Devolution (3 page)

A young private came sprinting from behind another armored vehicle holding a phone. “Sir, the prime minister!”

The colonel reluctantly placed the receiver to his ear. “Colonel Levanetz here.”

“Colonel,” the prime minister said, hiding his irritation well, “how did he get authorization into that building?”

“We will get this resolved, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“But now the media is involved,” the PM replied. “What will you tell them?”

“We will soon release it’s the LAF. There is no reason for them to think otherwise. We will handle the situation then hold a press conference.”

“You know the press, Colonel,” the prime minister said irritably. “They’re not going to wait long. What happens if they find out?”

“They won’t,” Levanetz assured him.

After hearing a click, the colonel paused to gather his composure. He then lowered the phone from his ear and gazed up towards the window where the situation was unfolding.

*

“What do you want?” The distraught member of Parliament sat bound on the floor. His back leaned against a fallen board room table. The other three MPs sat by his side, all tied together, facing the tinted windows that spanned the opposite wall. It happened so quickly they couldn’t even loosen their red ties or take off their navy blue coats. The four men looked like mirror images: pale skin with brown hair and terrified eyes.

“We only want what is ours,” one of the masked
terrorists, dressed all in black emphatically stated.

The MP shook his head. “This is not the way to get it.”

The man’s eyes gleamed a reddish hue. He reached up and ripped off his mask, exposing a marred and disfigured face. The left side bubbled from severe burns. The right side bore deep scars courtesy of a sharp blade. The man eased down toward the MP. The hostage tried to be strong, but his eyes conveyed a rare type of fear. With his mangled face mere inches from the MPs, the man uttered, “Yes, it is.” The heat from his pungent breath lingered on the MPs nervous skin.

“Captain!” One of his comrades rushed into the room. “The prime minister wants to talk to you.”

The captain eyed the hostage as he extended his arm for the phone. The MPs were perplexed.
The prime minister?

“You have no idea what’s happening,” the captain said in a near whisper as the phone settled in his waiting hand. “If you knew, you’d be with us.” He clutched the phone in his leather glove and marched out of the room.

“Mr. Prime Minister, what took so long?” He strode down the hall to an empty office.

“Captain Brooks, I advise you to reconsider. We
will
defend ourselves.”

The captain would not be deterred. “The country will soon know, Mr. Prime Minister. Whether I’m dead or alive, they will all know.”

“Captain, think about what you’re doing...”

“I have.”

The conversation was over.

Meanwhile, a large, loud, and curious crowd had gathered behind the police tape that surrounded the building. Riot control officers, in full protective gear—masks, shields, body suits and batons—stood firm. “They are here!” The captain stood next to the window with his arms folded across his chest. “The people. The media. The police.” He turned to his second-in-command who had entered the nearly vacant office. “A little bit longer, my friend.”

“What have
we
done?” cried out one of the hostages when the captain stomped back into the room. “Why us?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Stopping in mid-stride the mighty soldier turned. “It’s not you we want, it’s your position.”

“How’d you even get in here?”

He smirked. “We have some friends who share our interests. Be calm, you won’t be hurt, we just needed the audience.” He gestured towards the window where thousands of people and hundreds of media waited. “And you gave us a global one.”

“Who are you?”

The captain grabbed a black backpack from next to the windows. He unzipped the top and pulled out what appeared to be a rectangular pamphlet. The backpack contained thousands. He counted out four.

“My name is Captain Erik Brooks.” He crouched down next to his hostages and cut their hands loose. “I served in MI6 for decades. Many of us have,” he nodded towards his colleagues. “But you know nothing.”

The hostages listened intently; void of the fear that once paralyzed them.

These pamphlets highlight some of the worst I saw, and did. Torture, extortion, embezzlement, mass murder.” He handed them the pamphlets, one-by-one. “Everything you need to know is in there. You will see pictures of our most beloved politicians making crooked deals with terrorists and dictators. You will see the bodies, the drugs, the weapons, the money. Our work over the past few decades spelled out before the world. The people must know the truth.”

“Why all this?” asked one of the hostages.

“We needed a big impression,” the captain sneered. “We had to separate ourselves from all the nonsense. This is no conspiracy, my friends. This is real.”

“Oh, my God,” uttered one of the MPs as he scanned the material. He looked up at the captain in shock.

“The government’s been on to us for a while.” The captain walked towards the windows with his hands folded behind his back, chest out. “They wiretap our phones. Read our messages. But it’s hard to catch the people who perfected those strategies.”

“If this is true, it will ruin us,” warned one of the MPs as he read. “You’re a damned traitor.”

The captain smiled. “History may judge me however it wishes, gentlemen. I am a patriot of the highest order.”

He looked at his watch, then peered outside. “First Lieutenant, it’s time. Head to the roof and enlighten the world.”

The MP on the end whispered, “He’s going to throw those pamphlets off the roof while the world watches.” He looked down at his copy. “And we’re his legitimacy.”

The lieutenant snatched up four backpacks and threw them over his shoulder. After one step towards the door, he stopped in his path. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped.

With great intensity, the British military burst into the room and opened fire. Though the sound was deafening and unmistakable, all the masses saw from the street below was shattering glass and the flash of high velocity rounds.

*

“You’re going to have to go out there eventually,” said Colonel Levanetz to a somber Commissioner of the London Police Department. The men stood looking out a small window at a swarm of reporters.

“I know,” he acknowledged. He turned to the colonel with sympathetic eyes. “I deal with some of the worst scum you can imagine, and those people scare me most.”

The colonel patted the commissioner on the upper back, then made his way down the hall. The four MPs sat alone in a guarded office. They were visibly tired, stressed, and traumatized.

“I gather you remember your mission?” The colonel’s question sounded more like a command. “Your country is counting on you.”

Although the situation was over, the four men still felt like hostages. Yet, being in no position to ponder the consequences, they followed the colonel’s lead.

When the ornate doors of Westminster opened, the hostages, military guards, and Police Commissioner, emerged into a media frenzy. The flash of cameras and screams from the massive crowd defined the moment. The press shouted their questions, trying to overreach security with their microphones.

“Back away!” commanded the guards.

The media did not heed the warning. “Move!” With his massive forearm a guard drove a reporter into the ground.

In emotion unbecoming of the circumstance, the faces of the former hostages appeared vacuous. The energy surrounding the moment appeared to have no effect.

Following an arduous trek, they eventually reached the podium. It seemed cold and, notwithstanding all the people, very lonely. The front of the podium displayed the seal, “Metropolitan Police.” In reality, the local authorities couldn’t have been less in control.

Wasting no time, the commissioner approached the podium. He was greeted by a seemingly endless sea of microphones, cameras, reporters, and inspired citizens.

“At approximately 5:45 this afternoon, members of an extreme Islamic militant group known as the Loyalist Ali Front, or LAF, infiltrated the Palace of Westminster and took four members of the House of Commons hostage.” His eyes remained glued to his notes. “There were ten men involved in this terrorist act. Not knowing their weapon capabilities or if they intended to harm the hostages, we had little time to act. To ensure the lives of our MPs, we saw no other option but to take swift action. With the help of the military…” the commissioner took a second to acknowledge the soldiers that stood behind him, “…we carried out a successful raid and killed the terrorists. As with most terrorists, we can only assume their primary goal was to disrupt our quality of life. At this point we have no reason to believe more attacks are imminent. I would now like to bring forward MP Richard Sykes. This is obviously an emotional time for the MPs and all their families. We ask the media to be respectful. He only wishes to say a few words.”

The commissioner stepped aside and proudly shook the MP’s hand as he reluctantly stepped to the podium.

From his breast pocket, Sykes pulled out a postcard sized piece of paper and unfolded it carefully. His eyes purposely avoided contact with anyone in the crowd or beside him on stage. The onlookers and media remained amazingly quiet, eagerly awaiting his testimony. He delivered his speech in much the same way as the commissioner—with stunning apathy.

“When confronted with a tragic situation, you never know how you’ll react. Such was the case for me and my three fellow countrymen. At first, it was simply some yelling from down the hall. Before we knew what happened, four masked men burst into our room. They put guns to our heads and began shouting out commands in what sounded like Arabic. We could not understand their orders, so they beat us with their weapons.”

Sykes took a step back to calm his emotions. In a touching display of solidarity, one of his fellow MPs placed a caring hand on his shoulder. The surge of camera shutters embraced the moment which would come to symbolize the ordeal. With the help of his colleague, Sykes managed to gather his composure. He returned to the podium with a quivering voice.

“They tied us all together and put us in a closet. All I could think about was my family at home and wondered if I would ever see them again. We sat tied, blindfolded, and gagged while they spoke amongst themselves.”

Despite his best efforts to remain strong a tear formed in his eye. The pride he regarded as his greatest virtue disallowed him from wiping it away. As a result, the tear broke free and gracefully rolled down his cheek.

“When our brave military stormed the room and started shooting, we all thought we were going to die. It lasted barely a few seconds, but as you can imagine, it felt like an eternity. I know many of you want more information. We ask that you please respect our wishes and let us heal.” He took a deep breath. The next words would be the most difficult. “God save the Kingdom.”

A few more tears quietly broke free as he retreated from the microphones. His written speech remained behind on the podium stand.

Despite his request, the media bombarded the MPs with questions. “Did the terrorists talk to you? Did they tell you anything about their objective? Commissioner, tell us more about this LAF? We need more information!”

The thousands of onlookers erupted in cheers. The four men had instantly become national heroes. With the crowd noise growing to insurmountable levels, the media screamed their questions. Some even tried to leap onto the stage. What audiences saw, from around the world, was nothing less than a controlled riot. All the while, the four MPs remained huddled together, wishing it would all go away.

Colonel Levanetz stood near the doors, concealed in the back. The line filed past him as the stage emptied. His phone began to vibrate.

“Yes, sir?”

“Is everything taken care of?” the unyielding voice demanded.

“I’m assuming you watched.”

“What about the backpacks?”

“We have them, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“I am glad, Colonel. Have another talk with our MPs. Make them understand what the Crown expects.”

“Yes, sir.” A shrewd sense of accomplishment flashed across his face as he lowered the phone.

By this time, the four MPs were nearing the brilliant doors of Westminster. The colonel nodded at them in approval but was ignored.

The crowd and media dispersed. The struggling nation was blessed with a newfound sense of pride in what its fellow countrymen had survived. But what nobody saw, the pamphlets in the back pockets of each of the former hostages, had the power to transform that pride into disdain.

Only four people knew those pamphlets existed. Soon, the whole world would know. And the person responsible would have unknowingly sparked a revolution.

CHAPTER TWO

THE GENESIS

A
solemn Nolan family sat in their living room enraptured by the media coverage. Charlotte frantically paced behind the couch, dialing her phone hysterically. Minutes prior, her brother, Tony Manning, had stood before the world as a hero who had just survived a terrorist attack. Every number she tried went to voice mail, and her anxiety mounted.

“Honey, your brother is fine,” Theodore said. “Please. Relax.” He held her in his arms. “Tony is safe.”

Her anxiety morphed into a somber release of tears.

The hostages were unknown before they took the stage to address the world. When Charlotte’s brother emerged from Westminster, the response was not relief, but desperation when she realized how close he’d been to death.

“I-I-I don’t know what-what to do,” she sobbed.

Theodore held his wife tightly. After a moment, he gently pulled himself away and took her hands. “You saw him,” he said soothingly, his thumbs rubbing her fingers. “He’s okay!”

Charlotte would not be consoled. “I have to talk to somebody. I have to talk to
him
.”

“What do you want to do?” Theodore asked, continuing to caress her hands as she sobbed.

“I need to see him.”

“You want to go to London?”

Charlotte nodded.

Theodore turned to his children. “I think you should stay here.” He swung open the closet door and rooted through the clutter. “I am assuming we won’t get back until late, maybe tomorrow morning.” He ripped two coats off the hangers, and handed one to his wife.

Charlotte grabbed a few things off the foyer desk and shoved them into her purse. The couple raced out the door. “We’ll call tonight,” Theodore called back, opening the car door for his wife.

The uncertainty surrounding the terror attack loomed in the minds of the Nolan children.

“Please be careful,” Rose said, grabbing her twin’s arm.

Charlotte managed to compose herself as the car backed out of the driveway. Her children stood at the doorway and waved a heartfelt goodbye. Forcing a smile, she returned the gesture.

Theodore put the car in drive and powered down the road. As soon as her children were out of sight, Charlotte’s emotions broke free. For the entire hour drive to London she fought back the tears, occasionally giving in.

*

“Excuse me,” Colonel Levanetz apologized as he interrupted the Manning family reunion. It had been fifteen minutes since the media blitz and the family had embraced for the first time. “Can we have a moment more of your time?”

The colonel didn’t appear to be bothered by his unwanted interruption. He towered over the family, displaying a semi-polite authority.

Manning was not understanding. “I would like to be with my family right now, Colonel.” “This will only take a few minutes,” the colonel insisted, gripping Manning’s arm. “I assure you,” he said to Manning’s wife, “this will be the last time.”

Manning had no choice. “Wait here.” The MP’s support group included his parents, brothers, nephews, wife, and baby boy. They had all been through a mental hell.

“I won’t be long,” he assured them. Seconds later he disappeared behind a metal door.

The MP was led through a long tile enclosed corridor. The lights flickered as they silently advanced into the darkness. Their short journey ended at an unobtrusive looking door. The colonel pushed it open, and a sweeping light fell upon the three other MPs. They sat in wooden chairs in the middle of a dark, empty room.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Manning,” offered the colonel. He motioned to the only remaining chair. “We’ll be with you shortly.”

The colonel stepped out, allowing the door to slam shut. The blow resonated in the void chamber. Despite the absence of barred windows and ratty bunk beds, the ambiance was prisonlike. It smelled of mold and floral air fresheners.

“What is this?” Sykes asked, highly irritated.

“Bullshit! That’s what it is,” Manning said, more cynical. “It’s all a damn lie.”

For the next few minutes, the four MPs stared at the door. There was nothing left to say. They wanted this behind them. They wanted their lives back.

The faint sound of a turning knob and the creak of an opening door soon replaced the silence. The room gradually illuminated with the shrill release of a rusty hinge.

The men who entered the room appeared as dark silhouettes against a bright background, intense beams of yellow outlining their imposing figures. When all six had cleared the threshold, the door again slammed shut.

A few struggling lights gradually rose to a dull dim.

A short, leather faced man in the middle spoke first. “Good evening, gentlemen. Please remain seated.” His voice was raspy and unimpassioned. “This will not take long.”

Despite their dark suits and dress shoes, something about their presentation appeared soldier-like. They emitted that certain swagger unique to the military.

“Please forgive me if I do not introduce myself. Given the situation, you surely understand.”

“Let us go,” Sykes said, refusing to be intimidated. “We did our part.”

“You did.” The man’s lack of emotion and monotone delivery was unsettling. “And we appreciate your cooperation. But your loyalty to the crown is not yet over. In fact, must never be.”

The man reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an unwrapped cigar. Holding the dark leaf at a 45-degree angle, he torched the end and placed the fresh cut to his lips. With a swift breath, he blew out the flame, then drew a sweet cloud into his mouth.

The smoke rose from deep within his throat. “Gentlemen, you’re some of the brightest in Britain. Therefore, you can appreciate our duty to this nation.” He drew heavily from his Dominican. “Our job is to keep the people safe, happy, and free—by any means.” He flicked his ashes onto the cracked vinyl floor. “Whether you four like it or not, you are now part of our fraternity.” He swirled his cigar, weaving a trail of smoke around the men who accompanied him. “We know Captain Brooks spoke with you. What he said will remain between you four.” He paused to ensure his words were understood. “Captain Brooks was a traitor. We let him into our world, and he betrayed us. He served his country with valor and distinction, until he didn’t. He failed to understand the mission and its greater good.”

The man puffed, creating a halo that rose towards the ceiling. He continued in an apathetic voice. “Gentlemen, ordinary people cannot handle what you now know.” He lowered the sweet Pacifica from his mouth. “I am going to make this clear...”

He gestured with his cigar towards the MPs, the smoke rising from the tip. His eyes were distant. His soul dead. “Never mention what happened here today, outside the statement we provided you. National security trumps the individual good. It’s how we survive.” He paused as the smoke once again encircled his head. “Please do not think we are the enemy, gentlemen. In fact, it’s just the opposite.”

With a crack of the rusty hinge, the men were gone. But this time the door gently closed behind them. The MPs watched the cigar smoke dissipate as it spread along the ceiling.

MP Sykes reached into his back pocket and pulled out the pamphlet Captain Brooks had given each of them. “I want nothing to do with this damn thing.” His act of tearing it into little pieces must have been contagious, and two other MPs repeated the action.

Manning, however, took the pamphlet out of his back pocket, but could not bring himself to destroy it. In all the confusion, the other three didn’t even notice he sat with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at it.

When his pamphlet had been turned into a pile of confetti Sykes approached the window, removed the dark covering, and threw the tiny pieces out into the rain that had begun to fall. Satisfied, or maybe relieved by his action, he left the room quietly. The other two MPs followed suit.

Manning was now alone, still staring at the pamphlet. His mind raced uncontrollably with grand thoughts of pride and country. The room cooled rapidly as the outside air rushed in through the window. His breath became more visible with each exhale. His uncertainty mounting, he drew in a large breath. His aching chest and knotted stomach expanded. A warm cloud of moist air blew onto the pamphlet when he heaved a heavy sigh. Before the vapor could fade, he tore it into two, then four, eight, 16, 32 pieces. Soon dozens of tiny bits of paper littered the floor.

“Tony!” screamed Charlotte when he walked back to where his family was waiting. His sister ran up and threw her arms around his neck.

“Thank God!” she gasped.

Soon, his entire family had surrounded him, all of them thankful for the blessings in their lives. Despite their energy, Tony remained without joy.

“The drive felt like an eternity,” Charlotte cried, holding her brother tightly, her head pressed against his chest. “Thank God, everything is okay! This nightmare is finally over.”

*

“Class, we are about to begin,” announced Professor Dayton Sorenson. A popular nickname among the students for him was ‘Old Sores’, a fitting name considering his ancient age and grumpy demeanor. “Before today’s lesson, let’s discuss thesis ideas.”

He pulled a folder from a hemp satchel, resting it on his desk, rifling through the sections. He looked up from under his glasses. “Jody.” He pointed to the Asian girl in the front row. “Do you have a topic?”

“I think so.” Her lack of confidence suggested otherwise.

The professor nodded for her to go on.

“Well, I have been studying death and bereavement. I’d like to look at how we’ve changed concerning mortality.”

“Okay.” Old Sores displayed a little authentic excitement—but only a little. “That may be a bit overbroad. With technology, the Earth is becoming one big culture. Given our timeframe, try to make it more specific. Maybe just burial practices.”

Jody hurried to jot down his recommendations.

Professor Sorenson glanced around the room. “Anyone else?”

A few brave souls raised their hands. Old Sores pointed to an older Indian woman next to John.

“Juvenile dependency.” Her proposition sounded more like a command than a suggestion. “It seems kids can’t be kids. When I was young, I played with friends. Today’s kids have to work.”

“I like it. But focus on a certain type of job.”

The professor shifted his focus to the entire class. “Pick a topic that is specific. This is not a dissertation.”

A few more students raised their hands.

“I want to look at the sociology of aging.” The Kenyan in the back row blurted out. “My generation can expect to live well into our 90s, but we don’t want to look older than 50, while being active like we’re 40.”

The professor tilted his head in thought. He was not sold. “I feel that has been overdone. Stop by my office after class. I think we can make it more interesting. Not only for you, but for me. I have to read it.” The class chuckled at his brutal honesty.

Old Sores returned to his desk to page through his lecture. “I have office hours after class. I will stay as long as needed. Now,” he marked the day’s lesson with a pen,” the sociology of quasi-sport...”

Christian leaned partially across the aisle, towards John. “Whatcha doin’ after class?”

“I need to stop by his office.”

“Really? I’m goin’ to the pub. Meet me when you’re finished?”

“Sure.”

Their focus shifted back to the front of the room. Even though the old man couldn’t hear, his eyes were keen.

When class finished, John made his way to Old Sores’ office. He sat in a chair outside the door.

The professor allotted fifteen minutes per appointment and John was second. He unzipped his backpack and as he pulled out his notes, the sweet smell of floral perfume caressed his nose. He looked up to find April Lynn sitting next to him. They exchanged pleasant smiles.

Despite her reserved appearance, John considered April to be stunning. At a thin five-foot-seven, she more resembled a Norwegian skier than a student at one of the world’s foremost universities. John didn’t date much. The thought of rejection terrified him. But for April, he was willing to make the effort.

While John searched his brain to initiate a conversation, fate offered him an opportunity.

“I heard one of the hostages in the House of Commons was your uncle,” April said. In her words, John detected a strong southern American accent.

“My mom was born in America. Tennessee.”

John nodded.

She smiled. “Everyone asks.”

April and John had taken a few classes together. Yet, their conversations never went beyond classroom discussion.

“Yeah.” John lowered his head, figuring the sympathy card was a good one to play. “It’s been tough.”

“I’ll bet.” The compassion in her voice matched that of her empathetic gaze. John didn’t know her well enough to be sure it was genuine. In reality, he didn’t care.

“My mom freaked,” he said, acting strong, yet sensitive. “What were the chances my uncle was one of the four?” He paused for dramatic effect. “We were close to losing him.” John peered into her clear blue eyes.

“You poor thing.” She placed a caring hand on his knee and gently squeezed. “I can only imagine.”

The moment was perfect. As John inhaled the breath intended to ask April to discuss this further, he heard the door creak open.
Damn it!
His eyes closed in disappointment. He was next.

“Mr. Nolan, how can I help you?”

The professor’s room more closely resembled a closet than an office. John thought surely a scholar of his tenure should have better accommodations. The short expanse of the floor allowed for only two small, rickety chairs. Rows of rotting books spanned the height of the walls. John wasn’t entirely sure the room was safe. Gravity’s tenuous hold could give way at any moment. If John had been claustrophobic, he would have been in trouble.

The nervous young man rooted through the notes he had not prepared while talking to April. “I have some ideas.”