it best to cooperate rather than resist.

  Iman turned away from the side of a rifle being pushed outward from a skinny enemy soldier. Hasim followed his brother’s lead. The gun poked at Iman’s back intermittently to direct the path from the indoctrination tent to a different area of camp.

  Hasim had a fairly secure idea of where they were going, but had not shared the information with Iman. The older brother was relieved when he saw that they were not being taken to their execution. The Marines had been selected to join the able-bodied fighters.

  They reached the edge of base, and the armed escort patted Hasim on the back in welcoming fashion. The rifle-carrying man walked ahead of the brothers. Iman waited for enough space to build between them and the guard. Then he quietly asked, “Was that funny to you?”

  Hasim looked at Iman and explained sincerely, “I didn’t know what was going on any more than you. When Farhad called me over, he was going to send me without you. He said that he wasn’t convinced of your faith and conviction, but I told him that I would not go without you. I didn’t know if he was going to send us or kill us, but we’re here now.” Hasim paused as one of the mujahideen approached holding two assault rifles. “Just remember that we’ve never fired a weapon before,” Hasim reminded Iman of the alternate reality encompassed by their undercover personas.

  “This is where believers meet bullets,” the cloaked warrior chuckled through a mask. The man’s turban wrapped around his face and veiled everything but his narrow, dark eyes. The jihadist’s boots were well worn, etched from black to brown around the toes, a product of being dragged through the desert for years beyond reason. His uniform was tattered and tired. Iman looked around at the few other men in the area. Each of them was of like appearance, and he was not able to recognize any of them as being members of the base camp. He glanced to gauge Hasim’s reaction and found the same questions being asked into nothingness.

  “Come with me,” the veiled villain ordered as he handed loaded rifles to the newcomers. Hasim and Iman accepted the weapons. Both of the Marines pretended to fumble with the bodies of unfamiliar guns. They held the tools awkwardly. Iman was on the edge of overacting the scenario, pretending to touch a gun for the first time, but he withheld the last seconds of faked anxiety. He passed.

  “This is the AK-47. It is the most versatile and widely deployed weapon in the world,” the masked man coached. “It is also employed by children as young as nine years old in our resistance against the American pigs that continue to invade our villages, rape our women, and bomb our wives.” Iman snarled at the anti-American propaganda. The man accepted Iman’s reaction as affirmation to a shared view of Americans rather than that of disgust at baseless accusations.

  Iman and his only brother were inserted into the bowels of Islam in the interest of preserving innocent lives. They were risking their lives just to make sure that unarmed civilians and noncombatants were not going to be killed. Even still, Iman had to listen to some shrouded scumbag list empty propagated talking-points and nonsense in the continued brainwashing of Islamo-Nazi recruits. Iman felt his hate boil. Hasim saw the tears of anger well in Iman’s eyes. He nudged his brother, hoping to bring some calm to Iman’s inner storm.

  The man turned away from the new recruits. Iman considered the idea of immediate relief. He could shoot the jihadist in the back
. Then surrounding others would kill him and Hasim. The world would be one terrorist lighter and the Marines would be put out of their misery. He refrained.

  They watched as the bandit pulled another rifle off his back. He racked a round into the chamber with a hard jerk against the weapons charging handle and fired indiscriminately at empty barrels. The fully automatic discharge of ammunition kicked dirt and rocks up all around the intended targets. The man was not showing off any real marksmanship. He was, more or less, introducing the new jihadists to the sounds of outgoing bullets. They were not as surprised as he had hoped, so he invited them to do the same.

  Hasim went first. He pretended to be lost with a weapon in his hand, acting as if he did not know what to do. He pointed and clicked the rifle. “Mine is broken,” he announced to the group of terrorists who, despite their character, answered with laughter. The jihadist trainer showed Hasim how to charge the weapon, moving a bullet from the magazine to the chamber and pushing the safety switch downward. Then the younger brother opened fire on the same rusted barrels. He estimated that one in six bullets actually hit the targets, but still would have registered as low-miss on a legitimate qualification range. Marines rarely shoot shoulder-fired weapons on full-auto because the rapid recoil produces more errant misses than hits. Hasim ignored the general rule of thumb and held the trigger down until the weapon ran dry. It was an ammunition-wasting mistake that only the untrained and careless would make for lack of wisdom and experience. Hasim meant to mislead the enemy and did well enough to convince the herd.

  The empty weapon cued Iman to follow. Hasim stepped away from the predetermined firing line and spoke to Iman in passing. “First time,” he reminded his older brother with a whispered and scolding grin. He hoped that Iman’s pride would not get the best of him. He hoped Iman would have the wisdom to miss, to break the character of his usual ability to destroy targets at center-mass. He hoped that Iman would not get them killed.