by Isaac Hooke
Ethan nodded. "Where are the two cousins who came with you?"
"Paradise," Osama said proudly. "I will join them soon, Allah willing."
Ethan debated whether to expedite the man's journey to paradise. It was his operational duty to disrupt and destroy Islamic State targets from within. That included targets from heads of state to snipers. No cog on the Islamic State terror machine was considered too small—the sniper might someday be responsible for the death of American citizens if the US ever decided to put boots on the ground. Besides, that M24 would fit nicely in Ethan's arsenal. And as an added bonus, he didn't know the man, so he wouldn't feel guilt.
He quietly pointed his Dragunov at the back of Osama's head.
"I sometimes dream of my home in Detroit," Osama said without looking at him. "The wife I left. The small child. I want to go back, but I am afraid the American government will arrest me. So I stay." He sighed. "My brothers in the Caliphate are all I have left now. Men like you. I am proud to have you at my side. Very proud. When I see you again when you are standing before the gates to paradise, I will tell Allah, that man fought beside me for what is right and good. That man fought for Islam."
Feeling like a scumbag, Ethan lowered the rifle. He didn't need to brutally execute the man, and certainly not merely to assume ownership of some rifle he coveted. The chances Osama might someday kill a US soldier were minuscule anyway.
Ethan bid the jihadi farewell and in twenty minutes he had attained another hide, a bedroom on the top floor of a three-story apartment.
Over the secure chat application he once more asked William and Aaron to leave, but his fellow operatives refused to obey. Ethan told them it didn't make sense for them to stay, and he promised to join them as soon as he got the coordinates of the new forward camp for the bombers.
Can't abandon you, bro, Aaron sent back as Constrictor. We're staying. We're in this together.
He's right, Death Adder added. If something happened and you needed immediate exfil, having us on the other side makes getting to you a helluva lot more difficult.
Half an hour before dusk, Ethan made his way back to his unit. He'd targeted just two buildings for Doug that day, and only one bomb had actually dropped.
When he rejoined Wolf Company, he noticed three missing members.
"Where's Ibrahim?" Ethan said, concerned for the sixteen-year-old.
"Shot. Raheel brought him back for medical treatment."
"What about Jabal?" Ethan asked.
"Dead."
An urgent notice came over the two-way radios. "The infidels are pushing forward near Forty-Eighth Street. All units in the area, attack! I repeat, all units in the area, attack!" The accent sounded very odd.
"Up!" Abdullah said. "Up!"
31
Wolf Company dashed into the street, following the sounds of gunfire. It wasn't completely dark yet, but Ethan would have a hell of a time targeting anything, even with the PSO-1's illuminated reticule. Broken glass crunched underfoot as the unit hastened past the burnt-out husks of several buildings.
They rounded an intersection and started to take incoming gunfire. Abdullah waved the unit back immediately.
"It's a trap!" the emir said as they huddled against the house. "There are no brothers here. We have fallen for a Kurdish trick!"
The sound of Kurdish DShKs raked air, and bricks at the edge of the house fell away in large shards.
"Back!" Abdullah said.
They fled the way they had come. Gunfire seemed to be going off all around them.
Harb tripped.
"Come on, kid!" Ethan tried to help him up, but as soon as the thirteen-year-old was on his feet again he collapsed. Ethan hauled the teen over one shoulder and carried him.
The unit retreated, finally reaching the safety of the Islamic State lines again. Mortar men and machine gunners covered their rear.
When they took shelter in a nearby abandoned house, Ethan lowered Harb to the floor. The thirteen-year-old coughed sickly.
Ethan retrieved his smartphone and set the brightness to full, illuminating the kid. His mouth was wet with crimson fluid. Ethan directed the glow downward, toward his body. Harb's shirt was blood-soaked—he hadn't worn any body armor, as none of the Kevlar jackets fit his small size.
Ethan lifted the bottom hem of the shirt and Harb moaned. Suddenly he squeezed Ethan's arm.
"I failed Abu Baghdadi," Harb gasped.
"You didn't fail." Ethan held the cellphone's screen over him, illuminating the multiple gunshot wounds the kid had taken. Ethan felt a sudden helplessness, and an overwhelming sense of sorrow. Why, out of all them, did Harb have to die? The youngest, most innocent of them all?
"Failed," Harb repeated. "The... mission."
"Stop saying that. You're the greatest martyr I've ever known."
Harb coughed up blood. "Really?"
"Yes. Allah has called you to his side."
"Brenda... Locks," Harb managed.
Ethan looked into Harb's face and did his best to hold it together. "That's right. Brenda Locks. She's waiting for you, brother. She's all yours."
Harb smiled wistfully and then closed his eyes. His respirations became slower with each passing moment, until all breathing finally ceased.
Ethan shut off the cellphone, welcoming the darkness. He took pride in being a big, tough man. Someone unaffected by emotion. He never cried—it was a sign of weakness.
Yet his face was wet with sorrow then.
"Why do you grieve?" It was Suleman's voice. "He is in paradise now, with our brothers. And his father. He is free now."
Ethan didn't trust himself enough to answer Suleman. Instead he lay down and closed his eyes.
THE NEXT DAY the surviving militants helped move Harb to the backyard. They donated the rationed water from their canteens to bath his body, then wrapped him in a linen sheet purloined from one of the bedrooms. They prayed the Salat al-Janazah, the Islamic funeral prayer, and buried Harb with his head pointing toward Mecca. He wasn't the first member of Wolf Company they had buried, and probably not the last, but even so, Ethan felt his loss more keenly than any of the others.
Goodbye, my brother. I hope you find the paradise you dreamed of.
During the burial Ethan noticed Abdullah had been shot the previous night as well—he had a red tourniquet wrapped tightly around his right calf, and he walked with an obvious limp.
The unit had only just finished burying Harb when heavy shelling erupted from the Kurdish lines and they were forced to hunker down in the house.
The report soon came over the two-ways and FireChat that the Kurds had attained Tall Shair Hill to the west of the city, and were using it to bomb the Islamic State positions.
At first, no one did much talking while the shells whistled in. They all knew that a bomb could easily land on the house. They were quite literally in the hands of Allah.
The more zealous among the lot seemed almost happy about the predicament. Suleman's eyes, for example, shone with a particularly bright fervor, and whenever a shell landed too close, he was always the first to laugh it off.
"This is real glory, my brothers," Suleman said. "This is what it means to fight jihad! The time of our promised martyrdom is at hand. Our whole lives have been but preparation for this moment. Bask in it, my brothers! Bask in it!"
Suleman led them in some religious song, and the group crooned until hoarse.
The shelling continued all that day and into the dark. It soon became obvious that no one would be eating supper that night.
The main battle sheik broadcast a speech over the two-way radios about an hour after sunset. He identified himself as Abu Khattab Al-Kurdi—a Kurd. Ethan found it more than ironic that the Islamic State had chosen a Kurd to lead the extermination of his own people.
Al-Kurdi paused after each sentence so that translators could convert what he was saying into the native tongues of the foreign fighters.
"We are doing well, my brothers!" the sheik exclaimed.
"And we will prevail, despite the enemy arrayed before us. We control sixty percent of Kobane. Sixty! From the hill of Mistenur, past the industrial district, to that area they call 'security square.' We are raining hell fire down upon them, and inflicting the wrath of Allah. We are conquering for Islam, my lions! Be strong now, during this time of trial, when Allah chooses to test us most. Be brave!"
The rhetoric continued like that for a few minutes, but Ethan tuned out after the first few sentences. It was hard to feel enthusiastic for bombast when shells were raining down around him.
About thirty minutes after the sheik finished his speech, the shelling abruptly ceased. Ethan and the others stayed awake the entire night, expecting the Kurdish house clearing squads to follow up the artillery bombardment.
But the squads never came.
In the morning, news came over the radios. The Islamic State had retaken Tall Shair Hill.
Wolf Company erupted in exuberant, if weary, shouts of "Allahu akbar." Similar cries broke out over the two-way radios. Ethan yelled along with the best of them.
They had served their four days. It was time to return to the forward camp.
Wolf Company marched with slumped shoulders from the front. Suleman and Fida'a helped Abdullah walk, as the emir could no longer place much weight on the leg.
Ethan was completely benumbed by that point. He considered turning around and making a run for the Kurdish lines right then.
Just one more day, he told himself. Return to the new forward camp, record its position, then get the hell out when we come back to Kobane.
The group passed the mosque Ethan had visited the day before. Glancing up, he saw the minaret. Was that... yes, the black tip of a muzzle protruded very slightly from the banisters of the upper balcony, pointing toward the Kurdish lines. Something seemed off about the angle of that muzzle. Maybe he was imagining, but it seemed pointed too high.
On a whim Ethan decided to check it out. Though he was bone-weary, the potential reward was too great to ignore.
"One second!" he told the others, then swerved into the mosque and bounded up the spiral stairs.
At the balcony of the minaret he found Osama, glued to the same spot, his M24A2 jammed between the stone banisters. The skyward-angled muzzle definitely wasn't positioned for proper firing.
Keeping low, Ethan approached. The first thing he noticed was the abhorrent stench, a mixture of rot and fecal matter.
The mujahid had a large black exit wound in the back of his head, where the flies had gathered around the matted hair.
Scrunching up his nose, Ethan grabbed the M24. It seemed undamaged. As he examined the weapon, his captivated mind no longer registered the smell of the corpse. H-S Precision PST-25 fiberglass and carbon-fiber reinforced polymer foam stock with adjustable length of pull and cheek height. 416R Stainless Steel barrel with 5-R rifling. Leupold Mark 4 LR/T 10x40mm fixed magnification scope with DiamondCoat 2 ion-assist lens coating for higher light transmission and greater ruggedness. Detachable ten-round magazine. Top and side Picatinny rails for accessory mounting. Fold-down Harris bipod with RBA-3 rotapod adapter, allowing for target tracking without bipod repositioning. Maximum effective range, eight-hundred to a thousand meters.
He named the rifle Beast.
He looked into the scope, peering through one of the banisters, being careful not to get too close to the balcony's edge. Built into the lens was the standard Mil-dot reticule, with beads placed at intervals along the cross-hairs to aid in range calculation. The 10x magnification was slightly high for urban combat, but he could always resort to the Dragunov as a backup.
Beast had a "Quick Cuff" rifle sling specifically designed for the US army by Tactical Intervention Systems. It consisted of a cuff that was worn on the bicep, and a sling attached to the rifle. Most people thought of slings as merely something used to carry a rifle, but for the professional marksman, it was something far more. With the Quick Cuff sling, one could quickly assume an "unsupported" or freestanding firing position and shoot with reasonable accuracy. This was useful during ambush situations, when there wasn't time to fold down the legs of the bipod. Bipod-supported shooting was more precise, but nonetheless the Quick-Cuff improved accuracy in a bind, providing a more stable unsupported shooting platform. Some marksmen used both the bipod and Quick Cuff together.
Ethan opened up the Velcro fasteners on the Quick Cuff and removed it from the corpse, sliding the contraption onto his own left bicep and adjusting it. He slung Beast over his right shoulder and the Dragunov over his left.
He collected the spare ammunition from the corpse, securing it to his harness. A quick search of Osama's pack revealed a clip-on PVS-22 Night Vision scope. Ethan immediately pocketed it. Unfortunately, there wasn't an infrared WeaponLight or PEQ-2 illuminator to go with it.
Can't win them all.
Ethan returned downstairs and discovered the others hadn't waited for him. Ethan had to rush to catch up.
"Nice find," Raheel said, looking with obvious envy at Beast.
The survivors of Wolf Company reached the extract area, where they waited alongside those others who had completed their four-day shifts. He spotted William and Aaron standing a short distance away with their respective units; the two of them looked just as exhausted as Ethan felt.
Pickup trucks came, offloading the mujahadeen who had come to relieve the front line fighters. In a few minutes Ethan found himself in the bed of one of those trucks with the remnants of Wolf Company. They no longer had enough members to necessitate two vehicles.
The pickup drove into the empty area between the southeast of Kobane and the nearest town. Overhead, shells screamed past, launched from the Islamic State heavy artillery in the village to the southeast.
He looked at the exhausted faces of the survivors and wondered if any of them were experiencing second thoughts about the jihad and its so-called glory. Even Suleman and Fida'a were too tired to meet his eyes, and like everyone else, stared at the floor of the truck bed.
The pickup reached the shelter of the village, where the smoke from the rooftop blazes blotted out the sun. The truck continued onward, stopping half an hour later in a town that apparently served as the new forward camp. It looked almost exactly like the old one, but there were subtle differences in the placement of the buildings. Just to be sure Ethan checked his offline map. Definitely another village.
Suleman and Fida'a carried Abdullah to the field hospital, while another mujahid arrived to show them to their quarters. It was Curly Beard. He'd survived the bombing of the old forward camp, then.
He led them to a single-story home near the center of the village. Six fighters were already lodged there.
"Meet the new members of your unit," Curly Beard said. The man revealed their names, but Ethan wasn't listening. In a daze, he proceeded to the closest corner, set down his belongings, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Ethan awoke four hours later at the call to prayer. Afterward, the company devoured a lunch of nuts and rice, which one of the new members had apparently retrieved. As they ate, Suleman explained that Abdullah had appointed him acting emir while he recovered from his injury. As proof, Suleman showed off Abdullah's US-made M16A4 assault rifle, replete with 4x32 RCO scope and PVS-22 NV clip-on.
"You are the best group of mujahadeen I have ever served with," Suleman said. "It is truly an honor, an honor, to lead you in Allah's great war. I love you all." He actually seemed teary-eyed.
Ethan could only shake his head.
After eating, he wanted to check on William and Aaron, but the sudden influx of food only doubled his weariness, and it was all he could do to stumble back to his sleeping area and collapse. He understood then how William and Aaron must have felt that first day when Ethan had so rudely roused them.
It was still daylight when he awoke three hours later for the next prayer call. Wolf Company groggily went through the motions, and when prayer was done, most of them went back to sleep. The new members stayed awake, talking
quietly among themselves. Suleman was conspicuously absent.
Though he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and let the peaceful oblivion of sleep take him again, Ethan forced himself to stay awake. For one thing, he badly had to take a dump. For another, it was time to find his fellow operatives.
The toilet and bathtub of the house were already filthy from those mujahadeen who had relieved themselves before him, so he used the backyard as a latrine instead. When he was done splattering the flowerbed with diarrhea, he pulled out the USB stick and recorded the position for the B-1B Lancers. The irony wasn't lost on him. When the bombers flew overhead tomorrow, that spot would serve as ground zero for the shitstorm.
He went in search of William and Aaron. Eventually he tracked down Curly Beard and the man told him where to find their respective units.
When he reached Aaron's barracks, he discovered most of the unit asleep. There were three who were awake, however. Likely new members. They seemed excited.
"Is Abu-Aadil here?" Ethan asked, studying the sleepers. He didn't recognize his friend among the lot.
"He has been captured," one of the awake fighters said eagerly. "Along with that Saudi associate of his. They are spies!"
"What?" Ethan blinked in disbelief. "Where are they now?"
"The sharia court, I would think." That was essentially the camp prison.
"And where's that?"
The fighter shrugged. "I don't know. They are friends of yours?"
"No," Ethan lied. He thanked the man and left.
He asked around for the sharia court and finally someone pointed him in the right direction. On a whim, he stowed the modified USB stick and TruPulse range finder behind a pile of rubble along the way, making sure no one saw him do so.
Near the center of the village he came upon a large building. A wide, circular structure topped by a three-story pyramid. He thought the place might have been a Kurdish church at some point, but the bronze characters above the entrance had been chiseled away, leaving behind only a dark imprint.
