Indoctrination’s Grip: The Sergeant’s Storm

“Against stupidity, we have no defense. Neither protests nor force can touch it. Reasoning is of no use. Facts that contradict personal prejudices can simply be disbelieved."

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

It was all good just a week ago, and this was the day my country almost fell from its position like Satan from Heaven. It’s January sixth, two thousand twenty-one, and I’m headed to work. I’m going to the Air Force base that gave the world Goerge Bush Junior and Senior, but it also gave us a history of sexism, racism, and non-governmental compliance. My hiring represented repentance from all of that. A turning away from sinful and old ways as I became the youngest and most qualified person to hold the position of director in the civil engineer squadron. After months of hard work, I fired the ones who would not align with state and federal policies and shaped the rest into a maintenance machine with the help of my loyal number two, Marcus Richardson. A patriot, Marcus retired from the Air Force after twenty-six years of service and served as my deputy director.  

“Look at the news,” he texted as I flashed my ID and drove past the front gate. I parked in front of my unit and opened my news app to see the first seven headlines were about an ongoing attack at the capital. “What? By whom,” I thought. Was it the Russians, Chinese, or some other faction who harbored hatred towards America’s sovereignty and the blessings God gave us? As the footage rolled, the shock and awe of seeing my countrymen invading and brutalizing the capital surged me into tears. What caused them to do this?   

I went inside to find everyone in the break room, and I had a second nine eleven moment as we watched over and over.  Some were just as sad as I was, while others laughed. The commander walked in and said, “Ok boys, get ready to pack your bags. The enemy of freedom is at our doorstep.” I don’t think he knew what he was saying. Was he or anyone ready to use the most lethal military force the world has seen on the civilians we swore to protect? Could I support an operation that harms my countrymen? I’ve seen dogs maul my ancestors because of someone’s hatred of their skin and, as a wounded healer, I don’t want that for anyone.

“What y’all gone do against them? They’re invisible to any law enforcement. How do you think they got that close?” As soon as those words left the mouth of Jason Garnett, our longest-serving civilian, I realized that most of the attackers were white and that everyone in our breakroom was black. The commander, illuminated by the same lightbulb pulled me aside and said, “I need to know where our teams are. Get a headcount.” Daunte Shabazz, an African American from Ohio, heard the commander and accompanied me as I walked the bay to find our teams. “You think they knew about this? I have not seen one White male,” said Daunte. “Yeah, but Mary’s here,” I said trying to avoid the obvious. “If Marcus is missing, that’s when we’ll know we have a problem,” I said trying to convince myself. He looked at me and nodded because Marcus was an American hero and as loyal as they come. We entered the bay, which is flanked by my staff’s offices, and it was empty, with all four bay doors up.

Light poured into the dingy bay just how I liked it, but it was a ghost town. This usually bustling mecca of maintenance work and shop talk was as quiet as a convent.

We planned to start at the grounds shop, which was our first and largest section, and end at Marcus’s office at the end of the maintenance bay. The grounds shop was empty as well as electrical, power production, plumbing, and welding. We slowed our pace as we got close to Marcus’ office to potentially discover what we didn’t want to. I extended my hand to open the door as sweat rolled from Shabazz’s forehead. The bay heated up like Steph Curry in the fourth quarter and just as I touched the doorknob…Marcus. “Hey where’s all the White people?” he said with a confused countenance. 

“Marcus, you and Mary are the only ones we can find. Help us look for the rest.” 

“Ok, but I already walked the unit and there’s not one. They’re probably somewhere held up watching this mess.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of, but held up where?”

“You don’t think they had something to do with this or knew about it, do you?” said Marcus.

“Now that you mention it, when we were in the staff meeting yesterday, Seargent Stubblefield said his plan for today was to move the generators, finish evaluations, and storm the capital. He snuck that in and nobody, not even me, noticed it until now. He looked at me, laughed, and winked. I didn’t understand what he said until I saw it on the news this morning. Guess he thought I knew what he meant because we’re both conservatives, but I’m not on QAnon sites. He’s been acting indoctrinated.”

“I think he got radicalized. All he talks about is politics and acts like we live in Burma. He was even listening to a news station as motivation during his fitness assessment,” said Marcus. I stopped and stared at Marcus so he could elaborate and before he could, our phones chirped with a text from the commander. “I got 'em. They were held up in an office expecting a Martial Law order from the President. The only order they’re getting, is one for non-judicial punishment.”