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

by T. S. Ransdell

  “Really?” Joel was not surprised by his father’s sentiment, but that it was formed before his grandfather had returned from the war.

  “Of course, he was hurt by the boy’s words. He told me the war had kept him away from home for too long. I remember him telling me it didn’t do any good to win in China if we lose the home front.” Harris smiled, but sadly shook his head.

  Joel realized this wasn’t a revelation. It was a confirmation of what he suspected, that he’d been taught to hate his grandfather. Not because Abraham Levine was a bad person, but because he was on the wrong side of history. As he’d been taught it anyway. He concluded his grandfather was never the monster his father and others had made him out to be.

  Is Harris the monster historians have made him out to be? Levine wondered.

  “You look tired, Mr. Levine. Should we call it a night? It has been a long day for both of us,” Harris proffered.

  “Yeah, let’s call it a night.” Levine was still somewhat distracted by his thoughts.

  “Good. This old man needs to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Joel watched the prison guard, Reed, escort the shackled old man back to his cell.

  What if Harris isn’t the monster I’ve been told he is? The thought chilled Levine to the bone. He wouldn’t dare pose that question outside his own mind. If he did, he’d never acquire VIP status. He’d never be taken seriously as a journalist/historian again. Ask the question too many times, and he’d most likely be charged as an instigator, might even end up in a rehabilitation center. At this point, Levine asked himself, does the truth really matter?

  Joel poured himself another cup of coffee and admired the morning view of the mountain skyline from the prison yard of Harry Mason Reid Education and Rehabilitation Center. This morning he took full advantage of the buffet, without his earlier resentments. The high-quality food and drink was far superior to anything an individual without VIP status could acquire. It had been set out for Harris’s benefit, not his, as a sort of bribe to talk. Levine was tired enough this morning, he didn’t care. He found the breakfast soothing to his mind as well as his body.

  Across the yard he saw Harris being escorted back out to continue the interview. The old man stood straight. Even in shackles he looked in control of himself. Levine didn’t know any men who seemed as robust as Harris, let alone to be so at seventy-five years of age.

  Although he’d left exhausted the night before, Levine had not been able to sleep when he got back to his motel. His mind was too active with thoughts of the truth about his own family. Everything Harris had told him about his grandfather correlated with his own memories of the man. As well, everything he’d witnessed of Harris’s behavior and thinking complemented everything his grandfather had told him about US Marines. His mind had wandered into questioning the government record about Harris, the war, even the old America. Could they, could the whole country, really have been as evil as he had been taught?

  The prison guard, Reed, had warned him not to trust Harris, and reminded him that the man was a killer. After all, wasn’t that the point of this interview, the purpose of the history he was to write: to remind Americans of their past sins? Especially those of the United States Marine Corps? To confirm the rejection of the past in order to embrace a different future?

  Yet the image of General Perro sexually assaulting Sergeant MacTaggart in front of him, with such nonchalance, left no room for doubt in his mind that Perro, too, was a killer.

  What would cause a nation to trust a woman like Perro, but hate a man like Harris? Levine asked himself. He decided at that moment that even if the truth didn’t matter to the world, it mattered to him. He might never say it, and he might never write it, but it mattered to him.

  “My dad always used to tell me a man has got to know his mistakes so he won’t make them again.” Harris digressed on a nostalgic tangent. “You got to know what’s broke so you can fix it. That’s not being cruel, it’s being kind. It’s helping another person become stronger. Now, in some of these bullshit classes we’ve had to take for our re-education, I’ve seen guilt used as a serious weapon in running people down. That’s cruel. That’s degrading. That’s shaming when you make people feel bad, feel worthless, and the only path of redemption offered is to deny your own humanity. To insist you deny everything, everyone that has made you you. That’s the kind of bullshit they pull here.”

  “Wait.” Levine attempted to get Harris back on track. “You were talking about you and my grandfather discussing the Constitution.”

  “Because that’s the kind of bullshit President Tang used to preach to the American people. He wasn’t trying to build us up, he was trying to tear us down.”

  “To reject the Constitution? Why would a president do that?” Levine found himself relating to what Harris said on an emotional level, if not quite an intellectual one.

  “Because he didn’t want to lead the country. He wanted to rule it. He didn’t want to help the American people. He wanted to control them.”

  “Did you and my grandfather ever talk about overthrowing Tang while you were in China? I mean, that seems to be the next step if you both thought his agenda violated the Constitution.”

  “No.” Harris laughed. “At that time, I don’t think many took him, I mean Tang, too seriously. Your grandad and I, and a lot of others, complained about Tang’s policies; but in those days a president’s power was limited. There were things he could not do without Congress, and, if nothing else, his damage was limited to two terms in office.”

  “Well, technically it still is,” Levine interrupted.

  “Yeah, but the president and Congress don’t really run the government anymore, do they?” Harris’s question was really more of a statement.

  “No, they do not.” Levine shook his head in agreement. “It’s all General Perro these days.” Levine’s own honesty terrified him. There could be negative repercussions if what he just said made it back to Perro.

  “No, now at that time, we just complained about his expansion of government power through the Federal Agency of Public Safety, and about the war strategy, or lack thereof. It was painfully obvious he was pulling the rug out from the Republic of China and initiating policies that would benefit the communist People’s Republic. He stopped all aggressive action against the Pricks. He ordered the generals to recognize a demilitarized zone two miles south of the Yellow River.”

  “So, as with President Harmon, you didn’t care for President Tang’s diplomatic strategy?” Levine confirmed.

  “Tang was worse than Harmon. She was bad enough, trying to defeat the communists through diplomacy. How do you live with people who want to enslave you? Hell, controlling the world is part of their goddamn doctrine. They’re the kind of enemy that has to be destroyed in order to be defeated!” Harris was nearly shouting.

  “Now that bastard Tang, he didn’t use the power of the United States government to contain the Pricks. No, that son of a bitch used the power of the government to contain us! The worst of it was him promising to rectify all the injustices of the Clark administration upon the People’s Republic.”

  “What’s wrong with rectifying injustices?”

  “’Cause that was his pretext for taking out the military. His administration escalated charges of war crimes against the American military. Of course, now I say this with complete hindsight, but he was getting ready to betray millions of American men and women serving in Asia. He just abandoned those people! No one I knew was talking about it at the time, but, goddamn, I wish we had seen it coming.” Suddenly deflated, Harris stared down at the surface of the table.

  “Seen what?” Levine wanted to pin down exactly what Harris was referring to.

  “That son of a bitch, Tang, was declaring war on the Marine Corps.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  At times throughout his life, Peter Mythers questioned how far he could get in his acquisition of power. His answer each time: I am a superior mind. I am desti
ned to command others.

  This was a belief taught to him by his parents, both of whom worked in educational administration. They thoroughly believed most people in the world were stupid and in need of leadership. As their only child, they assured Peter he was born to the intellectually elite, and it was his duty to serve in that leadership.

  However, children learn as much, if not more, from what they see in their parents than from what they hear. From his parents, Peter learned leadership was not a service to his fellow man, but a service to himself. As a youth, he’d learn to desire control for the purpose of manipulation and self-advancement.

  Attracted by an environment where he could have maximum control over the lives of others for his own benefit, he chose a career in the United States Army. For him military service was always about his career, not the product produced. As his career progressed, Mythers discovered a high to acquiring power, not only to advance himself, but he could destroy others. The more control he gained over others, the less control he felt over himself. His desire became insatiable. It drove him to the rank of chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Ultimately, this desire for power inspired him to create, through the Harmon administration, the Federal Agency of Public Safety. More than a mere department of state, it was a combination of federal diplomacy, military, intelligence, and law enforcement under one commander–him. He’d acquired more power than any unelected official in American history. Yet he still had to answer to one person: the President of the United States.

  The election of Benedict Xavier Tang caused him stress. Would Tang toss him out? It turned out both men shared a world vision of sheep in need of shepherds. After a lengthy discussion, President Tang had concluded Mythers was a man he could use in his administration. Mythers did not even have to use any of the intel he had collected on Tang to persuade the president to let him keep his job.

  Within an hour of learning of his retention, Mythers was imagining ways he could control the president, or even surpass the power of the president over the American people. After all, he had found President Harmon very easy to manipulate. Her political prowess had been built on her ability to negotiate and compromise, or, as she liked to say, build consensus. Tang, like Harmon, had no military background nor expertise; and, like Harmon, Mythers expected to dominate Tang over military and national security issues. In FedAPS, Mythers controlled the government apparat with muscle. Controlling the president would give his power, and future plans, a face of legitimacy.

  Now, during drinks and a private conversation with the new president at Camp David, he planned to establish that face.

  “General, I think we really need to ask how this can work out to our benefit. We know Secretary General Zhang of the People’s Republic of China wants his country back. As I mentioned before, what does occupying this territory gain us? We have had a proven beneficial relationship with the People’s Republic, but what do we have with the Republic of China? They’re an unknown quantity in this equation. What can they offer us? What if they turn out to be tyrants and make us look bad for having backed them in their invasion against the People?” Tang threw his hands out in mock despair. After a slight pause, he took his drink in hand, leaned back in his chair, and kicked his feet up on his desk.

  “Mr. President, if I may be so bold, we have a documented history of atrocities of the communist regime against their own people. How could they possibly be a better bet than the Republic of China in the context of human rights?” Mythers thought himself clever. Mythers knew of Tang’s financial and political ties to the Chinese communists. He expected Tang to abandon the democratic Republic of China. Yet Mythers wanted a crisis of confidence in maintaining Tang’s reputation as a social justice warrior. At the least, create an awkwardness for his “boss” as the president attempted to rationalize his position, and be able to use that moment to establish dominance over Tang.

  “General Mythers–” the president paused and sipped his martini “–if you really give a shit about human rights, you will not walk out of this room with a job.” The president’s tone was condescending and bordering impatience.

  “Yes, sir. I…” Mythers paused. I’ve miscalculated, he thought. Have I underestimated Tang?

  “Good,” the president interrupted. “For a moment, I thought I had fucked up allowing you to keep power in my regime.”

  “No, sir, you did not make a mistake,” Mythers boldly stated in an attempt to mask his self-doubt. “I am on board. Perhaps, sir, you could explain your vision to me. As I understand it, you would prefer to see the People’s Republic restored to its former glory. I would think the ROC’s intel reports of Gansiduí, or even Red Army regulars, south of the Yellow River would give you the political cover you need to pull out.”

  “How so?” the president asked in a tone that challenged Mythers to prove his assertion.

  “Well.” Mythers was feeling less comfortable. He wondered if he had lost, or ever had, the president’s confidence. “The last election indicates the American public’s rejection of Clark’s war. Renewed aggression between the PRC and the ROC gives you the excuse you need to get out. You could present it as a ‘let’s get out before it gets worse’ sort of scenario. I believe the media would be very cooperative in promoting this line as a logical course of action.”

  “There’s still plenty of support, in Congress and from the American public, for the ROC. What about them?” Tang replied.

  “They’re a minority, Mr. President. You won the election. There are consequences to that.” Mythers now questioned whether all of Tang’s bold campaign talk of progressivism had been nothing more than that. He hoped Tang would allow the government to rule as it should, and not be inhibited by democratic whims and constitutional restraints. It was baffling to him that politicians would seek political power, only then to acquiesce to those they had power over.

  Above all else, Mythers desired control over others. He cared nothing for China, the Chinese, nor his fellow Americans. To him, the war was now a distraction to the power that could be grabbed in the United States. In addition to being very aware of Tang’s antiwar campaign, he had advised the president-elect, at the time, to withdraw from China as soon as possible. Mythers credited this move with saving his job and allowing him to pursue his own quest for power.

  “Will they always be a minority, General Mythers? My aides tell me there is already talk of some who favor Ragnarsson as a presidential candidate in the next election.” Tang paused for another sip of his martini.

  Mythers looked surprised at this news. Although he had heard these rumors as well, he had not shared them with President Tang. His confidence shaken, he questioned if it was wise to feign ignorance in front of the president.

  “Even if,” Tang continued, “Ragnarsson did not win the nomination, his name would be thrown around as an ideal candidate for the command of FedAPS. The man is a war hero and is still very popular with Americans. Far more popular than Harmon ever was.” Tang stopped only to take another drink.

  “Peter, if we pull out of the newly expanded Republic of China, and Zhang is not able to defeat them, Clark, McCullough, Ragnarsson, even Harmon to some extent, will be revered as victors. History will remember Clark’s war as a worthy and successful American accomplishment. It will be like another World War II in the minds of the American people. Is that what you want to go up against in the next election? Do you really want to be in command of a government agency charged with controlling an American people who feel like they just kicked the shit out of the biggest enemy, in the most desperate war of our nation’s history?” Tang’s face was flushed. He was starting to feel hot from all the booze and adrenaline coursing through him. He smiled, leaned back in his chair, and took another drink. He didn’t care to look too emotional or out of control before Mythers, a man he considered to be his inferior.

  “And, General, I’m sure you’ve already considered our political risk if Zhang somehow pulled a miracle out of his ass and reconquered southeast China. Do w
e”–Tang looked Mythers in the eye–“really want our administration to run against that in the next election?

  “No, Peter.” Tang softened his tone considerably. “It’s not enough to simply pull out. We need to discredit the war; we need to discredit its warriors and advocates. We have to discredit the American cause. We want the American people to feel angry and confused.” Tang paused for the dramatic effect of looking like he was thinking off the cuff, although he knew exactly what he wanted to say at this meeting. “Not just confused, but disillusioned with the war and feeling betrayed by their military. More than that, Peter, we want them to lose faith in themselves as individuals and as an American culture. We want them so lost, they beg for our leadership to relieve them of their pain and to abolish their shame of being–” Tang paused again for dramatic effect “–well, of being American.” Tang took another sip of his martini and smiled. “Then we will truly have control over them.”

  Mythers was in awe of Tang’s ambition for power. Uncharacteristically, he was stunned as to how to reply.

  “By the way, Peter, I hear rumors among my staff that some of the military commanders are bitching about the legitimacy of your authority over the military as commander of FedAPS.”

  “It’s nothing I can’t take care of, sir.” Mythers nervously cleared his throat. The irony of Tang creating this awkward moment was not lost on him. “These generals get fussy when they think someone else might interfere in their war games,” Mythers said with a bit more resentment in his voice than he had intended. “I have the confidence of my appointment and your support, Mr. President.”

  “Of course, General, I did not think otherwise. However, I was thinking of driving that point home to them and, more importantly, to the American people. I am going to strongly recommend Congress promote you to five-star general and give you all the compensation and accreditation that such a rank requires.” Tang smiled, satisfied with how he’d played Mythers.