Maybe it’s because the oppression took so long and became entrenched in Dalabistan and our society? I can’t let my own dark thoughts derail our momentum. When I return to the room near the staircase without the Hovlyk Asker troops, I yell, “I have good news for you! Sabit Ahmetov and General Abzal Kylyshbayev have seized Adilet and Fatima Bakytbai. They are our hostages currently in City Jail #1.”
The room roars with applause, cheerful cries for joy, and the crowd chanting “Justice!” and “Down with Bakytbais, next it will be Anar!” It’s necessary to keep the morale high, especially at such a crucial moment when the fate of Dalabistan may unfold in this building. I feel happier when I see the wounded protesters’ sullen faces suddenly change to exuberant activists with energy and enthusiasm to carry on and continue fighting for freedom.
“They told me tha—”
The sounds of boots stomping across the ground echoes from all sides. I hope it’s not the Hovlyk Asker again. They shout “Hurrah!” and the lavish mosaic windows break, with colorful shards on the floor. When I see Abzal and Sabit sprint to me with their men, I breathe a sigh of relief. They have arrived, now it’s our time to carry out the final charge. Sabit comes to me and whispers into my ear, “We will form a new formation. Front rows by protesters and warlike tribes, back rows are military for distance attacks.”
“Sounds good to me. Do you know how we can get to the Throne Room without facing the Hovlyk Asker?” I reply.
“I don’t think so. Maybe we need to give some arms to protesters as well?” Sabit asks.
“Yes! The warlike tribes need an effective tool to show their might and to deter the Hovlyk Asker soldiers.” I really want this to end as soon as possible. I need to seize power to end this mayhem. I want to stop innocent people from dying. I want to stop these despots from taking away our future from our fellow Dalabs.
“Absolutely. Give them their fucking weapons and squish that Atasty cockroach!” Abzal replies.
Overthrowing Anar Babayev’s rule is hard, I am aware of that, but personally and for many Dalabs it is even harder to endure through that arbitrary dictatorship. I guess we need to execute Babayevs in order to avenge everything they have done to the country.
With the shouts for “Liberty! Equality! No corruption!” we walk again to the Throne Room. The Hovlyk Asker soldiers shoot and bark “For Homeland! For Babayev!” as they propel bullets into protesters. Many protesters fall to the assault but the soldiers behind us shoot back, killing some Hovlyk Asker or deterring the most cowardly of the Hovlyk Asker troops.
As we rush on the corridor with our banners, flags, and weapons, I find another gold-plated sign that reads: “Throne Room—150 meters.”
We almost made it. Now only 150 meters separate us from oppression and freedom, from corruption to justice, from stagnation to prosperity. How are we going to attack the Throne Room? By peaceful protesters marching into the doors or by breaking the door with guns and grenades fired by our soldiers? A sea of protesters would overwhelm the soldiers inside but would get us too many martyrs. A military storm could be a better—
“We need to break into the room and then have the protesters march forward,” Sabit tells me. Then he shouts to all of us, “Abzal and everybody, stay out! Soldiers under General Abzal Kylyshbayev’s command, get your grenade launchers & break that door!”
Boom! The giant golden door that is three meters tall shatters with grenades. Once the smoke from the explosion has settled, we can see a peculiar scene. Anar Babayev sits on his iron throne looking sideways from us, with a large bowl of caviar and foie gras. Talgat Abdullin sits to the left of Anar, smoking a cigar and slowly whispering to him.
“What should we do with the protesters if they will suddenly attack us?” Burak Serikbayev sits to the right of Anar.
Burak replies to Abdullin by waving his arms and shouting, “We must either detain or kill them all. They should never pose a threat to us, period!”
“Brilliant idea, Burak. Maybe you should become the next Minister of Defense since Talgat is not doing his job properly right now?” claps Anar, and then he turns his head to the right. I can see his shock on his face. His eyes pop, he opens his mouth and, in hysteria, puts his hands on his head. He murmurs, “Are you kidding me,” and throws his bowls in our direction. He runs on his black Gucci shoes.
I call, “Follow him!” and my group of protesters runs to catch any of these three.
The mournful, angry cries of the crowd fill the Throne Room. “Stop living in ignorance! You will pay back for my lost son, bitch.”
Meanwhile, Burak, shivering with fear, hides behind the throne, and, gasping for air, murmurs into his radio. “They are here, immediately go back to the Throne Room! Just kill or arrest all of them! Period!”
It’s almost over. There are no soldiers here… yet. That may be the perfect moment to overthrow him, after all. I shout, “Wake up, Dalab! It’s time to conquer Presidential Headquarters back to the people!” Protesters continue to march with their banners. I tell Sabit and Abzal, who are walking behind me, “Only order your troops to shoot when I order you to unless the Hovlyk Asker arrive.”
“Alright, Alisher, we can do this,” replies Sabit.
“Let my soldiers capture them as prisoners right now for the future trial, before any of the Hovlyk Asker arrives,” Abzal says.
“Sounds like a good plan, Abzal. Carry it out now.” I whisper to Abzal’s ear so that Anar wouldn’t intercept any of our ideas.
My soldiers scatter throughout the Throne Room. Anar runs to the emergency exit near the throne, and he is cursing us, “Look what you’ve done, idiots! You turned Dalabistan from a prosperous, peaceful country into a bloodshed mired in endless war! History will never forget the murderers of innocent Dalabs, who deceived them to go to the streets for a futile cause and caused their ignominious deaths!”
“Not sure if you are talking about Alisher or about yourself, Anar,” chuckles Abzal as he raises his assault rifle in the air. “I will shoot you right here and right now if you don’t completely resign from your Presidential office and abdicate your throne.”
“Never, for the sake of Dalabistan and for the sake of everything that my father, The Great Khan of All Dalabs Volkan Babayev, has built during his and my struggle for improving your lives, ungrateful sons of bitches!”
“Don’t lie to us, tyrant! You can’t run away from the truth!” I hear one of Zuhra’s friends shout this with tears in her eyes. She has a shard from an exploded grenade in her fist, ready to be thrown. The Throne Room smells of smoked meat and elite wine, perhaps bought with the money that Babayevs, the government, as well as the Elite Atasty and Janbek tribesmen stole from the Dalabistan’s treasury.
Then I hear a loud deafening sound. The entire Throne Room becomes nothing but a bright white cloud blinding us. I cannot hear anything but ringing in my ears. Probably Anar Babayev used either stun or smoke grenades since I can’t see anything but this white cloud.
At that moment, there is grave silence in the room. Soldiers are searching the room in agony for this damned three, only to come and tell me with their powerlessness, “Alisher, he is out of the room!”
“What?!” I walk around and come to the throne. The only thing I see near the throne is an empty bowl of foie gras and a paper sheet with few words written, “If protesters will storm Presidential Headquarters, order Mashhur Abdullin, Ali Zhangirbek, and Mansur Karimbek to kill and detain everyone. If Yan Armanov or Aibek Ospanov are there, bring to the Throne Room for torture and exceptional capital punishment. If they come to the room, go up to the helicopter and flee to our Turkmen homies.” Now it makes sense—everything was a deliberate operation by the government! They knew that we would protest, and they made a unique algorithm for what to do! Call the police and the Hovlyk Asker and force them to shoot at their own people that they are supposed to serve.
“Hovlyk Asker” literally translates to “The People’s Guard,” yet the
y are not really defending their people, they are murdering them, and the government sees it as deleting another computer virus from a computer. And now he managed to escape by covering his ass with blinding and deafening grenades!
On the other end of the Throne Room, a soldier in a blue beret shouts, “People! Come here. There is a hidden ladder here! I see Babayev running with his bastards to a grey helicopter on the roof!”
That’s when the crowd gets crazy. Their red eyes are filled with hate and boil with anger. Armed with pebbles, shrapnel from the grenades, posters, anger, and desire to oust Anar, the protesters run to the roof on that ladder, screaming, “You can’t get away from us, Anar!” I believe in them—I join them. We must stop them before they escape to Turkmenistan. I hope they will end up just like Ceaușescu did.
We finally make it to the helicopter pad. It is on the roof of the Presidential Headquarters. The roof is made from concrete, and three golden domes stand on it. Amidst the chanting of the protesters, I catch a few words Burak Serikbayev says to Anar, “Go quick, they are chasing us!”
“I know, there’s no need to remind me!”
“Where are we going before we get to Turkmenistan?”
“Either directly to Ashgabat, or to the closest Turkmen city named Daşoguz, or to Volkan Babayev International Airport to fly from there. Depends on the amount of fuel we have.”
The helicopter stands, gleaming in the rain. The pilots inside start the engines. The propeller begins to slowly spin, rotating faster with every second. Burak Serikbayev and Talgat Abdullin are soaking in the downpour, their lavish Dolce & Gabbana suits becoming spoiled from the bad weather. They rush for their lives to the helicopter, almost ready to fly to Turkmenistan. However, they forgot the VIP passenger—Anar Babayev himself! He is in his blue suit jacket, running while gasping for air. While we chase him, he unexpectedly trips on a curb beside the helicopter pad. He falls to the concrete floor, and his head soaks into a puddle. This is one of the few times Anar has ever put a smile on the Commoners’ faces. Moreover, I hear a massive series of giggling from some fellow Chamyr tribesmen nearby.
“The king is not wearing any clothes!” one petite student jeers at watching his “president” lying and hitting such rock bottom.
Anar obviously doesn’t like being stuck in public disgrace, “Immediately get out from here, the unlawful mob! Or I’ll massacre you like my father did in Munai! Volkan would have known what to do with the likes of you!”
Burak and Talgat come out from the helicopter and rush to carry Anar in their arms. Perhaps it is because he twisted his ankle and can’t properly walk. Abzal exclaims, “Grab any of them! Quick!” as a few meters separate us from them.
Anar shouts at us, “You ungrateful sons of bitches, whores, parasites, and thugs!” as Talgat and Burak throw him quickly into a helicopter. He lands on the soft Persian carpets covering the metal floor of the helicopter.
“Shit! He fled!” exclaims Sabit. Maybe this failure to capture Anar may be the fatal flaw that will put all of us into coffins? Talgat Abdullin jumps fast into the helicopter and starts to close the door. Meanwhile, Burak Serikbayev tries to leap into the helicopter. Burak screams, “Don’t leave without me, Anar and Talgat! I saved your asses right now!”
We finally ran close to the regime. I grab Major Oliver’s shoulder, “Seize or shoot down the helicopter and capture all of them!”
It is now or never. The success or failure of the revolution now comes down to seizing Anar Babayev and his helicopter. We can’t mess this one up, not at all. Either I will kill Anar and gain power, or he will kill me and keep his power. We cannot let him go free. Otherwise, we will be caught and either executed or sentenced to life imprisonment. One of our soldiers grabs Burak’s leg when he jumps into the helicopter. Burak falls on the concrete floor, his face in mud due to the rain.
“Come closer!” shouts that soldier. “Anybody has handcuffs or at least a rope, for God’s sake?” Meanwhile, Burak is resisting. I can see him kicking and trying to get out from the soldiers’ ring, now four of them surrounding and immobilizing Burak. He shouts to our soldiers, “Don’t offend me! Don’t dare to touch me, you bloody, dirty pigs!”
“No bastard will help you now, not even your Sugar Daddy!” declares the soldier who puts an assault rifle to Burak’s head. He is totally immobilized. Now my focus as a coup leader shifts to Anar and his helicopter. While the crowd is busy capturing Burak Serikbayev, Anar Babayev and Talgat Abdullin have already closed the door! What a shame, we don’t have many weapons remaining now, but we don’t have many targets anymore as well, nor do we have a lot of time. Hovlyk Asker troops might come in five to ten minutes to rescue their feudal lord. We really need to be done with him once and for all. Most protesters do not see Anar flying away. Instead, they are getting their rocks, shoes, and fists ready to beat all of them up.
The people chant with hatred in their eyes, “You ordered this genocide. You will burn in this life and in your next life for that!”
I don’t want that hate to be applied to me if I would fail them as well. I don’t deserve that as well. That’s the moment I need to redirect my legion to succeed. Finally, I shout with all of my might, my voice being as loud as the thunder in the middle of the storm,
“Look at the sky, fellow Dalabistanis, protesters, and soldiers! Anar Babayev IS ALREADY LEAVING THE HEADQUARTERS!”
Abzal gets angry at the inattentiveness of the protesters and our military groups. He snorts, throws his beret from his head onto the floor, shoots with his AK-47, and screams at his soldiers, “Shoot the damn helicopter! Hit the tail rotor to make it fall! Get ALL of your weapons ready! Let’s end this bitch for good, dead or alive!”
Soldiers get their weapons, and I am getting my rifle. I yell to Sabit, “You and your men, please take Burak to another prison cell now at City Jail #1!”
“Alright, Alisher. Everybody in my group, take Burak as a hostage!” shouts Sabit as he reloads his assault rifle. However, the Babayev’s helicopter flies away. Our bullets no longer could strike him out. We have ten helicopters, so now we need to use them to down Babayev. Major Oliver orders his soldiers to “get as quickly to the closest helicopters as possible” and to “launch the missiles into Anar Babayev’s new command center.”
I get into a blue helicopter with an American flag on its wings and get up in the air, ready to fight Anar until the end. I really hope the Anar-controlled army is defeated and wouldn’t get up to shoot us again. We bombed their tanks and their armored vehicles, as well as defeated the police and the Hovlyk Asker. But maybe we didn’t consider Dalabistan’s military forces? I gasp as I fasten my seatbelt, looking around with my binoculars. Anar Babayev is sitting in the helicopter, with one pilot and Burak Serikbayev operating the weapons. Their helicopter has some missiles, but its storage is half-empty. Our ground forces are shooting at Anar’s helicopter. As he starts to fly away, more black helicopters appear in the sky. One shoots a helicopter belonging to our forces, and the shot blows right next to our helicopter. At the same time, our helicopters strike back at the entire fleet of pro-Babayev helicopter forces. Three are downed within the first minute after their assault on our helicopter. Anar’s helicopter seems to be overshadowed by other helicopters sent to protect him.
In the air, I announce into the radio, “Sabit and Abzal, down every helicopter!” A minute later, explosions light up in the air in front of me—more chunks of fine marble and stone fall on protesters. Many are crushed by them. Others have small dissections by pebbles. The additional smoke bursts in the air as the enemy’s forces suffer losses. The haze caused by the explosions prevents me from seeing any other objects in the air. Where in the sky is Anar? Did he already manage to fly far away on his way to his Turkmen haven?
I ask the pilot, “Where is Anar Babayev’s helicopter? I see it, but I often lose it in this mist.”
“On the radar, his helicopter is surprisingly the only one remaining from Dalabistan
’s Air Force fleet.”
“How far is he from us?”
“A hundred meters, roughly the same altitude as us.”
“Shoot from all cannons.”
“Three. Two. One. Launch.”
The rocket goes right into the tail rotor. In all of the mist and smoke of the skirmish, I easily see that Anar’s helicopter starts to stall and to enter into a corkscrew dive. The helicopter loses its altitude while trying to shoot at us in vain, all of the shots firing into the air but not into our helicopter. Finally, we exit the mist cloud. I rush to stare in the windows. Anar’s downed helicopter is on the ground of the Dalab Eli square, with its parts falling apart. A crowd surrounds like ants surrounding their anthill. I order the pilot, “Let’s get lower to a five-meter altitude.”
“Roger that.” As we get lower, more and more people stand, applauding with their hands, chanting “Freedom at Last!” and “Glory to New President Alisher Karabars!” waving their posters and battle flags. This is the moment I de facto win my presidency. They sing stanzas of some strange tune I forgot.
We’re oppressed for many years
Yet we don’t give up our pride
I didn’t hear this for a long time. Probably only right now I start to realize how long I didn’t come home!
The seeds have been sown
Dalabs, our time has come!
My country, my country
May it prosper for the future kins
Finally, let’s end our sufferings and
Build a better future for Dalabistan!
I think I started to remember this tune. An original revolutionary song against Soviet oppression later transformed into Dalabistan’s anthem later edited to serve as an ode to Volkan Babayev. Finally, it’s restored to its proper form.
The Outcast Presidents Page 11
