Tài liệu Nuclear Holocaust Never Again (Never Again Series, Book 1) pdf

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Relevant books by R.J. Rummel
Understanding Conflict and War (five volumes)
Lethal Politics: Soviet Genocide and Mass Murder since
1917
China’s Bloody Century: Genocide and Mass Murder
since 1900
Democide: Nazi Genocide and Mass Murder
Death By Government
Statistics of Democide.
Power Kills: Democracy as a Method of Nonviolence
Saving Lives, Enriching Life: Freedom as a Right and a
Moral Good (online book)













Pray tell, my brother,
Why do dictators kill and make war?
For glory, for things, for beliefs, out of hatred;
For power.
Yes, but more because they can.






Acknowledgements

I owe many thanks to the thorough evaluation, many helpful sug-
gestions, and careful editing of Marg Gilks. I also owe much to my
daughter Dawn Rummel, who in her many helpful suggestions for im-
proving the novel hit just the right buttons. I also am indebted to the
many visitors to my website at www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/ who com-
mented on or questioned the material there. They often had an impact
on this novel.
Thanks to Nicholas Gordon for the use of his poem, "Souls Do Not
Disintegrate and Die," in the Epilogue.
And foremost, is my wife Grace. She made this novel possible.
Without her, I could not have written it. A kiss, sweetheart.
To be sure, this is a book of fiction. Although some characters may
in name and position bear a striking resemblance to historical figures,
they are fictional. Nonetheless, I must say that whatever errors of fic-
tional facts exist are mine, and wholly mine.








Foreword

Love is one of our greatest mysteries and the greatest reward that
we can receive and give to others. It comes in many forms: love for our
children and they for us; love for another person; love for our pets and
the unconditional love they give us; our love for humankind; and our
love of our country.
This is a story of the love between a man and a woman, and their
love for humanity. It may make you laugh; it may make you happy—
possibly even elated. It may make you sad. It may make you tear up, as
I did frequently when I wrote it. All this is part of the aura of love, and
we all have experienced it.
While love is a mystery, there is something in human relations that
is not. It was known to the ancients, but has to be relearned by each
generation, sometimes disastrously. It is the enemy of love, and this
book follows the intimate and international struggle between the two.
Someday in the future, two people may undertake a mission such as
the one you will read about here. If they do, I hope that they will under-
stand this insidious, subversive, almost invisible enemy they will have
to fight—an enemy against which they may have no protection.
What is it? Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?
Many of the sub-stories you will read here, such as that of the
Cambodian woman Tor, the Chinese woman Gu, and the German
Ludger are false in the names of the characters themselves, but gener-
ally true in the background war, genocide, and mass murder. If you
wish to read more about these events, you can visit my web site at
www.hawaii.edu/powerkills.
R.J. Rummel
rummel@hawaii.edu




Chapter 1


oy had a body to die for. That’s why the deaths of over
200,000,000 people—the vast majority murdered—never hap-
pened. Joy’s body . . . and the roar of a 110-story building
collapsing before my eyes.
Just thinking about it brings back the suffocating stench of death . . .
God, how could I, an ordinary Ph.D. in history from Yale, have ever
smelled death? It began with good advice.
New Ph.D. in hand, I was lucky to get a tenure-track assistant pro-
fessorship to teach at Indiana University. I was on my way. Do my
research, publish a book or two and some articles, keep my relations
with the lovelies on campus discreet, and tenure—academic heaven—
would be mine.
I’d learned from my graduate advisor at Yale how the academic
game was played. Publish, yes. But also get to know the greats in the
field. Mingle with them, carry their books, show devotion to their
ideas, attend their presentations, and ask softball questions that make
them look good. Then, as flowers attract bees to produce honey, they’d
help get my books and articles published, and help me win research
grants. And where else does one meet such esteemed individuals than
at conferences and seminars held by the central organizations of one’s
field of study?
I took this advice to heart. Only two weeks into the Fall semester at
Indiana University, my department chairman, Sam Palmerton, ap-
proved an invitation for me to participate in a democratic peace seminar
held by the International Studies Association at Rutgers. I no longer
recall what happened there. I surely played the game and showed my
stuff, but it’s all been squeezed into an infinitesimally small point of
memory by what followed.
After the seminar, I delayed my flight out until noon the next day—
September 11—so I could visit my cousin, Pete Baxter. Pete was a
bond broker for Tucker Brokerage in the World Trade Center, North
Tower. He was managing $43,000 in bonds that I had inherited, and I
J
R. J. Rummel
14
wanted to discuss selling my bonds and moving into stocks. Besides,
this was an opportunity to see him for the first time in years.
That morning, I took the PATH train from New Jersey to the World
Trade Center. I arrived at 8:50 a.m. and hopped on the escalator up to
the concourse.
I found the area empty of people; spooky, to see a public place so
still and quiet. I looked around; for the first time, I noticed the smoke
hanging in the air. It smelled sour. The air felt sticky. Empty shoes lay
scattered over the floor.
My heart began to pound. Something was very wrong.
“Get out! Run!”
I whirled to see a policeman gesturing frantically towards the con-
course doors. Without thinking, I obeyed.
Outside, the street was littered with glass, concrete, and papers of
all kinds. Still more papers floated down from above. The stink of
burning things and gasoline hung in the air. I couldn’t run, but had to
step over and around the debris.
I almost tripped over what I initially thought was a side of beef. As
I dodged it, I realized it was a naked torso without arms or legs. I was
too dazed to do anything but register the mangled torso and automati-
cally look for its sex, without absorbing it at all.
Further on, I passed a large tire and then a woman’s delicate hand
with a wedding ring on one finger. It was severed at the wrist, lying
palm upward, fingers slightly curled. Not one of the polished finger-
nails was broken. The owner would be happy about that. The stupid
thought flitted across my mind like the CNN Headline news items that
pass across the TV screen.
By the time I got across the street, I felt sick and weak. Several
people stood there, looking up at the tower. Some of them held their
hands over their mouths—either because of the stench or out of horror;
I didn’t know.
I leaned against a building and finally started thinking again. Yes—
Jesus!—I’d seen a naked torso. A man’s. And I did see a woman’s sev-
ered hand. God, I thought, what is going on? Finally, I followed the
gazes of the people standing around me.
Clouds of smoke billowed from an inferno visible through a gaping
hole in the tower, somewhere around the 90th floor. I stared. I couldn’t
imagine what had happened.
Above the flames, men and women stood at the windows. Some
stood on the sills of broken windows with smoke rolling out from be-