Boom! Boom! Boom! Bratatat!
First shots fired by the tanks entering the square. The marble statues of a snow leopard and a lion under which many demonstrators hid collapse. Those who aren’t killed by the collapsing chunks of marble, concrete, and stone are shot with machine guns on top of the tanks. The remaining Maktyrs and Kaskyrs rush to the tanks to stop the assault. The Hovlyk Asker soldiers inside tanks know what they are doing, though. They suddenly accelerate, use their machine guns with a never-ending rain of bullets and explosions, and crush the protesters. The tanks’ treads crush and mutilate the corpses of the fallen as they drive forward. All seems lost, and I’m about to call it off and retreat when the sounds of more helicopters fill the square.
Five. Six. Eight. Ten. Fourteen. More and more of them appear.
Rockets fly from the helicopters—swoosh! Two tanks explode, bursting into flames. Eight more tanks catch fire. Many tankers get out of their machines of death, their clothes burning. They are met with more gunfire from the helicopters.
The men in armored vehicles drive fast to surround the protesters, then to drive them over. A lonely man stands in defiance, shouting, “I will fight until the end, justice and freedom will prevail!” while standing in front of an armored vehicle. The armored vehicle just accelerates fully and overrides him.
Infuriated by this injustice, I call to other angry protesters, “Storm the tanks and the Presidential Headquarters!” The moment we start to surround and block the tanks, Abzal calls over the radio, “Don’t go attacking tanks past the Independence Monument—we are going to shoot these tanks up.”
I shout and run to stop the protesters from attacking many of the tanks. We still can capture some, though. I stand up on one tank, taking five crew members as prisoners. The battle continues, fierce and bloody. As I look up to the dark sky, I see two helicopters launch their heavy machine guns. Many armored vehicles are damaged. Many explode. Others just stop, and the Hovlyk Asker troops, in disgrace, run away to defend the last fortress remaining under Babayev’s control: Presidential Headquarters.
Throughout the next ten minutes, more troops come with full armor, but they are quickly destroyed by the helicopter bombings. Finally, I hear a final call from Abzal, “The time is now, storm the Presidential Headquarters with my soldiers and protesters. Our helicopters have done our job. Good luck.”
The rain begins to pour, forcing the helicopters to return to base. Now, we are on our own. Many rebels seek refuge in the Presidential Headquarters. I shout to them, “Group led by Major Oliver Evans, remain on the Dalab Eli square! He and his men would guard you in case Anar Babayev and others would send more troops against us to regain control of the Dalab Eli square. We need to secure this area from other invaders! My group, go with me to the Presidential Headquarters!” The Presidential Headquarters are massive, very lavish marble buildings inside a large complex guarded by a tall fence. As we jump over the large fences, few more individuals are shot by the Presidential Cavalry and the Hovlyk Asker troops.
The charge begins.
Chapter 11: The Presidential Headquarters
We bust through the large door and find ourselves in a large hall for guests decorated with golden statues of Babayev, silver chandeliers, and fine carpets. There is no one inside except for us. The silence is deadly, as grim as a graveyard.
Major Evans steps up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. I hear him shout, “Do not go inside. Soldiers, get your weapons ready.”
The soldiers file inside in tactical formations, moving as quietly as possible on the emerald tiles. I am amazed at their efficiency and training as they secure the antechamber and check every single hole or door available.
Silence. Complete stillness.
Everybody is afraid to make a noise that may attract the Hovlyk Asker commandos. They had to know we were coming, so where are they? I anticipate the worst. Surprisingly, Oliver shows his thumbs up and a beckoning sign; we may go in. However, we have another door to crack. The jubilant protesters start to shout their battle-cries again.
“Don’t celebrate too early, we have to make sure the door’s safe!” I yelp in vain. Silence is broken. As soon as the crowd cheers, glass shatters and rains down upon us as the Hovlyk Asker division breaks the doors and crushes the windows. Trapped in the giant ballroom, we duck on the floor. Again. This division is far more brutal than the ones at the Dalab Eli square. Our soldiers hide behind the chairs and under the tables.
Major Evans’s people take up positions as best they can to return fire. The protestors are trapped as the crowd from outside tries to get in and the inside mob tries in vain to leave. We are trapped in the middle of a deadly firefight.
“Damn you, Babayev!” One middle-aged man howls as he jumps on a table, only to take a bullet to the head and fall. Dozens more protestors fall to the rain of bullets and lay next to that man. I crawl and get an assault rifle from one of our dead soldiers next to me. My hands are on a cold piece of metal tainted with blood. Six of them remain in this room. Aim at their helmets. Shoot at their hearts and stomachs.
I quickly scan the room and find a Hovlyk Asker taking aim at several women and young teenagers with clubs. I have no time to think, because it can send too many people around me to their deaths. I point the rifle at the soldier and pull the trigger. The gun barks and jumps in my hand, but the Hovlyk Asker lets out a pained cry before falling face-first to the floor. Finally, I manage to have some guts to carry it out! My first kill of a human. These bastards couldn’t kill me now at least without me firing first. Now I am able to use my power for good. Major Evans’s soldiers clear the remaining five. We make haste to the Throne Room.
Major Oliver whispers, “Group One, go to the Minister of Defense cabinet. Try to capture Minister Talgat Abdullin. Group Two, go to the cabinet of Burak Serikbayev, the Prime Minister. Group Three, go to the Throne Room. Group Four, survey for any bunkers and secret rooms where Anar Babayev and his personal guard may be hiding!” I go with Group Three, the most dangerous charge besides Group Four. I think there are Hovlyk Asker troops everywhere, wanting to kill me and everyone else who is with me.
We have never been as close in our entire history to successfully ousting a dictator from office! We can’t mess up this chance. It may be the only chance we have for the next thirty years.
“Quiet, please!” Man, the people have gotten so emotionally drunk with the anticipation of the future overthrowal that they forget the dangers they are right now! The first rows this time in our group include foreign soldiers, me, Kaskyrs, Chamyrs, and Maktyrs—the ones who are the most willing to die for freedom.
Grave silence now. There are no windows in the room. Armed men already have their weapons ready to protect us. In the center of the Grand Hallway, there is a golden sign that reads: “One floor above, Anar Babayev’s Throne Room.”
The stairs are a dangerous option, too easy to lay an ambush. What if our entire group gets slaughtered under such assault? This may be one of the most guarded places in Dalabistan right now.
We make our way up the stairs. One of the protestors covers his face with his arm, “Why does it smell like petrol here?”
“Maybe there are some—”
Before the man could finish his sentence, an explosion rocks the ballroom. Debris and pieces of the railing rain down upon us, striking many in the head, killing them instantly.
A loud gasping scream coming from the upper floor, “My Leader Alisher! Help! Please!”
More people start to refer to me as their leader. Perhaps that is a clear sign that they see me as their future ruler. Now it’s not just the Americans believing I can lead Dalabistan. Maybe I indeed could bear this heavy-duty burden on my shoulders. But am I prepared to let go my previous lifestyle? Is a life of a politician more rewarding than a life of simple pleasures like being surrounded by the most beautiful women, wildest parties, and well-earned weekends? Am I ready to start from scratch and make a name for
myself again, this time in Dalabistan? Perhaps, I could be ready to give up such pleasure, since after that bad night with Caroline I stopped enjoying these disposable women as much. I am willing to pay this small price to achieve something bigger. To help those who cannot help themselves. To be the leader I wished my country had when I was a bullied child. I returned to Dalabistan for a reason, and after today’s march there is simply no way back, because the Babayev forces and the Dalabistanis would not allow me to do that. Either I will come out of this alive as the country’s leader, or I will be killed. I must take the lead, or I must face my death.
I look around, but the rain of bullets and the fumes make it harder for me to find who is screaming. Then, a tall blond soldier with an American flag patch rushes to my side and grabs my arm.
“Commander Karabars, a young Dalab girl is calling for you. Please follow me quickly!”
He leads me to the staircase. Who is that girl or woman that needs me right now? Who can that be?
“Help! Help!”
We head up the stairs and through the carnage. Dead bodies and rubble litter almost every step, and the stink of death and blood is heavy. We reach the top, and he leads me around the corner. Lying on the ground next to some other soldiers is a young girl with pigtails and a white blouse. Two giant dark red spots have started to soak through the shirt. I know this girl.
Zuhra, Zuhra Meyir! Elena’s sister. I’m frozen, unable to move. My mind races with a million thoughts and questions. Would her sister Elena hate me for allowing this to happen? What was Zuhra doing here? Was this whole plan just a big disaster?
The bloody stains are growing bigger, and she is very pale. The gunfire kicks up again, and I rush by her side behind a concrete wall, near all of the explosions and burning flesh, bypassing hundreds of corpses already slain by the Hovlyk Asker. Zuhra struggles for air and looks like a fish out of water, her eyes wide. When she sees me, I can see the recognition in her eyes. She reaches up with a bloody hand and places it on my cheek.
“Alisher…” she starts to cough, hacking up frothy blood. She has been shot in the lungs. “Tell Elena I died a hero. That I died for our country. Tell her everything…”
“No, no, please don’t die!”
“Tell her about the revolution…”
“I’m calling for our medics!”
“Tell her about the martyrs… Tell her that I always loved her…”
“Don’t die, please! I will, I will tell her, I promise!”
“Tell her…”
She cannot finish her final thought as another coughing fit wracks her small frame. Two tears roll down her cheek from her jade eyes as she gasps for air. I try my best to comfort her, but soon, the coughs fade, and then her hand collapses from my face to the floor.
“Anybody, please help!”
Nobody seems to come, and the blood continues to flow from her body. Zuhra closes her eyes. I grab her neck, trying to find her pulse… in vain. I put my head onto her chest, trying to hear anything. Everything is still in her body. There is nothing except for the sounds of the firing bullets around me. Perhaps this is how Zuhra felt when she saw me unconscious while her sister was busy making out with my potential killer. Her warnings were unheard, and she was helpless. Now I am powerless, sitting next to her breathless body.
This can’t be true! My actions led to her death as well! Even if we would win and overthrow the regime, there is an excellent chance that it may be a pyrrhic victory, a victory at great cost. My thoughts go dark. Perhaps my death would benefit this movement best. Maybe they need a better leader than me? After all, I’ve done nothing but bring destruction to the good people of my country. Only the dead have seen the end of the arbitrary oppression… or did they?
I crawl under the table. I eject the magazine to see how many rounds I have left. Ten. I don’t know who I will kill next, a Hovlyk Asker soldier, one of the government workers, or myself. This can’t continue for too long—this massive amount of death and violence present here. This must stop right here and right now. But how?
By killing myself? No, I would then betray everyone who joined me in this struggle. Many other tribesmen and soldiers would not give up that easily, so I should not betray them. These comrades at least have that noble cause. That cause is the same cause we are fighting for right now.
I must protect them.
Maybe there is a chance that we may still win the assault? I hope our numbers will prevail. Plus, we already control the Dalab Eli square and the building of the State Oil Company.
My phone chimes with a new notification. I wonder which more dreadful news is coming. I see a text from Sabit, “We just captured Adilet and Fatima Bakytbai, top profile figures owning the natural resources industries. They are our hostages for now. Currently, they are in City Jail #1 that is under our control.”
Finally, some battle victories after huge losses! For the first time, some real thieves of the people’s money and assets are brought to justice, not some “false flag” targets that this country’s rotten government paid to serve in “jails” to cover up their big fat ass!
I make a short call to Sabit, “I’m glad to hear that. Meanwhile, we have thousands of corpses martyred at Presidential Headquarters. Babayev’s policemen have defected, were captured, or were defeated already. Elena’s sister Zuhra was killed. I hope Elena wouldn’t come to butcher me for allowing this to happen.”
“Oh no! My condolences to Elena. We both have to offer her our sympathy. I don’t want her to see us as the killers of her sister, honestly. But what we do is dangerous, and anyone who voluntarily came here knew that risk. Don’t beat yourself up, Alisher. This isn’t your fault.”
“I hope that one of our soldiers killed that Janbek motherfucker Erzhan right now.”
“I understand why you are saying this, but I thought you were over this after all those years. You still have to meet her someday.”
“Roger that. By the way, could you please bomb some parts of the Presidential Headquarters?”
“No, my men were busy capturing high-ranked hostages. We can’t bomb, we have no explosives remaining—but we have stormtroopers to attack and to capture Anar Babayev, Burak Serikbayev, and Talgat Abdullin.”
“Do it. Do you know where they are?”
“One soldier who defected from the Hovlyk Asker told me Anar’s location. Ironically, it’s in the Throne Room.”
“No way?”
“Abzal told me that it was the most unlikely move you could expect in such a situation.”
No wonder we were almost slaughtered on our way there by a fortress of Hovlyk Asker troops. We urgently need extra men as the rain of bullets continues to kill us. “Sabit, please send three-quarters of your soldiers immediately to the Presidential Headquarters. We are suffering massive losses and need men to protect us.”
A bullet hits my left arm, and it feels like I’ve been hit by a baseball bat. I grunt in pain and drop my phone. I do my best to make myself small behind the wall and inspect the wound. Blood pours out from the gunshot and splatters onto the floor. I rip a piece of cloth from my shirt and tie it the best I can to stop the bleeding.
It is the time for the final attack. It is almost over, and we will not surrender. We win, or we die. The river of the blood must stop flowing beyond the point.
Explosions rip from the next room. I feel that some insanity is happening there. Hordes of crippled, wounded, and angry protesters rushed in panic, breaking the tall wooden door decorated with Dalab traditional ornaments.
They shout, “Wake up, Dalab! It’s now or never!”
I come to a light-skinned young woman with blood on her face and her arms. She seems to be a member of the Alysh tribe. Her eyes are light brown, with arms showing signs of claws and lines from bullets. I ask, “What happened there, comrade?”
“Hovlyk Asker bastards shot RPGs at us.”
“No way? Why are they sabotaging their only fortress they control?�
��
“They do so to kill as many of us as possible. They know they’re beaten. I heard their orders were to leave scorched earth, basically to kill everyone who’s alive, and burn the building to destroy any survivors. Let me show you really quick while they are reloading their weapons.”
I run and cover under the chairs the residence staff arranged for recent visits for Babayev and his diplomats. Words cannot describe the scale of devastation. The Grand Visiting Hall that used to have marble statues of Volkan and Anar Babayev and expensive fine art is now completely shattered.
Pieces of wall plasters and chunks of bodies torn apart by grenades litter the floor. Children shouted for help a minute ago, becoming silent forever and drowning in a river of blood. Young women lying undressed, with their summer clothes being torn by bullets and by soldiers. Old men collapsed, laying with their own broken canes with bloody stripes on them.
The woman whispers to me, “The soldiers have beaten the helpless old men until their deaths.” Horrible atrocities. I wonder if we should do the same to the Hovlyk Asker troops or not? Maybe we need to spare these poor Karakoldars because many of that tribe’s members were forced to serve the Babayev family as their slaves and security forces? Indeed, they have extreme loyalty to the throne and to the Babayev family. My biggest mistake was that we didn’t give as many weapons to protesting Alyshs or even Maktyrs. Swords alone could have made a big difference. What did I really expect would happen? That Anar Babayev would just yield to our protest without a fight? God, I was so stupid! Perhaps if I had armed the protestors, we could have fought with more efficiency. These men and women, these fellow countrymen, are worth more than ten Hovlyk Asker, because their valor is already on a supernatural level. They are willing to sacrifice their lives for their freedom the most and can never be deterred by the Hovlyk Asker’s guns or Volkan Babayev’s despotism, or even nuclear bombing threats. Why do my planning mistakes lead to so many innocent people having their bodies fall for what I am planning to achieve with them? Is this the price that we should pay for our freedom?
The Outcast Presidents Page 10
