Operation Jericho Read online

  The seconds needed to return his tent to usual order lasted through the entire first breath of prayer. He nearly dove out of his canvas prison, timing his fall to the last man kneeling east. Iman fell in line unnoticed. He successfully hid the turmoil inside his tent though nothing was left to be found other than his bedroll, pallet, and the smeared bucket serving as a makeshift toilet.

  He should have been praying. He should have been begging. The sunset prayer was rushing along according to nature’s quick schedule. Iman would find no protection in the period of worship. The worried man had every reason to want more time. He had even greater cause to call out to Allah. Someone held his journal. Every page of the small book gave evidence of his mission. His long hair and bearded face could no longer hide the fact that he was a United States Marine, sent by the Pentagon, to cut the head off a poisonous serpent. He should have prayed, but he knelt and waited for the snake to finally bite.

  They wouldn’t kill me between prayers. That would be too outrageous even for these maniacs. I, at least, have until Ishah before Farhad sends someone for me. I wonder if he will have the guts to do it himself, or will he have one of his minions do it… What if she will do it? Iman’s calls to Allah were disrupted by his fear and innermost worries.

  Iman’s mind fluttered from fear and made way to Rasa. He contemplated his infatuation with her. Then he realized that Farhad was never able to break Iman’s spirits, faith, or dedication to his true mission. None of the brainwashing and physical torment got to Iman. He was too stubborn and devout, too bound to truth, and too strong for Farhad to infiltrate with venomous messages. Iman assumed Farhad held a great deal of inability to use any weapon against the Marine’s patriotic devotion until he realized Rasa was the weapon.

  That’s it. She was my weakness. That dog used her to get to me… and I let him. She batted her eyes at me…and I fell for it. I let my guard down and she caught me…

  Iman ground his teeth as he thought wildly of what was to come. His body swayed as he mumbled his mantras of praise. Then his mind absently eased into his final decision. She’s with Farhad tonight. She is his wife and should be. However, if I’m not killed tonight…I will make sure she dies with me tomorrow.

  He stewed on the notion for a moment before reversing his anger at Rasa. He realized little else could be expected of the woman. Hasim, a well-trained and extremely strong Marine, was nearly broken by Farhad’s indoctrinations. Rasa had endured a lifetime of the elder’s abuse and misuse of religion, weapons, and people. Then Iman considered his previous ideas of vengeance and cursed himself. It was his duty to forgive his transgressors. Seeking revenge and yearning to kill a messenger made him like them. He knew, in the fibers of his being, he was nothing like them. He would never be like them.

  The call to prayer ended and Iman had only begun to pray. He begged for forgiveness. He pleaded for absolution from the thoughts and feelings that betrayed him and his faith. His body went through the motions of standing and moving away from the common area, but his thoughts stayed with Allah. His mind and heart screamed for forgiveness until his eyes burned with unshed tears. His breaths became short in an effort not to sob. He prayed through the anguish of guilt. He prayed until he became calm.

  “Iman!” Farhad’s boisterous voice called across the open area. The Marine, head high, turned to face his fate. Iman’s heart stopped only long enough to know that it was broken and scared. He considered the idea of running from the leader. Iman knew that armed guards around camp would tear him to shreds with their Russian-made rifles. Well trained or otherwise, no man can outrun a bullet. He knew it to be true. He simply didn’t want to give Farhad the satisfaction of a check mark in the proverbial win column. Terrorist-1, Marines-0. Iman snarled at the thought.

  The broken man rolled his shoulders back. He inflated his chest with a full breath despite his shattered pride. He held his head high to meet demise head-on.

  Iman walked across camp like an innocent man moving in front of a firing squad. He knew he had done nothing wrong, but he was going to die for his deeds nonetheless. Farhad waited.

  “Yes, sir?” Iman questioned as he continued his cover, ignorant of any concern the old man might hold. Farhad stood in the door of his large tent. Iman still hated that the “servant of Allah” served himself first, well enough to ensure he had the nicest dwelling in the village. The old man’s tent was the only one in the village with a vent hole in the top, so it was the only one with a fire at the center. Farhad and his several wives, including Rasa, would remain warm through the harsh night. The rest of the village faced a possibility of being frozen to death. The men on defense would suffer far more than their leader through the snow and wind. Iman tried to avoid an arrogant grin. This devil is no different from the fat cats on the Hill. The only real difference is they aren’t as willing as Farhad to murder civilians. His thoughts returned him to anger and turmoil.

  Iman stood in the silence of Farhad’s stare. Farhad stayed quiet long enough for Rasa to catch Iman’s attention from inside the tent. She tossed a log onto the increasing flame at the center of the structure and stoked the fire for more warmth. Then she glanced at Iman through the open flap at the entrance. The weak doorway was nearly blocked by her husband’s wide robes. Iman’s face was lit by the fire, and she could see him glare. She looked back at him like a child who had just tattled on a sibling. Rasa tried to pretend that she didn’t know why the Marine was in trouble.

  Rasa, seemingly ashamed, looked away from Iman’s stare. Iman broke his attention from her and returned it to Farhad. The old man inhaled just enough to posture himself above the subordinate jihadist. Then the leader asked, “Are you and Hasim of the same faith?”

  The spy was not sure how he should answer. He could not decipher Farhad’s intentions behind the inquiry. Iman was ultimately confused by the question. Does Farhad want to know if Hasim is also an American spy, or if we are of equal military character? He wasn’t certain if the old man was asking about their mutual devotion to Islam or simply staging a philosophical question without blatant accusation. He has the book. He knows who we are. Why won’t he just kill us and call it a day?

  “Yes, sir. We are of the same faith,” Iman answered with a lump in his throat. Then another long pause filled the air between the two men. Farhad looked away from Iman and gazed into the direction where Hasim stood watch. Iman looked at the ground and collected his thoughts. He refused to surrender. Then he glared hard at the old man, almost challenging Farhad for control.

  The elder spoke plainly, “Then tomorrow you will go with him.” Farhad was vague. He left questions racing through Iman’s imagination. The old man spoke ambiguously and gave up no further information. He simply placed his hands on Iman’s shoulders, looked the younger man in the eyes, and spoke again. “Rest well, my friend, for soon you will be in Paradise.”

  The false prophet’s final words to Iman left nothing to the imagination. Iman and Hasim were set to die. However, the Marine was still left with questions. If Farhad knew their true identities, then he did well to hide his hand.

  Iman knew that the plan had been to die. He and Hasim were either going to be killed in the line of duty, killed in an incidental raid by the United States Army working in the area, or killed on a mission set by the fake imam. Yet he stood amazed at Farhad’s words. Iman was just informed that he would either be executed alongside his brother, or they would be sent into the world to die for the cause. Either case would go unanswered for the time being.

  Farhad stepped into his tent and closed the flap behind him. Iman was left standing in the open courtyard of the camp. The young man was flabbergasted at the idea of being murdered by the very people he aimed to kill. His every instinct told him to run to Hasim’s position and make a break for the open desert. He assumed they could surrender to the first Allied troops they happened upon and make it back home after some arduous journey through the course that prisoners of war must endure. Then he considered the fact that he had
no records in any system at the Department of Defense. He and Hasim had been removed by the CIA for the sake of plausible deniability. They would not be allowed to contact McKenzee until they reached Guantanamo Bay as actual prisoners. There, the brothers would be killed by the other detainees, whom they had betrayed several times over. There was nowhere left to go other than back to his tent. He would have to wait until morning to find out what Farhad had in mind for the spies.

  Iman returned to the darkness of his dwelling. Cold winter winds licked at the bottoms of the canvas walls. He hated that his last night alive would be spent in such a place, but he accepted the reality of his situation. He was relieved that he would, at least, die next to his brother with honor and pride. Their suffering would soon end.

  Iman sat wrapped in his bedroll and let his mind continue to swirl. Very little time passed between Maghrib and Ishah. He was once again summoned to the outside of his tent. He bowed east and prayed. Unlike the time before, he actually prayed. He made his peace with Allah and readied his spirit to move on. He longed for the mercy of death that would settle his misery. Then the prayer finished and allowed him to return to the torments of his lonely thoughts.

  Restless and exhausted, the spy tossed back and forth into the night. He had no idea what time it was, but he knew that the onset of morning was coming whether he was able to sleep or not. He forced his eyes to close. He slowed his breathing down. He dared not sleep as to not dream of what was to come. Instead, he meditated. Iman calmed himself enough to finally drift into an accidental rest. His mind did not shut down, but he was able to distract himself enough. The weight of his eyelids won in his battle against fatigue.

  The alarm clock known to the village as Fajr screamed into Iman’s tent. He jolted awake as if his feet had been plugged into an electric socket. He had not been assassinated sometime in the night. He was breathing and was not covered in blood. His slumber began and ended peacefully. Iman smiled to the new day and thanked Allah for his ability to wake one more time.

  Alert to the still-dark tent, Iman allowed his eyes to adjust. He looked around, hoping not to find anyone else in the swaying structure. He knew he should have been more present through the night, but he figured that he would be best served to die having rested properly.

  His eyes refocused to dimly cast early morning twilight. The sun was about to rise, cascading its glow into the lower sky. Early slivers of ambient illumination flicked beneath the bottom of his tent, and Iman saw the shadow of a rectangle on the floor. His blood turned to thick lava pulsing through every vein in his body. Burning relief soared into him as he saw his journal lying on the ground next to his pallet. Iman realized that he had fallen into a deeper sleep than he realized. Someone was able to move in, undetected by his normal state of awareness, and slide the journal under the edge of his tent while he slept.

  Iman grabbed the book, frantically hoping that he and Hasim were preserved as jihadists rather than exposed as American warriors, expendable spies. It was still too dark for him to read, but he smiled at the journal’s return. He smiled until he considered the calculated maneuver accomplished during the night. Someone had taken the journal, surely read it, and returned it in clandestine fashion. Someone was ultimately letting Iman know that his identity was discovered and he would soon die. Relief was replaced once again with panic.

  Pre-sunrise calls to prayer were often the loudest of the day. Religious rites and practices were a superior duty to Allah, even beyond the natural duty to sleep. The village stirred and made their way out of their tents. People took their places to pray. Then the top of the sun welcomed them into the day, shedding just enough light for Iman to thumb through the journal inside his tent. He was not concerned with being late to prayer. Farhad already told him he was going to die, so he didn’t bother with the thought of punishment if he missed a moment’s worship.

  The sunlight peeked into the flap of Iman’s tent as the journal pages flicked under his thumb. He was elated that none of the pages were missing or marked. Then a small piece of paper fell from the center of the book. The scrap was folded only once, just enough to make it thicker than the other pages. Iman would not have been able to miss it.

  He looked around and bent over to pick up the paper. Iman squinted in the dim light and whispered the simple words, inscribed in rushed and swooping Arabic script: “Please spare me. Rasa.”

  Iman’s heart fluttered and his stomach twisted into jittery knots. He was right in his previous assumptions. Rasa had seen him bury and unearth the journal. She knew where it was and how she should get it back to Iman. He considered that she had not given the information to Farhad, but used the book as a way to reach out to him. He assumed she could not read or write in English, but she was able to deduce that the American was in camp for a purpose greater than that of blowing up some random market.

  The young man smiled like a boy happily lost in the midst of courtship. Farhad may have beaten and raped Rasa for a lifetime, but he never broke her. The fact that she was able to write a message of hope, a plea for mercy, was enough to let Iman know that Rasa was alive. Her spirit was steadfast. She learned to read and write despite Farhad’s overbearing domination of her physically. The old bastard was not able to poison her mind or her heart. She wanted nothing of the fundamentalist movement or the place where it was held. Rasa wanted out, and she found that possibility in Iman. He was her escape in fantasy and in hope.

  Iman smiled with absolute joy. He silently swore to Rasa that he would get her out, break the chains binding her in slavery, before the village was laid to waste. He prayed and vowed as he moved his belongings to the side and buried the journal once again. He buried the note from Rasa as well, first into the folds of the journal before he placed it into the earth. Then he turned to join in public prayer and continued to smile. He no longer doubted his feelings for Rasa. He no longer thought of her as Farhad’s weapon against him. The source of his infatuation became his drive to love.

  REASON

  I man!” Farhad called across the open courtyard of camp. Whipping winds swirled thick licks of snow against everyone standing outside of their tents. Iman wondered how Hasim was holding up in the flurried edge of a snowstorm, hoping the best for his brother.

  Iman, with his face wrapped and his hands covered in shreds of cloth, turned to the older man. He made no attempt to yell back to Farhad in acknowledgment of the boisterous summons. Rather, he crunched his boots through piling snow. A deep line of footprints trailed the spy until they faded to wind and falling flakes.

  The young man arrived at the zealot’s tent. His approach was choppy in movement, slow in pace. Harsh winter weather impeded Iman’s ability to move from his tent to the next with any form of grace. His feet sloshed and slipped. The wind did all it could to knock Iman off balance. Snow and ice stung his skin. Yet his heart was warm.

  Marines, in any clime and place, will take their fight to the enemy. Iman and Hasim were men bred and forged from generations of warriors. However, previous warrior generations took to fighting head-on. They charged Belleau Wood. They raised the flag on Suribachi. They seized Hue City. They liberated Baghdad. The brothers, each regretful, were not able to share the same glory of confronting foes in direct combat.

  In the spirit of their predecessors, Iman and Hasim would have preferred to move in with tanks and close-air support. They would have preferred to exchange rounds with the enemy. Yet Hasim sat freezing in a hole dug by his opposition, and Iman was preparing himself to ignore the onslaught of garbage spewed forth by a false cleric. Iman hated the people with whom he lived. He hated them because they hated his desire to live free. He hated them for their desire to kill innocents. He hated them because they misused and abused the Koran to serve their selfish purposes. He wanted to kill them all; all but one.

  Iman tried to stay subtle as he looked around Farhad. He attempted to sneak a glimpse of his heart’s center, but she was among Farhad’s several other wives. She was buried in the struggled war
mth of the large tent. Farhad’s body occupied what little space he needed to present himself through the front canvas flap.

  Had the old man possessed more manners in his awful soul, he would have invited Iman in from the cold. He would have given the younger man refuge from the storm slapping at Iman’s appendages. Iman ached while he waited for Farhad to say something worthwhile. Instead, Farhad launched into his usually slobbered sermon before attempting to make a point based in a skewed rationale. Iman, covered with fresh snow and hardly suited for the cold, finally had enough of the old man’s drivel.

  “Pardon me, Farhad,” Iman said, holding his hands up in half surrender. He interrupted the elder and knew that he held no established place to do so. Iman had broken in with his voice and silently begged for forgiveness with his open palms. “I’m freezing. Is this something that can be discussed inside or be held until a time where I can feel my fingers?” Iman tried to be coy, but the gesture was not accepted. Farhad’s face never changed from the resolute and stern gaze he held over Iman.

  Farhad was either defiant of the interruption or so narcissistic that he thought his words were not affected by the cold, but he continued his sermon without consideration of Iman’s request. He seemed to add lines and new misinterpretations to scripture. The old man spoke until Iman interrupted again. “Get to the point so I can go back to my tent and try to warm up,” Iman barked over Farhad’s nonsense. Such an act was unheard of in the village. It never occurred to the rest of the movement members that they could address their leader with blatant disregard, disdain, and disrespect.