“Fuck!” Harris exclaimed when he saw Bohanan jump up again to advance on the Pricks, only to go down again.
“Fuck!” Private Chen exclaimed. He’d always found Sergeant Liu to be courageous and daring. But who were these Marines? It was Chen’s first pitched battle against the American force. He was learning why they were considered elite. When they were surrounded and should have lost all hope of victory, they were attacking. The machine gun to their front had laid down overwhelming fire. The Marine riflemen were deadly accurate. Some of his comrades had turned and run. Where was Sergeant Liu? He couldn’t see him anywhere. He knew Liu wouldn’t run. Everyone said he couldn’t die. Where was he? Even with the threat of being shot by PLA machine guns, the temptation to run was strong. The PLA was throwing everything at these Marines and they weren’t giving an inch.
Suddenly, caught a bit by surprise, he saw a Marine running right at him. He couldn’t be more than twenty meters away. He could see the fierce expression on the Marine’s face. Surely he was a demon from the otherworld. Chen’s body flooded with fear. Chen’s mind said, “Run! Fool, run!” but reflexively he raised his Type 95 assault rifle and fired. The Marine went down. He hit him! Did he? He’d been instructed about the effectiveness of the American body armor. He threw a hand grenade, as he’d been instructed, to make sure. Chen thought he had probably killed the Marine, but he was still concerned for Sergeant Liu. Where was he? Chen jumped up to run to the right of his line to look for Sergeant Liu. No sooner had he jumped up than he went down. The pain in his lower leg was greater than anything he had ever felt. With no medical education or x-ray, Chen could tell his leg was broken by the bullet that had struck it. He tied a tourniquet around the upper part of his leg and began to painfully crawl to whatever looked like a safe space, with the fear of death nagging his mind.
Harris had seen Bohanan go down, then the hand grenade go up. He saw a Prick, probably the same bastard who’d taken down Bohanan. He fired a little too quickly and thought he’d hit low.
“Hope you fucking suffer,” Harris mumbled after he shot. He jumped up and dashed to Bohanan. His section leader was dead.
Sergeant Liu didn’t know what to do. He had never froze in battle before, but this was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Death was all around, but Liu couldn’t find his usual satisfaction. He didn’t feel like the master of death. He felt helpless. He felt scared. He felt paralyzed. What could he do? He lay still. Perhaps everyone would think he was dead. Perhaps he could gain enough time to figure out what to do.
Hastings dove in next to Harris. He thought Hastings had made some smart-ass comment, but he could not make it out. He’d ask him what it was about later. A grenade went off nearby.
“Motherfucker!” Hastings screamed. He’d taken shrapnel in his right arm. He was on his own to work it out. Harris took over the SAW. “My right arm’s broke,” Hastings screamed. There was nothing Harris could do about it. He fired the SAW. He knew more grenades would come. They had to get out, but how? He wondered if Newton and Edwards were still alive. Could they cover them?
The SAW was empty. Hastings managed to throw another two-hundred-round drum at him.
“Run for it, Billy, I’ll cover you,” Harris yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Fuck no, I ain’t leaving!”
“Shit!” Harris yelled as he fired. He couldn’t hold the Pricks off forever. There was no time to argue. He saw what looked like a black ball drop in from the corner of his eye. “Grenade!” he called out, but didn’t know if it would do any good.
Hastings picked it up with his left hand and threw it back.
“Ha! Bastards!” Hastings cried. Harris thought he even heard him laugh. “Keep killing! I got your six!” Hastings screamed into Harris’s ear.
This is it, Harris thought. This is where we die.
“Grenade!” Hastings called out. Harris did nothing but keep firing. Hastings managed once again to pick up and throw back the hand grenade. How long could this last? Were they blessed? Perhaps, but no one was immortal in this life. Harris fired off the SAW ammo while Hastings fired a 10 mm pistol with his left hand. Pricks were just thirty feet away.
“Grenade!” Hastings called out again, although Harris had seen it coming in.
Harris heard and felt the thud from the grenade’s explosion. It was too close. Hastings had not thrown this one back. He screamed and fired. The barrel glowed. The drum ran out of rounds. The SAW was empty. Harris glanced back at his best friend’s blood-soaked body in the mud. There was nothing he could do for him. Their friendship had come to an end. Harris lost his fear. He felt the rage, the lust, to kill. He decided this was his place to kill. It was his place to die. With this acceptance, he found peace of mind.
He took the 10 mm pistol. He had one extra magazine for the .458. He jumped up and ran to the nearest crater. Three Pricks. He aimed and nailed one in the face. The other two fired. How could they miss? Harris didn’t miss. He moved on to the next. One Prick threw down his rifle when he missed Harris at close range. He dropped to his knees and threw up his hands. Harris shot him in the head. One shot, one kill. He saw another Prick running away; he aimed and hit him in the middle of the back. Harris slammed in a new magazine and slammed the bolt forward.
Red flares exploded in the sky above him. He knew it meant something—Alamo. He was supposed to fall back to the command bunker.
Another Prick popped up; Harris shot him in the chest. The Prick’s body armor had saved his life for a short time. Harris put another round between his eyes. While his pain was great, Harris felt an exhilaration of control in all the chaos. He felt a sense of control over life and death. Harris ran toward the enemy, to kill or be killed.
He saw another Prick running away and aimed for the back of the head and hit him. Harris kept moving forward. He jumped down into a Prick foxhole and shot a soldier hiding there. He looked up in time to see three more Pricks running at him. Harris killed two, but then was knocked down when a round hit his body armor. The Prick came jumping into the foxhole, screaming at the top of his lungs. Harris jumped up and reached over for his rifle, but grabbed a Prick entrenching tool instead. His years of playing baseball gave Harris a deadly accuracy in clubbing the Prick upside the head and knocking him down. Harris came down with all of his weight behind the blade of the shovel onto the Red soldier’s throat. Harris continued to drive the e-tool down with all his might, severing the head from his enemy.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood; he felt the danger. Harris turned around with great speed and was immediately knocked back with what felt like the force of a Mack truck. He flew back and fell. The landing knocked the air from his lungs. He struggled for breath and kept his panic away. Harris thought his left collarbone was broken.
A screaming Prick came at him. Firing, but not accurately, almost panicked, he thought. The bastard had a nasty V-shaped scar on his face. His bolt stuck back, out of bullets. Harris reached for the 10 mm, but it had fallen from his belt. As Harris fumbled for a gun that wasn’t there, the Prick smiled, pulled out a knife and dove onto Harris. He could only really use one arm to defend himself. His left arm was weak and almost useless. With his right, Harris was able to catch the arm with the knife. The momentum of the Prick’s fall carried forward into the thrust of the knife. Harris felt the sharp, quick pain slice through his cheek to his ear, quickly followed by the burn and the blood. His bleeding blinded his right eye. Harris fought his pain. He held on to the Prick’s arm with his right hand. He reached up with his weak left arm, grabbed a hold of the soldier’s ear, and yanked down as hard as he could. The Prick screamed. He hooked the Prick’s left leg with his own and arched with all his strength. It was not enough. The scarred-face Prick, with his right ear dangling from the side of his head, pulled the weapon free and smiled. Harris threw a right punch and then another. Before he could land a third, the Prick had caught Harris’s right hand with his left. Dazed, the Prick smiled again. Harris arched his back again, not w
illing to quit, trying to throw the Prick off him.
In an instant the Prick’s face was gone. Harris closed his eyes. Blood, skull, and brain matter had fallen onto his face. He rolled the Prick off him.
“Come on.” Edwards grabbed him by his shoulder harness and pulled him up. The twelve gauge Edwards used had ended the struggle with the scarred-face Prick. With all hell breaking loose, there was no time for thanks. Harris let himself be led as he struggled to stay on his feet and stay conscious. His head spun and he felt sick to his stomach.
“Don’t you fucking quit now!” Edwards kept yelling. His arm was wrapped around Harris to help him run to the extent that he was able to. Lost in all the explosions, Harris had no sense of direction. He completely gave in to Edwards’s control. “Hang in there, Harris! We’re going to make it!”
Harris didn’t believe Edwards, but he appreciated the attempt. He thought that he could not possibly have much life left to live, but he wanted to give it everything he had. He fought to stay conscious. He fought to move his feet. He fought not to vomit.
To his amazement, Harris found himself in the bunker. He thought it wasn’t possible. In his head, he asked God how. This didn’t make sense. How did it happen?
I’m not done with you yet, rang through his head as loud and clear as the bombs exploding. It wasn’t until then that Harris noticed the sound of jets. He thought perhaps he was becoming delusional, perhaps he was dying.
“Fucking hang in there…” were the last words Harris heard before his world turned black.
President Harmon could not believe this had happened. She wiped her eyes with a tissue and then blew her nose. She had to pull herself together. She would have to address the American people soon, and she did not want to look like a discombobulated mess. She straightened herself out in the privacy of her restroom.
“Oh, how could this have happened?” she said to her reflection in the mirror and started to cry all over again. She thought she had done everything right. She had listened to the opinions of the world’s top experts. She had implemented all of Mythers’s recommendations, for the sake of the American people. Now she wondered how it all could have gone so wrong.
She thought it had to have been the PLA’s attack on American forces. One week was just not enough time for her poll numbers to recover. But still, the American troops had held. Some of the Marines had been surrounded and still persevered. How could she be blamed for what ultimately was an American victory?
She shook her head. The American voter could be so fickle and ungrateful. They just had no concept of the job. They could not comprehend all she had sacrificed for them.
“It’s not fair. Clark started the damn war in the first place,” she said as she dried her eyes again. She pulled herself together. She always did. “Somehow, someway, I will survive. I am strong.” She again spoke to her reflection.
She left the restroom. She had to. She needed to give a concession speech and congratulate President-Elect Tang.
President Zhang waved to the few hundred people gathered in Tiananmen Square. He wanted to laugh at how small the crowd looked in such a large space. He did not want to risk a large assembly of people. Besides, his special effects people would make the crowd look huge on TV. He could not have been more pleased with how the ceremony went. General Huang, while honored, had shown such humility and compliance.
Colonel Fu’s widow had been a very nice touch. She’d conducted herself well and had delivered her lines with perfection. However, Zhang thought the most brilliant part of the ceremony was to publicly commend and promote Captain Xi Tian rui for his leadership and courage. It would give good cover for the historians to “de-emphasize” General Huang’s role in the operation. After all, General Huang had not really won the battle.
Zhang marveled at his own ability to lie to so many people so well.
They truly are inferior beings, he thought as he waved and smiled. This is brilliant. Of course, General Huang will have to be dealt with before he becomes a threat. But save that for another day, for now YOU are the People’s greatest hero. Enjoy your day. You’ve sacrificed so much for this moment.
Xi stood straight, smiled, and waved. He hated the People’s Republic of China more than ever. The irony of this was not lost on him. He had just been promoted and decorated for bravery before the whole Middle Kingdom on national television. Yet he hated the moment, he hated the People, and he hated himself.
He’d felt the temptation moments before to denounce the ceremony live before the people of China. To tell them the truth of what he had seen and what he had done throughout the war, but he did not. He was not that strong, nor that brave. He could see over the course of his life how communism crushes those that give, and builds those that take. He lacked the courage to fight the system. It was too late for him to change now. He would just go along with it, no matter how much he hated it.
Benedict Xavier Tang smiled and waved to the crowd. He thought his victory speech had been a success. Admittedly the crowd wasn’t as large as he had dreamed of it being on this day, but he figured the media would make it look larger and sound louder than it really was. Just like they had done during his campaign, and that was what really mattered. He marveled at how easy it was to lie to so many people. He thought most of them truly were inferior beings. He had told so many lies over his career, yet the media always covered for him, and the people always supported him.
He laughed on the stage at the people’s gullibility. Everyone thought he was just enjoying his election victory.
What fools! They celebrate me as their savior. They’ve given me the highest office of the land when it has more power than at any time in its history. Fools!
Tang relished the moment and the opportunity to remake America in his image.
Harris opened his eyes. He didn’t know what was reality. He didn’t know what had been a dream. All he could see was a beautiful, feminine face. He wondered if she was an angel. He wondered if he had died and gone to heaven.
“Well, hello there,” the beautiful face said. “How do you feel?”
“I…I hurt…all…over,” Harris struggled to get out.
“I bet. You’ve got a few broken bones and a nasty cut. Don’t worry, you’re safe and in a hospital.
“Excuse me,” the nurse broke off. “Doctor, Doctor! He’s awake. Hold on there, Marine, the doctor wanted to talk to you as soon as you awoke.”
Harris lay there. Not knowing what to think. Wondering where he was.
“Hello, Corporal Sean Harris.” The kind-sounding voice came from a man in a white coat.
Harris thought there was a mistake.
“I’m a lance corporal, sir,” Harris corrected the kind-sounding man.
“Not now, Marine. You’ve been promoted. By the way, I think Divine Providence has led you here.”
“How’s that, sir?” Harris forced out. He really didn’t feel like talking.
“Corporal Harris, I’m Doctor Abraham Levine. I knew your father, Dan Harris. We served together in Mexico.”
***
“I’ve never been able to remember anything from that damned bunker to the hospital,” Harris confessed. “I nearly bled to death, or so I was told.”
Levine sat in stunned silence, staring at the old Marine.
“I don’t suppose old Doc Levine would be any relation to you, would he?” Harris asked to fill the silence. He was not used to Levine’s lack of words.
“Levine is a common name.” Levine found himself wanting to deny what he had just heard.
“Naw, I figured. It would take an act of Divine Providence for that kind of coincidence.”
“I…I’m sorry. Can we call it a day? I’m…I’m feeling beat…Mist—” Joel caught himself wanting to call him Mr. Harris “—Harris.”
“Your call, Mr. Levine. Hell, I ain’t going nowhere.”
Joel Levine numbly collected his things.
This man is everything my grandfather said about Marines. This man
knew my grandfather in the war. Could they be telling the truth, and everything else is the lie?
Levine tried to push the thought from his mind. If he went there, it would make everything too complicated. It could cause too many problems.
This is not how THIS was supposed to happen!
Joel wanted to run. He did not want to deal with the conflict of acknowledging the truth and doing as he had been ordered. However, he could not shake the feeling that his grandfather was speaking out to him again through this old, convicted Marine.
Act of Divine Providence?
Joel quickly walked away. In his flustered state he dropped his notepad and pen. He was relieved that at least it had not been his laptop. As he picked up his notepad, he saw some of the words he’d written.
This Marine knew my grandfather.
Officer Reed was beginning to take Harris back to his cell.
“Wait!” Levine called out, almost panicked.
Harris and Reed stopped and turned in surprise. Levine stood up and walked over to them.
“Mr. Harris, please”—Levine had regained his composure and a sense of courage—“tell me everything you know about my grandfather.”
About the Author
T.S. Ransdell was born and raised in Kansas. He served as an infantryman in the United States Marine Corps, and is a veteran of Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. After leaving the Marine Corps, Ransdell earned a B.A. in English Literature and an M.A. in History, as well as Secondary Education, and taught history for eleven years. Ransdell currently works as a full time writer and lives in Arizona with his family.
The Last Marine Page 29
