Devolution (19 page)

Kabul’s desk was as banal as the rest of the office. It was also void of personal remembrances. No pictures, no art projects from his children, nothing. The desk was in keeping with the rest of the interior design: impersonal.

Kabul leaned back in his chair, listening to the faded merriment of his devoted followers. Their abundant joy brought him great sadness. Lowering his right hand, he typed another code into a security pad on the bottom drawer. The sharp high-pitched tone generated by the broke the relative silence of an otherwise vacuous room.

BEEP! BEEP!

A green light again signaled the code had been broken.

He pulled on the handle, displaying the contents.

The insides looked plain at first glance—stacks of documents and illustrations, some protected by plastic folders of varying thickness, while others existed alone. Kabul removed a wooden picture frame that sat atop everything else. The perimeter was crafted of one inch wide, darkly stained pine. The soft wood was aged, however, the glass that protected its contents shined like polished crystal.

Kabul ran his index and middle fingers along the circumference of the exposed edge as if he were rubbing the face of a dear lover. He gently placed the frame on his desk.

The picture inside portrayed a happy and loving family of four. Mom sat perfectly postured in the middle, her two early teenage sons proudly perched on either side. Their smiles portrayed a bond reserved only to a mother and her sons. The professional-looking portrait had been folded. Deep creases that ran down the middle, vertically and horizontally, cut the mother in four, yet did little to distort her beauty. As the focal point, the matriarch held the attention. Her powerful pose embodied the dominance she wielded over the family, and possibly beyond. The two boys were handsome in their three-piece suits. Astutely pressed, they resembled their mother in physical appearance and their father in stature. The portrait was set against the backdrop of a sun-burst, gray canvas creating a peaceful atmosphere. Standing proudly off the right shoulder of the sacred feminine, with his left-hand placed on her shoulders was Kabul. The patriarch wore the same suit as his sons. They were only differentiated by the reddish hues of their neckties. Unlike the picture itself, the love they appeared to share could not be fabricated.

Kabul gazed at the picture, replacing the distress he felt just minutes prior with a rush of adoration. It was this photo and all it symbolized that motivated him. It led him to convince his men, who were otherwise content with their lives, to damage the nation that was their greatest ally.

Kabul teared up, tenderly caressing the sides of the frame as if it were his wife’s flowing dark hair.

“How are you guys?” he said through the glass and into their souls. “I hope ya are doing well…what?” He leaned towards the picture turning an ear. After a brief chuckle he jestingly scolded, “Listen to your mother! Can I speak with her?” He waited with an anxious patience. “My love!” She was his reward. “Our plan is working perfectly.” The response came quickly. “Yes, I will see you soon. I am almost finished here. Tell the boys I love them.” His heart nearly leaped out of his chest. “I love you too.”

Two beeps later and his most valuable possession was again secure. Recharged with a new sense of being, he vigorously rose from his chair to join his men in their triumph.

*

“It can’t be!” John’s sister Rose exclaimed, hoping her own eyes were deceiving her.

The family sat perched on the last few inches of the couch watching the aerial coverage of the mass demonstration that most certainly would become a riot.

April was less skeptical and more confused. “I saw it, too,” she said, her southern American accent more prominent with her nerves. She and John sat close, arms intertwined.

John was neither doubtful nor bewildered. He knew what he was looking at. “There’s no way.”

All the journalists and photographers had fled the scene. The only reports came from a half-dozen helicopters that hovered above the crowd. Plumes of alternating light and dark smoke stretched high in the clear sky. New fires seemed to appear by the minute. The choppers dodged the towering lines of soot interspersed between the once magnificent buildings. Down below, the hapless military and police forces tried to hold back the surging populace. With each passing minute, it appeared less likely they would succeed.

While the cameras were focused on the congested streets surrounding Westminster, a few blocks away the real rebellion was taking place.

A man wrapped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice and shouted, “Keep them coming!” He rose to his toes, projecting his commands over the crowd. “Go! Go! Go!”

The tall, hairy man stood by a series of large cardboard boxes. A parade of scurrying workers deposited the heavy containers, while others arrived immediately to snatch them away. Dispersed throughout the block lay the boxes’ flattened remnants. The peculiar commotion garnered the curious attention of the media, hovered above.

“Any more?” asked a woman, rushing up to the bearded ringleader.

“We are almost out,” he replied. “More are coming.”

“Do you think this will work, Warren?” she asked with a twinkle of wonderment in her eyes.

“It has to,” he stated resolutely.

BAM
!

A box slammed down at their feet. It barely had time to settle before it was off to its new destination, where its cargo would be distributed. Within seconds, the cardboard coffer landed one hundred yards away. The workers attacked it, frantically tearing at the top to expose its freight, hundreds of books entitled
Constitutional Correctness
. As quickly as the box was opened the books were gone and in the hands of the embittered masses.

A thin, squirrelly-looking man that delivered the box barreled up to the bearded commander. “We have one box left,” he huffed. “There!” he blurted out, flinging his arm sideways.

The approaching freight arrived.

“Pass it out and then we will get started,” the bearded man instructed. The box was swept away as soon as it arrived.

Among the urgency of the situation, the bearded man was approached by an innocent looking, short, portly fellow with red hair. “Sir, your weapons.” He gleefully held them at the end of his extended arms. The artisan’s utensils exchanged hands—a four-foot wooden stepladder, and a red and white bullhorn. “You must hurry, sir. The peace will not last.”

The bearded man nodded and took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “Here we go!” His nervous energy instantly morphed into a steadfast desire. He and his group had planned this moment for months. He mustn’t allow its surreal nature to affect his performance. This was the place. This was the time.

The tension in the air was palpable. No one felt safe, and that crippling fear was the only stitch holding the mob at bay. But that threat was straining. The crowd had now grown to staggering numbers taking up more city blocks than anyone wished to count. The police and military further attempted to force the crowd into designated sections.

“Ready?” screamed the bearded man. With affirmation from his supporters, he spread the ladder’s legs, slammed them onto the ground, and scaled the steps.

“My fellow countrymen!” he hollered loudly enough that his words were only slightly distorted. He wildly swung his torso, echoing his cries in various directions. Those within earshot turned to see who had called their attention. His right hand gripped the bullhorn while his left held firmly to the off-yellow colored book. “Our rebellion is justified!”

The crowd erupted. He raised the megaphone. He knew he could play the crowd, but he must be careful to not get lost in the moment. The ability to control a large group was a power often abused.

Like dominoes falling in every direction, bodies turned to see who had generated such a commotion. Within seconds he attracted the eyes and ears of thousands. Though he didn’t know it, his audience was about to get much larger. The hollow thumping of helicopter blades would soon expand his reach into the millions, then billions.

He kept the crowd’s attention while awaiting the media.

“People of Great Britain, will we allow this government to ruin our lives?”

“No!” the crowd chorused.

“Will we let this government destroy what we have built?” He pounded his chest with the book.

The response was deafening. “No!”

The dominoes continued to fall as the roar of the crowd demanded more attention.

Knowing dissension was the fuel of disorder, the bearded man continued, “Should we trust those who created this mess to fix it?”

“No!”
The response to each successive question grew in veracity.

“Will we stop until we win?”

“No!”

The media was now in position.

“Then I ask you to follow us,” he wailed as loudly as he could. “Join our movement for a
freer
Great Britain! One controlled by its people. Please find a copy of our book.” He held
Constitutional Correctness
high above his head. “Read it. Study it. Pass it on. Learn of the failures of government. Learn how only
we
can save ourselves. You will find us on street corners, at stop lights, and outside stores.” His eyes reddened with passion as spit flew from his mouth. “Join us for a
freer
Great Britain!” He shouted freer as if it were painful. “A United Kingdom once again controlled by its PEOPLE!” He rode out that final word as long as his fatigued lungs would allow.

The masses erupted in overwhelming support.

Knowing his window was closing, the bearded man again placed the megaphone to his mouth. “Go back to your towns, cities, and neighborhoods and tell them about us. Tell them about our book and our ideas. We are called,” he paused to allow enough oxygen to enter his lungs. “F-r-e-e- GB.”

It may have been a coincidence, but the catalyst for the riot appeared to coincide with the conclusion of his brief speech. As the bearded man jumped from the ladder and onto the street, the mob leaped to action. In a violent display of raw power, stores were raided, looted, then set ablaze. Street poles fell, cars, trucks, and buses were overturned and lit on fire. Fearing for their own safety, police and military fired their weapons into the advancing mob. But the numbers were overpowering. The historic and once majestic city of London was about to burn, and it would all be caught on camera for the world to see.

At the Nolan household, not a word was uttered. The family simply watched the situation unfold while understanding what just happened: John had unwittingly been thrust into the national rebellion.

By the following morning, untold hundreds would lay dead on the streets and in the alleys; some stomped to death, others shot by terrified riot police. The area a dozen blocks in every direction of Westminster would be nearly unrecognizable. Small and large business owners arrived at daybreak to find their livelihoods destroyed. Few solid window panes could be found, nor a car not beaten into ill-repair or charred while resting on its roof. The streets were littered with the looted commerce that twenty-four hours earlier had struggled to keep the city’s economy alive. Smoldering fires sent off signals of desperation into the cool blue morning sky. That pungent combination of burned rubber and melted steel spread over the land, carried by a brisk October breeze. Homemade pipe bombs and other explosives chipped away at the delicate facades of historic buildings. The pride of downtown London, the architecture, was now laced with jagged edges and blackened brick. The emerging sun that once glistened off the royal framework, now only served to cast light on a horrifying reality. What hope London, Great Britain, Parliament and the Crown had of a swift recovery or lasting resolution to the nation’s problems, had instantly dissipated.

CHAPTER NINE

IT’S US AGAINST THEM. PICK A SIDE.

K
NOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

Charlotte Nolan’s blue slippers shuffled quietly along the hardwood floors. She tied a sash around her robe as she scurried to the front door. The rich aroma of bacon and buttermilk followed behind her. Like a silent alarm, the smell crept through the house waking her husband first, then her son. Her daughters would be last to rise, then the groggy scuffle downstairs would begin. It was safe to assume few of them had slept the previous night. The events of the previous day were racing through her mind, similar to every other Brit. The Nolans, however, shared a unique bond no one could understand.
As a result, Charlotte didn’t open the door the way she would have one day earlier. Instead, she cautiously pulled back the window curtain to peek out.

Her spirits instantly rose.

“Tony!” she cried, swinging open the door. “It’s so great to see you.” She lunged towards her brother with open arms. “I was worried about you last night.”

Their tight embrace yielded as she pulled back to see his face.

“I’m fine,” he assured her.

“We’ll, I’m making breakfast,” she said. “Join us.”

Tony smiled and stepped inside.

In the time it took Charlotte to answer the door, the entire family had surrounded the kitchen table.

“Where’s Emma?” Theodore asked. He was hunched over his plate awaiting his meal.

“She’s at home with the baby.” Tony pulled up a chair at the far corner. “She regrettably couldn’t make it.” With Charlotte’s back turned, Tony snuck a piece of bacon off the stove. Charlotte Nolan liked her bacon crispy, making it impossible to steal quietly.

“Hey!” Charlotte whipped around armed with a spatula. With half a piece of bacon left in his hand, Tony was caught.

He changed the topic. “Hey, is this your girlfriend?” Tony walked over to April and extended his hand. She stood up and quickly adjusted her appearance.

“Yes,” John said proudly. “Uncle Tony, this is April Lynn. Sorry I haven’t had a chance to introduce you earlier.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tony said, shaking her hand.

April had wanted to meet the representative for quite some time, and said warmly, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Tony’s brow bent in thought. “Social work, right? I remember seeing your name cross my desk.”

She smiled. “Yes, sir. I have some thoughts I’d like to share with you. Maybe we can talk sometime soon?”

“Absolutely.” Though their hands stopped shaking, they remained connected. “It’s a worthy cause.

“So what happened last night?” Lizzy blurted out and every eye in the room snapped towards her. “What? How long were we
not
going to talk about it?”

She was right. It was the main topic at every other breakfast table in the United Kingdom that morning, if not the world.

“I have no idea,” Tony felt obliged to respond, “that is why I am here, though.” He pulled out his chair and sat down. “This country is about to split. Even in the Parliament, people are taking sides.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “This is bad.”

“What does John have to do with any of this?” Charlotte asked, close to tears.

“I saw that too,” Tony said.

“This is not something I asked for.” John meant no disrespect, but his tone was harsh. “I don’t want to be caught up in this.”

Tony nodded. “Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice. You’re now on the list.”

“List?” Charlotte spun around from the stove, nearly dropping her utensils. Theodore abruptly stood up to comfort his wife. “What are you saying, Tony?”

“I am sorry,” Tony said sincerely, “but you need to know. The government is taking this burgeoning rebellion seriously. It will begin monitoring you, if it hasn’t started already. It has to.”

“You’re in Parliament!” Theodore exclaimed. “Can’t you do something?”

Tony shook his head in regret. “The Crown will protect itself.”

The family was lost. Even the normally reserved April appeared visibly shaken. She asked the obvious question.

“Why John’s book?”

“This book was a godsend for these people,” Tony said matter-of-factly. “John put into words what they feel and think. As a college professor, he has credibility.”

“What do you mean?” Theodore asked, his firm grip on his wife preventing gravity from yanking her to the floor.

“John’s book discusses the failures of government and puts forth an alternative. And right now, that alternative is very appealing.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Rose said desperately, attempting to rationalize the irrational. “What do they want from John?”

“I’m not sure.” The sizzling sound of bacon cooking filled the silence.

“What I do know is these people have waited years for this moment. The people don’t trust their government, the economy is terrible. Everyone is tired, hungry, and scared.”

“Maybe I should publicly denounce this,” John said, looking around the kitchen for encouragement.

“It won’t matter.” Tony’s eyes felt for the young man.

“What should he do?” Charlotte nervously inquired.

“I’m not sure,” Tony said. “I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t help.”

Charlotte freed her hand from her husband’s to cover her mouth. Her eyes watered. This was not the outcome she’d hoped for. She turned to Theodore and buried her face in his chest, wracked with sobs.

The Nolan patriarch appeared defiantly strong. On the inside, however, he may have been the most distressed. Many had already died in the chaos.

Lizzy and Rose were too stunned to react. It was unclear if they were even able to fully understand the situation.

April appeared mournful.

John Nolan, like his father, was not an excitable man. He was always able to control his emotions. But the sight of his mother crying instilled in him a powerful sentient response. He fought back his own tears.

“I have to do something,” John asserted, looking down at the table and away from his mother. He could no longer bear to watch her sob.

The bacon had now stopped sizzling, and the stove began to cool. The room took on a funereal tone.

“I should get back to Emma.” Tony reluctantly stood and placed his napkin on his empty plate. He felt awkward leaving, but this family needed time to process the information.

Charlotte eased from her husband’s consoling arms to escort her brother to the door.

Tony stopped her with a mild-mannered raise of his hand. “Charlotte, it’s okay,” Tony said. “I can show myself out.” He gave her a kiss on the forehead, then turned to April. “It was nice meeting you. We’ll talk soon.”

April stood to shake his hand, forcing a pleasant smile. “It was an honor to meet you, sir.”

Before stepping over the kitchen threshold to enter the family room, Tony turned to the confused family. “I’ll do all I can,” he promised.

The family remained silent while Tony approached the front door and gently closed it behind him. They looked blankly at one another as the breakfast Charlotte had lovingly prepared gradually cooled to room temperature.

While walking to his car, Tony Manning placed a phone to his ear. It rang once before it was picked up.

“How did it go?” the voice on the other end asked with a curious excitement.

Tony sat in his car and closed the door, sealing his voice inside. He answered the question as if nothing dramatic had just happened.

“He will come around. I just need some time.”

*

BANG!!

Aasir Abdulah Kabul’s head bounced off the metal table. The impact echoed sharply off the bare gray walls of the near-empty concrete enclosure. Blood dripped from the tip of his nose and his right eye had already swollen shut. The hand that tightly gripped the back of his head was that of the major general.

“I can do this all day, Aasir.” Even in torture, the major general’s emotions remained dead.

Kabul sat defiantly in his torn white dress shirt and stained khaki pants. A laceration on his forehead produced a horizontal line of blood that accumulated in a few wrinkles. His arms were chained to the back of the chair. Though the interrogation had been going on for a while, the blood-soaked grin of revenge on his face had not faded.

Kabul intentionally created the illusion of deliberate defiance. In reality, he had nothing to hide.

Disgusted with his lack of progress, the major general walked around to the side of the table opposite his captive. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the red-splattered table. “You
will
tell me.”

Kabul inhaled deeply. “I told you.” His swollen mouth made it difficult to speak. “I don’t know. We never saw his face or heard his name.” The aggressive beating had begun to take its toll on Kabul’s weary body. His head bobbed as he fell in and out of consciousness.

In a back room, a group of men huddled around a monitor monitoring Kabul’s rapidly fluctuating body temperature.

“He contacted us,” Kabul said, enjoying the fresh flow of blood on his lips. Revenge had never tasted so good. “He said he had something we would want. He was right.”

The men in the back room watched intently. “He’s telling the truth,” one of them said into the major general’s earpiece. “He’s never been a good liar.”

The soulless interrogator grabbed a chair from the corner and placed it at the table, a few feet away from his former comrade. “You know what this means, Aasir.”

Kabul sat motionless with his shoulders hunched forward and head hanging low. Nothing he could have said would matter. He had known the Major General long enough. The African Muslim’s body slumped as the adrenaline subsided. The slightest of movements triggered his wounds to sting.

The major general tried a different approach. “Why did you do it, Aasir?”

Kabul peered up with pride. His reason was obvious.

“Aasir, there was nothing we could have done. We gave you enough money, equipment, support.” He paused, the words came hard. “We lost.”

“A peace agreement was within reach,” Kabul muttered.

“They would have killed everyone. They wanted you to sign some phony document and hand over your records so they
knew
who to kill. Our withdrawal saved many lives, including yours.”

The resistant prisoner finally began to disintegrate. Sporadic and uncontrollable fluctuations in Kabul’s diaphragm caused him to gyrate in his chair. He tried to fight the intense release of energy, but the urge was overwhelming. With his arms still tied behind his back, he struggled to catch his breath. The tears broke loose from his eyes, mixing with the dried blood on his face.

Kabul was unaware his men sat in a neighboring cell, watching. They had never seen their leader so vulnerable.

Kabul could no longer live a lie. His true intentions would be revealed in a pathetic display of self-pity. “I cannot get it out of my head. It replays over and over again every day.” His words were interrupted by brief fits of hysterical distress. “I had to justify their lives.”

“So you convinced your men to join your plan for revenge, when it had nothing to do with them? It was all about you.”

Kabul mustered the strength to lift his head. His watery eyes cried for forgiveness.

Kabul’s men sat in the adjacent room realizing at that moment that the very man to whom they had entrusted their lives had betrayed them. And it was too late. Their fates had been sealed.

It had been many years since the major general thought back to that day. The capital and final stronghold of the FLEC lay in ruins following months of aerial and ground assaults from the Angolan government. Since the beginning of the conflict, an agreement had prohibited aerial combat, but missiles were exempt. No building inside the compromised walls remained untouched. People evacuated by the thousands, seeking shelter in the countryside. They filtered into underground tunnels, impervious to spy planes and satellites. But the unforgiving Angolan government would provide no amnesty. Those left inside when they entered would be slaughtered. Those who fled would be hunted down.

The sounds of the weeks leading up to this moment were few, but distinct. Explosions were so common that unless the heat could be felt, it was not even acknowledged. The echoes of gunshots were less prevalent everyday as the rebels saved what little ammunition they had. Hundreds of rebels were stationed on top of the city walls to ward off government forces as long as possible. Resources were limited due to the sound that garnered the most attention: helicopter rotors carrying people to safety. The relief effort ran unimpeded, day and night, carrying survivors and those less-injured to neighboring countries that granted asylum. However, the return flights brought few supplies. The nations that granted asylum wouldn’t interfere enough to upset the imminent victor.

The capital for the FLEC was situated in the province of Cuando Cubango at the old city of Menongue, on the river that shared its name, far away from the Angolan capital of Luanda. A ten-foot thick wall of steel-reinforced concrete was constructed before the war ever began to guard the FLEC’s possessions. This barricade was later used to protect the aristocracy of the rebellion. The Inner City shielded one square mile, allowing the rebels to regulate their inner circle, thus maintaining authority and most importantly, authenticity.

When the government would break through, its soldiers would encounter just a few recalcitrant souls, who refused to give up. They would easily be toppled, and the most devastating war in Angolan history would be over.

“Are you sure there is no one else?” yelled a young and vibrant major general, who, at the time, was not yet of that rank. The powerful roar of the rotors and discharges in the distance nearly drowned him out. He sat in full infantry gear in the front of the helicopter. The pilot next to him had a long, narrow scar on the right side of his face. It appeared to have been courtesy of a sharp blade.

“We have to get out of here, now!” the pilot screamed. The city walls were being breeched and government soldiers were rushing in. “They are closing in!”