Free Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup by Isaac Hooke

pistols, and sometimes during practice, when he was out of earshot of other jihadists, he quietly sung, "he stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni."  
    Their training was rounded out with a few sessions on PKM machine guns, M-37 mortars, and RPG-7 grenade launchers, though only a few students got to fire those because of supply limits.  
    Ethan and the other two operatives pretended to have zero military training in the beginning, and purposely shifted their aim when practicing target shooting. As the days passed, they allowed themselves to "improve," so that soon they were near the top of the class in terms of marksmanship.
    The classroom sessions morphed during that time, covering practical topics such as the different ways to subdue and kill a man, interrogation resistance techniques, passport and ID forgery, and how to navigate by the stars and sun.
    The days were fairly regimented, and Ethan and the rest of the brigade fell into a regular pattern. Dawn prayer. Quran study. PT. Breakfast. Obstacle course or jogging. Target practice or classroom session. Mid-day prayer. Lunch. Target practice. Afternoon prayer. PT. Hand to hand combat training. Evening prayer. Dinner. Personal time. Sleep. Night prayer.
    The hand-to-hand combat drills were probably the least helpful. Ethan almost laughed when he saw the instructor flaunting his martial arts skills. It seemed to be some kind of Wushu, the most showy, useless martial art out there. Sure it had lots of flashy moves, but in hand-to-hand those moves were useless, as most close-up combat eventually degenerated into a wrestling free-for-all. Brazilian jujitsu was Ethan's martial art of choice, and that was something to be respected. Even so, he was a bit rusty, and the combat sessions helped him get his groove back.  
    New men arrived at random hours every day, and were assigned to the orientation brigade. Sometimes existing recruits would stop what they were doing to greet the newcomers, at least until an instructor yelled at them.
    The Islamic State minibus arrived a couple of weeks later to pick up the latest graduates. Ethan and the others immediately classed-up to War Training II. They spent the next few weeks learning the intricacies of close-quarters battles. They performed drills on how to sweep buildings and secure a perimeter while under fire. They learned various patrolling techniques, and methods and tactics for engaging the enemy.
    There was limited sniper training for those who had demonstrated good marksmanship, and it involved Soviet Dragunov SVD sniper rifles. An instructor with a thick Saddam Hussein-like mustache who had served as a sniper in either the Syrian or Iraqi army led the course. While the urban sniping he taught was relatively straightforward—choose a hide and support other infantry—the rural sniping was the typical torture. The instructor took sadistic pleasure in making the recruits set up hides over cowpies or anthills. Ethan would wait for hours perched in the field, smelling like shit, having ants attempt to crawl up his nose, while he waited for another student to lift a paper target in a random window of a house.  
    The last two weeks were a blur, as Ethan suffered from terrible dysentery. Hatam was uncharacteristically buoyant during that time. Ethan ignored the dirtbag and forced himself through each day; by the end of the War Training II he was almost back to himself.
    Part two wound down and the recruits sat through a graduation ceremony. At the conclusion of Haadi's speech, the emir said, with a yawn, "You are the best group of mujahadeen I have ever had the privilege of training."  
    That night after midnight Ethan slipped away from the barracks and, avoiding the patrol, made his way to Emir Haadi's house. The front door was unlocked.  
    Ethan searched the main office in the dark, using the dim light of his cellphone screen—he didn't dare use the flash, which he considered too bright. He found nothing useful,