The Last Marine

by T. S. Ransdell

  Who, by the way, is no longer a man.

  The idea made him laugh. He needed the comfort of humor at a time such as this, when a battle, which appeared to be evolving into one of the war’s biggest, had thrown a major speed bump into his agenda.

  He’d not had much sleep over the last forty-eight hours. His mind festered over all possible outcomes and how he could play it out to his advantage. He’d come too far to let his career stall now. Whether this battle ended in victory or defeat, he intended to benefit from the outcome. After two days of intense thought and stress, General Mythers thought he had the foundation for a plan that would fulfill his ambition and desire for power.

  Harris was back behind the gun. He was in a rhythm. He felt a lust that needed to be satisfied. His parents had raised him to believe in the sanctity of life, yet now all he wanted to do was kill Pricks. There was a voice in his head that told him he shouldn’t want to kill as much as he did at the moment, but it was too quiet and shouted down by the voice that screamed to kill them all, even if it meant the loss of his life. Counter to natural instinct, Harris had not thought about his own safety for three days since this battle had started. Christ, his ancestors, his father, and even Hawke had been willing to die for his family. Was he too good to do anything less? He remembered Drill Instructor Sergeant Jameson saying wars were won by making some poor, dumb bastard die for his country. Now Harris would kill all the poor, dumb, communist bastards that he could. If he died in order to win this war, so be it.

  Lieutenant Kai was itching for action, and it perplexed him. His family was Christian. He was raised to believe that life was given by God. Now he found himself wanting to take human life, yet it was the lives of those that empowered tyrants that destroyed life, that destroyed truth, that destroyed all that was natural as God had intended it. Could that be such an evil act? Kai knew many Americans had died for the freedom of his people. He was touched by that. His parents had taught him that Americans were unique; they fought to liberate people, not enslave them, so they could fulfill the destiny God had created them for. As appreciative as he was of the American effort to liberate China, Kai had a strong desire to free his own people. He felt a strong desire to directly participate and to share the risks of liberation. He knew for China to be free, the Chinese must be willing and capable of fighting for that freedom. He wanted more than a supporting role.

  His platoon was ready. All he needed was his orders. He was willing, at the risk of his own life, to build a free China, where his people could choose to accept the destiny their Creator intended for them, or not.

  Liu woke up with a start. He hadn’t thought he’d actually fall asleep with a battle going on. After three days, however, he was overcome by his exhaustion. Private Sun was keeping watch in their foxhole. He was not firing, but artillery was exploding everywhere. Small-arms fire was nonstop. Yet in all the noise, fear, and death, Liu had been able to sleep. But why not? He was the master of death. It would not touch him, but he’d seen it touch his comrades. Many had died over the last three days. Many had talked of surrender or running away. Many had disappeared. Liu was confused as to why he could control life and death, but his army could not. Perhaps the People’s Republic was not as powerful as he. Perhaps he was just superior? Would he be better on his own?

  However, it was the People’s Republic that had made him strong. It had trained him, fed him, given him medicine when he needed it. All it demanded was all he could give. From each according to his own ability, to each according to his own need. He had needed, the People had given. No, he owed a debt, and he would pay it. Besides, it was not as if he did not enjoy the work. However, this battle was different. He did not have the same sense of control and the same sense of satisfaction he had had behind the lines. He preferred the special missions, not this direct style of combat. Things didn’t go according to plans. There were too many individuals that knew what was going on. How could he advance the cause?

  On top of the frustration of being less efficient in this environment, Liu had to put up with the fears and concerns of common PLA soldiers who were afraid to die. They feared the Americans at this point; many talked about it being a lost cause. Liu didn’t understand how. It was easy behind the lines. Liu was coming to the conclusion that most of his comrades were inferior, and if so, why should he be subject to them? Watching Sun chew his lip and tentatively point his gun to no effect infuriated Liu. He quietly pulled out his knife, slipped up behind Sun, and slit his throat from ear to ear. If nothing else, he would at least be done with this inferior. His next task was to come up with a way to advance his status. A man of his power deserved more than being a private. How could one who controlled life and death rise up through the ranks? Liu decided to attack, but not in the silly-ass way the officers had told them to. Jumping up and running into the American bullets was stupid. No, Liu would use his intuition and skills that served him so well to kill the enemy. Through killing he had found power. Why let that end because of the incompetence of others?

  President Harmon was on pins and needles. She had just started her presidency and a major battle had broken out. She had not started the war; she had not controlled America’s participation in the war. Yet now she might very well be held accountable for the outcome of this battle.

  “This is so unfair,” she kept saying out loud to herself and her staff.

  It was something way beyond her control, at the moment anyway, and she did not like it. These military officers had just acted on their own, with no consideration for her agenda. Perhaps not even for the lives of their soldiers, for that matter. Now the first part of her presidency would be something that she had no control over. She had less than one year to make her mark as president of the United States before she would have to focus on her election campaign. It wasn’t that much time. This was not how she had wanted to start her presidency, and it infuriated her to no end. The way she saw it, she had no choice but to wait and see how it would play out. She had to think of every possibility, every contingency, in order to plan out the proper response to this engagement. Her career depended on it.

  One thing was sure in her mind, if the early days of her presidency were turned into a failure because of some glory-hungry general, there would be hell to pay. She would make certain that that man’s career, his reputation, and his life would be ruined.

  Liu was able to understand the panic to a certain extent. After all, he had turned and run with everyone else. They would fall back and live to fight another day. The political officer told them to stay brave and continue the fight like President Zhang, who would never surrender. They would retreat west to the mountains and valleys. From there the fight for their liberation, for their revolution would continue. He said that the Americans might have more tanks and jets, but China had more people. China had five thousand years of civilization and a tradition of sacrifice and revolution. The setbacks of the last two years were small in the big picture. As the strong survived, the People’s Republic would only become more difficult to defeat.

  The desertions were beyond Liu’s comprehension. How could they not believe in the People’s Republic of China? Had they no faith in the Communist Party that had given them everything? The party had given him a place. The party had trained him to do what he loved, and in return he would do what he loved for the party.

  So many others were weak; it wasn’t just the Westernized cities of South China. When the Marines arrived from the east, orders were given to retreat before they were surrounded. Many soldiers, even some officers, were saying the war was lost. It was time to surrender or take off the uniform and act like a civilian. Rumors were that the Americans were good to those who stopped fighting. But if one quit fighting, how could one keep killing?

  After seven bloody days, the PLA line had broken. It pained him that the American force had not been able to encircle the PLA and destroy it. The silver lining, in his opinion, was that the PLA troops had broken. It was now a disorganized rout. Certainly, thei
r officers had tried to make it an orderly retreat, but McCullough had intel that it was chaos. The roads to Beijing were quickly becoming jammed with ChiCom soldiers. He saw such a golden opportunity here. Just a few well-placed nukes could end this war within the week. Short of that, saturation bombing could potentially end it in several weeks.

  McCullough figured, short of nukes, Zhang would be protected in this Dragon’s Lair he was held up in. But could he maintain control of the government? Would he be assassinated? Could the PLA, at least, be relegated as an outlaw force in China’s western frontier?

  McCullough put in a call to Joint Chief of Staff Mythers and President Harmon, and prayed they would see things the way Clark did.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Madame President,” McCullough strained every ounce of personal discipline not to lose his cool at this moment, “with all due respect, I don’t see this as a priority at the moment.”

  “Well, I do, General, and I am the Commander-in-Chief.” Harmon found herself enjoying the moment a little more than she actually thought she would. She had even dreaded this conversation earlier in the day, but now she felt like she was emerging as a leader. “We need to show the international community, as well as the PRC, that we are willing to hold ourselves to the same standard of civility and due process that we demand from others.”

  “Madame President, please let me state again that I believe we have an opportunity to win this war with a strategic nuclear strike. The war could be over within a month. Hell, maybe within a week!”

  “No, General, we will not violate international law. How would the United States look as an international leader of the Free World if I order a violation of international laws agreed to in the United Nations, on top of ignoring charges of war crimes among our own military personnel? The media would have a field day with that! And while you’re off playing ‘army,’ General Mythers, as acting Secretary of State, will be dealing with a diplomatic nightmare.”

  “Madame President”—McCullough attempted another pitch—“the Russians have already set a precedence here. There has been no international backlash of any consequence. Who is it going to come from at this point? Even the whining leftist media has reported that Russia has effectively pushed the jihadist caliphate out of western Asia. No one has the moral authority to stop us. There is no political downside right now. More importantly, it will save American lives; that alone will be a political win for your administration.”

  “General Mythers.” Harmon cued her general and acting Secretary of State.

  “Listen, Jack”—Mythers wanted to tweak McCullough a bit by using his first name—“the president and I are ready to implement a diplomatic strategy that will effectively end this war. We can use your recent victory as well as pressure from the international community to contain the PRC to their western provinces, which you yourself agreed could be an acceptable definition of victory when we started this invasion. In addition, we can isolate them economically with UN sanctions. We’ll have them on a tight leash. They’ll have to do anything we want, and no more American troops have to get killed.”

  General McCullough felt sick to his stomach. He could envision six years of war that had cost the lives of nearly six hundred thousand dead Americans now being lost when it was on the verge of being won.

  “General McCullough, John…Jack, if I may.” Harmon was now trying to soften him up a bit. She believed it was one of her tactics that made her so successful in consensus building. When McCullough had failed to verbally concede to being called Jack by the president, she continued. “We’re not asking you to give anything up, just don’t advance. Let’s let everyone catch their breath for a moment. In the meantime, I want your people looking into this matter of the Marine that allegedly killed this girl, and any other allegations of Allied war crimes.”

  “Madame President, it has already been made public that the Marine in question was killed in action months before the allegation was ever made by the press. I really believe the war effort would be better served by defeating the enemy.”

  “Jack, I get it, but you need to understand the enemy is virtually defeated. There’s not much else they can do to hurt us. It’s in the PRC’s best interest to now do what we want; it’s in our best interest to show the Chinese people they have a better advocate for their needs than the PRC.” Mythers asserted himself on this point.

  “So that’s it, huh? We’re back to winning hearts and minds again.” McCullough had more he would like to say about all the times that strategy had failed throughout American history, but he’d made it a habit throughout his career not to let politicians know everything he was thinking. Besides, he’d been around long enough to know at this point that people like Harmon and Mythers were too arrogant to learn from history.

  “Jack, you’ve been a vital part of our nation’s war effort.” President Harmon now felt it was her turn to step up and say something that sounded conciliatory. “History will show that. Our nation is eternally grateful for what you have done.”

  At that point in the conversation, McCullough knew his military career was coming to an end, although he didn’t think either one of them would have the integrity to tell him to his face.

  After the conference call had come to an end and the satellite link was broken, Mythers began to nervously shuffle papers and shake his head in disappointment. It was all theater on his part; the call, the recent chain of events were all going exactly as he would like them to.

  “By the end of the week, General, I want McCullough’s resignation one way or another. Sophia”—Harmon turned to her Chief-of-Staff—“before then I want him thoroughly, and I do mean thoroughly, discredited. If I’m going to accept the resignation of the Allied commander, I want the American people to think that it’s a good thing. If McCullough decides to voice his professional disagreements with us, I don’t want anyone to pay attention.”

  “Yes, Madame President,” Sophia Porter said, knowing how much Harmon liked to hear it. “I think the media obsession over the war-crimes angle gives us a perfect opportunity for this.”

  “Yes!” Harmon liked her thinking. “What was that Marine’s name? The one the PRC blamed for that girl’s death.”

  “Schmitt, Madame President.” Mythers almost reminded her that the Marine’s death had been confirmed long before the PRC had made the allegation to the press, but decided it was trivial at this point.

  “Mythers, you work with Sophia to leak more stories to the press. Leak stories of possible lack of discipline, lack of control from the ‘General-in-Chief’ or whatever the hell Clark called him. I want the people to know things have gotten out of hand, but now I’m reining it all in.”

  “Yes, Madame President.” Porter and Mythers looked at each other and smiled about the fact they had responded in unison. Harmon was loving it. She felt like things were coming together and a sense of cohesion was setting in with her team.

  “General Mythers, who do you have in mind to replace McCullough?”

  “I have a few options for you, Madame President.” Mythers pulled out a new folder. At this point, he and the president were doing everything on paper to avoid creating an electronic trail of their agenda. “And, by the way, I’ve got a couple of other ideas that I think you will be interested in.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “This is it? Looks pretty fucking lame if you ask me,” Hastings complained.

  “This is it.” Harris confirmed the address on the business card.

  “No one’s asking you anyhow, Husker boy.” Reese’s jest was good-natured.

  “Blow it out your mouth there whatever the fuck you all call yourselves in Montana,” was the best Hastings could come up with.

  The three of them, along with Sheridan, headed toward the front door of the Sea Dragon Hotel. The door was opened for them by a smiling Chinese man, and no sooner were they in the lobby than two boys ran up to take their bags up to the front desk.

  “Hold on there, Rocky,” Harr
is ordered the boys. They seemed confused. Harris didn’t know if it was from their lack of English or if they weren’t familiar with the Marines’ term for anyone from the ROC. The older door man walked over, smiling, to see what the hesitation was about.

  “We need to confirm we’re in the right place. We’re meeting other Marines here.” Hastings’s speech was slow. He hoped it would make it easier for the doorman to understand him.

  “Yes, yes, Marines.” The doorman politely and graciously led them over to the hotel bar with a big smile on his face. Harris wondered how much the doorman had actually understood, or if the old man just thought Marines would want to go to the bar. Either way it was the right call. Edwards and Cortes were there and already having a drink.

  “There they are! Get over here, Harris, all of you. I’m buying you a round!” Edwards bellowed across the bar. Harris had never seen Edwards act so jovial and carefree.

  “I bet they’re drunk already,” Harris mumbled to Hastings.

  “Well, let’s join them, buddy! What are we waiting for?” Hastings answered, louder than Harris would have liked, but nobody cared.

  This was new for Harris. He’d known Edwards for over two years, but had never seen him drunk. Nor had he ever seen Edwards wear anything that wasn’t camouflaged. They were all wearing “Charlies,” Marine Corps-issued short-sleeve khaki shirts and green trousers.

  “Garćon!” Edwards snapped his fingers as he commanded the boys to take the bags of the new arrivals. “What are you Devil Dogs drinking?”