Free Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup by Isaac Hooke Page B

on duty immediately waved them through.
    "Salaam my brothers!" one of them shouted. "Welcome to Al Raqqah! Welcome home!" He fired his AK-47 into the air.
    He was answered by a chorus of "Allahu akbars" from the passengers.  
    Ethan had arrived at the de facto capital of the Islamic State.
    The heart of the enemy.
    Raqqa, Syria.

ten
     
    F rom his vantage point on the bus, the first thing Ethan noticed was how deceptively normal Raqqa appeared. Traffic was heavy, with vehicles and buses sometimes moving at a crawl. Bumper stickers proclaimed "I love jihad" and "Fight The Zionists"—much later Ethan discovered that cars owners were compelled to cover existing bumper stickers with jihadist slogans.  
    Syria was the domain of the Korean car. Hyundai and Kia ruled the roost: on the packed streets Ethan picked out an array of compacts, SUVs, and trucks belonging to the Korean companies: Elantras, Accents, Tucsons, H100s, Cerato Fortes, Rios, Santa Fes, Bongo Frontiers. The German car manufacturer Opel deserved an honorable mention for the rusty Omegas and Vectras Ethan saw; he also spotted two Japanese pickups in the mix, a Mitsubishi L200 and a Toyota Hilux, plus a few Honda motorcycles, and the occasional groups of men riding Chinese electric bicycles and scooters.  
    Everything would have seemed normal were it not for the garbage littering the roadside, with black bags sometimes piled to the height of three men on certain street corners. Then there were the Kia 4000S cab overs periodically parked at the intersections. These trucks sported Soviet ZU-2 double-barreled anti-aircraft guns in back, with masked mujahadeen standing watch beside them.  
    Citizens walked to and fro on the sidewalks, carrying out their lives. Their paces seemed quick, and most people avoided looking at one another. The men wore ordinary t-shirts and slacks, without headgear, though the clothing was loose, and their hair short and unstyled. They were all unarmed. Many had beards—Ethan later learned the usual style was to go about cleanshaven or with a Saddam-style mustache, but apparently the morality police were less likely to hassle those with beards, who were considered more devout.  
    Every girl over ten wore a black abaya and full niqab so that not even the eyes were visible. He saw a white billboard with the Islamic State banner in the upper left, depicting a fully veiled, wraithlike figure in the center. The Arabic text below read: "My niqab is my might and my glory." All the women had at least one male chaperon.  
    The occasional jihadis in black robes or desert digital fatigues roved the streets, moving like royalty among the citizens. They wore AK-47s or AKMs slung over their shoulders. Their beards were well trimmed, and some wore black turbans or balaclavas. Several carried scarves—probably repurposed keffiyehs—around their necks, which could be raised to shield the lower halves of their faces.  
    Sand-colored, boxlike buildings, two to three stories tall, crowded either side of the road. Shops dominated the lower levels, though only a few seemed open. He saw a clothing store with photos of male models dressed in business suits on the windows—the models' heads had been blotted out by big red circles. Islamic music and revolutionary anthems blared from some stores, always in male voices, and always unaccompanied by instruments. The upper levels were reserved for residents, and the balconies were invariably covered in sunblinds, partially to keep out the sun, but mostly to prevent outsiders from espying their women. Some of the rooftops had crenellations, the kind found at the tops of medieval castles. Those would make good sniper hides.  
    Ethan glanced down a random side street and saw a city block that was completely devastated. Rebar jutted out of gutted, bomb-ravaged buildings like bronze bones. Smashed vehicles in the street below lay buried underneath chunks of concrete. The apocalyptic vision quickly receded, replaced by