Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

Before he began Salaat, there was much to do. His body and clothing must be clean, and he must perform wudu, the ritual ablution or washing. Then, standing erect but with his head down and hands at his sides, he recited his own personal call to prayer. “Allaahu Akbar,” it began, being rehearsed four times. “Ashhadu Allah ilaaha illa-Lah,” twice repeated, bearing witness that God is great and that there is none worthy of worship except God.

The prayers themselves were memorised, and that also gave him comfort. He didn’t need to figure out what to pray about – it was all written down for him. There was no need for him to develop a personal relationship with his god, Allah, just repeat the mantra five times each day, like clockwork. There was no question about the rightness of the ritual – it was as natural a part of his life as was breathing or eating or sleeping.

At first, it was difficult for him to get all the parts of the Salaat right, and there were many times when he was required to excuse himself from his prayers and exit the mosque, then re-enter and begin the process all over again. To err in the words was shameful.

His daily existence was so regimented that it was unnecessary for him to wonder what he wanted to do with his life. From the day he learned to understand the spoken language, he was taught his mission – jihad – holy war.

In his eighth year at the madrassa, Husam al Din was given a dagger made of fine polished steel. It had an edge like a razor and the sides of the blade were engraved with Arabesque geometric designs. The curved blade was protected inside an oiled leather scabbard. On one side of the hilt was engraved his name, and on the other side was the name of the madrassa.

“Let this dagger remind you of your destiny,” Imam Waziri told him. “Until you are old enough to carry a sword to avenge the faith, let the point of this blade stir up your heart in eternal hatred against the enemy.”

“Who is the enemy?”

“Satan is the enemy. But the enemy is also anyone who is not of the faith, because they are an offence against Islam and are the agents of Satan,” his mentor said with great conviction. “There is only one true faith, and all who are not believers are infidels. We must wage war against the infidels, first in our heart and then in whatever place we find them. Do not ever forget this, Husam al Din. It is the destiny of your life, indeed the destiny of your very name, to plunge the point of the sword into the heart of the infidels.”

“How am I to do that, being only a child?” he asked.

“You will find a way. It will be shown to you what you must do. But for now you must prepare yourself in every way.”

“When must I begin?”

“Begin today,” the Imam taught, “to train up your heart in anger and hatred against the infidels. When you are twelve years old, we will begin to train you in other ways.”

“Then I will hate them already,” Husam al Din promised, taking the dagger from its scabbard and smiling at the gleaming blade. “Thank you for this wonderful gift. It feels good in my hand. And the hatred already feels good in my heart.”

When he was twelve, al Din received the promised sword. It was a weapon of beauty, a Saif with a silver hilt patterned after the shape of a pistol grip, and an ornately tooled guard and pommel. The polished blade curved wickedly toward a deadly point, and a matching curved silver scabbard held a loop meant for a belt or waist sash.

“This sword is after the fashion of the old Arab blades from the classic era when Arabia ruled the world,” Imam Waziri told him.

“Arabia ruled the world?” Husam al Din asked, not as a challenge, but merely as a matter of awe.

“Nearly so,” the old man said. “The Arabs established a vast empire, which in its classic period stretched from the Atlantic Ocean, across North Africa and the Middle East, to central Asia.” Then, with a faraway look in his eyes, he said, “The empire will rise again, one way or another. Out of Arabia came Islam, and Islam is destined to rule the world. And you, my son, for you are as a son to me… you will help that to happen.”

When he was 14, Husam al Din was given a Kalashnikov automatic rifle and the training to shoot it with a high degree of accuracy. From then on, part of each day was spent on the firing range. Some days, he went with his trainers into the western desert wilderness to practice shooting and moving, shooting and moving, as if he were facing an enemy force of many men. He carried the rifle held horizontally out in front of him as he ran an obstacle course of boulders and logs. The training was rigorous and, at first, his muscles ached and quivered with exhaustion.

“It is good,” he was told. “It is meant to build your arm and shoulder muscles, and the burn and trembling mean that your muscles are being torn down so they can be built even stronger.”

In the midday heat, he ran along the tops of logs that were suspended high above the ground, to develop his balance and endurance. To teach flexibility and balance on the beam, three trainers at once threw rocks at him, and he was forced to either dodge the rocks or suffer the pain of failure. Bruises were common, but as he continued with his training, the bruises became fewer in number. His goal was to pass through an entire training session without falling from a beam and to dodge every stone.

One day, he reached that goal, and he was openly praised by his trainers in front of all the other boys. It was a day he never forgot, and it made him think how fine it would feel to one day hear the praise of Allah for having done a good job with his mission of jihad. Although he was not large of stature, Husam al Din developed powerful muscles, quickness on his feet, and an uncanny sense of incoming weapons. Because of his excellent efforts, among all the boys at the madrassa, Husam al Din was the favorite of Imam Waziri.

“You are the pride of the madrassa,” the old man told him, “but you must beware of pride in your heart.”

Husam al Din thought about that advice for a long moment. “That is a hard thing,” he said to his mentor. “How do I do that?”

“Pride is poison for the heart and is a thief of your strength. Stand with honour before Allah in all things. Defend the faith with all the vigour of your soul. But do it all for Allah, not for your own personal gratification. That is how you will defeat pride.”

It was the end of September when a new boy came to the madrassa. Ali was sullen and he intentionally picked fights with the other boys.

“His heart may seem cold, but his life has been difficult,” Imam Waziri told the students privately when Ali was not present. “His family lived in Qandahar and his parents were killed in an accident, as they travelled on the road to Qalat. Ali was spared but now that his parents are gone, he has no one to care for him, so he was sent to the madrassa orphanage here in Lashkar Gah because there is no other family member to take him in. For the sake of courtesy, let none of you speak of these things,” Imam Waziri commanded the students. It would be too difficult for Ali to think about – at least for a while.

Ramadan was about to begin, the holy month of fasting, a time of worship and personal contemplation, a time when most Muslims draw close to family and community. But neither Husam al Din nor Ali, nor many of the other students at the madrassa, had families. They were their own community, secure behind protective walls that kept out the world. They were safe here – safe from the influences of the world, safe from contamination from outside, safe to preach and practice the traditions of Islam in exactly the way Imam Waziri wanted it to be taught and practiced.