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planningacoup · 7 years ago

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Planning A Coup by Shawn Fleek

One late autumn night while sleeping in his lofted bed Jaimolline bolted awake as a woman’s scream erupted from the hallway of the Inner Sanctum. Such noise was forbidden in his home at this hour. He sat in his dark, stone-walled room and listened with worry. Again she screamed, “AN ATTACK!” His worry was founded: yet another attempt on his life, an attempt to seize power.

He had been through many at this point, and so the protocols established went into effect. The Leader leapt from his bunk to the floor, sprinted across the sleeping quarters to the only entrance, and pulled a wrought iron gate into place behind it, locking it into the stone floor. The gate would reinforce the heavy wooden doors should a battering ram attempt entry. He then pulled a lever which activated a warning siren audible across all the military’s branches and stations. His sleeping quarters had one long chimney, not wide enough for a cat to climb down, and after pulling the lever he leaned down next to his fireplace and heard outside a distinctive wail: the siren was active, the troops were now in motion if they had not been already, and they now knew that the Leader was awake. The battle had begun.

For Jaimolline, the battle was to wait, review the plan, revisit the history, take detailed notes, and believe in the process. He lit a fire, and reviewed his journals.

An attempt on his life could be expected to last roughly 12 hours. Thus, the first eight or so hours were a guessing game. The math he had done once, while awaiting his fate, told him that a coup which lasted longer than 8 hours was likely to last at least a full day. He kept a detailed journal of all of the days he spent holed up in his chamber, and some quick analysis made it clear that the number of unserious attempts dispelled quickly, which was most attempts, dragged down the average number of hours from the few serious attempts, which could stretch for days.

The coups in the past had become progressively more complicated and brutal. At one early point they involved a close childhood friend who had become an advisor to the Leader. In her personal life she began courting a still-unknown man who was a subversive. Her lover convinced her that Jaimolline must be brought down, and she joined a failed coup attempt. Safeguards were put in place after to prevent this sort of treachery from succeeding, but most of these precautions weren’t the Leader’s responsibility. It was his duty, now that the alarm was sounded, to wait, and hope that the steps taken were effective. In absence of an active role, as the director of this production, his part was to review the script now that the curtain had opened, and make notes in the margins with a gallows optimism that another opening may fare even better – after this production closed. The only other option beside attempting to sleep through his nerves, or taking notes on preventing his own homicide, was to spy on the corridor outside. One such method was through a slot in the door, but this was in no way a secret to the hallway and offered precious little vantage.

Unbeknownst to even the most trusted of Top Men, a crawlspace opened under the Leader’s bunk, ran underneath the sleeping quarters, underneath the hallway, and ended in a small, isolated chamber on the opposite wall, mostly below the level of the floor. This room offered almost no adornment, no source of light. But it did offer a simple view through a slit in the stone wall, where the Leader could see who was at his door before letting them in, and see them more fully than through the slit. The thinking was that anyone who came knocking would immediately awaken him, and he would hustle through the dark passage, confirm their identity, and then return to his room to permit or deny their entry. This step was never necessary, but many efforts went into ensuring at the last point of insurrection, it would be advantageous.

At the moment of the siren, protocols established after a prior coup attempt indicated that all available soldiers were to report to their units. Once their superiors met and adjourned, convened and confirmed them as loyalists, and delivered their marching orders, they would take to various wings of the Leader’s residence, half holding off incoming forces, and half entering to sweep out any would-be killers who had already entered the stone and iron palace Jaimolline inherited from the previous Leader.

The Inner Sanctum of the home was where all soldiers were to stop advancing in their attempt to halt a coup-in-progress. It represented the living quarters and private space of the Leader, and within this area certain precautions stated that during a coup, only Top Men were allowed. Upon hearing the siren, everyone else fled the Inner sanctum. Top Men would wait until the coup attempt had been defeated, then would arrive personally to deliver the news.

Top Men were those military agents closest to Jaimolline. Women served in the military, but none had risen to the rank of the Top Men, and had thus not yet challenged the exclusive title from a position of right.

“Jaimolline!” yelled the fireplace. He jumped from his chair, and stared at the few coals still going after five hours in wait. “JAAAAAIMOLLEEEEEEENE!”

Someone is yelling into my chimney, he thought. Only a scant number of people knew about this particular chimney, hidden in a statue atop the residence. He stirred the embers to death, and stuck his head into the smoke. “Yes?,” he answered.

“Look out!,” the distant voice threatened from four stories above. “Incoming!”

He pulled his head back. Have they overtaken my army? Are they coming to break down my door?

The fireplace repeated its threat. “Incoming!”

He sat paralyzed. It had been just 6 hours. He could only imagine two possibilities: that the final blow was about to be struck, and a close confidant was warning him, or that the final blow had already been struck, the secrets of the regime betrayed to the subversives, and one of them was yelling taunts into his fireplace. Either thought was disconcerting.

Then, from the fire’s mouth, a THWACK. A small pile of ash spit from the fireplace and blacked Jaimolline’s boot. He looked closely into the pit. A rock, wrapped in paper, tied with twine, had landed at the back of the fireplace.

It wasn’t a threat, or a taunt. It was a warning about an incoming message, he thought with a great deal of relief. Hurriedly, he grabbed the ball, removed the twine and freed the paper from its vessel.

The note was short, buried in several layers of sooty and torn parchment, but worrisome.

Beloved Leader,

I fear for your life during this attempt, more than any other.

Subversives all dressed as Top Men. Impossible to know who to trust

Many early losses. We still fight on

We love you. I love you.

Marianne

Marianne was a young but distinguished fighter in the ranks with whom Jaimolline had been making love, and long-term plans, for many months. Given the number of times she’d slept in his bed, she’d met many of the Top Men who guarded the Inner Sanctum. He’d told her about the chimney when she giggled at his “tiny fireplace.” Her usually charming manor was all but absent from this communication. Her choices of words were all pointed. Unlike her love notes, her sentences were broken, indicating seriousness, and a lack of time to write more. It wasn’t her voice in the chimney, was it? No. Her voice would be unmistaken. Beloved Leader. No other solder would open a letter this way. No other soldier could. more than any other. She had not seen some of the more harrowing attempts at his life, yet she had eyes outside his room and hallway, and this thought concerned him. The closing, We love you. I love you., had such seriousness. She’d written this note, and given it to someone else who knew about the chimney, or was just learning, risking they would read it and learn of her affair with the Leader.

But nothing was more disconcerting than Subversives all dressed as Top Men.

Jaimolline ran back to his notes. Top Men wore highly-distinctive uniforms. The hats of Top Men were the most important detail, though to any observer they were the least flamboyant part of a Top Man’s outfit. A black, pointed cap, in a style common for aristocrats, worn at a noticeable angle. A slight brim on the upturned edge of the hat was embroidered TM in black-with-silver thread. Such a minor detail was easy to miss.

The Top Man’s Jacket was a traditional blue wool military coat, with black lining. The shoulders of the coat were adorned with epaulettes of the flag, then of the military, and then of the symbol for loyalty, from outer shoulder to the neck-line. The left breast pocket of the coat was embroidered TM with gold thread, laced with real gold, which would shine under a light. Tassels hung from each of three pockets in the colors of the flag, but each tassel had a different proper positioning on each pocket. The Jacket was cut at the thigh. A pocket inside held a silver watch – a gift from the Leader to each soldier who achieved this prestigious rank.

The pants of the Top Men were a dark khaki, tight at the ankle and knee but loose from knee to waist. Holding them up was a dark brown leather belt, which dangled with red leather medallions. All soldiers in the military would earn ranks on his or her jacket. Upon joining the Top Men, these medallions were converted into red leather trinkets hanging from the waist. Not all soldiers earned all the same ranks, and so this bit of personality was the only unique aspect of the Top Mens’ uniforms.

Top Men wore the same short, black boots as all the other soldiers.

He chose each facet of the Top Men’s uniform with painstaking judgement. It was a tradition he intended to pass along to successive generations of leadership, once he had taken a wife. He thought of Marianne as a candidate, but she was kept in the dark about the true purpose of these ornate clothes. Only Top Men received the instructions on how to wear the precisely-turned hats, complicated, ornate coats and well-festooned pants. The Leader could thus look critically upon the highest-ranking members of his military, those who guarded his personal residence, sleeping quarters, and bathroom, and see their respect and trustworthiness in each perfectly-placed crease, tassel, medallion, and fob.

The uniform requirements lessened the necessity of establishing any personal relationships with the Top Men, which Jaimolline found risky, inauthentic, and a waste of time. On just one occasion, the Leader opened himself to the idea of befriending the Man who guarded his bedroom door. The guard was friendly and often would offer a joke. However most of the jokes weren’t funny. His eagerness to befriend came across as desperate and suspicious. In Jaimolline’s mind, those who became close to him wanted wealth and power, or wanted to murder him. And so the budding friendship became an awkward interaction the Leader would dread each morning for nearly two weeks. Eventually there was no choice but to dismiss and execute the guard.

Though many saw his demands of Top Men as spurious, or flamboyant, or obsessive, the details of the uniforms were there to assuage the paranoia of a man who knew from experience he was a target. From the safety of his secret, private room opposite his sleeping quarters, he could peer through a slit in the stone which only he knew about, and look to see who was at his door. The distinctive Top Men and their showy uniforms were the comforting sight signaling the end of another bad night’s sleep. Only they were allowed to come knocking.

Thus, the news of the insurrection impersonating Top Men was so troublesome. From this information, he would have to triple his diligence, study every feature of any potential rescue party, and ensure he wasn’t being tricked into his own surrender.

I designed those uniforms. They may get small details past low-ranking soldiers, but not past me.

After two days, not a word had been heard, shouted or whispered, in the hallway. His mind raced with the possibilities.

He was reminded of the subversion much earlier in his life and his rule, which had nearly cost him both. It lasted just fifteen minutes. The shortest attempt on my life, he sometimes joked to himself. His trusted childhood friend-turned-advisor requested to discuss rising subversive tendencies among the military in a private meeting, and he granted her request. Very soon after the encounter began, she threw a knife at him. The Leader was looking through his pockets at the moment and didn’t see her throw the knife, which strayed widely from its intended target, striking a pan hanging on the wall behind him and making a tremendous GONG KLANG as it knocked the pan to the floor. A nearby guard rushed in. There, the guard saw the stunned adviser looking flummoxed, and attempting to remain calm as the guard examined the fallen pan, dented obviously by a nearby, bent knife. The majority of the 15 minutes was spent on the investigation as the advisor backed toward the door. The final minute of the coup attempt was the guard chasing her down the hallway. Jaimolline was unaware of the attempt for 14 of the 15 minutes. This was before many of the protocols were in place, before he even kept his journals. Had her aim been true, it would have been a feat of efficiency.

Following many embarrassments, missteps, betrayals, and slapstick comedies involving failed security doors and falsely-triggered booby traps, a certain comfort was now assured. Once he secured the iron gate and pulling of the alarm lever, his trusted military would handle the situation, with their commander safe until the end, or as had never happened, until his demise. The comfort was now eroded, as it appeared his enemies may have obtained crucial, secret information in their quest to infiltrate his lair.

The third day came. No knocks at the door from Top Men, or suspect advisors, or untrustworthy others.

The longest coup attempt had lasted nearly four days, a rather belligerent invasion from a rival territory which brought many of his Top Men to their knees. Given this severity, Jaimolline had anticipated up to a week in any potential coup before order was restored, and kept a week’s worth of food and water in his sleeping quarters. The only feature of the private spying room, besides the crack in the stone, was a toilet which emptied directly into a cesspool below.

Day four. No one. Not a footstep. He leaned his ear upon the slit in the private bathroom, and heard no shuffling feet, no whispered betrayal plots, no distant skirmishes.

Jaimolline had read and re-read the plan time and again, searching for weaknesses. It was written plainly, the key need-to-know information had been given to the generals clearly, nearly all of whom were around for the last run of these same exercises, and the soldiers themselves were intelligent and loyal and proud enough to follow through. He quizzed himself on his memory of the Top Mens’ uniforms, ran through protocol scenarios for any number of circumstances. Every exercise told him: patience. At Day 5, he would have to ration his food and water, to last an additional week. After two weeks, he would need to open the door himself and seek safety in another place. No one knew these limitations and deadlines except for himself.

At mid-day, Day 5, a knock came to the chamber door. Three quick taps of the brass knocker. The Leader sat up quickly from his desk. Without a noise he pushed back his chair, ran underneath his lofted bunk, threw the floor rug to the side, opened the hatch to the crawlspace, proceeded steadily but quietly under the chamber and hallway, and into the small toilet. He put his face against the wall, where a small bit of light shone in from the hallway.

Three Top Men stood facing the entrance to the sleeping quarters, and pacing as they awaited approval or denial of entry. From his vantage, a few feet below and peering inward and upward, he could see their thighs, belts, coats, pockets, tassels, epaulets, embroidery, and hats. A glint of light shone from the threads where this was expected. Every box checked, not a thread out of place, every medallion positioned appropriately, every flag and symbol properly positioned. Authentic coloration, no signs of forgery. He waited long enough to see the silver threading of the TM under one of the hats as it caught the light. These were his men.

He rushed, without a noise, back to his bedroom, closed the crawlspace and replaced the rug, and hurried to his door. A small slide door, large enough to fit documents through, swung inward with a twist of the clasp. “Who is knocking?,” he loudly asked his visitors.

The three replied in unison. “You ordered us to keep you safe.”

Jaimolline swallowed hard. This was the protocol, yes, but for a very disastrous coup attempt, which had never happened before. This was the Exit Team Protocol. Should multiple generals be lost, and the frontline losses be so heavy as to make the Leader’s residence indefensible or soon to be so, a remaining general would order an Exit Team to break off, secure an exit route, and extract and deliver the Leader to a new location. He had only read through this part of the plan once or twice, to remember the key phrase. “You ordered us to keep you safe.”

Protocol here demanded two more questions and responses. First, a report on the losses. Second, a report on the path to security. The Leader could then choose to stay or go. The Exit Team would die defending the Leader where he was, anywhere between the sleeping chamber and a new safe location.

Jaimolline hadn’t considered this possibility. Given the specificity of the situation, he accepted it with resignation. “Report on our losses.”

A single, familiar voice reported back. “Sir, our losses are almost total. However, we have an issue that will prevent the Exit Team from moving forward with your extraction.”

“Describe the issue.”

“Well sir... we… uh…,” he trailed off.

What did we forget to include in the plan? he thought.

“We don’t know each other,” said another voice. “We’ve been decimated in numbers, the general who gave us this order wasn’t one any of us knew, and none of us started defending this place in the same spot – we all just met when the rebellion started. And well, sir, this is going to sound crazy but – the rebels all showed up dressed like Top Men.”

“I’m well aware,” Jaimolline said, ignorant if this news caused surprise on any of their obscured faces. “And so the... what is it, three of you?” he pretended not to know, “You won’t go ahead with the extraction without my confirming you’re all trustworthy?”

The Top Men shuffled their feet nervously. The Leader’s mind wandered, to himself, to his obsessions, to his desperation to be safe again. A thought occurred.

“Have each of you served for some time?”

They murmured to one another on the other side of the doorway. “Yes, sir, each of us for at least a couple of years.”

“Have each of you stood guard in the Inner Sanctum in the last six months?”

More murmurs. “We all have, sir.”

Please, God, let her be okay.

“Do each of you know Marianne?”

Please, God. I pray to you. Let her live.

“Yes.”

“Yup.”

Please God.

“Have any of you seen Marianne since the rebellion broke out?” His voice was pleading, while he tried to retain his air of command.

“No.”

“Nope.”

“Yes sir, this morning, in the makeshift infirmary in the West Wing. She’s been injured several times, but she keeps heading back to fight.”

What have they done to her?

“Do you know where she is now?”

“I suspect I do.”

“Then bring her here. Under my order. Give her an extra set of your clothes if it gets her into the Inner Sanctum. She knows almost all of you anyways. Bring her here. She has a great memory. If she’ll vouch for all of you, I’ll vouch for all of you, and then we can all get out of this cursed palace before it caves in on us all.”

Please God let her come to me quickly.

“The other two of you, stay here. If anyone other than Marianne or the man who just left comes near this doorway, kill him.”

Please, God, let her be okay.

And so he waited. He shut the slot in the door, returned to his hidden bathroom, and expected Marianne. He wanted to be sure there was no coercion, no knife at her back. He wanted a better look at her than the slot in the door might provide of just her waistline, though he did miss her waistline.

A little less than an hours’ time went by when he heard her voice through the slits in the wall. She said to the man who brought her, “is he still inside? Why?” He saw no sign she was forced to come. He admired her soldiers’ clothes, still dirty from battle, the way her dark hair and skin contrasted with her light khaki uniform. She’d been absent from his life for days, while fighting for him. He saw her limp slightly, and his heart sank. My girl, what have these animals done to you? He abandoned his post and rushed back to his room, leaving the hatch open and rug out of place. Sliding open the document port, he cried out to her.

“Marianne! My love!”

“My Beloved!,” she replied as only she could. “We are evacuating!”

“Marianne, the men outside the door with you, do you remember these men from tending guard when you slept over?”

Peering through, he saw Marianne’s waistline turn slightly, then re-center on the doorway.

“I do. Thayer here tends to be stationed near the kitchen. Brunnich and Quin have both been at the front gate before. And I think one of these men hit on me once.”

One of the men chuckled, and whispered an apology.

Jaimolline was satisfied. He stepped back from listening between the bars of wrought iron, and began cranking up the chain that would pull the gate back into the stone ceiling. As soon as it clicked back into place, he unlatched the wooden door. Three Top Men stood at attention surrounding a dirty, smiling Marianne.

She squealed, and bounded with a limp toward him, and he looked to her for his first human contact in nearly a week, and comfort at the horrifying losses just felt under his years of planning.

She saw the devastation on his face, kissed his cheek, then held him tighter than she ever had before, whispering kindly in his ear, “I won’t let you go,” as Thayer, Brunnich, and Quin drew their knives.

She said aloud, now, and her guards did as she instructed – planting one knife in each side of his chest, and a third in his back. She pushed him away as he gasped, and looked down at the last of his army. She removed her own knife from her waistline. “This is for my parents, former leaders in our struggle, who died hoping to see this day.” She placed her blade at his right temple. “What do you have to say for your crimes?” As he struggled to speak, she laughed. “We do not care! Our people have heard from you for 47 years!,” she proclaimed, running the knife quickly, surgically to his throat, then continuing clockwise to his left temple.

Moments later, as Jaimolline lay dying in his hallway, he watched Marianne and her guards walk away, for the first time seeing that each of them wore matching red boots.

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