by Isaac Hooke
Ibrahim led them to a concrete house on the northern outskirts of the village. Inside, the blankets of other mujahadeen were strewn across the floor, with backpacks serving as pillows. Ibrahim found an open area near a crumbling wall and instructed the three of them to set down their rucksacks.
"You will notice there are no locks," Ibrahim said with a wide smile. "You do not have to worry about thieves. No one will steal from you here."
Ethan and the others changed into the fatigues Haadi had given them.
"You are from Yemen?" Ibrahim said on the way back to the obstacle course.
"Saudi Arabia," Ethan corrected him.
"We have people from all nationalities here. Omani. Afghani. British. French. And you know, it is amazing. Without Islam to bind us all, we would probably be at each other's throats. But instead we love one another. We don't all speak the same language, but we don't have to. There is always someone to translate. We are all brothers."
It sounded similar to the propaganda Ethan had heard spouted by recruits online.
He was distracted by a faint buzzing in the sky, nearly identical to the sound of a small Cessna. He glanced skyward, squinting. Though he couldn't see it, he knew a drone, probably an MQ-1 Predator, was up there somewhere.
"They don't bother us," Ibrahim said.
"Not yet," Ethan countered.
"They won't attack," Ibrahim insisted. "The mighty West is afraid of us."
Ethan chuckled softly. "Which is exactly why they will attack, eventually."
After a day of physical training, with pauses for prayers, they returned to their quarters and a cook prepared a supper of chicken and rice, which they ate with their hands in the dining room under candlelight.
The atmosphere was almost festive. Without a doubt, everyone was overjoyed to be there. The fifteen other recruits introduced themselves, but Ethan forgot most of the names the instant he heard them, though he noted there were a proportionately high number of Osamas and Muhammads in the lot. If he ever needed to call someone by name, by guessing one or the other he had a good chance of getting it right.
"I still can't believe I'm here," an Osama said in Arabic. A young militant beside him translated the words into English for some of the others. "We are achieving the dreams of our beaten down brothers, brothers who have been stepped on and humiliated for the last century, simply for what they believed in. We fight for a Caliphate, for what we believe in, defending our fellow Muslims.
"Already the West has pledged resources and training to our enemy. And they promise airstrikes will come, soon. Let them do their worst, I say, because even if we lose, we win. We will drain the West of its resources, sending their economy into collapse. It costs them a trillion dollars to wage war against us. It costs us almost nothing. Only our lives. And that is no cost at all, but a gift. We end this war in paradise, but the infidel, he ends it in hell."
"Takbir!" someone shouted. That literally meant, "the term for god is great." In the Islamic world, instead of applause, someone would shout "takbir" and the audience would respond with "Allahu akbar."
"Allahu akbar," the group replied on cue.
"Takbir," someone repeated.
"Allahu akbar."
"Takbir."
"Allahu akbar."
And so the evening went.
Later, they dispersed throughout the house to relax in their assigned berthing areas. Most of the recruits studied the Quran in groups by candlelight or flashlight. Heated arguments erupted about the various hadiths, or traditions, therein. The name of Allah was bandied about in nearly every sentence.
Splashing and scrubbing sounds came from the adjacent room. Ethan peered past the door and observed some of the recruits washing clothes in a basin. The water would be from the communal well, as there were no working sinks or taps.
What sounded like a diesel motor abruptly started up outside.
"Power's back," an Omani said. He was a Muhammad. He had a laptop plugged into the wall and the blue charging light on its side had activated.
He produced a power bar, and those with phones plugged them into the available outlets. Ethan's own cellphone was almost fully charged, so he didn't bother charging it. However he did check to see if there was a carrier signal. Nope.
Laptop in hand, Muhammad sidled over to Ethan. "Do you have FireChat?"
Ethan shook his head. "What's that?"
"Off-the-grid instant messaging. It uses wireless mesh networking to allow us to connect our phones without any cellphone coverage. We can use it to exchange messages in battle, or to plan operations. Here, I'll hook you up." Muhammad produced a cord and plugged it into his laptop. He looked at Ethan expectantly. "Your phone?"
Ethan reluctantly handed his smartphone over, and watched very carefully as Muhammad launched an application called MobieGenie on the laptop.
"It is okay, I'm not going to hack your phone," Muhammad joked.
Ethan smiled politely.
When the youth was finished, he disconnected the Android and showed Ethan how FireChat worked. Watching the scrolling messages, Ethan was underwhelmed to discover that the exact same debates occurring in the adjacent rooms regarding the Quran were taking place camp-wide via the texting app.
Muhammad proceeded to install FireChat on the phones of Aaron and William. The two operatives scrutinized the installation process just as closely as Ethan had, and seemed similarly disappointed when they finally ran the app.
The generator shut down half an hour later and the call for lights out came.
As Ethan lay there in the dark, he heard the distant buzz of a Predator drone. The unmanned aerial vehicle was only performing surveillance. Still, when the approval for airstrikes came, the training camps would probably be among the first targets.
Sam would lobby for a delay until she was certain where her operatives were. Even so, she was only a small player in a political board game whose participants spanned multiple countries, agencies and militaries. She had no guarantee of getting what she asked for.
Selous Scouts, Ethan thought. Why the hell did I ever agree to this?
He smiled grimly.
Because it's my job.
nine
The following days were a blur of PT (physical training), which included several four-mile jogs and obstacle course runs. Ethan had intended to act like the exercises were harder than they were, but he didn't have to do much pretending: the program was difficult. He was definitely feeling his age.
The brotherhood and camaraderie among the young men was incredible, and helped him get through each day. Indeed, the esprit de corps was so infectious that Ethan had to constantly remind himself not to become attached to the youngsters. They were jihadis, he reminded himself. Single-minded fanatics willing to die for a cause they didn't truly understand.
On the second day, during a rotation on the obstacle course, while climbing the rope net, Ethan closed on a militant named Hatam, a dark-skinned British-Pakistani whose eyes blazed with zeal. As Ethan approached, the man kicked him in the ribs; Ethan slipped and would have plunged the five meters to the ground had he not managed to grip a lower rung in time.
Hatam continued over the top with a triumphant smile, and as he passed Ethan on the way down he called him a "pig fucker" through the net. So much for the camaraderie. It seemed even jihadist training camps had their share of dirtbags.
Ethan confronted Hatam behind a house later, during a break. "You have a problem with me. Let's work it out."
Fear flashed in Hatam's eyes for a moment, though the zealous flames quickly overwhelmed it. "There is no problem."
"Good." Ethan slammed his fist into Hatam's abdominal region. The man doubled over, retching.
Hatam didn't bother Ethan after that.
There were classroom sessions, too. Some involved a few biased geopolitical topics, such as the "petrodollar system" that guided US foreign policy in the Middle East for the past several decades, and the Sykes-Picot agreement that drew the artificial b
orders of Iraq and Syria after World War I. However, the majority of the topics were religious in nature, such as the benefits of martyrdom and the requirement of jihad. The students recited phrases such as "dying in jihad is the greatest glory" and "killing infidels pleases Allah."
A lot of class time was devoted to the Islamic State's rendition of sharia law. Insulting Allah, the Prophet, or Islam was punishable by death by beheading. As was spying, renouncing Islam, or engaging in homosexuality—though homosexuals were sometimes tossed off tall buildings for variety. Adultery: death by stoning. Thievery: amputation of the left hand. Armed robbery: amputation of the left hand and right foot. Masturbation: eighty lashes. Drawing graffiti, spreading slander, smoking cigarettes or drinking alcohol: eighty lashes plus a three-day jail sentence for the first offense, and one month for the second. Failure to obey the dress code: fifty lashes.
Throughout everything, the students dropped whatever it was they were doing to pray at the required intervals, five times a day. A certain loud, pompous instructor gave the sermon after Friday prayer; he exhorted the youths to keep fighting, and to never give up in the face of the infidel. He reminded them that if they died in the service of Allah during their sacred jihad, they would wake up in jannah surrounded by nubile women. Sadly, judging from the gleaming eyes around Ethan, most of the recruits believed it.
As the week wound down, an Islamic State minibus arrived, and those in the later phases of training boarded. After the bus left, Ethan and the others immediately classed-up to War Training I. All that meant was in addition to daily PT and obstacle course runs, they also low-crawled beneath live fire, engaged in hand-to-hand combat, and practiced target shooting. For the latter, the weapon of choice was an AK-47 assault rifle, though they also trained on Soviet-made Makarov pistols—Aaron sarcastically referred to them as macaroni pistols, and sometimes during practice, when he was out of earshot of other jihadists, he quietly sung, "he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni."
Their training was rounded out with a few sessions on PKM machine guns, M-37 mortars, and RPG-7 grenade launchers, though only a few students got to fire those because of supply limits.
Ethan and the other two operatives pretended to have zero military training in the beginning, and purposely shifted their aim when practicing target shooting. As the days passed, they allowed themselves to "improve," so that soon they were near the top of the class in terms of marksmanship.
The classroom sessions morphed during that time, covering practical topics such as the different ways to subdue and kill a man, interrogation resistance techniques, passport and ID forgery, and how to navigate by the stars and sun.
The days were fairly regimented, and Ethan and the rest of the brigade fell into a regular pattern. Dawn prayer. Quran study. PT. Breakfast. Obstacle course or jogging. Target practice or classroom session. Mid-day prayer. Lunch. Target practice. Afternoon prayer. PT. Hand to hand combat training. Evening prayer. Dinner. Personal time. Sleep. Night prayer.
The hand-to-hand combat drills were probably the least helpful. Ethan almost laughed when he saw the instructor flaunting his martial arts skills. It seemed to be some kind of Wushu, the most showy, useless martial art out there. Sure it had lots of flashy moves, but in hand-to-hand those moves were useless, as most close-up combat eventually degenerated into a wrestling free-for-all. Brazilian jujitsu was Ethan's martial art of choice, and that was something to be respected. Even so, he was a bit rusty, and the combat sessions helped him get his groove back.
New men arrived at random hours every day, and were assigned to the orientation brigade. Sometimes existing recruits would stop what they were doing to greet the newcomers, at least until an instructor yelled at them.
The Islamic State minibus arrived a couple of weeks later to pick up the latest graduates. Ethan and the others immediately classed-up to War Training II. They spent the next few weeks learning the intricacies of close-quarters battles. They performed drills on how to sweep buildings and secure a perimeter while under fire. They learned various patrolling techniques, and methods and tactics for engaging the enemy.
There was limited sniper training for those who had demonstrated good marksmanship, and it involved Soviet Dragunov SVD sniper rifles. An instructor with a thick Saddam Hussein-like mustache who had served as a sniper in either the Syrian or Iraqi army led the course. While the urban sniping he taught was relatively straightforward—choose a hide and support other infantry—the rural sniping was the typical torture. The instructor took sadistic pleasure in making the recruits set up hides over cowpies or anthills. Ethan would wait for hours perched in the field, smelling like shit, having ants attempt to crawl up his nose, while he waited for another student to lift a paper target in a random window of a house.
The last two weeks were a blur, as Ethan suffered from terrible dysentery. Hatam was uncharacteristically buoyant during that time. Ethan ignored the dirtbag and forced himself through each day; by the end of the War Training II he was almost back to himself.
Part two wound down and the recruits sat through a graduation ceremony. At the conclusion of Haadi's speech, the emir said, with a yawn, "You are the best group of mujahadeen I have ever had the privilege of training."
That night after midnight Ethan slipped away from the barracks and, avoiding the patrol, made his way to Emir Haadi's house. The front door was unlocked.
Ethan searched the main office in the dark, using the dim light of his cellphone screen—he didn't dare use the flash, which he considered too bright. He found nothing useful, intel-wise, and the emir's laptop—his target—was nowhere in sight.
He heard restful breathing in the next room but, deciding not to tempt fate, he turned back. The potential intelligence he could glean from the laptop was of limited value: he would probably find nothing more than the recruits' travel documentation. True, the data would help foreign governments arrest them when and if they returned home, but the DIA had plenty of operatives working on fighter identification already: a favorite tactic was to pose as Muslim women online and get into Skype conversations with Islamic State militants. The operatives would claim to be looking for husbands, and once they determined whether the victim was on a laptop or a phone, they'd send a photo with the appropriate viral payload—a variant of Regin, incidentally—that gave complete access to the device. They'd keep the militant talking while sifting through their storage for identifying documents and pictures. On the rare occasion they even found battle plans.
The Islamic State minibus arrived a few days later, dropping off camp supplies and picking up Ethan and the other graduates of part two. On the side was written, in Arabic, Dawlah Islamiyah al Iraq wa Shaam. The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria.
Three women cloistered together in the back of the bus. Wearing niqabs, or full black veils, none of the black ghosts said anything, nor would they during the whole trip. That was the first time Ethan had seen any women since leaving Syria, and he suspected they were foreigners on their own hegira. Ethan had heard rumors that women were billeted on the north side of the village, in an all-sisters house. The minibus must have made a stop there beforehand, giving the women a chance to board secretly.
The minibus drove to the Islamic State stronghold of Al-Ra'i, where the passengers transferred onto a bigger bus, joining graduates from other border camps. There wasn't enough room for everyone, so the group was split. Ethan bid farewell to Ibrahim and those other graduates who were separated.
Ethan, William and Aaron overnighted with the remaining recruits in a mosque guesthouse, then set out again in the morning. They headed southeast across land that alternated between dry steppe and desert, passing other Islamic State-controlled cities on their journey, including Al Bab and Manbij. The bus stopped several times to traverse mujahadeen checkpoints. At least the roads were decent, with only the occasional pothole. Highway traffic was minimal.
At one point during the ride, a recruit excitedly announced that he'd connected with the phone
network. Ethan turned on his Android and sure enough obtained a signal, albeit a very weak one. After dismissing the MTNSyria welcome message, which encouraged him to "feel at home while he roamed on the MTN network," Ethan emailed Sam an encrypted update. The weak signal faded shortly thereafter.
The dry grassland became more prominent as they neared the Euphrates, and the scenery soon turned green, at least for a while. The bus crossed the river via the Tishrin Dam, passing another checkpoint, and then the desert consumed the countryside once more.
The sandy landscape eventually gave way to bedrock, and bedrock to farmland as they approached the Euphrates again. The occasional abandoned village came into view—white-washed homes with blast-damaged walls and bullet-riddled windows. Burnt out pickup trucks and other vehicles sometimes strewed the roads. The small mosques Ethan saw weren't immune to the damage, and many were partially collapsed.
Roughly four hours from Al-Ra'i the bus approached a city whose stooping buildings covered the landscape from horizon to horizon. Road traffic had picked up, though Ethan thought it was less than what it should have been, that close to a major city.
When the bus reached the outskirts it slowed down, coming to a rolling stop as it neared another checkpoint.
The two young mujahadeen on duty immediately waved them through.
"Salaam my brothers!" one of them shouted. "Welcome to Al Raqqah! Welcome home!" He fired his AK-47 into the air.
He was answered by a chorus of "Allahu akbars" from the passengers.
Ethan had arrived at the de facto capital of the Islamic State.
The heart of the enemy.
Raqqa, Syria.
ten
From his vantage point on the bus, the first thing Ethan noticed was how deceptively normal Raqqa appeared. Traffic was heavy, with vehicles and buses sometimes moving at a crawl. Bumper stickers proclaimed "I love jihad" and "Fight The Zionists"—much later Ethan discovered that cars owners were compelled to cover existing bumper stickers with jihadist slogans.
