Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“Not everyone who professes Islam is a true Muslim,” the old man taught his class. “There are false Muslims who follow another path, and you must be watchful of them. It is an old conflict that dates back many hundreds of years, to a time just after the Prophet was carried into heaven, and there were those who wanted to steal the faith and change it to suit their own desires. They are kafir, and as much to be despised as any other infidel.”

The words of Imam Waziri thrilled the heart of Husam al Din. There was no question what was right and what was wrong, and he had the madrassa to thank for teaching him these things that kept him safely on the right path. Ramadan, he decided, would be a special month for him when he would fast and pray and give thanks to Allah for showing him the way.

On the first day of Ramadan, in the chilly morning air, as the boys were standing at the water pump waiting their turn for the ablution before prayer, Husam al Din spoke to Ali. “You have lived all your life, until now, outside the madrassa. I have lived since the time of my birth inside these walls. The only times I have been outside, I was with teachers. Tell me, what is it like?”

The new boy had never looked happy since coming to the madrassa. His shoulders were rounded and slumped, and his face downcast. “Ah yes, life before this prison,” Ali whined, “I played soccer and had many friends. Some of them travelled to other countries and they told me about those places and the things they saw. And I had many books to read. It wasn’t anything like the madrassa. There is nothing interesting to do here.”

“You should be thankful for the madrassa,” Husam al Din said. “The Imam took you in. It is a safe place, and there are people here who will take care of you.”

Ali’s eyes flashed. “There are people here who beat me when I do things wrong,” he complained under his breath, so the other boys could not hear what he said. “I hate it here.”

“I do not,” Husam al Din said. “This is my home.”

“That is because you have never known anything else.”

“What else do I need to know? Here I have the Holy Koran. The Imam leads me in the way I must live. I have the mosque and my prayers, food and a bed. What else do I need?”

“You need—” Ali began, then broke off his words when the way suddenly cleared for him to step into the shallow puddle below the pump and perform his ablution. “Ah,” he bitterly spit, “never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Do not be so sure of what I would or would not understand,” Husam al Din said. “I may be an orphan from birth, and have not seen all the things you have seen in the world outside the madrassa, but I am not stupid.”

Ali quickly made a pass at his ablution, a hit-and-miss sprinkling and spattering, but no serious cleansing. And as Husam al Din watched, he knew that Ali’s heart was not in it. Ablution was one of the most holy rites before prayer, and yet Ali was just rushing through it as if it did not matter.

“How can you approach Allah when you are still unclean?” Husam al Din challenged.

“Hah!” Ali turned to face him with a scowl. “You worry about your approach to Allah, and I will worry about mine. Okay?”

“You mock Allah. I hear it in your voice.”

Ali pointed a finger and hissed through clenched teeth, “Allah allowed my whole family to be killed and left me an orphan. Do not lecture me about how great Allah is or how I say my prayers.” Then he turned back to the pump and slapped a little more water on his hands.

“Do not say such things. That is blasphemy.”

“I can say whatever I want,” Ali insisted, “and there is nothing you can do to stop me. What are you going to do, tell the Imam so he can beat me again? Someday I will get out of this hole and I will be free.”

An ugly thought rose in Husam al Din’s mind. “You are not truly Muslim,” he blurted. It was out before he realised it.

Ali turned on him. “What do you mean I’m not Muslim. Of course I am.”

“I said you are not truly Muslim. Not in your heart. You may be Muslim from the lips outward, but not in your heart. You are an infidel of the worst kind, because you pretend to be what you are not. How dare you stand here in the waters of ablution, at the very doorway to the mosque, and yet in your heart you are kafir!”

Without further thought, Husam al Din gripped his dagger, slid it from its scabbard, crouched low and lunged. The clean upward thrust of the blade split the fabric of Ali’s shirt and sunk easily into the soft flesh just below the breastbone, penetrating Ali’s heart. The boy’s head jerked forward, butting into al Din’s eyebrow, but the sudden pain only made al Din more determined. Blood flooded over the dagger’s guard and down the hilt into Husam al Din’s hand, past his wrist and up his forearm to his elbow. He felt the warmth and watched the red drops fall from his bent elbow and mingle with the water of ablution at the base of the pump.

How fitting, he thought, as he watched how the blood ran all the way to his elbow, but no farther. The ritual washing required cleansing to the elbows. I will have to wash that arm carefully, to cleanse myself from the blood of this infidel.

He dragged the body away from the pump, then calmly washed himself in preparation for prayer. Intentionally, he left a trace of blood on the hilt of his dagger, where the stain would remind him of his first infidel kill. Then he inserted the knife into the scabbard at his waistband, stroked it as other boys might pet a dog, and smiled. “Jihad feels good,” he whispered to himself.

Imam Waziri sat with a serious face as Husam al Din entered the room. The old man was bent with age, but his mind was sharp and his eyes clear. “It is time for you to leave the madrassa.”

“I am sorry if you think I have done something wrong,” Husam al Din began.

“Do not apologise. I do not hold it against you.” The old man shifted in his chair, looking for the right words. “You have been trained from birth to defend the faith. What you did at the pump of ablution will be spoken of by all who remain and all who follow. It will be a long time before anyone will disrespect Allah again in this madrassa. You have begun a legacy that will live on after you are gone.”

“Why must I leave?”

“It is time for you to receive further training and preparation. We have done all we can do for you.”

The boy stood before his revered teacher. “It is my only desire to serve my mission of jihad,” he said. “Tell me what I am to do.”

“You will be sent to the tribal land, and there you will receive your final preparation.”

“I am ready, but I will miss this place. It is all I have known from my birth.”

The old man smiled. “I will miss you, my son. But it is for the greater good. Tomorrow morning, after first prayer, a man will come to escort you. You must do as he says, even as you have done here.”

He bowed his head in humility and repeated his mantra. “I am Husam al Din. I am the Sword of the Faith. My life is for jihad. I will prepare in every way.”

The next morning, after prayer, a man drove a Land Cruiser to the front of the madrassa. Husam al Din had rolled his few clothes inside his prayer rug and tied it with a string. With his head up and shoulders back, as a real man should stand, he went out to meet the one who had come for him. Inside the car were two other men, and Husam al Din crawled into the empty space in the back seat, closed the door and the Land Cruiser sped away northward.

All day they travelled, and Husam al Din sat looking out the window at sights he had never seen. One of the men gave him a hard piece of bread, a bit of cheese and a flask of water. At the appropriate hours, they stopped for prayers, unrolled their prayer rugs toward Mecca, then afterward they continued their travels. Sunset came, then darkness embraced everything. In the middle of the blackest night he had ever known, and with headlights switched off, they crossed a high mountain pass and descended into the tribal area that spread across the ragged mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan.