The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel)

by T. S. Ransdell

  Harris stared Levine right in the eye. “You and I have benefitted from others who have been prepared to hurt others on our behalf.”

  “Do you know how crazy that sounds?” Levine was a bit smug with his confidence that he was on moral high ground. “You claim to be a Christian, yet the Bible teaches you not to kill. How do you rectify that?”

  “Christ taught to do to others as you would have them do to you. If someone was hurting you, if someone was going to kill you or someone you love, would you not want someone to stop them? Even if they had to use violence to do so?”

  The image of MacTaggert’s face as she was assaulted by General Perro at FedAPS National Headquarters came to Levine’s mind. He’d done nothing to help her. Perro controlled life and death. She controlled success or ruin. Levine had thought it was too dangerous to challenge the madam general.

  “My father taught me”–Harris’s voice hardened–“that the good guys need to keep the bad guys in check. If not, the weak and vulnerable will be abused by the evil in this world. The Marine Corps’ job was to slaughter any motherfucker who tried to kill, rape, or enslave our fellow countrymen. No, Mr. Levine, the sin wasn’t that Marines were violent, the sin was we had to be in order to live in peace.”

  “Why then bring that back to America?” Levine could not quite wrap his mind around what he’d just heard. “Why did you attack the people you were supposed to protect?”

  “I’m glad you asked.” The scarred face of Harris smiled, and it sent chills down Levine’s spine.

  ***

  The Pacific breeze was cool and refreshing.

  So befitting of this luxury beach house, he thought with a cold beer in hand, staring at the blue ocean horizon. It’s a perfect Fourth of July in Southern California.

  Unexpectedly, his mind went to the war in China he had left only seventy-two hours before.

  Not now, later, he told himself. Today is about being alive.

  Turning his back to the ocean, and the hell on the far side of it, he admired the young women wearing red, white, and blue bikinis around the swimming pool.

  Yes, he thought, it’s good to be home again.

  “Story! You hard-core bastard!” bellowed a voice from the other side of the pool. “I’m glad you could make it, brother!”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Story Limen shouted back. “It’s been too long.”

  The lifelong friends managed to embrace without spilling their drinks.

  “Holy shit! What did you get yourself into over there? Fuck! Leave it to you to jump into the middle of a war zone.” Since childhood, Rhone Bader had thought Story had an inflated ego and was prone to exaggeration. But now he was truly impressed by his friend.

  The two men had practically been raised together. Their parents were close friends in college. After graduation, the two couples settled down in Los Angeles and even shared a house for some years. The two men, each an only child, were the closest thing either one had to a sibling.

  Now Rhone was an up-and-coming media executive, and Story had newfound fame as a wartime correspondent returned from the Sino-American War.

  “Dude, I love the view!” Story motioned towards a group of young women sunning themselves by the pool.

  “Hey, enjoy it. Indulge yourself. After six months in China, no one deserves it more than you.” Rhone slapped his buddy on the back. “Let’s get you another beer,” Rhone said and led Story away from the other party guests.

  “Hey,” Rhone said quietly, “I want to let you know your timing could not be any better today.”

  “No doubt!” Story smiled. “We’re at Stone Bison’s beach house, drinking cold beers and staring at babes.”

  “Now listen.” Again, Rhone’s manner emphasized discretion. “There are going to be some big names here today.”

  “President Tang?” Story squealed louder than Rhone liked.

  “No, no, no. Settle down. Although, I heard from Governor Bernie Wilmore that he may stop by later, but that’s on the down low. Perhaps maybe even some senators.”

  “No shit.” Limen salivated at the possibility to rub elbows and network with powerful men or, at least those associated with powerful men.

  “Oh, it gets better. Bison himself told me that Fidal Solak is going to be here today–”

  “Since when,” Limen cut his friend off, “did you start shooting the shit with Stone Bison?”

  “Since you became a goddamn war hero. Dude, I couldn’t believe it. Seeing you on the news, right in the middle of a battle, catching the Marines killing all those people.” Rhone shook his head and smiled. “It was phenomenal! Bison told me himself that YOU broke the story, providing the hard evidence needed to, once and for all, end the injustices of Clark’s war. And start putting the whole goddamn military in its place. He saw it and my boss, Gupta–”

  “The boss you’ve been banging on the side?” Limen boyishly chided.

  “Yeah.” Rhone rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Bison told everybody at a meeting she was at what a brilliant job you’d done. So, Karen mentioned to him that one of his employees, me, is your best friend. Now, suddenly, my career and Gupta’s are on the fast track. And you, my friend, are of special interest to the chiefs who made that happen.”

  “Really?” Limen smiled at his good fortune, which seemed to have no end. Being in the middle of what the media coined as the “Marketplace Massacre” was the best thing that ever happened to him.

  He’d gone from interviewing and filming to being interviewed. Everyone wanted his story, his perspective on what he’d seen that day. His opinion of the war was now important. He was important. It was as if his fellow colleagues in the media couldn’t get enough of him. Story Limen found it intoxicating. Now, the highs only seemed to be getting higher.

  “Believe it, brother! After all the fascist propaganda Clark and Harmon fed the people about ‘Defending America’ and ‘Liberating the Chinese,’ you showed the Marines for the murdering thugs they really are. How can anyone keep defending this war? And you, you’re the one who brought this all to light. So yeah, Bison and Solak want to meet you!” Rhone wrapped his arm hard around his best friend.

  “Dude, at times it’s overwhelming,” Limen, softened by his friend’s praise, confessed. “I can’t believe how it’s all coming together. It’s like I haven’t really done anything different, but, like, now I…”

  “Hey, it’s your turn, brother. Enjoy the ride! And don’t screw it up. Your newfound fame has done wonders for my career.”

  “You got it.” Limen wrapped his arm over his friend’s shoulders.

  “Now,” Rhone slapped Limen on the back, “let’s get some more drinks and figure out how many more miracles we can work out for your career, huh?”

  Harris began another hundred-yard haul to the warehouse with a heavy load on his back. He stared at the salvation promised by its shade. Sweat stung his eyes and irritated his nose as it dripped down his face and eventually soaked into his shirt.

  The summer humidity had not been of much concern to him when he’d arrived in southern China just over four years ago. Then he was part of Task Force Grant, participating in Operation Mandate of Heaven. Their objective was to eliminate the People’s Liberation Army as an effective fighting force and destroy the communist regime ruling over the Chinese.

  This Fourth of July, some eight years after the People’s Republic of China attacked US soil, their objective was to haul a large quantity of general-purpose tents from tractor trailers into a warehouse.

  To distract his mind, Harris began to recall Independence Day celebrations of his childhood. Eventually, the memories of a family, never again to be reunited, became too painful. Harris stopped thinking and accepted the mind-numbing boredom.

  “Hell of a way to celebrate the Fourth,” Morgan hollered after slapping a tent onto the warehouse floor.

  “Stop your bellyaching, Marine!” Rodriguez quipped. “If we didn’t haul these tents, who would? Then how would the war
be won?”

  “How about fucking supply haul their own goddamn tents for a change,” McCurry joined in.

  “These aren’t supply tents or infantry tents, they’re Marine Corps tents, devil dog!” Rodriguez continued the gung-ho sarcasm.

  “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, hard-charger!” Morgan said mockingly.

  Harris threw down his tent. The other Marines looked at him, expecting an attempt at humor. Instead, he turned around and headed back for another tent.

  “Harris, it ain’t a fucking race, you know,” Rodriguez yelled after him, getting no response. The other Marines stayed to catch a bit of shade, until they spotted Corporal Rivett approaching the warehouse. Unanimously, they headed back out to haul in more tents.

  “Listen up, Third Squad,” Rivett called out from the shade of the trailer. As the other Marines congregated around, Rivett looked for any sign of FedAPS.

  “Smoking lamp is lit,” the squad leader declared when he determined they were not within sight of a political officer. All the Marines prepared to light up. “It’s official, devil dogs.” He handed his lighter off to Harris. “We’re going home. Our war is over.”

  Harris stared at Rivett for a moment before he lit his cigarette.

  “About fucking time!” Morgan exclaimed.

  “No shit?” McCurry sounded skeptical. “What about all that word of being redeployed to the Philippines with the Fourth Marine Division?”

  “Canned. FedAPS has officially issued the orders. Fifth Marines and First Tanks are going to Second Division; everybody else is going to Third Division,” Rivett said flatly.

  “Third Div’s in north China; how are we out of the war?” Harris asked.

  “Everybody else, not us, are going to Third Division. First Marines is going back to Camp Pendleton.” Rivett snubbed out his cigarette. He noticed everyone looked excited except Harris. “First Marines is going back to Pendleton. From there we will be disbanded.”

  Their excitement turned to shock.

  “No more First Marines?” McCurry broke the silence. “I understand disbanding Seventh after the Marketplace Massacre, but–”

  “Fucking ‘Marketplace’ my ass!” Harris aggressively interrupted. “This is bullshit!”

  “It is what it is, Marines,” Rivett broke in. He thought he understood Harris’s reaction. He had mixed feelings himself over the news. First Marines had been a home to him for nearly five years. “Most of us signed up for the duration, anyway. The war’s coming to an end, and so is First Marines. We go back to Pendleton. There’ll be some kind of dog-and-pony to ‘honor our service,’” Rivett sarcastically relayed, “and then, FedAPS says we’ll be disbanded and home by Christmas.”

  “Hell of a Fourth.” Harris smiled, but he didn’t look pleasant. “Ain’t it, Morgan.”

  In an instant moment of fear, Johnny Sanchez thought his heart would stop beating. To his relief, the lighter worked on the third try. The Stars and Stripes ignited. People cheered as the American flag went up in flames. Media cameramen fought for space to shoot footage of the protest. Sanchez smiled for the cameras. He’d made his dream a reality and believed today’s events would make him a national star.

  Johnny was born Juan Sanchez Padilla in Mexico. From old money of the Mexican upper class, he was the product of European-educated parents. When Juan was three years old, his father accepted a professorship at the University of Southern California, and they settled down in Los Angeles.

  A few years later, Juan met Pablo Martel when his parents had him, and Pablo’s mother, smuggled up from Mexico for her to work as a live-in maid. Although Juan’s parents allowed the boys to be playmates, they never let Juan forget he was of a higher class than his friend.

  Over time, his father’s philandering and mother’s alcoholism doomed their family. They never divorced, but his father moved to Boston when Johnny was thirteen. His mother stayed in Los Angeles.

  His mother’s drinking continued to get worse. Eventually, she lost her teaching job. Family money and the lax enforcement of immigration laws kept her living comfortably in Southern California. During this time, Juan Sanchez Padilla became Johnny Sanchez.

  Johnny followed in his father’s footsteps when it came to his own philandering and Marxist politics. While he did not inherit his mother’s addiction for alcohol, he did inherit her hatred for American culture.

  During his second year at Berkley, the People’s Republic of China attacked the United States from their bases in San Francisco and Mexico. In the initial panic, Johnny fled back to his mother’s house in Los Angeles. Within miles of the front line, they contemplated fleeing south. After months of indecision, the Sanchezes and Martels decided they would make their way to Mexico and seek protection from the People’s Republic. However, by then the fortunes of war had changed. The battle lines moved south into northern Mexico. American troops were now organized and prepared to shoot anyone on sight. It was too late to flee to Mexico.

  Within a few years, the Chinese Red Army fled Mexico; the troops that didn’t were annihilated. The Mexican government capitulated to the United States, and northern Mexico was divided into US territories.

  Initially, Sanchez felt brokenhearted by the Red Army’s defeat. It seemed everything his father and mother believed in had been destroyed. He returned to college, this time in Los Angeles. There he found new resolve for the leftist cause from his professors. In addition, the media fed his socialist inspirations with their reports of American war atrocities.

  A reborn Marxist, Johnny found his way into race politics in a student chapter of the United Latino Association. While American men fought on the battlefields of China, Sanchez fought on the college campuses throughout the United States. He attended hundreds of meetings and rallies in the name of social justice. He attacked the concept of American exceptionalism at any opportunity. He fought not to win the hearts and minds of Americans, but to cause hesitation and doubt among their young. It was a tactic he had learned from watching his father manipulate his mother. Even when he could not control her, he could at least break her down into a state of incapability.

  Johnny realized his talent for rhetoric. He used its power to define facts and assign historical guilt along with international responsibility. During this time, he also discovered the crossover of drug culture and leftist politics. Students were attracted by the drugs; ULA leaders were attracted to drug money. Johnny reconnected with his childhood friend Pablo Martel, who had established a career in organized crime in the wartime black market. Sanchez’s friendship with Martel, combined with his own connections in academia, had been essential to his rise in the social justice community.

  Together the two built a lucrative business combining politics and organized crime, through which they acquired credibility and influence.

  With Johnny as the face and Pablo as the muscle, they evolved into power players within the leftist movement in California. Enough so that ULA’s national leadership let them handle the “Protest the Fourth” event to evaluate their potential in the organization.

  For Sanchez it was the opportunity of a lifetime. The only disparity he saw was Pablo’s Latino supremacist perspective. For the last few years Johnny had seen Pablo’s hatred ideology become infused with racial bigotry. This had become an ever-growing wedge in their friendship as Johnny began networking and making connections with social justice organizations that represented non-Latino ethnicities. Ultimately, Johnny Sanchez didn’t care if Latinos advanced at the expense of others, or if they suffered with everyone else, provided he was in control of it all.

  The lighter ignited and Johnny set flame to the fuel-soaked American flag on a beautiful Fourth of July afternoon, before a cheering crowd and TV news cameras.

  Nothing, and no one, can stop me now. This is MY destiny, Sanchez told himself.

  His protest was looking to be a huge success with national media coverage. To top things off, he’d caught the eye of a young woman with long blond dreadlocks and
a large nose ring.

  It’s a hell of a way to celebrate the Fourth of July, he thought as he laughed. Sanchez loved the irony of it.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Fidal Solak greeted them as he entered Stone Bison’s study and crossed the room. He eased himself into a large leather armchair that had been left unoccupied for him. “Stone, your armchair is most comfortable,” the old man complimented his host. He crossed his legs, then pulled a case of custom-made cigarettes from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. A well-trained servant leaned in with a burning match to light his cigarette as another placed a club soda with lemon on the small table next to him. The three other men in the room knew this was their cue the meeting was beginning.

  “So.” Solak looked to Bison. “Who came up with the name Story Limen?”

  “Can you believe that’s his real name?” Bison laughed. “What did you think of our latest recruit?” He referred to Solak’s earlier introduction to Limen.

  “He lacks intelligence.” Solak smiled. “I like him. Do you find him controllable?”

  “Very. I’ve personally seen to the rise of Karen Gupta and her underling, Rhone Bader, both of whom are very ambitious and eager to please me. Limen is eager to please them. Bader is made to order. He actually grew up with Limen. The two trust each other. All three have the impression their ‘ship has arrived’ and are anxious to jump aboard.”

  “You are absolutely sure about this?” Solak asked as a confirmation.

  “I am.” Bison confidently leaned back in his chair. “Hell, tonight I got the boy set up with Kali Tapp. I’ve had it strongly suggested to her that a public relationship with Limen could only enhance her own career right now.”

  “Lucky bastard!” Mo Tariq mumbled. He was envious. As one of Hollywood’s hottest actresses, Tapp was just as famous for her risqué sex scenes as she was for her leftist politics.

  “When we’re done with Limen, I’ll have her sent your way.” Stone chuckled. “In the meantime, we’ve got Limen right where we need him. With these ‘influences,’ I see him moving exactly in the direction we want him to.”