In Between God and Devil

by Rick Jones

  “In two months, Jamon, alongside Junaid Hassad, we begin our journey to establish a new capital to the caliphate. Until that time, we’ll continue to take new ground to replenish our ranks. I want you two—” Ali placed a hand upon each of their shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze “—to run operations while I fight another day with the will of Allah guiding me. The future will be glorious under one rule and one God, the way it was meant to be.” After his hands fell away from their shoulders, Ali added: “Get some rest. Morning will be here soon.”

  Mubarek Alfarsi posed another question to an ongoing problem with absconders. “And those who run in the night?” he asked.

  “The same as always,” Ali answered evenly. “This is a desert landscape with too many miles in each direction of nothingness. If someone runs, have a team hunt them down and return them to camp. Then hold a celebration by having the recruits perform the exercise of beheading as a learning tool, as well as to send a message to those who may be deciding to wander from Allah’s allegiance in the future. Let everyone know that their fate has been decided by the one true god. To go against the wishes of Allah is certain death without the privilege of Paradise.”

  Alfarsi nodded. “Understood.”

  “There’ll be some who will run, Mubarek, for sure. It has always been a coward’s quest to do so. As I said before, we cull the ranks by separating the weak from the strong and the cowards from the brave.”

  “Yes, Ahmed.”

  The edges of Ali’s smile lifted at both corners, a tired smile that seemed almost feigned, and one that said ‘goodnight.’ “Allahu Akbar,” he managed softly.

  “Allahu Akbar.”

  * * *

  After the session between Ali and his lieutenants was recorded by the drone, Faizan recalled the unit which made the return flight to his position.

  As the drone made its way back, no one heard its waspy hum as it passed over them as they lay on the floor. Though some areas within the tunnels were lit by lanterns, the unit zipped by as a fleeting insect to those who caught its motion just enough to get a brief glimpse.

  Then as the drone hovered close to Faizan, he navigated the unit onto the dirt floor beside him and carefully returned it to its plastic case. After he had powered down the unit and began to put the mini drone into his knapsack, that was when a hand alit upon his shoulder and said, “Jinan.”

  Henry Faizan, now known as Jinan Samara, surely believed that his heart was about to misfire inside his chest.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Command Center

  The Green Zone

  Baghdad, Iraq

  Inside the Command Center in the Green Zone, Shari Cohen was monitoring the incoming data from Faizan’s drone. The recordings, of course, were in Arabic, and her job was to translate and transcribe the language into English form and then send the recorded transmissions to Langley.

  On the sizeable wall monitor, a feebly lit area was captured by the drone’s eye. Three men, one who was Ahmed Ali and a key target and two unknown acolytes who had their AK-47s festooned across their backs, stood close to Ali as they conversed.

  Shari, sitting at her console and listening to the dialogue while wearing headphones, translated Arabic into English while typing.

  TRANSCRIPT RECORDINGS: 129253423434244K

  --Tomorrow, we’ll begin a regimental training. Those between fifteen and nineteen have a long way to go, much to learn—

  --Two months. That’s when I’ll need them to be at their best. That’s when they need to be ready—

  --They will be, Ahmed. The motivation for them to be the best they can be will come down to those who train the hardest and become the most proficient in what they do. Those who fail to meet the full demands as a warrior will be pressed into suicide missions with Allah strong in their hearts. It’ll be a win-win process that divides the strong from the weak—

  --In two months, Jamon, alongside Junaid Hassad, we begin our journey to establish a new capital to the caliphate. Until that time, we’ll continue to take new ground to replenish our ranks. I want you two to run operations here while I fight another day with the will of Allah guiding me. The future will be glorious under one rule and one God, the way it was meant to be—Get some rest. Morning will be here soon—

  --And those who run in the night? —

  --The same as always. This a desert landscape with too many miles in each direction of nothingness. If someone runs, have a team hunt them down and return them to camp. Then hold a celebration by having the recruits perform the exercise of beheading as a learning tool, as well as to send a message to those who may be deciding to wander from Allah’s allegiance in the future. Let everyone know that their fate has been decided by the one true god. To go against the wishes of Allah is certain death without the privilege if Paradise—

  --Understood—

  --There’ll be some who will run, Mubarek, for sure. It has always been a coward’s quest to do so. As I said before, we cull the ranks by separating the weak from the strong and the cowards from the brave—

  --Yes, Ahmed—

  --Allahu Akbar—

  --Allahu Akbar—

  TRANSCRIPT RECORDINGS: 129253423434244K COMPLETED

  One, there was no doubt in Shari’s mind that Faizan was inside an ISIS training camp in Syria, which was about to commence with preparation that was to be completed within two months. The ‘why’ of the completion time of two months remained the question. But it had something to do with their primary target, Junaid Hassad. Now Shari understood the ‘let’s-wait-and-see-what-happens’ approach. The Company wanted to get the two primary targets together for a failsafe maneuver that would take them both out: two birds taken with the killing blow of a single stone.

  After sending the visual feed and translated text to the geospatial satellite situated above the Green Zone, where it would then relay from the satellite to Langley, Shari eased into her seat and removed her headset.

  Two months. How many children will die or be conscripted into the ISIS ranks during that time? she wondered.

  As always, her answer came back as silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Wastelands of Syria

  “Jinan.”

  Faizan hitched his breath when a hand alit upon his shoulder, the man startled. In his hand was the plastic case holding the mini drone, which he tucked into the backpack beneath items. He did recognize the voice, however, one that was young and did not quite have the bass of a mature male.

  Faizan set the bag aside and leaned his back against the wall. “Omar,” was all he said.

  Omar al-Amin was a fifteen-year-old boy who was on the cusp of becoming a man too soon in life. Like most boys his age, Omar was taken from his family and his parents were summarily killed for objecting to this conscripting of village youths. His mother and father were driven to their knees, both voicing their resentment right up until the moment when their heads were removed to silence them.

  “I’m hungry.” Omar took a seat on the dirt floor beside Faizan.

  “This is three days in a row, Omar. You must learn how to live with hunger, since hunger is a way of life out here. The reason why Ali starves his unit is to ready you for leaner times that will surely come.”

  “I’m not a fighter, Jinan. I was a herder of goats who lived a simple life.”

  “Life is never simple, Omar. Ahmed Ali has taught you that lesson already.” Faizan reached into his bag, felt the plastic case that secured the mini drone, pushed it aside, grabbed a strip of beef jerky, then handed it to Omar. “That’s it,” Faizan told him. “No more. I mean it.”

  Omar began to chew greedily as if he hadn’t eaten since the last time Faizan handed him a strip of meat, which was the day before. Starving the crew was Ali’s way of forcing his soldiers to find reserves within themselves when all resources had been exhausted, including food. Hungering his newfound warriors, at least Ali believed, toughened them in body, mind and soul. Believe in Allah, for he will give you
the true strength you’ll need.

  After Omar finished the strip, he started to suck and lick at his fingertips. Then from Omar, who appeared satiated, said, “Jinan, my heart isn’t in this.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “I’m not a killer.”

  “Ali will make it so.”

  Omar nodded at this. “Unless I choose differently.”

  Faizan turned his shoulders in such a way that he was staring directly at Omar, who was more shadow than a man child. “Don’t even think about running, Omar. You’ll never make it, not in this environment. Such an undertaking would only invite certain death.”

  In the shadows, Omar lifted his arms to emphasize the cave. “This isn’t for me. Perhaps death would be better, yes? Or perhaps Allah would see me through by showing me the courage to seek a different fate.”

  “A foolish notion from a boy who is yet to be a man,” said Faizan. Then his features softened to the closest thing of being paternal since the death of Omar’s father, which was the reason why Omar confided in him. Then Faizan added: “Look, it wasn’t fair what happened to you or your family. But it is a way of life, Omar, you must unfortunately adhere to. I feel for you, yes. But you must understand that you were forced into this livelihood by no choice of your own or that of your parents . . . but by the choice of another who now holds your life within the palm of his hand. If you run, Omar, you will be caught and made an example of. Perhaps you should reconsider.”

  Omar remained seated with his back against the wall, the fifteen-year-old unmoving as he appeared to be staring into the open space before him, something Faizan couldn’t quite decipher if he was or not since the boy was steeped in shadow.

  “Omar, did you hear me?”

  “I did, Jinan. And thank you for the jerky. I promise, I won’t ask again.”

  When Omar turned around and headed for the shadows, Faizan reached out to grab him but missed, then whispered, “Omar.”

  But the fifteen-year-old headed into the shadows and disappeared.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Wastelands of Syria

  On the following morning, Faizan and all the others were awakened by kicks to the bottoms of their feet to galvanize them into motion. “Up! Up! Everyone up!” This came from Qadir, the diminutive man who carried his AK-47 like a king’s scepter. “Up! Up! I said, everyone up! Now! And go outside! Now!” Qadir set off a short burst from his assault weapon, the rounds embedding themselves in the stone ceiling. “Hurry!”

  The harshness of the sun was intense to their eyes the moment they left the cave, with the sudden change going from darkness to light. As soon as their sight adjusted, Qadir used the point of his AK-47 to direct his people into two lines.

  “Hurry! Two lines!” he said. “Two!” Then he raised his hand and displayed his fingers as a peace sign.

  When the teams lined up with Faizan in the first row, and with all eyes forward and everyone standing as stiff as rebar, Qadir returned his rifle over his back and started to pace before his fledgling troops with examination.

  “Your lives were preordained by Allah long ago. You are now the warriors of a new age, the fighters of a new regime. There is only one law under the one true god. And for those who disregard the law and turn their backs on Allah, they are to be punished by death, since death is the only thing that turns cowards into fighting men.”

  Faizan’s eye detonated slightly before they began to dart from left to right, then from right to left. He couldn’t see Omar and wondered if he was standing in the row behind him. But Faizan, as much as he wanted to scan his surroundings, was restricted from doing so. Clenching his jaw to bite back the temptation to turn, Faizan was able to maintain himself.

  “Cowards have no place in the eyes of Allah, no value. Therefore, they have no purpose but one,” said Qadir. “A coward’s sole purpose is to become examples to others. To show you that there is no glory or Paradise. Only Hell awaits those who turn their backs on Allah.”

  Qadir continued to pace and search the faces of his recruits, mostly boys who had a lot to learn, a lot to gain, a process that can be achieved in two months.

  “Lesson number one,” said Qadir. “The punishment of all cowards is that they will kneel before your eyes, before my eyes, and before the eyes of Allah to receive their just punishments.”

  As if the last sentence was a predetermined que, three soldiers escorted three prisoners from behind a rocky berm, marched them to a small clearing close to Qadir, and forced the three to their knees.

  Faizan felt the hot, acidic bile fire up his throat. The boy in the middle was Omar, who had obviously taken a beating. His face was badly bruised with one eye swollen shut while the other remained opened, no doubt so that he could witness his fate.

  “Cowards!” said Qadir. “All of them! They had gone three kilometers through the desert before they were caught.” Qadir pointed to an imaginary point somewhere deep in the wastelands to indicate their path. Then: “But by the showing of Allah we were able to track them down and here they are, on their knees, and no doubt praying to Allah for forgiveness when there is no forgiveness!”

  Qadir began to walk, and then pace behind the three boys, all who were teenagers around Omar’s age. Then he stopped behind the boy who knelt to the left of Omar and removed his knife, which looked wickedly sharp and keen.

  Faizan swallowed but couldn’t make the taste of bile go away.

  “The purpose of a coward,” said Qadir, who held up his knife in display, “the only purpose, is to make examples of them!”

  Cupping a hand around the boy’s forehead and bringing his head back to expose the throat, Qadir brought the knife down and ran the blade across the boy’s flesh. The teenager’s eyes flared in surprise of the act, or perhaps of his mortality at how fragile his life truly was, when Qadir started a sawing motion to cut deep, back and forth, the effort slow and fluid, as the teen gurgled a horrible wetness.

  “Do not turn away!” Qadir warned as he sawed. “For those who choose to do so will suffer the same consequence!”

  When Qadir finished and the teen’s body fell forward into the dirt, the terrorist, the teacher, held the head high as if it was a trophy. “This coward has been rejected by Allah and serves those who reign in Hell! So choose wisely! You either stand on the side of Allah or you stand on the side of the Devil. There is no one who stands between God and Devil!”

  Qadir dropped the head to the ground as if it was insignificant and pointed the bloody blade at a boy in line who was maybe fourteen, then waved the knife for him to come forward. The child was on Faizan’s left, and Faizan watched the boy as he approached Qadir with a tremble in his gait.

  “It’s fine,” Qadir told the boy simply, and then he smiled to place the teen inside this weird comfort zone, only to fail. The boy appeared awkward and frightened, while his chin trembled with a gelatinous quiver to it.

  Qadir held the knife by its bloodied tip and offered it to the teen. “Take it,” he said.

  The boy balked, however. And when he did, Qadir’s voice held a hard edge to it and a show of bared teeth. “I said . . . take it.”

  The teen’s hand came up slowly as if he was being held back by indecision.

  “Take the knife,” Qadir told him, “or it’ll be your throat this blade sees next.”

  The boy accepted the weapon by the hilt. Then he noted the blood along the blade as he turned it against the sun, the fluid glistening.

  Qadir walked down the row and to the young man who knelt next to Omar. Then with his finger, he beckoned to the teen wielding the knife to join his side. “Come,” he said.

  When the boy joined his side, Qadir addressed his troops. “Lesson number two!” he said. “Every man under my command must—and will—perform the ritual of beheading. Cowards and infidels must see and fear the true might of Allah! Those who cannot perform the required tasks of a warrior will join the coward who lies dead in the sand!” Qadir directed a finger to the body of the behead
ed teen to punctuate his point.

  Once the message was made clear, Qadir, who was not much taller than the teen standing beside him, leaned into his ear and whispered, “You will do this. You will remove his head and you will do so knowing that you do this for Allah’s sake. We are his vessels, his soldiers, we are the warriors who will rise and conquer to bring forward a brave new world. Do you understand me?”

  The teen nodded as his face was on the verge of breaking, which did not go unnoticed by Qadir.

  “If you shed one tear, just one, then you will be of no use to me other than to use you as an example. This you must understand.”

  The teen nodded.

  “That’s good,” Qadir whispered. “Now, when you perform your duty, that will be the moment you become a man. In two months, a true warrior. And when you cut the coward’s throat, when you start to remove his head, you will do so with the look of relish. This you must understand, as well. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good.” Qadir stepped away and said, “Commence.”

  The teen grabbed the hilt in a way to get a firmer grip, sensed all eyes weighing on him, then like Qadir, he cupped a hand around the victim’s forehead, pulled it back to expose the throat, and used the knife to cut deep. When the ceremony was over, when the head was divided from the body and held high for all to see, Qadir clapped a hand on the teen’s back and told him to drop the head and hand him the knife.

  As the teen returned to the line with his eyes cast downward, whether it was to hide the shame or tears or perhaps both, Qadir took the liberty to choose his next candidate. Standing behind Omar with a grin of malicious amusement, he pointed the bloodied knife at the next soldier to come forward.

  He was pointing the knife at Faizan.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Vatican, Vatican City

  After Kimball met with his team of Vatican Knights to resume the lead role now that he was once again at the top of his game, his presence was requested by the monsignor to meet at his office.