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Swale took I-5 north into Oregon. Riding shotgun was Dog, whose baggy eyes and jowls and oversized earlobes gave visual confirmation to his name. The former Army Ranger had served in Iraq and Afghanistan and got out as quickly as possible after his third tour. He had grown weary of trying to help people who all too often didn’t want help, who siphoned off money and, worse, materials that ended up on the black market.
Even worse were the indiscriminate attacks on civilians by U.S. troops and contract employees. Abuses were almost always brushed off as “collateral damage” – deaths covered up with no thought of disciplinary action. Maybe he just drew rotten units, but he knew too many soldiers who had raped, beaten and even killed those they were there to protect. Once, on patrol, he had scrambled in the direction of a shot, figuring a buddy was in trouble. Instead, he found his corporal standing over a dead Afghan. “He deserved it,” the corporal said. “He mouthed off to me once too often.” Dog did not file a report. To what end? The corporal would have his story.
Dog didn’t know if his experience was typical. He did know that some locals were guilty of terrible atrocities against their own countrymen. But in pursuing combat deployment he had set a high standard for himself and those he served with. Perhaps that was unrealistic, even unfair, but it was his expectation. Mid-way through his last tour he uncomfortably became aware of harboring a seed of hatred against his own country. It was mixed with a fledgling belief that America was far too strong, far too indiscriminate about mixing in the affairs of others, far too arrogant in believing it had solutions to centuries-old blood feuds. He had no interest in deserting to join al-Qaeda let alone the ISIS butchers. Dog had been born poor and, slight of build, bullied from earliest memory. Now, with his training, he was seldom a victim. But his experiences as a Ranger had made the world a confusing and twisted place, more so because of America’s overbearing policies.
Seeking respite after his discharge, Dog settled in Los Angeles near the beach. He found part-time jobs to stretch his savings but was largely content with simply having time to decompress. His apartment was cheap and his landlord, wanting to boost the rent, had hired a handyman/contractor named Raymon Swale to remodel the kitchen and bathroom. The job stretched over several weeks and an acquaintanceship became a friendship. As their talks grew more intimate, Dog revealed his festering opposition to U.S. foreign policy, and that he saw a growing need for someone to humble the United States. Swale expertly massaged Dog’s discontent. A seed blossomed into a declared hatred.
When the time came for Swale to move north, he risked confiding in Dog. Not only did he, too, harbor such a hatred, Swale revealed, he was acting on it. Soon, Dog was in. Swale also tried to interest Dog in Islam, but failed. “Faith is for people who don’t believe that dead is dead,” he explained. When asked to join a mission, though, he accepted immediately. One reason was that he missed the tension of the battlefield. Over time, whenever Swale felt at risk, he put Dog at his side. Despite the man’s forlorn appearance, he was by far the most dangerous in Swale’s crew. Dog stepped up as a tutor, and the cell, including Swale, soaked up his lessons. Swale was not bothered that their skills fell short of Ranger quality. More important, they were loyal, radical jihadists who had his complete trust.
Intersecting I-94, Swale and Dog headed east for a critical stop in Fargo, North Dakota, before their final destination. Three other Swale men would meet them there, also covering more than two thousand miles but on a more southerly route.
That trio rode in a van driven by Ali Foster. His Catholic parents owned convenience stores in Hollywood, California. Working in the stores had given him an aversion to the risks and demands of a small business. He found other jobs, but often had to move back in with his parents. Studious, he accomplished little during those years except for exploring religions. He eventually chose Islam and regularly attended one of the LA mosques, where he met Swale. As a sign of his commitment, Foster abandoned his birth name of Robert and took the name Ali not long before 9/11. In its aftermath he felt the sting of suspicion and bigotry from friends and former colleagues. His views hardened. Swale recognized the young man’s transition and gradually drew him into his confidence. When asked if he was ready for radical jihad, Foster said yes without hesitation. Swale trained him as a carpenter, as he later would Dog. After the long string of meaningless jobs, Ali took satisfaction in being able to see the fruits of his work. Most of all, he savored the periodic missions that gave release to his growing hatred for the United States.
Foster’s front seat passenger was Issa Assiri. Having moved well into middle age, his girth had thickened and his full head of hair was turning gray. More important, confidence in his considerable physical prowess had slipped and with it, his zeal for trips he now saw as dangerous. Perhaps he should be home helping his wife with their small deli and grocery, Assiri thought as he watched the greening prairie slip by. Still, he was the one closest to Swale, not only in age but in temperament and was best suited to take over, if necessary.
Assiri came by his livelihood honestly. Most of his large extended family were shopkeepers in medium-size cities in northwest Iraq. His Sunni parents had immigrated to the United States when he was a young man and though visits to his homeland were infrequent, he saw his relatives become more and more radical as U.S. involvement in the Mideast dragged on. Over the years, those militant views rubbed off. Assiri had been an easy recruit. At the same time, he worried about his relatives in Iraq. Already, some were dead, their militant zeal found lacking by ISIS.
George Kobeisi’s roots were much like Assiri’s, his Sunni parents also coming to America from northwest Iraq. They, too, came from a large family of shopkeepers. They dropped the “al-“ before their name when they became citizens and when their son was born they christened him in honor of their new country’s first president. The family never visited Iraq, but became friends with Assiri and Swale through the mosque. George’s parents were killed in a car accident shortly after he graduated from high school and Assiri stepped up as the male role model in his life, something akin to a beloved uncle. His political views came to mirror Assiri’s. When Swale announced the move north, Kobeisi assumed correctly that he was included. Financially comfortable from his parents’ estate, he bought one of the two small farms that helped provide for the Swale people.
Kobeisi stirred from a light sleep. “Where are we?”
“Sioux Falls in South Dakota. We’ll stay here tonight and have a short day tomorrow. Swale should be getting into Fargo about now. He has to get supplies, so we’ll arrive before he does.”