Karim thought of Lenin and Stalin often. Asked himself if he had it in him; the greatness of those two men, the ability to lead a revolution, to take power from others, to kill every enemy, real and imagined, until your power was unquestioned, secure, and you were ready to implement real change. He knew he could be cruel. Knew he had the conviction to see things through, to indiscriminately kill as many as it took. It was Allah’s work he was doing, after all, and Allah would sort out the believers from the nonbelievers when they were dead.
Karim’s job was to turn back the tide. Stop the heathens and the infidels and their steady march, their assault on Islam. Their liberation of women, their thirst for pornography, their acceptance of an abomination like homosexuality – all were the work of the devil. Their music, their movies, their entire culture was an assault on the family. Their entire culture was a cancer on the world, a slow and steady attack on Islam. Whatever the cost, no matter how many innocents were caught in the cross fire, they had to be stopped.
This particular operation was not the end for Karim. It was a grand stepping-stone for something far greater. Allah had come to him during his unending hours of prayer, had told him of his plans. How he wanted him to take back the cradle of Islam from the traitors, from the corrupt lovers of money and wealth. But before he could accept that responsibility, he had to prove himself. Not to Allah, but to those whom he would need for the next fight.
Karim would not martyr himself like the others. For obvious reasons, he had failed to share this with his men. Allah had grand designs for him. He was to one day lead a revolution that would change the world. Karim was destined to unseat the Saudi Royal family and purge his country of their corrupting influence. The entire family, ten thousand plus relatives, would have to be killed. Karim knew a few would escape, knew the world would be shocked, but the numbers were insignificant compared to Lenin and Stalin. Millions had died at their hands, and for what, a godless system that rewarded only the uppermost echelon of bureaucrats. Muslims would understand, and in the end that is all that would matter. But first he had to deal with America, and to do that successfully, he needed to raise the morale of the two Moroccans and get his team acting as one.
Karim pushed open the rickety screen door and stepped onto the soft grass. Six months in this suffocating place. Much had been accomplished, but not enough. The mid-morning sun was finally high enough in the sky to drive the disease-carrying insects into the shadows. He knew the men would be thankful for that, but now they had to contend with the suffocating wet heat. Even his fellow countrymen found the wicked combination of heat and humidity a formidable opponent. Water was the key, just like in the desert. The men must drink plenty of water, Karim thought to himself. He’d made sure they took their malaria medicine as well. He hadn’t poured his talent and energy into this operation only to see it fail because of some tiny little bug.
There was shouting from the men. Karim looked across the clearing to see what it was about. Six of them were assembled on the far end of the clearing approximately 150 meters away. They were all wearing jungle cargo pants and faded green T-shirts. Like Karim, each man wore a thigh holster with a 9mm Glock and two extra clips of ammunition. Karim made them do it because he wanted them to get used to always carrying a weapon. He also did it because he secretly hoped a drug cartel would stumble upon the camp and pick a fight. It would be a great way to test the men.
Karim knew they were standing at the point where the obstacle course both began and ended. Even from this distance he could tell the encouragement was only half-hearted. His eyes swept the course, looking for the seventh man. He was still trying to get used to that. A few days earlier it had been eight. One of the Moroccans rounded the far corner of the obstacle course. He couldn’t tell if it was Ahmed or Fazul, they were so similar. The man dropped to his belly and began crawling under a layer of barbed wire that was perched a mere eighteen inches above the ground. After he’d crawled thirty feet he popped up and headed straight for a twenty-foot wall. He hit the wall in stride, grabbed the rope, and started up. Halfway up he slipped, gathered himself, tried again, slipped once more, and then gave up, dropping to the ground. Out of breath, he bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. Karim’s gaze intensified. He had not come this far to watch someone quit at something they should have mastered months ago.
After a few more deep breaths, the man shook his head in frustration and jogged around the wall, to the next obstacle. The other six men began laughing and taunting him. Even though it was almost impossible to tell the two Moroccans apart from this distance, Karim knew it was Ahmed. He had led Fazul, the other Moroccan, into battle and knew Fazul was tougher than any wall. Karim’s anger was set afire. That any man under his command would give in so easily was infuriating, but the fact that the others found it humorous was intolerable.
His worn black jungle boots were moving, carrying him along one of the many paths that cut through the tall grass like spokes on a wheel. His stride was short and quick, his anger building with each pace. One of the men noticed him coming and alerted the others. The laughing and jeering came to a nervous halt. The men spread out and while not coming to attention, they prepared themselves for the approaching fury. Karim stopped eight paces from the group just as Ahmed crossed the finish line. The gangly Moroccan stumbled and then fell to the ground, tumbling twice and coming to a stop at Karim’s feet.
There was a better than fifty-fifty chance he would have kicked him in the ribs if it weren’t for the fact that a nervous laugh managed to escape the mouth of one of the men. It was Farid, the most talented of the group, and as he struggled to suppress his ill-timed expression, the others joined in. It had a cascading effect, and soon they were all giggling like little schoolgirls.
Karim stepped over Ahmed, drew his 9mm Glock, and pressed the tip of the muzzle to Farid’s forehead. Karim’s action and the image of one of their fellow jihadists dying at the hands of their commander only a few days earlier sucked any and all humor out of the situation. The men straightened, throwing their shoulders back and staring straight ahead. Even Farid managed to stand tall with the weight of the cool steel pressing against his forehead.
“Amir,” Farid barked as quickly as he could, “I apologize for my bad judgment,”
“Do you find this humorous?”
“No, Amir, I do not.” Farid chose to call him Amir, which was the Arabic word for commander.
“Then why are you laughing?”
Farid hesitated, not sure how he should answer. Finally he said, “I was wrong to have done so. I will not let it happen again.”
“No, you will not,” Karim said in an icy tone, “or I will put a bullet in your thick skull.”
Farid blinked once, the sweat on his brow stinging his eyes. “Yes, sir!”
Karim lowered the gun, turned on the others, and barked, “Do the rest of you find humor in this?” They replied as one that they did not. The anger had not dissipated an ounce for Karim. It continued to build as he walked behind each man, fighting the urge to crack them across the back of the skull with his heavy gun.
Command was a lonely position, especially in the jungle thousands of miles and a world away from the war. Their failure was his failure, and he did not like failing. How could he get them to snap out of it, to understand what was at stake? How could he get them to understand just how serious the Americans were? As much as he despised them, Karim had no illusions about their formidability.