Devolution (20 page)

The major general tore off his safety straps and whipped around, facing the rear of the helicopter. “Where the hell is Kabul!?” he barked to a teenage Alam Jabbar.

“A few more seconds!”

The major general’s eyes glanced down at a makeshift bandage wrapped tightly around a shrapnel wound that engulfed the young man’s leg. Everything below the knotted cloth was saturated in blood, a pool of thick red liquid covering the floor.

Jabbar ignored the pain. “I will be fine.”

“There’s another!” The major general’s head snapped toward port side. Another part of the wall bore a hole.

The major general’s admonition was clear. “We are leaving in twenty seconds whether he is here or not.”

Jabbar didn’t argue.

The initial surge by government soldiers through the opening was tempered by the remaining resistance forces. The valiant last ditch effort would soon dwindle. In a matter of seconds after the holes opening, all the rebels in that vicinity converged in an attempt to plug it. As soldiers poured in, they were mowed down in a hail of bullets. However, those bullets would run out long before the government’s availability of soldiers. As the breeches multiplied, the number of forces available to plug them thinned.

“Go!” yelled Kabul, leaping into the helicopter.

“Finally,” the major general said, his voice quivering with anxiety.

Kabul hastily prepared himself for liftoff. “My family just took off.”

“Are they good?”

The addition of gunfire a few hundred yards away made conversation nearly impossible.

The soon-to-be-exiled leader of the FLEC nodded as he strapped on his helmet. Kabul’s family was on their way to Liberia, and then Great Britain. Kabul and his men had some final business with the Crown before heading for their new home. Great Britain had agreed to escort his wife and children to London weeks prior. Kabul had refused to leave them, until now.

“Hold on!” announced the pilot, signaling for takeoff.

The helicopter rose from the ground, and Kabul and his men watched as the last of the resistance was decimated. The wall surrounding Inner City now looked more like a series of columns. It was shortly before midday; the war would be over before nightfall.

Kabul nudged Jabbar and leaned forward to tap the major general’s shoulder. He pointed to a helicopter not far off in the distance that carried his family.

The unfortunate angle of the two choppers offered the military men an unobstructed view of a land-to-air-missile racing across the clear blue sky toward that lead helicopter. As if in slow motion, the ballistic missile collided with the aircraft and detonated. The brilliant ball of fire it produced spread in all directions. The explosion raged with such intensity the helicopter appeared to incinerate in mid-air.

“Nooooo!” Kabul cried out in horror, his arms outstretched toward the orange burst.

The major general closed his eyes and lowered his head to utter a short prayer. He felt for his friend. Throughout the years, he had grieved for countless souls. Over time, the recurring pain would harden his reserve. If he were to rise to the top of his field, he must not be weakened by grief. It was just a matter of time before this philosophy would rid him of all emotion in the quest for power.

Kabul and Jabbar looked on in horror as the fireball extinguished into a plume of black smoke that lazily ascended toward the heavens. That crippling feeling in Kabul’s stomach would never subside. In a matter of minutes he had lost his country, the respect of his people, and his family. He reached into the breast pocket of his fatigues and pulled out a folded picture. It showed a happy and loving family of four. His wife sat perfectly positioned in the middle, their two early teenage sons proudly perched on either side. The preeminent patriarch, Kabul, stood tall behind them. This picture was all he had left.

In the room where Kabul’s men watched, it was silent. Their fearless leader had degenerated into a sobbing coward. The power of symbolism had never been so caustic. And this time, they could not blame their troubles on the British government.

“I have no choice,” stated the major general.

Kabul didn’t acknowledge his captor. The man who sat huddled in the chair was but a broken-down skeleton of his former self. The relentless memories and painful realities of what could have been proved an enormous weight around his neck, one that became far too heavy. He lacked the mental ability or desire to ever release himself.

The major general eased himself out of his chair. He walked over to his old friend and placed his left hand on his right shoulder. “I am sorry,” he whispered in a voice so low only Kabul could hear. As he removed Kabul’s chains, he took a few seconds to admire the man he once revered as a great and powerful leader.

When the major general exited, the sound of his shoes knocking against the hollow concrete floors echoed eerily throughout the room. The latch of the chamber unlocking signaled the end of their relationship. The loud crash of the door slamming against the metal frame finalized the deal. Kabul was now left to himself, with an eternity to ponder his life.

A few minutes later, Kabul stood up and shuffled over to a bed at the far corner of the room. He lay down on his back to stare at the ceiling. Reaching down, he grabbed the sheets and violently attempted to rip them apart. The maddening release of energy served to ease his mind. Pleased with the quality of the fabric, he smiled letting his head fall backward to rest against the bare wall. The blanket barely covered half his ravaged body. The dried blood on his face resembled war paint. He heard the locks on his cell door jiggle once again. Eternity would not be much longer.

A few cells down, a door swung open, revealing the major general to Kabul’s men. They sat in the room dispirited from what they had just witnessed. Most didn’t even bother to acknowledge his entrance.

The military man stepped into the room and without any emotion, simply asked, “Who’s first?”

*

Professor Nolan walked into the already-filled classroom. “Good morning, class.”

John was last to arrive. He performed his normal rituals of first placing his bag on the desk, then hanging his coat on the back of the chair. The previous instructor always left the chair halfway pushed in under the metal lectern. John would have to finish the task. The room was quiet as he went about his routine. No talking, no shuffling of papers, desks or chairs.

He opened his briefcase in search of the day’s lesson. When he reached to grab his notes, an awkward feeling of discomfort flowed through him.

He peeked up from the tops of his eyes. The students had not moved. In fact, he wasn’t sure if many had even blinked. He scanned the room from left to right.

Off to the right, outside the door, John saw an increasing number of students walking past his classroom and peeking inside. Many of them pointing and whispering. Some held copies of
Constitutional Correctness
. Confused, John turned his attention back to his class. Their blank stares did not help.

“What?” he said, and the students unleashed their barrage of questions.

“How did they get your book?”

“Did you give it to them?”

“Will you join the resistance?”

“Are you making money in book sales?”

“I heard it’s sold out everywhere.”

“Did you write the book hoping this would happen?”

“You have to be making a ton of money. Everyone wants a copy.”

As John’s exam continued, the hall swelled with onlookers and the subsequent noise they generated.

“Myra!” John blurted out, startling the young girl. The class quieted immediately. “Please shut the door,” John said.

When she had done so, the background noise vanished. “Alright,” Professor Nolan started in a calm voice with his arms outstretched, palms facing the floor. “I am just as stunned as you.” He pulled out the chair he just pushed in and took a seat. “I did not volunteer for this. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t have any answers to your questions. I wish I did.”

“Sir?” said a young man in the front row.

“Yes, Peter.”

“If you need help, we’ll be there,” the boy said with compassion well beyond his years. When the rest of his students expressed similar support, John couldn’t help but smile.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

Unfortunately, his moment of comfort did not last.

Without any formal invitation to enter, the door creaked open again, filling the room with the clamorous chatter from the hallway. The piercing squeaks of the rusted metal hinges gave way to an old, humpbacked, gray-haired man. Thick, goggle-like glasses hung at the tip of his nose, and his attire was a worn out, earth-toned suit.

John rose from his desk. “Chancellor Landon!” He briskly made his way to the old man with his hand extended.

The chancellor shook John’s hand. “Professor Nolan, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His voice was tired but exultant.

For John, this was an honor. He had never met the chancellor. In fact, he was rarely seen outside of speeches and commencement addresses. At his age, public appearances were tough.

“How can I help you?” John asked, somewhat stunned by the unannounced arrival. He signaled for Myra to again close the door.

“Well, John,” the chancellor said with a downward smile, “may I have a moment?”

“Absolutely, sir.” John reached for his briefcase. “Alright, class, I want you guys to read chapters ten through fifteen. Next class, we’ll go a little longer to make up for today. Schedule appropriately.”

The students gathered their belongings.

“Thank you for your understanding,” John said as they filed into the boisterous hallway. “Please shut the door.”

Within seconds, the room was again quiet.
The old chancellor sat down in a chair in the front row. John leaned against his desk.

“Wow,” The chancellor remarked, looking around the classroom. “I haven’t been in one of these chairs in a while. It’s quite uncomfortable.”

John grinned slightly. The old man’s levity was easing the awkwardness of the moment.

“John.” He seemed to finally settle in. “You know why I am here. I read your book. It’s brilliant. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ve been around for a long time, son.” With shaky hands, he removed his glasses and placed them upside down on the desk. “I’ve never seen things this bad. This country has some very tough decisions ahead. “You know, when I was a younger man, I was in a similar situation as you find yourself now.” He drew in a long, slow breath. “Not long after the turn of the century, I did some international relief work. You know, to pad my resume.” The chancellor leaned back and stretched upright in the chair. “The doctor told me I need to work on my posture. I get yelled at.”

John was surprised by Chancellor Landon’s disposition. He had not expected that from a man of his stature.

“Anyway, I ended up getting a job working for the Solomon Islands’ government. Soon after, a man by the name of Snyder Rini was elected prime minister. In April of 2006, he was sworn in. Riots broke out in the capital of Honiara over rumors that Rini used bribes from Chinese businessmen to buy votes in Parliament. Those riots were severe. God, it was scary,” he vividly recalled. “Resentment against local Chinese business was intense. Many Chinese-owned businesses were destroyed. Talks of money being exported to China made it worse. China evacuated many of its people to safety. I watched it all.”

He again repositioned in the chair, wincing in discomfort. “In the end, the riots worked. Rini stepped down. He faced a no-confidence motion. Even if he survived it, the fact that a no-confidence motion happens can ruin a politician.”

John found himself immersed in the story, yet wondering why it was relevant.

“The sad reality was Rini was misunderstood. This man’s political career, what he fought for his entire life, was taken away from him.” His voice dropped to a sorrowful tone. “And I allowed it to happen.”

“You, sir?”

The Chancellor appeared lost in his own reflection. “I didn’t want to get further involved in another country’s politics,” he admitted. “I think about it a lot. Over time, I’ve convinced myself to not regret it.” The old man shifted again, turning towards John with a look of great seriousness. “Professor, you have a rare opportunity. Your family, your friends, polls, they will tell you many things.” He pointed at John with a quivering finger. “
You
must live with your decisions. If you do what is
right
,” he emphasized that last word, “you will have no regret, no matter the result.”

“What is right?” John inquired. “How will I know it?”

The professor replied with a crooked smile. “You will know. Sometimes, we just choose not to realize it.”

John’s mind raced as he pondered the chancellor’s words.

“Joseph Schumpeter was an economist from Austria-Hungary.” The chancellor placed his bony hand on John’s shoulder and looked at the young man as if to view his soul. “He said,
‘The first thing a man will do for his ideals is lie. And that first lie is usually to himself.’
” The old man kindly patted John on the arm.

John’s attention shifted back to the Chancellor’s anecdote. “You said you didn’t do anything because you didn’t want to get
further
involved in another country’s politics?”

The chancellor’s mischievous smile revealed more than he had intended. “Help an old man up,” he instructed.

“You said the prime minister was misunderstood,” John pressed. “How did you know?”

The chancellor remained silent, and the not-so-subtle hint was understood.

John gripped the chancellor’s frail arm and helped him to his feet. As he rose and got a look out the window, they discovered a small crowd had gathered on the university lawn in support of Professor Nolan. The two men walked over to the high windows that had previously shielded them from view. When John stepped into the beams of warm sunlight that radiated through the glass, the students erupted in cheers. They had chosen their allegiance.