Matthew Palmer - Enemy of the Good

“My fellow countrymen,” he began. “We are a proud people. A warrior people. But we have for too long hung our heads and allowed a privileged few to decide for us how we live our lives. Their time is at an end. And our time is beginning. Come join us here in Ala-Too Square. Stand with us, fight alongside us, and send a message to the Eraliev regime that they cannot ignore. They are yesterday. We are today. And you are tomorrow.”

Ruslan had not seen the small group of Scythians and villagers who had gathered behind him while he spoke. But when he finished, they cheered loudly and clapped him on the back, the adrenaline of combat still rushing through their veins.

Valentina lowered the camera.

“That was perfect.”

A few hours later, the police tried again, harder this time. There were at least a hundred members of the Special Police, and a few of them carried shotguns or rifles instead of truncheons. A six-wheeled armored personnel carrier lined up on the square directly across from the gate. Two cops stepped out in front of the group and began shooting grenades up into the air. They all knew what was coming.

“Gas!” Nogoev shouted. “Masks, now!”

Among the gear they had confiscated from the Special Police warehouse were three boxes of gas masks. There were enough to equip all the Scythians and almost half of the villagers. Those without masks huddled in the yurts for protection. The tear-gas canisters landed in the middle of the Boldu encampment and began spitting out a white mist that hung low to the ground.

Villagers picked up the individual canisters and tossed them back over the wall in the direction of the police. The attackers donned their own masks, and the net effect on the balance of power was close to zero.

The APC started its engine and moved forward toward the gate, clearly intending to ram it open. The Scythians responded with Molotov cocktails, and soon the front end of the APC was covered in flames. The driver pulled back, leaving behind a black slick of melted rubber from the tires.

“They have guns, Ruslan,” Nogoev observed. “What are the rules of engagement?”

“If someone points a gun at your men, you can shoot him. Try to not kill him unless you have to.”

“Understood.”

Nogoev went to pass the word among his troops.

The Special Police moved forward hesitantly. One man raised a shotgun to his shoulder and almost immediately fell to the ground, clutching his leg where a Scythian had shot him. The message had been delivered.

The police did not seem to have much of a plan. Evidently they had hoped to rely on the tear gas to demoralize the demonstrators and the APC to open a hole in the wall. Moreover, the defenses they were attacking were now stronger than they had been, and the defenders, with one victory under their belt, were more confident.

The results of the second attack were almost the same, with one critical difference. Two dead. One on each side. A policeman trying to clamber up the undercarriage of a truck had fired his shotgun, perhaps by accident. It caught one of the Scythians, a nineteen-year-old named Azamat who had hoped one day to be a pilot, under the chin, blowing off his face. Seconds later, the cop was dead, shot more than a dozen times by vengeful Scythians.

Once the police had retreated, Ruslan ran to the fallen fighter. His comrades had already come to his aid, but the boy was dead. One thing that Ruslan had not thought about was a morgue. What should he do with the body?

The ever practical Nogoev stepped in, instructing the Scythians to place the body of their comrade behind the Manas statue and cover it with a blanket. Ruslan wanted to accompany them, but Nogoev put his hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“No,” he explained. “This is for them. Not us.”

Tashtanbek joined them. On anyone else, Ruslan would have described his expression as grave. But on his grandfather, it might well have represented overwhelming joy. It was impossible to say.

“There is a man at the gate,” he said.

“Is he selling something?” Ruslan asked, knowing full well that the attempt at humor would be wasted on his grandfather.

“No. It’s one of the Special Police. He looks like an officer. He is alone.”

“A parlay?” Ruslan asked.

“It does seem early,” Nogoev agreed.

“Let’s go find out.”

At Ruslan’s direction, the van pulled forward a few feet and a tall man wearing Special Police tactical gear stepped into the encampment.

Ruslan was there to greet him, along with Nogoev, Murzaev, and Tashtanbek. Whoever this cop was, he was walking alone into the lion’s den. Ruslan had to respect that.

“My name is Davron Kayrat uluu,” he said, offering his hand to each of them in turn.

Ruslan raised an eyebrow.

“The commander of the Special Police.”

“I have the honor.”

“But only as of late,” Nogoev said.

“True.”

“How is your predecessor?”

“Dead by his own hand, I’m afraid.”

“Pity.”

“This is an unlawful gathering,” Kayrat uluu said. “I have come to ask you to disperse before there is additional loss of life.”

“Your side is the one that escalated to firearms,” Ruslan said. “The consequences are on your head.”

“If you lay down your weapons, and return to your homes, I can guarantee the safety of your followers,” the Special Police colonel continued. “And I have been authorized to make an additional commitment. If you surrender yourself to justice, the government will release your comrade, Katarina Hollister, without charging her.”

“You cannot hold her,” Ruslan protested, and he could feel the anger building inside him. “She is an American diplomat, with immunity under international law. You must release her immediately and without condition.”

“Not my department, I’m afraid. I have no idea who this woman is. I’m just passing on the message.”

“If Chalibashvili hurts her, so help me god, I will rip the eyes from his head.”

“We could hold him,” Nogoev said. “Trade the commander of the Special Police for Kate.”

“Do you think Eraliev or Chalibashvili would take that deal?” Ruslan asked.

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” Kayrat uluu said. “But I do need an answer.”

“Go to hell.”

“I thought that might be your position. Very well, the offer is good for the next three hours. Think it over.”

“In three hours, I will still want you to go to hell, but there is something else that I want right now.”

“What is it?”

“I want your agreement not to use guns. If you do, then we will have to. And boys and girls will die who do not need to die. You, Mr. Kayrat uluu, I believe to be a Kyrgyz patriot. Don’t spill the blood of Kyrgyzstan’s children needlessly.”

“Maybe we should each appoint a champion and they can battle it out in front of your walls. Like Hector and Achilles at Troy.”

“I don’t think that one worked out so well for the defenders,” Ruslan replied. “I’d prefer David and Goliath.”

The colonel was quiet as he considered his options.

“Malinin would have already dropped a barrel bomb on you from a helicopter.”

“Maybe so,” Ruslan said. “But I think you’re different.”

“Oh, really? What makes you think that?”

“You came here alone. I assume that was so we could talk honestly.”

“It’s always better to be honest, but you never know who reports to whom.”

“Of course. So do we have an understanding? No guns?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Kayrat uluu promised.

“Remember, Colonel. We are going to win. And for the rest of your life you are going to have to answer for the decisions you make in the next few days. Choose wisely. Choose your country over Eraliev. The fat pig calls himself President for Life. Well, his term is almost up.”