by Isaac Hooke
Ethan returned his attention to the sidewalk. "And what about us?" Pedestrian traffic was just starting to ramp up.
"We perform random searches for weapons, cigarettes and cellphones. If we find a smartphone, we check that they do not have any obscene music, or any illegal photos of the city."
"Okay," Ethan said.
"We must also watch that the men and women are properly dressed and behaved. For the women, this means full veils and abayas. For the men, proper hairstyles, and no short pants. Both sexes must wear loose clothing. The women must not talk too loudly. And so forth."
Ethan felt his brow furrow. "Sounds like we're doing the job of the Hisbah."
"There is some overlap with their jobs, yes. We must all do our part to enforce sharia while we are here." Suleman formed a fist with his free hand and raised his index finger. "We are all Hisbah, in a sense. Just because you are not officially a member of the morality police, is it not your duty, as a devout Muslim, to ensure the law is obeyed? That Allah is pleased?"
The day passed slowly. Ethan didn't see anyone improperly dressed, and those men he patted down had neither weapons nor smartphones. Suleman always looked inside the piles of flatbread people carried from a nearby bakery; apparently the craftier citizens tried to smuggle cigarettes that way.
Suleman made a point of greeting veiled women and their chaperons, mostly to ensure the women answered with a feminine voice—he explained that rebels sometimes tried to sneak past in niqabs. He and Ethan often checked the IDs of the women and their chaperons to ensure the males were properly related: they were required to be either brother, father, or husband.
"This is good," Suleman announced. "Every day fewer and fewer violate our laws. It is a sign that we are succeeding. Crime rates are almost nonexistent. We are creating a heaven on Earth here, Abu-Emad. We really are."
About ten minutes before the call to prayer, shops started to close, and the flows through the checkpoint waned to nothing. One young man came jogging past about five minutes before the call, and Suleman scolded the youth. "Hurry up, you slow-footed fool!" He fired his rifle into the air, making the youth run faster.
"Now you are showing the proper vigor!" Suleman said. "Allahu ahkbar!"
"Allahu ahkbar!" the youth answered.
The members of Wolf Company maneuvered their vehicles so that the empty road was blocked off completely, then they raced toward the nearest mosque as the call to prayer echoed through the air. By then the city had become a veritable ghost town as the last stragglers hurried into the mosque, and Ethan had the eerie sensation that the voice of the muezzin served as an air raid siren or some other herald of doom.
The main prayer hall was full, so Ethan and the others were forced to use the overflow in the balcony, which was equally packed, though men made room for them. The overflow was ordinarily reserved for women, but since the female gender was relegated to non-entity status by the Islamic State, and no longer allowed to pray in the mosques, the men were happy to use it.
When prayers were done, the group made its way down the stairs with the rest of the congregation.
"Do you notice how many come to pray?" Suleman said fervently. "I told you we were succeeding here. Creating an Earthly heaven."
Ethan's eyes drifted over the departing crowd and settled on a man dressed in a white thawb with a matching cap on his head. He wore an external harness with a pistol holstered on the side and a two-way radio secured to the front. Despite the close confines, the crowd managed to give him a respectful berth; he was like an oceangoing icebreaker—the densely packed men yielded before him like ice before the bow.
"Who's that?" Ethan said.
"One of the Hisbah." Suleman glanced at Ethan knowingly. "You envy him, don't you? Look at the respect other men show him. Greater even than they show us." His voice was filled with awe. All of a sudden he shoved Ethan forward. "Go ahead, join him in his rounds."
"But—"
"All of us should walk fully in the shoes of the Hisbah for at least one day." Suleman turned toward Abdullah, who was just behind. "Emir, may Abu-Emad join the Hisbah for the rest of his shift?"
Abdullah regarded the receding figure of the Hisbah thoughtfully. "We have more than enough mujahadeen to man the checkpoint. By all means. It will be good for him." He turned toward Ethan. "Abu-Emad, go introduce yourself."
Ethan reluctantly made his way toward the man. He told himself it wouldn't be so bad—he never knew when a good intel opportunity might present itself, after all.
Ethan moved through the crowd and flagged down the Hisbah.
The individual in question had a well-maintained Abe Lincoln beard, with placid features and gentle eyes. He smiled calmly at Ethan. "How can I help you, brother?" He spoke perfect formal Arabic, and there was a knowing twinkle to his eye, as if he thought himself privy to knowledge hidden from other men.
"What is your name, brother?" Ethan said.
"Abu-Kaleem," the man answered.
"I am Abu-Emad. I would be honored to come with you during your shift today. If you would have me."
Kaleem's grin deepened. "Of course, brother! Let me inform my deputy." Kaleem spoke quietly into his two-way radio, and then rested a hand on Ethan's shoulder and led him from the mosque.
Together they toured the streets at a moderate pace, following what was apparently Kaleem's beat. They moved from shop to shop, inspecting the goods. Kaleem explained that it was his job to ensure everything sold was of good quality, and that the shopkeepers weren't overcharging people.
Kaleem passed a pile of garbage bags on one street corner that reached chest high, and he conscripted several passersby to remove "that eyesore" immediately. Ethan suspected the conscripts would simply dump the trash in a nearby alley or ditch.
Kaleem continued on his way, eventually stopping beside a clothing shop. He carefully scrutinized the windows before going inside.
A fully veiled saleswoman stood in one corner like a black ghost. She bowed her head immediately. A male salesman, probably the shopkeeper, nervously approached. "Salaam, blessed Hisbah."
Ethan thought the tanned, slightly overweight man was in his forties, though his full head of hair betrayed no gray—the unnatural sheen made Ethan think it was dyed. He had a lazy left eye, the half-closed lid making the other eye bulge in comparison. The absence of a beard was conspicuous.
"Salaam," Kaleem answered distractedly.
"What may I do for you today, blessed Hisbah?" the shopkeeper said. Ethan noticed he was trying very hard to use formal Arabic rather than colloquial Syrian.
Kaleem grinned widely but didn't say a word. He moved about the shop imperiously, inspecting the clothing and price tags as suited his whims. He paused beside one particular item of clothing. "This one is too expensive. You are cheating the citizens of their hard-earned money. Lower the price."
Ethan had the sense Kaleem was putting on a show for his benefit.
"Yes, blessed Hisbah," the shopkeeper said.
"Let me see your IDs," Kaleem said.
He studied the documents the man and woman produced. "You are husband and wife?"
"Yes, blessed Hisbah."
Kaleem returned the IDs and approached the sales counter from the far side. Ethan had remained near the entrance, which afforded him a clear view of the counter's opposite flank. As Kaleem neared, a young man was flushed out from behind the counter, toward Ethan. The teen stayed low, trying to keep from Kaleem's sight. He obviously hadn't realized Ethan was there, because when the youth saw him standing by the entrance, his eyes widened in fear.
Ethan glanced at the shopkeeper, who had gone very pale. The man was harboring a known rebel, apparently. Ethan returned his attention to the teen and shook his head ever so slightly.
A puzzled expression appeared on the youth's face but he seemed to understand that Ethan wasn't going to turn him in.
Kaleem spun about. "We're done here." He moved toward the door; the youth quickly dodged behind the counter and
out of view.
"Allah yusallmak!" the shopkeeper called to their backs as they left. God protect you. The relief was obvious in his voice.
Ethan smiled inwardly. He had found his first asset. He inconspicuously noted the place on his offline map as he followed Kaleem.
The Hisbah skirted a sprawling, block-long queue to enter a bakery. Ethan remained outside, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd. He had the sense it was the only food store open in the entire neighborhood.
A man in line suddenly went ballistic and started pointing at Ethan and cursing.
"You and your Caliphate are the reason none of us have any food!" the mustached man said. "Do you see the children scrounging for scraps in the gutter? The hawkers at the street corners selling whatever junk they find in the hopes they'll have enough money to afford the exorbitant food costs? And where is the promised garbage collection? The bags pile up, but no one collects them. And you call yourself a state. Shame on you."
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.
13
The 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 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.
