No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author of this novel.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-9-4036-2625-3
Copyright © 2021 by Sultan Kamysbayev
All rights reserved.
Book cover design by MIBL Art.
Table of Contents
PART I: THE RISE
Prologue
Chapter 1: Emptiness
Chapter 2: Long Live the King
Chapter 3: The Hand of Help
Chapter 4: A New Beginning
Chapter 5: The Last Party
Chapter 6: A Grave Situation
Chapter 7: The Homecoming
Chapter 8: The Plan
Chapter 9: The Forced March
Chapter 10: Posters and Gunpowder
Chapter 11: The Presidential Headquarters
Chapter 12: The Rebirth
PART II: THE POWER
Chapter 13: The Deployment
Chapter 14: The Papers
Chapter 15: The Housewarming
Chapter 16: First Actions
Chapter 17: The Inspection
Chapter 18: The Infestation
Chapter 19: The Scorched Earth
Chapter 20: The Verdict
Chapter 21: The Final Hour
Chapter 22: The First Blood
Chapter 23: Industry and Investments
Chapter 24: The Task
Chapter 25: The Almighty
Chapter 26: The Letter
Chapter 27: The Journey
Chapter 28: The Iron Fist
Chapter 29: The Raid
Chapter 30: Double Standards
PART III: THE TEST
Chapter 31: The Curtain Opens
Chapter 32: Reminder from the Past
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Part I: The Rise
“A great revolution is never the fault of the people, but of the government.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Prologue
July 1992, Republic of Dalabistan, Central Asia
Sergeant Bektemiss tells his fellow soldier, “A family of four must be searched or burned.”
Private Smagulov responds, “Why them specifically?”
Sergeant Bektemiss scoffs and looks into thin air as if conjuring something with his mind. He speaks with so much certainty, “I’ve watched their behaviors, I’ve listened to their conversations, and I tell you they’re the one to pillage.”
“Roger that, Sergeant Bektemiss.” The private says he trusts Sergeant Bektemiss with his life, and he is even sorry he questioned him in the first place. Either way, he falls to command.
Two soldiers in balaclavas and the Hovlyk Asker patches on their arms step out of the armored vehicle in the middle of the night. The patches on their arms show a golden horse silhouette with a sword drawn on a maroon shield. The soldiers carry assault rifles, heavy backpacks, and ammunition with ease. The Hovlyk Asker are elite troops, specially trained, akin to SWAT or special forces. If it is not a sensitive mission, one could say it is peaceful, the full moon is out, and the crickets chirp in the distance, but this is not the night of peace, history is about to be made here, and it is not going to be pretty.
Right next to them stand two columns of fighters in black hats and Adidas tracksuits holding burning torches; they are clearly not from the police nor the army.
Sergeant Bektemiss looks around the small shack made from rusted iron sheets in a slum on the city’s outskirts. He holds his rifle and turns on the laser sight’s switch. He puts his hands on the trigger, ready to squeeze at the slightest provocation, and tells his fellow troops, “Private Smagulov, cover the lads and me. Proud boys, get them all!”
“Roger that, Sergeant Bektemiss.”
The fighters surround the tiny shack and burn the bordering pieces of wood, and just as commanded. Fire razed like a hungry, possessed demon ready to devour all in its path.
“Send the gift to them, proud boys!” barks Sergeant Bektemiss.
The gang gets their clubs and knives from the vehicle. Private Smagulov shoots out the shanty’s windows. The staccato burst from his rifle echoes through the night and urges the others to follow in his destruction. Men in tracksuits start to yell loudly and swing with their clubs.
From inside the shack, the weeping and wailing of children could be heard. But the mission had to be carried out.
Sergeant Bektemiss remarks, “Ignore that annoying sound, comrades. It’ll make it easier for us to get what we want.” He would not have his men weakened and having second thoughts. They have a job to do.
The men in tracksuits immediately grab large black boxes. The men rush inside of the shack. One of them puts golden jewelry in a black bag. The family’s father stumbles around the corner, wiping the sleep from his eyes; however, the look of exhaustion quickly turns to one of alarm. He is unprepared for a night like this as he is only in his gray socks and a white undershirt. His eyes are barely open, and he softly speaks, “What do you need in this late hour?”
Sergeant Bektemiss enters the house and screams, “In the name of Volkan Joldasuly Babayev of the Atasty Elite Tribe, The Great Khan of All Dalabs, the First President of the Republic of Dalabistan, the Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, and the guarantor of the Constitution, I, citizen Sergeant Dinmukhamed Anvaruly Bektemiss of the Janbek Elite Tribe order you to comply with mandatory house searching accordingly with the Great Khan Volkan Babayev’s Decree On Valuables’ Apportionment from yesterday, July 15, 1992!”
Then the family’s mother walks in, barefoot and in her nightclothes, she murmurs half-awake, “Valuables… Apportionment? Why don't you straight up tell me that you came to rob this house?”
That is a little too bold a statement for Sergeant Bektemiss to allow and permit. He signals to his troops, and on cue, the troops in tracksuits grab her hands. One of them throws his burning torch onto the floor, instantly sparking a fire in the room.
Sergeant Bektemiss gasps and shakes his finger with disapproval, “How can you be so ungrateful and unpatriotic? When your country needs you the most? We all need to contribute to saving our country from the West and from China. How dare you object to Our Great Khan Babayev or to us! Are you a Western spy in Dalabistan?”
The family’s mother laughs out loud, “Why don’t you and your superiors cut down on your caviar supplies, yacht fleets, and castles in Europe instead of sending thugs to rob the already-poor us. You already stole everything we had ages ago…” The father attempts to stop his wife from triggering the soldiers and grabs her arm. The children realize the gravity of the situation and start crying even louder in their room.
As soon as the soldiers hear these words, the troops surround the woman. The men in tracksuits push away the father from her, and he falls to the ground. Sergeant Bektemiss comes to her and screams, “You have said enough, whore!” and slaps her face with his brass knuckles. Her face is bruised with purple shades and blood dripping. She collapses to the ground and cries, “Just don’t dare to rape me, I’ve had enough…”
Private Smagulov grabs her hair and pulls backward, “We wouldn’t rape you because you are too ugly and filthy to even deserve it.”
One of the men, a lowly gopnik, grabs her by the neck. Another man in a tracksuit with a bear gets his sword out. The gasping mother shouts to her husband, “Kaisar, get up from your ass and take
the—” A blade of a sword slices her neck, and the words she hasn’t spoken yet drown with the blood that oozes out. The troops spill the veins of the hopeless woman, and Sergeant Bektemiss grabs the head. The remaining carcass immediately collapses onto the formerly gray floor.
This gopnik holds the blade in his right hand while he lifts the woman’s head like a trophy, the blood still dripping from what used to be her neck. He shows the bloody head to the family’s patriarch, “Give us your valuables, or we’ll do the same to you and your pups!”
Kaisar murmurs, “One moment… I’ll need to get into… my basement…” The father’s heart races as he thinks about the events that had just happened, they are still fresh in his mind, and a part of him hurts so badly. He wishes he could just take his own life, but he cannot. He has to take care of his sons, for his murdered wife. He fights back his tears but knows that he has a mission to be done.
Private Smagulov barks, “Hurry up and shake your balls!”
After the father disappears from the soldiers’ eyes, Private Smagulov gets his torch and throws it at the carpet on the wall. Instantly, the fabric catches fire and spreads across the house. Sergeant Bektemiss laughs to himself and leaves the house, “Scorch this earth, gentlemen. Leave this landfill as a reminder for these broke Commoner tribesmen to comply with our rule and laws.”
“But what about the father and the kids?”
Sergeant Bektemiss raises his head up and looks at the troops’ bags full of jewelry, “We already seized enough stuff from this place. The fire most likely will kill them all.”
“But what if they will escape?”
“It doesn’t matter. We can keep them alive so that others can know what we can do if they don’t comply with us.”
“Roger that, Sergeant Bektemiss!” The gopniks salute and rush into the armored vehicle.
Private Smagulov speaks softly, “Sergeant, may I speak freely?”
“Go ahead.”
“Sergeant Bektemiss, are we done cleaning the city from threats for today?”
Sergeant Bektemiss looks around and shakes his head, “We are only getting warmed up, remember that. We have at least ten more houses tonight.”
Before Bektemiss enters the vehicle, he throws a hand grenade at the burning house. The explosion shakes the nearby homes and rattles his chest.
Sergeant Bektemiss gets into the car, shows his hairy middle finger at the ruins, and cheers with joy, “Don’t mess with me, the Hovlyk Asker, and the Great Khan, or you’ll get what you fucking deserve!”
* * *
The family’s widowed father holds an infant boy in his arms while his eldest son sits on the back of their brown horse. Through the burning fields, they zigzag the bonfires and ride across the night into the dust. To the left, smoke rises. To the right, a cacophony of wailing women and children, explosions, soldiers barking orders, and machine-gun fire echoes across the cloudy sky. After some time, the sounds quiet down, and it becomes still. Absolutely still. Only mountains, green fields, and the night. The father urges the horse towards the hills.
The six-year-old son looks up in confusion and asks his father, “What is this place with cute white tents?”
The father looks to where his son is pointing. Several white yurts dot the hillside. He stares at them and tears up. “Safety and shelter, son. Safety and shelter,” he says with a shaky voice.
The boy asks again, “Where is mommy?”
“Not with us anymore in this world…” The boy deserved to know the truth, the father thinks as he is fighting tears.
The horse sprints through the hills, faster and faster, slowing down from time to time as it reaches a slope. As soon as the horse gets over the top of the last hill, the father and the children rush down from its back. A small wooden gate stands before them, bearing a plaque that reads: “Chamyr Aul.”
The father is familiar with such camps; they are traditional Dalab settlements known as aul. Easy to breakdown and move should the need arise, but strong enough to offer comfortable living and shelter. He is even more familiar with this particular settlement. “My relatives and tribesmen will shelter us while we are hiding from the Hovlyk Asker, my children.”
He enters one of the yurts carrying the children, bows down his head, and gets down on his knees, “Please help us! This is not how I imagined we will meet again, but I’m really desperate for help! I’m sorry for not seeing you in a while. Just let us in!”
After the man’s relatives help him put the children to bed, they sit around the round table with meat and rice. The elderly relatives are next to Kaisar’s brothers. One of the brothers says quietly, “First time, Kaisar?”
“What do you mean?”
“The thugs… the ones who invade the houses…”
“Yes… They just killed my wife, Zhansaya! I don’t know what I will do with my beloved sons Alisher and Kuanysh!” he begins to cry again, and his heart feels like it is about to burst.
The old grandmother asks, “Who is Kuanysh? We only heard about your six-year-old Kaisar.”
“Yes, just six months ago, Kuanysh was born. Poor young boy to lose a mother at that age.” Kaisar is unable to hold back his tears.
The grandmother grabs the sleeping infant and places him in a besik—a traditional wooden Dalab crib. Then she kisses the baby’s forehead and calmly says, “Welcome to our family, Kuanysh—may you be a joy for our family like it says in your name!”
The rest of the family raises their palms, say “Amen,” and wipe their faces with their hands. After that, one of Kaisar’s brothers sadly remarks, “State-sponsored tyranny and chaos are ruling these days.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apart from your wife being dead, so many people lost their lives last month.” The brother stands up and walks out of the house with Kaisar. “You see, let me show you something.”
He leads Kaisar to the edge of the settlement, where an extensive array of white tall gravestones litters the grass near the nomadic village. The brother points his finger at them, “These are the graves of the victims of brutality from these state-sponsored thugs robbing and invading our houses. My colleague’s grave is over there, a songwriter critical of Babayev is lying over there, and the guy we defended from the bullies back in high school is buried on the other end of the graveyard.”
The graveyard is on the highest hill of the village. Kaisar points his finger on some spots of red and yellow far away and says with fear in his eyes, “I see some fires. Hovlyk Asker better be away from us.”
“That must be our city of Alakala. When the fire dies out, I hope we can go back.”
Fire burns around thousands of corpses lying on the bloodstained dirt, around hundreds of destroyed and bombed houses. The graves are not yet full for the Hovlyk Asker troops.
Chapter 1: Emptiness
21 years later, California
I lay on the chaise lounge by the elite resort pool near my giant villa in Dreamtown, California. Today, on April 18, 2013, I, Alisher Karabars, finally became a billionaire after years of hard work. Nine years ago, my best friend from Dreamhouse University, Bong Ju Kim and I started our company, “Karabars and Kim Industries,” in a garage. Now we are here—partying in the resort and celebrating our successful IPO last week that made us billionaires today.
The DJ turns on the loud techno music, and many of my employees start dancing or drinking cocktails by the pool in their swim attire. Bong Ju is lying on the opposite side of the pool, next to his girlfriend, Moonhee. She is a white girl with brown hair, shorter than Bong Ju but very supportive and compassionate. They seem to enjoy the sunshine of California in each other’s arms.
I should not disturb them from having fun, so instead, I search the crowd, looking for a woman to mingle with. Hooking up with women isn’t hard these days. After several plastic surgeries to make my nose look more masculine and sturdier, my confidence skyrocketed. Plus, I’m sure the money in my bank account does
n’t hurt either. A young woman by the pool, wearing a white swimsuit and sporting long, blonde hair, catches my eye. She seems to have done a lot of plastic surgery for her face and inserted several implants to sculpt her body. I push a black waitress with a face of a pig out of my way to that girl.
The black waitress looks fiercely into my eyes and shouts, “Excuse me!”
I throw my plastic cup of tea at her and sincerely say, “Get out of my fucking way, whale!”
My flip-flops slap against the wet concrete as I walk towards the woman. She’s alone but dancing along to the music.
“Hi, you look quite interesting here, so I had to come up and say hello.”
Her face flushes as she gets a puzzled look. “Oh hey, you look great today.”
That’s the typical response these days. I know that they are after my money, but I still enjoy this fun.
I place my hand on her neck and say, “What’s your name, cutie?”
“Caroline, Caroline Gray.”
I am hypnotized by the mellow tone of her voice; however, I squeeze her neck a little harder. She smiles at me, and I wonder if she’s into that sort of play. Not only is her pale skin smooth, but her eyes are like pieces of amber shining near the pool. Her voice becomes warm and soothes my heart.
I ask, “How’s it going?”
She responds, “Everything’s wonderful! Especially now” She winks at me and puts her warm hand on my shoulder. My mind races as I try to figure out what she’ll do next.
“So, where are you from?” I ask.
She responds, “I’m from Los Angeles, lived there my whole life—I’m an office accountant.”
I hold her hand while stroking her waist with my other hand and reply, “Hey, you’re my new girlfriend.”
Her eyes widen, her mouth slightly agape as she didn’t expect to hear those words. However, the gleam in her eyes tells me she is more than willing to play the part. Money and power definitely have their benefits.
She leans forward for a kiss, but I move away. “Wait. No, I changed my mind. I might just like you too much. We’re broken up now.”
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