by Cat Johnson
The same men who had created an actual profile for his false identity, just in case ISIS had access to military records.
They had provided everything he would need except for a weapon.
Jon would have really liked to have had a weapon.
If the shit hit the fan, he’d just have to make do. He’d been trained well to improvise.
Good thing, since it appeared thanks to the jihad human resources department he’d be improvising his whole damn mission.
He dared to ask, “So if not to training, where are we going?”
“We are going to the city the caliphate controls in Iraq. Our enemies have set up a base near there that has become a nuisance. You will help us make them go away.”
Even without him naming the city, Abu Jamal had narrowed down the choices of possible locations considerably for Jon. Fallujah or Mosul were his best guesses.
Iraq.
Jesus, this changed everything.
Jon wasn’t going to Syria for the usual foreign fighter training. He wasn’t going to be able to gather and bring home what he’d been sent to retrieve . . . mainly specific details about the way ISIS recruited.
He had hopes of gaining enough knowledge of leadership structure, location and travel routines to cut off the stream of foreign fighters being recruited and trained in Syria.
The best way to defeat an enemy was to know him well and Jon knew that in the past ISIS had sacrificed thousands of their recruits. They’d sent these fighters to be killed or maimed in battle seemingly without much tactical or strategic thought.
But that had been when recruitment was high.
Now, indications showed a greatly decreased influx of immigrant fighters. Possibly one reason why ISIS had switched to the remain and expand strategy, which was even more deadly to everyone around the globe.
Indoctrinate them, train them, and send them back to their own countries to cause havoc. They were the sleeper cells responsible for the attacks in Europe. They were the lone wolves staging mass shootings in the US.
But instead of gathering valuable intel to turn over to the three-letter US agency that had covertly hired him to help stem the tide of radicalization and recruitment, Jon would now be expected to provide the jihadists with American military secrets. Information his volatile hosts no doubt planned to use to hurt US-led coalition forces in Iraq.
Failing to do what the already paranoid and suspicious leaders of ISIS wanted could out him as a spy. There was no getting out of there alive should that happen.
Shit.
“Can I help with your baggage?” Like the front desk attendant at an upscale hotel, his escort made the polite offer as he eyed the single canvas duffle Jon carried.
This man embodied so many contradictions to what Jon had expected. He wasn’t some starry-eyed youth, brainwashed to run toward his death and glory beneath the ISIS banner. Abu Jamal was a well-spoken and presumably educated middle-aged Muslim man who spoke perfect English.
“Thanks, but it’s just this one. I can handle it.”
“Then we shall go.” As he began walking, the man turned to ask, “Do you speak any Arabic?”
Jon had picked up quite a bit in his years in the teams, but in this case, he thought it best to keep that fact to himself. “No. Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all. We have Arabic volunteers, interpreters who can translate for those muhajireen—foreign fighters—who speak French, Russian, Dutch, Spanish, and of course, American.” Looking pleased and proud of his organization, Abu Jamal grinned.
“Impressive.” Jon forced a smile but felt anything but relieved by ISIS’s international capabilities and infrastructure. Or the wide array of foreign volunteers willing to martyr themselves for the Islamic State.
So many men from so many countries, all who in some misguided act they thought was noble, willingly sought out ISIS for training in how to best kill and spread terror.
But Jon had to remember it was that very ISIS infrastructure as well as the thousands of men who had come before him that made it possible, almost easy, for him to come here. He’d just have to use their own organization against them.
“Yes, I suppose it is impressive. And we are finding the internet to be most useful. We can educate and train fighters while they remain in their own countries. In the comfort of their own homes. They need not even come here.”
Jon nodded as his blood ran cold at the thought. How many more thousands had been recruited online? How many hundreds, possibly thousands of sleeper cells were there around the world, lying in wait to strike?
Seemingly satisfied, Abu Jamal pushed off the car he’d been leaning against and reached for the door handle. “Get in. We must go. We have long to travel before curfew.”
Jon moved to the other side, tossing his bag on the floor before sliding inside himself.
ISIS was wealthy, but the car they would be traveling in was old, likely to not attract attention. It was a tactic the US operators often used while in hot zones on foreign soil. The engine would be in top shape but the worse the outside of the vehicle appeared, the better.
“Do you smoke cigarettes?” Abu Jamal paused to ask as he reached for the ignition.
“No, I don’t.”
He nodded. “Good. It is forbidden.
Torture. Kill. Rape. Terrorize. But don’t smoke or stay out past curfew. Jon was truly down the rabbit hole now.
CHAPTER 10
ISIS was nothing if not organized.
That had been apparent from the time he’d first approached the organization through social media while he was still in the US, and it was still true through his guided travels across countries and borders here in the Middle East to where he was now, an ISIS camp in Iraq.
An undisclosed camp in an unknown city since they’d covered his head for his own safety for the final leg of the trip.
He was sticking with the educated guess that he was at a camp somewhere just outside of the city of Mosul, ISIS’s Iraqi capital.
That was actually a good thing since the US was supporting the Iraqi and Kurdish forces in northern Iraq in preparation to retake the city from ISIS.
Possibly just miles away there were US troops. That knowledge kept Jon sane through his daily dose of Islamic State indoctrination and all the fanatical teachings they tried to drill into his head.
Mind games were ISIS’s specialty. This was evidenced by the fact Jon’s passport was now in the hands of the jihadists so-called human resources department, no doubt to make him feel dependent upon them.
He understood how ISIS thought as an organization. How they operated. Fear must be maintained to control people. Taking the passport of all the new arrivals reinforced that fear. That control.
This tactic wasn’t going to work on him for a few reasons. Mainly because the passport was a fake. A good fake, an untraceable fake, but a fake nonetheless.
With or without the passport for his alias Jon Smithwick in ISIS’s hands, this assignment was going to go one of two ways. Either they’d figure out he was a US government plant or they wouldn’t.
Neither scenario was particularly good, because even if he managed to maintain his cover they could still decide he was too valuable to let go and want him to stay.
Both cases would require an escape on his part.
If only he’d been sent to Syria for training as planned. Then they would have returned him to his home after three months to spread the word and plan his own attacks.
As it stood, with him instead going through just basic indoctrination for the past couple of weeks in Iraq, he wasn’t sure what the plans were for his future.
Maybe he was to be a permanent fixture here, advising them on all things American military. He didn’t know.
What he did know was that he was on his own, which is why he spent his days and sometimes his nights planning. Studying protocols and procedures. Observing personnel movements. Searching for weaknesses. Holes in the security. Holes in the fences too—literally
.
Memorizing every detail of the camp. Never knowing what might aid his escape if—when—the time came.
It wasn’t hard to observe the camp since his days there were long and active. Life there wasn’t all that different from his time in the Navy. He’d been in that military regimen for well over a decade and he fell easily back into a regimented existence now.
He was used to this. Memorizing the information they learned in the classroom setting. Excelling at the demands of the physical training. One thing that was completely different, however, was his lack of a weapon and body armor. He felt that absence keenly through every night and every day.
Some of the men there weren’t as good at keeping up with the mental or physical requirements.
Jon spotted the weaker ones immediately and steered clear, taking his own performance down a notch when necessary. Outdoing the others would make him stand out when that was the last thing he wanted to do. It might also foster resentment and he didn’t plan on making enemies of the other fighters.
The reality was that what Jon had couldn’t be taught. It wasn’t immodest to think that. It was fact. Things like superior situational awareness, quick reflexes and good coordination meant the difference between a fighter being good enough or great.
Training and practice could impart a limited amount of skill to those not born with it, but to be a great fighter required inborn skills that were then honed through training and practice.
Then there was having guts. Balls. Courage. The fight versus flight instinct. Whatever. The best fighters had the innate urge to run toward danger rather than away.
Most of the men Jon had seen here had come to ISIS without the necessary inherent skills to be great fighters.
He knew because since no one talked to him he was left alone most of the time to study and observe the others. Language was one barrier. Jealousy and competition another. But that was fine with him. He hadn’t come there to make friends.
Most of the men he trained alongside would be expendable in an attack. Pawns in this chess game they’d chosen to join. Used to swell the ground numbers and impress an enemy. Employed as cannon fodder to keep the opposition busy and distract eyes from the organization’s greater aims.
The low quality of the recruits wasn’t a surprise. Terrorist organizations didn’t recruit from the larger diverse members of the mainstream population. They drew from the disgruntled few who lived on the edges of society.
And for their foreign fighters, ISIS often reached their candidates by using the web.
But it wasn’t enough to hope to catch a few lone wolves as they were recruited via social media. They needed to go after the Islamic source of radicalization.
That was the very reason Jon had come. He only hoped his time in Mosul would be as lucrative—intelligence-wise—as his time in a training camp in Syria would have been.
He certainly was busy. Reveille was at zero-five-thirty followed by an hour-long workout. After that were lessons until lunchtime and then a scheduled rest for a couple of hours before the training continued until seventeen-thirty.
It was a grueling schedule for some, but a twelve-hour day with a ridiculously long mid-day break seemed like a vacation compared to some of the training he’d endured in his military career.
Most of the fighters there wouldn’t have made it through the first day of BUD/S, never mind making it through the seven-day stretch aptly known as Hell Week.
Jon’s thoughts were interrupted by Abu Jamal, striding toward him. When he was close, he said, “Greetings, Warrior.”
Amused by what had become his nickname, Jon couldn’t help a small smile. “Greetings, Abu Jamal.”
“You did well today.”
Jon dipped his head to accept the compliment. “Thank you.”
“How do you excel so far beyond the others?”
Shit. Time to tone things down more.
Since he couldn’t admit to being in top shape because he’d gone right from a SEAL team to an elite private military company with government contracts that tested his metal all over the globe, he pawed through his brain for a diversion.
He remembered one of his instructor’s golden rules for combat effectiveness. It would work perfectly now. “I learned long ago to train how I fight and fight how I train.”
The man narrowed his eyes as he digested Jon’s words, finally slowly nodding. “Wise. Please forgive me when I claim that as my own in tomorrow’s teachings.”
Jon smiled. “Please do. I got that wisdom from one of my own teachers.”
He returned Jon’s smile. “We are truly blessed to have you.”
Words like that would go far to please many of the recruits and Jon began to see how ISIS retained loyalty. They wooed those looking for guidance. For praise.
Unfortunately for his ISIS mentor, the words failed to win over Jon. But for now, in the face of his teacher’s compliment, Jon pretended to be one of those recruits hungry for praise from his leader.
“Thank you, Abu Jamal. You do me great honor in saying so.”
“I think it’s time.”
“Time?” Jon braced himself for an answer he didn’t want to hear. Something like, time to strap on this suicide belt.
Jon’s skillset happened to include disarming bombs—at least the simpler ones—so that part wouldn’t be a problem.
But his cover would be the only thing blown when he didn’t blow up. Then he’d have to arrange for his own exfil because they would no doubt kill him for betraying them.
Of course, no one had said this would be easy.
Jamal finally ended Jon’s guessing game of worst case scenarios by saying, “Time to meet Abu Salah.”
In the ever revolving door of leadership resulting from deaths caused mostly by US airstrikes, it was hard to keep track of who was currently in charge of what in the organization, but after months of study and weeks here Jon had basically figured out the hierarchy.
As far as Jon could tell Abu Salah was acting as the minister of war for ISIS in Iraq.
There was something else Jon had gathered in his observations—Salah was not the highest ranking jihadist in camp. From things that were said he’d gathered there was someone higher Salah reported to.
From the twenty-four hour guards stationed outside an off-limits building in camp, Jon had a strong feeling where this person was. The only question that remained was who it was.
His best guess was that it was the organization’s second in command, Abu Ala-Afri, aka Abd al-Rahman Mustafa al-Qaduli.
Jon had studied the man who was in the top five of the list of Islamic State leaders with targets on their backs. He was a brilliant strategist, a former teacher, and a charismatic preacher. Most importantly, he was Iraqi.
Mosul was his home. He’d trained under Osama Bin Laden. Even with the seven million dollar bounty on al-Qaduli’s head, it made sense to have the local here. He knew the area. He would be more helpful running operations from Mosul rather than in hiding somewhere in Syria.
It didn’t make Jon feel any confidence that the jihadist leaders on every US kill list could be there in the same camp where he was. It meant he was in danger of being killed by a US drone strike, as well as being beheaded by ISIS for being a spy.
But again, if this job were easy, everyone would do it.
Yeah, not so much.
Inside the office Jamal had led him to, Jon drew in a breath and bowed his head before Abu Salah.
“Ah, finally I meet the one they call Warrior.” Abu Salah gestured to a chair. “Please, sit.”
Silently, Jon did as told, not sure it was in his best interest to have that name following him around camp. Especially not when it came to leadership and their growing expectations of him. So much for his plan to remain under the radar as much as possible . . .
After a tip of Abu Salah’s head, Abu Jamal backed out of the room, leaving Jon alone with the leader.
The long silent stare that followed had Jon feeling like the ma
n was trying to peel back his skin and see inside his soul.
A man not trained as well as Jon might have begun to panic from the scrutiny. The fact was Abu Salah’s tactics didn’t even make Jon break a sweat.
Was this Salah’s idea of acting tough? Being intimidating? Yeah, this wasn’t gonna do it.
Although Jon should probably act like he was afraid. Best to keep the leaders happy by feeding their overinflated opinions of themselves.
“I’m honored to be in your presence, Abu Salah.” Jon realized it wasn’t exactly groveling, but it should stroke the man’s ego.
A slow tip of Salah’s head wasn’t his only response to Jon’s homage. He seemed to beam with his own self importance.
Jon would truly enjoy taking this man down. Or at least be one cog in the wheel that would. The information he would turn over when he got back could go a long way in helping destroy this camp and the leadership within it.
When he got back . . .
Random thoughts such as that one always brought Ali to mind. No matter how hard he worked to not think about her, she was always there. In his mind. In his heart. Reminding him he had something to survive for.
That gave him strength while at the same time made him weak. He couldn’t let thoughts of home—of her—affect him. His life literally depended on it.
“Tomorrow after morning exercises and the classroom teachings, you will come here.”
The change in routine immediately put Jon on edge. “So I am to come here instead of physical training with Abu Jamal?”
“You have trained enough, Warrior. Now it is time for you to educate us.”
Crap.
CHAPTER 11
Darci had just opened the front door when Ali couldn’t contain her anger or her tongue any longer.
She stalked past Darci and into the house, ranting as she stomped. After dumping her purse on a chair, she spun back to Darci. “Weeks. Do you realize Jon has been gone for weeks?”
Her friend didn’t deserve her bad mood, but since the real object of her frustration was nowhere to be found, Darci had become the target by default.
