The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  Abdullah brought Ethan to a supply room. Just inside, two desks joined at right angles blocked the entrance: beyond them a middle-aged man who looked like a Syrian civilian sat on duty. Several equally spaced racks divided the room into sections, and each rack overflowed with boxes of munitions and supplies.

  "Ah, emir, it is good to see you!" The clean-shaven Syrian hastily stood up and extended a palm.

  Abdullah made no effort to shake his hand. "Do you have any sniper rifles?" he asked brusquely.

  "We should be getting a shipment of M24s from Mosul this week. And I have a couple of Dragunovs slated to arrive tomorrow or the day after. Should I add you to the waiting list?"

  "Move me to the top of the list," Abdullah growled.

  "You know I can't—"

  Abdullah grabbed the weaselly man by the collar.

  "Done!" The Syrian quickly typed a note into a laptop beside him. "Anything else?"

  Abdullah released his collar and nodded toward Ethan. "He needs a weapon in the meantime. And gear."

  "Of course!" the Syrian said. "The typical rookie gear?"

  "What do you think?" Abdullah roared impatiently. He lifted the baseball cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  The supply officer retreated among the racks and returned a moment later carrying an AKM rifle and its associated magazines, along with a sheathed combat knife and a chest harness.

  "No body armor?" Abdullah said, sounding exasperated.

  "We have a bunch on back order from Mosul," the Syrian said, cringing slightly as if he feared his words might invoke the wrath of the emir. "We should be getting them in a few weeks. You're at the top of the list."

  Ethan examined the harness. There was a two-way radio tucked inside a pouch in the center. He opened the quick release buckle, revealing the make and model: a Hytera TC-610. A standard off-the-shelf two-way; anyone within range who flipped to the same channel could eavesdrop. He closed the pouch and donned the harness over his fatigues.

  Ethan inserted a magazine into the AKM and tested the weight, then slid the sling over his shoulder. He shoved the spare magazines into his pockets. Next he withdrew the knife from its sheath, and recognized the make immediately: a Russian-made Kizlyar Voron-3. The black, 55-58 HRC stainless steel blade was as good as any Gerber out there. Ethan sheathed the weapon and threaded the leather holder into his belt.

  The supply officer meanwhile had gone back among the racks; he returned with a black balaclava and a headband. The latter contained the full Shahada. Ethan pocketed the balaclava, and while Abdullah watched he tied the headband over his keffiyeh.

  "Now you are a proper mujahid," the emir said approvingly.

  Abdullah led him toward Wolf Company's quarters. Along the way he showed Ethan the cafeteria on the first floor, which was already starting to fill with militants eager for supper, and the computer room on the second, which had its own satellite Internet hotspot.

  Emerging from the stairwell on the third floor, they passed a line of mujahadeen queued outside a door.

  "We must share this bathroom with the entire floor," Abdullah said. "Within, there are four toilet stalls, two sinks, and one shower."

  The men in line lowered their gazes deferentially as the emir passed. Though he bore no outward signs of rank, evidently they all knew who he was.

  Abdullah opened a door labeled three-ten and stepped inside. "Come, meet your brothers."

  11

  Ethan followed Abdullah and found himself in what appeared to be a former presentation room. Graduated floor levels littered with sleeping bags, backpacks and other belongings led to a far wall. Metal desks and chairs had been piled one atop the other in the top left corner.

  Militants were engaged in calisthenics in the main area in front of a whiteboard and projector screen. One of the participants counted out each pushup. Engrossed as they were in the exercise, no one noticed the arrival of the emir.

  Weapons leaned against the wall near the entrance. There were ten Kalashnikovs: five AK-47s and five AKMs. A Dragunov sniper rifle. Two general purpose Soviet PKM light machine guns.

  Abdullah led him up the graduated floor levels and pointed out a spot. "Your belongings go here."

  Ethan dropped his stuff in the space Abdullah indicated.

  When the militants finished the current round of pushups, Abdullah announced loudly, "Salaam, my wolves. We have another new member today. Meet Abu-Emad, who has come to us all the way from Saudi Arabia."

  Ethan was met with smiles and nods of greeting. He was expecting a few skeptical scowls, or even open hostility from some of the members—the kind of looks he would receive upon first joining a unit in any normal army—but these men seemed happy, to a man, that Ethan had come. And why wouldn't they be? Another martyr had come to join them in the long march to paradise.

  Ethan recognized Ibrahim and Osama Al'Jordani from the training camp; those two started forward, but Abdullah raised a hand.

  "We will handle the introductions over supper," Abdullah said with his typical Afghan brusqueness. "Come, we eat!"

  The men filed out the door, snatching up their weapons on the way. It seemed odd to bring a rifle to supper, but Ethan wasn't going to argue.

  While waiting in the food line at the cafeteria, Ethan reacquainted himself with Ibrahim and Osama.

  "It is good to see you again, Ibrahim."

  "Abu-Ibrahim, now," the sixteen-year-old beamed. "And he is Abu-Osama."

  Abu technically meant "father of." It was part of a kunya, or teknonym—the practice of referring to adults by the names of their eldest children as a sign of respect. Umm was the female equivalent, which meant "mother of." However, fictional kunyas were often used as noms de guerre among fighters, and they either chose the names themselves or bestowed them upon each other. The concept was similar to American callsigns. In this case, Abu implied "brother" more than anything else.

  "Well, I guess I'm Abu-Emad," Ethan said.

  Ibrahim smiled. "Yes, that's how the emir introduced you. But you know you can choose any kunya you want, right?"

  Ethan found Ibrahim's grin infectious. "Then why did you choose Abu-Ibrahim?"

  Ibrahim shrugged. "It's easier for me to remember. It is my name, after all."

  "And that's why I'm sticking with Emad." He patted the teen on the shoulder. "Never thought I'd see you again."

  "It is Allah's will," the youth said. "We were meant to be together."

  With a serving spoon, Ethan filled his plate from a communal bowl of chicken and rice, then broke off a piece from a flatbread loaf the size of a manhole cover. He joined the unit at a long table capable of seating ten per side.

  Abdullah proceeded to introduce Ethan to the members he didn't know.

  Harb, or "war," was the youngest at thirteen years old. He was a local, a graduate of one of the Islamic State's infamous child training camps. His father had apparently died in a bazaar suicide attack blamed on a rival group.

  Harb stood about three heads below Ethan's own height—about average for his age. He appeared somewhat malnourished, with deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks. Ethan would have expected a haunted look to the youth, given what had happened to his father, but he seemed content, his eyes glinting with the usual jihadist zeal.

  "When my father died," Harb said. "I wanted to join him in paradise. I almost volunteered for a martyrdom operation, but after I was drafted into the youth camp I realized that was not my path. This is my road." He patted his Kalashnikov. "I must do my duty for Allah and stay in this world for as long as He wills it, killing as many infidels along the way as I can. I will help my brothers free Syria from the chains of the oppressor, and solidify the gains made by our righteous state."

  Ethan thought back to what he himself had been doing when he was thirteen: chasing girls in the schoolyards and malls, not fighting for his life in a broken country for some war he didn't understand.

  Next Abdullah introduced Fida'a and Raheel. Both of them glanced up from their mea
ls to give the fist and forefinger salute.

  "They are recent college graduates," Abdullah said. "Abu-Fida'a majored in the arts, Abu-Raheel the sciences."

  "I wanted to be a journalist," Fida'a said. The man had eyebrows so thick that Ethan wondered if they impinged on his vision and bestowed a hairy ceiling to the world. "But defending my brother Muslims in Syria from the Assad regime was far more important."

  Bashar Al-Assad, the official president of Syria, ruled from the southwest corner of the country in Damascus. In 2011, when the Arab Spring movement spread to Syria, with protesters demonstrating in favor of democracy and free elections, Assad squelched them with violence, causing civil war to break out. The air force bombed rebel-owned territory, often utilizing highly-inaccurate "barrel bombs" that resulted in massive collateral damage. Chemical weapons were employed. Civilians died by the truckload. The attacks rarely made the international news.

  It was an overtly sectarian war. Various Sunni rebel groups including the Free Syrian Army and the Islamic Front fought openly against the Shia government forces and militias. Initially the rebels seemed to be winning, and conquered large swaths of territory. Then in 2013 the Islamic State entered the war.

  At first the rebel groups cheered the arrival of the Islamic State, as they were fellow Sunnis, and they made plans to fight together. Unfortunately, suicide bombers from IS infiltrated their command structures and began assassinating their leaders. The rebels fought back, fighting a war on two fronts, but quickly lost territory, allowing the Islamic State to assume control of most of the country's oil and gas production.

  Ethan looked at Fida'a with pity. He and the others truly believed they were liberating the country from the Assad regime. Fida'a couldn't see that the Islamic State was a parasite organization that had moved in to take advantage of a destabilized nation. All the Islamic State had done so far was "liberate" the locals from the very people who had fought on their behalf.

  "Abu-Fida'a is Algerian," Abdullah continued. "While Abu-Raheel is Indian." The name meant fearless. "An Indian who speaks Arabic. Who would have thought? It is true our religion unites the world."

  Next Abdullah introduced two men in their early twenties. Beneath their fatigues were the bulges of toned muscles.

  "Abu-Jabal and Abu-Baghdadi are our heavy gunners," Abdullah said. "Both hail from Tunisia."

  Ethan didn't actually consider the bulky PKMs hanging from their shoulders heavy guns, but he nodded politely.

  "Greetings, fellow holy warrior." Jabal got up, shook Ethan's hand in a vise-like grip, and gave him a kiss on either cheek. His name meant mountain.

  Baghdadi merely nodded from where he sat. "Welcome, brother."

  Abdullah pointed out the men beside them. "Abu-Yasiri is our second youngest in the company, at fifteen. Like Abu-Harb, he's a local conscript." The indicated youth nodded. His kunya was derived from the family name of a descendant of the Prophet.

  "And Abu-Sab is our resident Qatari."

  "Salaam," a dark-skinned man said. He was too young to grow a beard, and wore a white keffiyeh tied with black cord. His name meant Lion.

  Abdullah gestured at the big man seated across from him. "And that is Abu-Zarar, a ferocious fighter from my native Afghanistan." Zarar appeared to be in his forties, and had shrapnel scars covering the right half of his face. He towered over everyone present, even while seated. His chest was at least twice as big as that of an ordinary man.

  "Abu-Zarar is one of my brothers from the days when we fought the Taliban," Abdullah said. "He is a formidable warrior. He once took three bullets in the chest and kept fighting long enough to shoot down five Taleb and carry a wounded man a mile to safety."

  Zarar inclined his head. "Allah was with me that day."

  "As he is everyday," Abdullah said warmly. He turned toward the last person at the table. "And finally we have Abu-Suleman. An Iraqi."

  Ethan recognized the bronze-skinned man who had led the physical training session. His face was gaunt, angular, with a wide jaw and broad brow. One of his cheeks was darker than the other, as if he had suffered some sort of blunt trauma that had never fully healed.

  But the feature that stood out most for Ethan were those eyes, which burned with a zeal far greater than any he had ever seen. Zeal and condescension. Those eyes seemed tortured somehow, too, as if Suleman had witnessed unspeakable things. Or committed them.

  "Abu-Suleman is our official sniper," Abdullah continued. "So with your arrival, Abu-Emad, we now have two." He gave Suleman a sly look. "He's not used to competition. He'll have to step up his game."

  Jealousy momentarily flashed in Suleman's eyes, but he lowered his gaze so that Ethan could no longer read him.

  "Allah-willing, no man will ever outgun me, emir," Suleman said, his voice sounding extremely subservient. "I will not fail you. I will fill ten pools with the blood of the kaffir before I am done." Kaffir meant infidel.

  Abdullah smiled grimly. "I know you will."

  Suleman glanced at Ethan. The fervent zeal shone brighter than ever in those eyes. "It is good that you have come to wage jihad, brother. We need more devout Muslims. People who understand what we are trying to build here. People who hate the kaffir as much as we do."

  "We will build something great," Ethan agreed, doing his best to sound enthusiastic, though the man made his skin crawl in that moment.

  "Abu-Suleman also serves as my second," Abdullah said. "I have never known a more loyal man."

  Suleman smiled appreciatively, like a dog petted by its master.

  Fida'a abruptly produced a smartphone and prepared to take a photo. Some of the militants retrieved balaclavas from their cargo pockets and covered their faces. Ethan thought it wise to hide his own features, so he wrapped the bottom part of his keffiyeh around his mouth and nose so that he looked like a bandit.

  When they were suitably attired, they all made the fist and forefinger gesture, and Fida'a snapped his picture.

  "We often take photos and videos of the brotherhood," Abdullah explained. "And post them on social media. You must do this, too."

  Ethan nodded. "I'll bring my phone next time." Of course he had no plans to abet the Islamic State's recruitment efforts.

  When the meal was done, Abdullah led the men from the cafeteria. On the way out Ethan passed near William, who had just finished eating with his own unit.

  "So, what do you think?" Ethan asked his friend quietly in Arabic. He didn't dare risk his cover by speaking English—even in hushed tones the language would be readily identifiable.

  "I think we're in for an... interesting operation," William replied.

  "The only easy day was yesterday," Ethan said, quoting a Navy SEAL motto. The slogan sounded wrong, somehow, in guttural Arabic.

  12

  The next morning after PT and breakfast Abdullah led the unit to the parking lot and told Ethan to ride with Suleman. Ethan hopped into the passenger side of a bright and shiny Mitsubishi L200 pickup. Harb jumped into the rear bed to babysit the modified ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft gun that squatted there.

  "Where are we going?" Ethan asked Suleman.

  "Checkpoint duty," Suleman answered, driving from the compound and pulling behind the four other vehicles of Wolf Company. Though it was early, the road traffic was already heavy.

  "So, what do you think?" Suleman asked.

  Ethan was slightly perturbed at hearing the exact same question he'd asked William the night before, and he wondered if Suleman had overheard. He studied the militant's profile and decided it was a coincidence.

  "It's everything I dreamed of," Ethan said, resorting to the stock responses expected of him. "Finally, I feel like I'm part of something bigger than myself. Like I'm making a difference. Like I truly belong."

  "You are from Saudi Arabia, yes?" Suleman said.

  "I am."

  "Our brothers there, they cannot make a difference in your country?"

  "Not as much as they could if they came here," Ethan said.

&nb
sp; "The brothers could plan a martyrdom operation against the embassies, and do their part to show their support for Dawlah. Urge them when you post on social media."

  Ethan shook his head. "I can tell them, but the security in Saudi Arabia is extremely tight, my friend."

  Suleman grunted in disappointment, as if he thought Ethan was somehow not radical enough, despite the fact he'd come all that way to wage jihad in the name of the Islamic State.

  Into the conversational gap that followed, Ethan said, "I'm surprised it's so busy this early."

  "Everyone rushes to get to work in the mornings, while the power is on," Suleman said. "At noon, when the electricity is cut, you won't find many shops open. At this time of year, when it is so hot, most close for siesta anyway. When the afternoon prayer is done, the roads quickly clear, so that by the time of evening prayer the city is dead. After dusk, the traffic picks up again as the night cools. Some shops re-open, using diesel generators for power, only to close again after ten so that everyone can get home by curfew."

  Ethan saw a band of a niqab-wearing women who flourished Kalashnikovs. They looked like black-clad stormtroopers from Star Wars. Suleman explained they were part of the Khansa'a Brigade, a group of thirty women enforcers who earned around two hundred US dollars a month patrolling the streets and ensuring other women obeyed the rules. Basically the female version of the Hisbah, or morality police.

  The lead pickup in the convoy lurched to an unexpected halt. Led by Abdullah, four AK-wielding militants leaped out of the bed and began setting up a checkpoint.

  "Put your radio on channel two." Suleman parked the Mitsubishi L200 behind the other pickups and got out.

  Ethan activated his radio and flipped to the pre-programmed channel, then joined Suleman, who had taken up a position on the sidewalk along with three others. The remaining militants handled the street traffic, conversing with each motorist individually before letting them through. A long queue of vehicles had already formed.

  "What exactly are they looking for?" Ethan said.

  "Weapons, mostly," Suleman said. "If a motorist has arms of any kind on board, we're going to impound the vehicle and imprison the driver and passengers, because they are most likely rebels. Also, no scandalous music must be playing on the radio."