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

by T. S. Ransdell

  Mythers sat stunned. He too was impressed with how well he had been played.

  How can I say no? thought Mythers. How could he not vigorously throw himself behind Tang’s plan? There was so much for him to gain if he did, and so much for him to lose if he did not. I need to be very careful and vigilant for any weakness I can use against Tang.

  “Mr. President, sir, what can I say?” Mythers responded. “You have my undying loyalty.”

  Major General Edgar Ragnarsson had spent the last several hours in turmoil. He couldn’t sleep. At three o’clock in the morning, he left his barracks to walk and get fresh air. The winter air was cold, but the wind was light. He found it brisk and refreshing. He didn’t expect the cold night air to bring him peace, but hoped it would clear his mind.

  The temptation of retirement had been an issue for him the first several weeks of President Tang’s administration. Ragnarsson had not supported the president as a candidate despite his disappointment with President Harmon at the time. Tang’s strategy for the war was different than Ragnarsson’s: Tang wanted to quit. Now, ironically, Ragnarsson wished he had orders to pull his Marines, as well as all American servicemen, out of China.

  Counter to his implied campaign promises, Tang set about to restructure the military command with the goal to “implement peace in Asia.” The first change of significance to Ragnarsson was the sudden retirement of the commandant of the Marine Corps. This was followed by President Tang’s announcement that the commandant would not be replaced. Under this new administration, General Philip Jared, of FedAPS, was the top commander of the United States Marine Corps and Navy. Jared reported directly to General Mythers, who was in command of the war, among other things in the US.

  Americans were shocked at first. Many politicians complained about the break with tradition, a few addressed its legality, but no one put up a real fight. As President Tang reminded the country, his party had won the last election. Now they controlled the government. Besides, as the media often repeated, the Tang administration was only continuing a process that had begun in the Harmon administration.

  To Ragnarsson’s disgust, it seemed most politicians and military commanders were more concerned with winning politics than with war. He thought too many of the US military’s high brass were busy jockeying for positions in the ever-growing FedAPS, at the expense of their troops and the war effort.

  Retirement was very tempting. The course the war had taken since the deaths of President Clark and his old friend General Jack McCullough, then Allied Commander, was an ever-growing source of anger to him. After Communist China attacked, the American nation fought back from the brink of destruction and was on the cusp of total victory over the last significant communist power in the world. Now they just stood watching that opportunity fade away. US troops weren’t being allowed to fight, nor were they allowed to leave.

  Ragnarsson could leave, he knew his retirement had been talked about among bureaucrats and politicians, but should he? Or he could transition into a political career, but was that leadership? He’d personally promised thousands of Marines under his command that their efforts, their sacrifices, their dead, would not be wasted or discarded, as in past wars. As much as he wanted to walk away from the political mess this war had become, he wrestled with his conscience as to whether it was the right thing to do.

  Ragnarsson stopped in front of the base chapel. He stared at the cross posted in front of the building. An order had come down from FedAPS weeks earlier to have all Christian symbols on base removed, as they might be offensive to the “secular” culture of China. Ragnarsson thought it was nonsense. After nearly a century of persecution by the People’s Republic, he was amazed by the number of Christians left in China, and how happy they were to be liberated. Too many Americans, too many Chinese, had died for freedom in this land to now deny it to them. So Ragnarsson ignored the order.

  Now he had new orders for the First Marine Division to support ROC troops in their patrols of the DMZ south of the Yellow River. Over the previous month, there was an increasing amount of procommunist militia activity. Given the increasing level of violence, Ragnarsson thought this was a good idea, short of defeating the PRC. However, Jared had stipulated that no Marines units would go on patrol with loaded weapons, nor magazines. All ammunition was to be carried in backpacks and supply trucks, as a show to the Chinese people that the Marines were not a “force of aggression.” Ragnarsson thought this was beyond incompetent, it was criminal. Someone in the chain of command wanted dead Marines. The idea that the US president, or any other American commander, would be comfortable with this was a bitter pill for Ragnarsson to swallow. Intellectually he could grasp it, but emotionally he didn’t want to admit it was true. In his line of work, however, a man needed to have a clear perspective of reality. He could not ignore this now.

  The cold air brought back memories of the winter nights Ragnarsson had spent camping in the woods with his dog, Magnus, as a youth. Neither were bothered by the cold; they enjoyed it. Rather, the peace of the deserted winter forest made the adventure attractive to him. His dad thought he was nuts, and joked there must be some berserker blood in the family. One didn’t need to be crazy to survive in the winter, just realistic enough to plan ahead. One also needed to accept the danger that came with that peace.

  Magnus had died during Edgar’s senior year at Virginia Military Institute. That was the first of many painful deaths in Ragnarsson’s life. Over the decades he lost friends, and brothers, in wars. He lost Marines who were under his command. He’d learned over the years to minimize those losses, to hit the enemy fast and hard. As well, he’d learned to accept the dangers of such action and be at peace with it.

  He missed Magnus. He missed his wife. He missed his children. His mind shifted to envisioning his retirement. He could walk away from all this. He could spend his last years with the only woman he ever loved as they evolved into grandparents. The time spent away from his family over his career could finally be paid back.

  However, his Marines couldn’t walk away. They were stuck there, to live or die, whether he was their commander or not. Many never to spend time with their own families again.

  Ragnarsson looked up at the stars and prayed. Within seconds, he burst out in laughter, realizing God had given him the answer hours before, he just had not wanted to accept it. He turned around and headed back to his quarters.

  I got a lot of work to get done. Might as well get started, Ragnarsson thought. There’s no way I can go back to sleep now.

  “Is he on again? Or the same shit they were playing yesterday?” Harris asked anyone in the TV lounge who cared to answer. No one did.

  “When they going to start the fucking movie?” somebody Harris didn’t know yelled after him.

  President Tang was giving another press conference. He was averaging more than two press conferences a week within his first hundred days as president. The new president rarely said anything of substance, or new, for that matter. Harris had the impression that President Tang was a man who loved hearing himself talk, and the attention he got from an adoring media. It was unlike anything Harris had ever witnessed during the Clark presidency.

  “Do hunger and suffering ever take a day of rest? Should the fight for social justice ever take a day off?” President Tang answered a reporter. To Harris the answer seemed a non sequitur to the question addressing the peace negotiations with the People’s Republic of China. However, he noticed it was well received by the journalists.

  Harris hated being stuck with only US government broadcasting. He found that what it lacked in entertainment, it made up for with coverage of the Tang administration. Harris yearned to be a civilian with his own television and then watch whatever he wanted. Harris didn’t know, through an executive order, that all networks, channels, and modes of transmission were required to broadcast Tang’s statements to the press. Now all Americans had to watch Tang or turn their screens off.

  “…because of Clark’s war, the
People’s Republic of China has suffered many transgressions and injustices at the hands of the US military…” Tang rambled on through the television.

  “Bastards should have thought about that before they started dropping bombs on us!” Murphy shouted at the TV screen.

  “…we, the American people, have a long road of redemption before us now,” the president continued. “At times that road will seem hard and painful…”

  “He’s going to think hard and painful when he gets that road shoved up his ass,” Murphy loudly cracked, to the laughter of the other Marines.

  Lance Corporal Matthew Murphy, a rifleman from Bravo Company, First Battalion, First Marines. Like Harris, he was a survivor of the last major Prick offensive. However, he had been at Camp Charles Foxtrot. Although in the same battalion, they had never met until placed in the same hospital dormitory, where they became friends.

  The body armor the Marine Corps had integrated into their battle uniforms had saved Murphy’s left leg from an artillery explosion; however, the impact had shattered the bones in his leg. He was undergoing a long process of stem cell therapy to regenerate his leg bone’s integrity. Dr. Levine told him it would take a lot of work and patience, but he had a good chance of regaining full use of his leg.

  Determined to make Dr. Levine’s prognosis a reality, Murphy worked hard. After eight weeks, he’d graduated from his wheelchair to crutches. It was only just the start; he still had more physical therapy ahead of him.

  Harris’s lacerations and bones were healing as well. However, Doc Levine was far more pleased with how his face was healing than Harris was. Levine told Harris he should have more work done to it, but that it would probably have to wait until he was stateside again.

  “Let’s keep the noise down in here. You fellows know we’re to use indoor voices in the TV lounge. No one wants to have their TV viewing disrupted, so think of others before you speak,” a FedAPS sergeant chastised the group.

  One of the wounded Marines responded with a fart loud enough to earn a vigorous “Oorah!” from the other Marines.

  “What purpose does that asshole serve around here?” Murphy mumbled to Harris. The Marines had been ordered to show the same respect for FedAPS rank and pay grade as they would for any other branch of the military. Already, Murphy had been chewed out by a Marine Corps gunny for not showing that respect to the FedAPS personnel recently stationed at the hospital.

  “To help us adhere to and uphold our finest laws and traditions of the United States military,” Harris mockingly regurgitated the official line.

  “Yeah,” Murphy scoffed. “I don’t need a man wearing a fucking ponytail telling me how a US Marine should act.”

  “Hey”–Harris cut Murphy off with an elbow jab–“I see Edwards heading down the hall.” He still felt some pain when he stood up from the chair. Harris hoped it was from having been inactive the last few months. “About time too. I’m craving a cigarette.”

  “Good afternoon, devil dogs.” Edwards sounded unusually upbeat on this Sunday. “Shall we head out to the patio?”

  No smoking, or tobacco use of any kind, was allowed at the hospital. However, given the circumstances that had brought in most of their patients, the hospital command turned a blind eye if the smoking was outside the buildings. However, smoking had become more of an issue with the arrival of FedAPS officers. A compromise had been struck by designating a smoking patio. While this did appease the ranking FedAPS officer at the time, its future was increasingly in question with the arrival of more FedAPS personnel.

  “Let’s do it!” Harris exclaimed. It had been twenty-six hours since his last cigarette. “I tell you, I’d give up smoking if I didn’t enjoy it so much.”

  “Yeah, really,” Murphy responded. He hadn’t had a smoke since he’d shared his last cigarette with Harris.

  “So, Harris, you on permanent vacation now, or what?” Edwards asked after everybody had lit up a cigarette. “When you coming back to 1/1?”

  “Well,” Harris said sarcastically, “my medical care is in the hands of the best-trained professionals of our land. I have complete confidence to rely on their judgment as to how long I need to be here.”

  Edwards laughed and shook his head as he inhaled on his cigarette. “You’re pretty tight with Doc Levine, right?” Edwards spoke as he exhaled smoke. “You two are always talking–”

  “You should hear them, Sergeant.” Never one to keep his mouth shut, Murphy interrupted. “They rattle on and on about the Constitution, history, philosophers, and shit. Hell, the goddamn Corps is going to have to give me a fucking law degree after listening to those two carry on.” Murphy’s ribbing got a laugh out of Edwards.

  “How are you going to keep your freedom,” Harris said, irritated by the teasing, “if you don’t know why you got it?”

  “You should listen to him, Murph. Harris is a thinker,” Edwards said, then became more serious. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. First Battalion is getting replacements. I’m a platoon sergeant now, and I want you as a squad leader. Shelby said he’d make it happen as soon as you’re released from this fucking spa.” Edwards waved his left arm around, as if to emphasize the luxury of the place. “You think Doc Levine can fast-track your recovery?”

  “What’s the hurry? Battalion forming an elite broom squad, or is it a desperate mission to move landscaping rocks around the officers’ barracks?” Harris responded. “Two weeks ago you were complaining about Weapons Company doing nothing but working parties. Why the hell would I want to go back to that?”

  For once, Murphy kept his mouth shut and smoked his cigarette. A short silence settled in among the three Marines. Then Edwards offered him another smoke.

  “Pricks are infringing on the DMZ,” Edwards stated before lighting a fresh cigarette. He slapped the cover down on his lighter.

  Harris and Murphy stared in vain, waiting for Edwards to continue.

  “Haven’t heard that on the news,” Harris finally responded.

  “Of course not,” Murphy said without his usual joviality.

  “I heard it straight from our battalion commander.” Edwards spit a small piece of tobacco from his mouth. “ROC regulars are reporting guerilla activity. There have been some small engagements. Word is we might start patrolling along the Yellow River to support the ROC.”

  “President said the war is done. News says there’s going to be a peace treaty any day.” Immediately Harris regretted sounding so naive.

  “We heard the same bullshit from Harmon as well, and we got hammered,” Murphy countered. “I can’t see McGregor sitting around with his thumb up his ass while the Pricks set us up.”

  “Nor Ragnarsson,” Edwards threw in.

  “Fucking leg!” Murphy complained. “Watch shit break out again about the time I ship out to Balboa.” He’d been ordered to go to the Naval Medical Center in San Diego for further therapy on his leg.

  “Look, it’s all scuttlebutt right now.” Edwards looked directly at Harris. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up is all. But I figured if some shit’s going down, and you want in on it, you need to get your ass out here.”

  Harris took a deep drag on his cigarette, surprised by his own battle lust. An hour earlier he’d wanted nothing more than to go back home to the United States with Murphy.

  “I’ll be working as one of those pretty-boy models by the time they’re done with me,” Harris had joked with Murphy when Doc Levine discussed sending him back to the States to have more work done to his face. The truth was Harris wanted nothing more than to eliminate the scar running across half his face as soon as possible. He had never thought of himself as a vain man, but he’d become very self-conscious of the scar on his face. Especially around the female corpsman.

  “I don’t know. Doc says I should probably have more work done on my face.” Harris looked off towards the leafless trees in the distance.

  “Well, you do what you got to do to heal yourself,” Edwards said, disappointed but sympathetic. �
�Look, I got to get going.” Edwards stuck out his hand. “If I don’t see you again, good luck.”

  Harris shook his hand. “Why wouldn’t you see me again?” Harris sounded more concerned than he would have liked.

  “You never know,” Edwards said as he exhaled the last of his smoke and flicked his cigarette butt into a patch of snow. “You take care.” Edwards turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “All teams are in position. Everything is set, sir,” Corporal Ling Chen reported.

  “Excellent, Corporal. Now we wait for the enemy to arrive,” Second Lieutenant Dong Fan acknowledged the NCO as he exhaled smoke from his lungs. He nervously tapped his fingers on top of a basket. Then he snuffed out his cigarette butt and lit another cigarette.

  This was his first major assignment as a Gansiduí commander, and his mission was south of the Yellow River, in the Republic of China. In addition to the risk of being captured and executed, he was uncomfortable with the danger posed to so many civilians in his area of operation. His superiors had told him not to concern himself with civilian deaths. In fact, he had been told the more civilian deaths caused, the better. He was afraid to admit it, to others and even to himself, but this mission bothered him. He understood the collateral deaths of civilians would bring negative press down upon the war effort of America and the Republic of China, and ultimately help the Chinese people reject Western tyranny. His superiors told him many of his fellow Chinese south of the Yellow River had collaborated with the West; they were traitors and deserved to die for their treason.

  Yet this village was not far from where he had grown up. He did not know the people who lived and worked on this street; however, he did not feel that far removed from them. Privately, he wondered how easily he, given a twist or two in fate, could have ended up south of the Yellow River and now be living in the Republic of China. Would that have made him a traitor? Would he too deserve to die? Would the People benefit from his death?