Uday sat facing a computer in the rear annex of an ancient mosque, his fingers weary as he played the keyboard. All around him were cleaning supplies and oil lamps, and against the far wall prayer rugs were piled neatly in a stack. The sweet smell of burning candles saturated the air.
When the results of his latest commands lit the screen, he heaved a frustrated sigh and leaned back in his chair. The server that had been giving them trouble for weeks was still only running at twenty percent capacity. It was hardly surprising—Uday had the unenviable job of keeping the most attacked computer network on earth from crashing.
The first problem was the physical destruction. Bombs were taking out comm nodes with increasing frequency, to the point that he was sure someone in the West had figured out a way to locate and target them. Servers were also being electronically fried, which was probably the work of the Americans—he’d heard that their F-22 fighters had an amazing radar system, and suspected that if the jets flew close enough they might be able to focus enough RF energy on the local systems to do physical damage.
Then there was the electrical grid. It was getting more suspect by the day. The diesel problem he’d discussed yesterday with Chadeh was a primary worry, but at least something they could manage. Last night someone had dropped an airburst bomb of some sort, and what looked like silver Christmas tinsel rained down on a makeshift substation, sending all of Hamat into darkness. The Crusaders at their devious best.
His newest problem, however, might soon make the others pale in comparison. Hacktivists were infecting his media campaigns more quickly than he could track the damage, let alone repair it. Something called Ghost Security had been the first to engage, an army of nameless hackers across the world who never worried about attribution, and who ignored the restrictions legitimate governments placed on electronic chaos. The Anonymous network stepped in after the Paris attacks of 2015, decimating long-established channels for funding and media exposure. Telegram, the encrypted-messaging app they’d so long relied upon, was becoming useless, and replacements were increasingly suspect. Uday had watched their recruiting websites become inundated with eager volunteers this week, only to have the vast majority prove to be ghosts created by online radicals. Last month he’d published an online security guide, telling prospective jihadists which apps to use to avoid detection. Within a week a devastatingly inverse version of the document was sweeping across the web.
Uday had a few decent technicians, including a precious handful who’d had some manner of cyber training. For a time they’d kept ahead of things in a game of electronic Whac-a-Mole, creating new Twitter feeds and messaging sites faster than anyone could wipe them out. But the endgame was increasingly clear—they could never outsmart all the world’s hackers. And without the internet to fuel fundamentalist flames, ISIS would quickly degrade to what the West held it to be: an isolated medieval tribe whose only product was brutality.
For Aziz Uday, it was all just another day at his impossible office.
“I have six more men inputting data,” said Anisa, the most able programmer on his team, as she arrived from the prayer room. Had the mosque remained active as a place of worship she would not have been allowed inside, at least not in the presence of men. The entire building had been requisitioned some weeks ago, becoming the main data center for ISIS. The resident mullahs had been relocated, with apologies, to nearby mosques.
“How many does that make?” Uday asked.
“Sixteen altogether, and that’s our limit—we’re out of keyboards.”
“How far have we gotten?”
“Ninety-four percent complete with the primary personnel database. Of course, that number is a moving target. We take in new recruits every day, and the raw data often takes weeks to reach us.”
Uday nodded. “I suspect some of the paperwork never reaches us at all.”
“We are concentrating on entries and not deletions. The files contain at least a thousand martyrs who have moved on to Paradise.”
“I don’t want to remove anyone—simply annotate their martyrdom. God willing, their profiles might still be useful.”
The project had been born last summer out of a request from the Shura Council for the names of those who’d perished in battle over the previous year. Records concerning next of kin—always fertile ground for recruiting brothers and cousins—could not be located, and it was soon discovered that the paperwork had been obliterated by an American bomb some months earlier. After much handwringing, it was Uday who suggested to the council that all records be digitized and placed in an electronic database. It was the kind of thing legitimate governments did.
Uday quickly regretted his suggestion. The council agreed it was a worthy undertaking, but at the same time lamented a lack of wherewithal to purchase more computers or electronic storage. That being the case, ISIS’s chief information officer was faced with a mountainous new task: With no increase in either budget or personnel, he was to acquire paperwork on every existing soldier of Allah, every incoming recruit, every vetted foreign contact, and store it in a single, secure electronic database. The project plodded along for half a year. Then, for reasons Uday did not understand, it seemed to find new emphasis in recent weeks, Chadeh inquiring about the status at every meeting. He wondered if it had to do with the new pivot to European operations.
“Did you mention the generators when you spoke with Chadeh?” asked Anisa.
“Wha … oh yes,” he stuttered, redirecting his thoughts. “But I wouldn’t expect miracles.”
“Miracles are a thing of God. I pray for no more than a few reliable kilowatt-hours.”
“Tell me about our latest videos. Are they finding traction?”
“Better than those of recent months,” she said. “The one claiming credit for the Grenoble bombing is circulating particularly well. Not exactly viral, but it has a high rate of being repeated on all platforms.”
“Finally a bit of good news,” he said.
“I think we should spend more time managing the social media. Committing so many hours to this database is pushing everything else aside.”
“We will be done soon, and then we can focus on the rest. It will be a simple matter to update the personnel list once each month—add the new arrivals, annotate who has been martyred and who has deserted.” Uday immediately sensed a mistake. Desertion was a taboo topic, something that didn’t exist in the caliphate’s earthly Paradise.
“The cowards are but a handful,” she retorted, “and we should keep their files most accurate of all. Once things have settled, they must be found and punished.” Anisa gave Uday a hard look that demanded a response.
“Of course,” he said. “But rest assured. If we do not keep up with them, God will hold them accountable.”
Anisa seemed satisfied by his logic, and she disappeared into the hallway.
Uday turned back to his screen, and no sooner had he begun typing than a message notification blinked. It was from Malika, a reverse flow in the delicate tributary Uday had built. On brevity alone, he couldn’t avoid reading it:
ARGU WILL HAVE RESULTS IN FOUR DAYS
As he dutifully configured the message for relay, Uday wondered what it was all about. He knew Chadeh was demanding something from his well-connected spy, but the details had escaped him. As he hit the send button, Uday was struck by the critical nature of his position. Had he been of a more scheming nature, it would have registered long ago: Every single communication between the Islamic State and its most critical spy in Europe passed through his fingers.
He remembered as a young boy learning about the Persian Royal Road, one of the first mail networks, instituted by Cyrus the Great. In those ancient days it had taken scores of messengers and horses a week to carry a document across the empire. Now instant messaging and e-mail had speeded things to nearly the speed of light, but information still traveled predictable routes.
And trusted messengers were as vital as ever.
It occurred to him that since Malika’s agent, Argu, was so important, it might be wise to set up an emergency means of communication. Thinking Chadeh would agree, Uday took the initiative, typing and encrypting his first message to Malika that had not been dictated from above.
PROVIDE BURNER TO ARGU AND SEND NUMBER
EMERGENCY USE ONLY
He read it through twice, and decided it was good—specific, with no real risk introduced. The moment he sent it, Uday felt a peculiar sensation. His hands seemed almost paralyzed over the keyboard. He pulled them away, balled his hands into fists a few times, and the numbness passed.
He quickly shrugged it off and got back to work.