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

by T. S. Ransdell

  “US Marines killed your family, sir? Is that what you’re saying?” an unseen journalist asked.

  “Yes! They kill family. Marine blow up the whole building where family live,” the Chinese man bellowed into the camera. The camera spun around, it appeared, so the cameraman could film himself.

  “This is Story Limen here on the ground with US Marines. I’ve not seen the building, but you could hear, you could feel the explosion just minutes before. The Marines have attacked this neighborhood with a vengeance. At this point, there is no way of telling exactly who they are attacking or why, but there is no questioning the level of destruction taking place here. Marines on the ground are shooting everything in sight; helicopters are blowing up buildings. No doubt the Marines are making their presence known, and the people are paying the price.”

  “Thank you, Story.” The screen switched to two neatly dressed anchors, one man and one woman, both doing their best to look concerned. They immediately began to reiterate everything the cameraman had just said, while they showed the combat streaming from the media drones.

  “Fucking Pricks!” Bergman spoke loudly and in anger.

  “Who said that?” Bowman demanded.

  No one said a word. The FedAPS officer looked over the crowd of Navy nurses and corpsmen. His gazed stopped at Harris and Bergman. Frightened by Harris’s stare, Bowman turned his attention back to the TV.

  More footage of the combat streamed on the television screen. The viewers saw rockets being fired into the DMZ from north of the Yellow River. Then news anchors turned commentary back over to their guy on the ground.

  “Yeah, this is Story Limen on the ground here with the Marines.” He no longer looked lost and confused.

  “I talked to a Marine commander earlier who claimed they were fighting the PLA, possibly units from some kind of guerilla outfit, or…” Limen’s face contorted into a look of controlled pain. “However, I’ve yet to see any PLA troops. In fact, all I’ve seen on the ground here, and I’ve been here from the start, are wounded civilians. I’ve heard reports that this is a neighborhood with high PRC sentiment and resentment towards ROC occupation. On any account, the Marines seem to be restoring order here, but the question is at what cost? Back to…”

  “Fucking Marines! Ragnarsson’s going to fry for this one, and it’s about fucking time!” Bowman shrieked. “It’s time we took down the whole fucking lot of them.”

  “Hey, fuck you, Butterbar! You goddamn faggot!” Murphy yelled from the back of the crowd.

  “Who said that!” Bowman demanded, hands on his hips. He had the look of coming unhinged.

  “Compose yourself, Second Lieutenant,” Navy Lieutenant Nurse Roswell calmly asserted, hoping to defuse the explosive situation.

  “You can’t order me! I’m the FedAPS officer here!” Bowman stepped within inches of Roswell and pointed at her. “Not you! You all may pamper these little psycho bastards, but I’m not! All this Jarhead macho bullshit is going to get all of us killed. Even General Mythers thinks this ‘badass’ Jarhead image has to end. President Tang isn’t going to tolerate their shit either! You just watch!” Bowman glanced around, purposefully making eye contact with Harris this time.

  After all, what can he do to me here? I am the FedAPS officer, Bowman thought. In his outrage, however, Bowman failed to notice that Harris was the only Marine there who wasn’t on crutches or didn’t have an arm in a sling. “He’s going to take you all down a notch,” Bowman continued to rant. “You won’t be so tough then, will you? There’ll be no more workers and peasants you can wage your war on…”

  Harris stepped his way through the crowd. Although there were two dozen people between Harris and Bowman, none interceded. They all stepped out of Harris’s way. Roswell ordered one of the corpsman to get Sailor Patrol.

  “That fascist Clark may have had a hard-on for you, but Tang doesn’t,” Bowman sneered at Harris. “When Tang ends this war, all you Jarheads will be back to the worthless pieces of shit you were before the war.”

  As Harris stepped in closer, Bowman’s confidence began to waver ever so slightly. He stood straighter, trying to make himself look more domineering. Harris was a good two inches shorter, but significantly more muscular.

  “Stand down, Marine,” Lieutenant Bowman ordered. I’m a FedAPS officer, Bowman told himself to boost his confidence. What can this Marine possibly do to me?

  Harris answered that question when his right fist came in fast and hard on Bowman’s nose ring. The second lieutenant’s head snapped back hard. He would have hit the ground except for the support of the wall he was knocked into.

  Confused, all Bowman could do was stare at the Marine as his nose dripped blood over the front of his shirt.

  Harris stepped in close and followed up with a left hook. Bowman’s head snapped back again, this time smacking into the wall that was holding him up.

  This isn’t supposed to happen, Bowman thought, but there was nothing the dazed FedAPS officer could do. Then Harris’s right fist broke Bowman’s left cheekbone and sent his head back against the wall it had just bounced from. Bowman no longer had control of his body. He dropped to the floor.

  Harris felt high in his rage. His anger found a target in Bowman. This moment felt better to him than at any other time since he’d woken up in the hospital.

  He kicked the FedAPS officer in the face, but his hospital slipper only glanced off Bowman’s head. Reaching down, Harris grabbed the second lieutenant by his sagging hair-bun and beat his face into the floor. At that moment, Harris wanted nothing more than to kill Bowman.

  “Harris! Let it go, Harris! He’s done!” Murphy yelled. He tried to pull Harris off the FedAPS officer, but his leg gave out, and he fell. Then, Bergman tried to pull Harris off, but with one arm in a sling, he was ineffective.

  Unaware of it all, Harris continued to beat Bowman. He noticed nothing else until the master-at-arms zapped him with an electric baton. Harris’s body involuntarily seized up and he passed out.

  Harris ran as hard as his legs could pump and dove for the next hole. The ground shook and the air roared. Exhausted, getting up felt unnaturally hard, as did lifting his rifle, but Harris managed it. He pulled the trigger, but the rifle wouldn’t fire. Fighting panic, Harris began to clear the weapon. A big ChiCom with a nasty-looking V-shaped scar on his face landed in the foxhole. He leered at Harris, holding a large battle knife. Harris screamed and charged his enemy. But his arms and legs felt too heavy and he moved too slow. The Prick easily drove him to the ground and brought his knife down towards Harris’s heart. Harris fought to push the knife away, but he was too weak. Desperate, Harris looked around for any weapon he could use. It was then he suddenly noticed his best friend, Billy “Bulldog” Hastings, sitting and smoking a cigarette.

  “Help me, you idiot!” Harris screamed.

  Hastings didn’t hear him.

  “Help!” Harris screamed until his throat hurt.

  But Hastings continued to calmly smoke his cigarette. Then a smile broke across his face as if he’d just figured out a joke no one else had caught onto yet.

  “Hey, I’ve done all I can do,” Hastings said. His smile began to fade. “You have to fight on without me now.”

  Harris shot up, just to painfully discover his wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed. He struggled to catch his breath. Harris looked around the dark room. He was still a prisoner.

  “Fuck me,” Harris said. He tried to slow down his heartbeat and go to sleep, but he could not.

  Harris’s relief from being unshackled in the morning had worn off and was replaced with stress from being locked in a cell. He lay down on his cot and closed his eyes. Breathing slowly and deeply to induce relaxation, he imagined better places and better times before the war. He failed to relax, but succeeded in staying sane.

  He hated the small cell. The only window, in the cell door, was three inches wide and twenty-four inches long. The view was of the hallway. The room was too small, and the air was t
oo stale. He wondered how callous someone had to become toward freedom to feel comfortable in confinement.

  “A fate worse than death,” he declared to himself.

  Harris stood up in excitement at the sound of the door opening. It was Dr. Levine.

  “Doc! Am I glad to see you!” Harris vigorously shook Levine’s hand.

  “So am I, Sean.” Levine smiled back. The Marine MP, void of any expression on his face, watched the reunion. Satisfied that no violence was about to occur, he shut the door and stood outside.

  “Even demanding to check up on your health, it took some doing to get in here to see you,” Levine explained. “Sean, you’re in a hell of a mess here. What happened?”

  “I beat the hell out of a FedAPS officer, Bowman–”

  “I know that,” Levine interrupted, sounding irritated. “Why?”

  “I…well…I…” Harris tried to explain. “The guy’s an asshole.”

  “I know that! Still.” Levine calmed himself down. “Sean, he’s had to undergo facial reconstruction surgery.”

  “Really?” Harris took a turn at sounding irritated. “He got his a lot faster than I got mine.”

  “You’re not a victim, Sean. You’re here because you assaulted a man,” Levine replied.

  “Did you hear the things he was saying?” Harris barked, not controlling his anger as well as Levine had.

  “I’ve been told about it, to some degree at least.” Levine crossed his arms and leaned back against a wall, for the lack of a chair to sit on. “Listen, I know Bowman’s arrogant, mostly incompetent, and verbally abusive to those under his authority. The man is a first-class cretin. I think if it weren’t for the fact the president is trying to make some kind of political statement with the people he’s bringing into FedAPS, this joker wouldn’t even be here.

  “But, Sean, you can’t go around beating up every loudmouthed jerk you come across. Take a look around; this is what you’ve got to look forward to. And believe me, there are a lot of jerks shooting their mouths off back stateside.”

  “It’s more than what he said. It’s more than him just being a jerk. It…” Sean paused to collect his thoughts. “This scar on my face. The man who gave it to me…it was hand to hand. I literally looked him in the eye when he tried to kill me. I don’t know his motivation. A sense of duty? Protecting his family? Whatever. But I do know how he felt about it. I saw it in his eyes. He wanted to kill me because it would give him pleasure.”

  “How do you know that, Sean?” Levine inquired without challenging him.

  “Because I could see it in his eyes!” Harris quickly controlled the volume of his voice, conscious of the guard outside. “I can still see that bastard’s face. My death was going to make his fucking day. I saw that same look in Bowman’s eyes when he said the Marine Corps is going down.”

  Levine absorbed the weight of Harris’s words and feelings. He had no doubt that Harris thought he was telling the truth. The more he thought about it, the more he believed in the accuracy of Harris’s words.

  “Stupid move on Bowman’s part to order the broadcast of live combat footage in a hospital of wounded combat vets. There are witnesses who say he was antagonizing and aggressive. I imagine you felt shocked, and then to be confronted with, at the very least, verbal aggression. Perhaps he even made what could be interpreted as aggressive gestures? Perhaps this is a case best resolved with some counseling? That is, given that you felt threatened, anyway.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harris nodded. He understood what was unsaid.

  “Sean, I promise you, I’ll put in a good word on your behalf with the base commander before I ship out.”

  “You’re shipping back?” Harris sounded more disappointed than he’d intended.

  “Yes. President Tang’s downsizing.” Levine smiled. “It’s time. I’ve been away from my family for too long. My little boy’s becoming a man without me. I need to get back.”

  “Absolutely.” Harris sadly smiled. “A boy needs his father.”

  Levine reached inside his pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s all my contact information. Cell numbers, email, and even my home address. Although, I don’t know how much longer we’ll live there. Probably take a couple of years to get back into civilian life. Then, who knows?”

  “Thanks,” Harris said, looking down at the address Levine had given him.

  “Sean, please stay in touch. I’ve got no one else to talk American history with.” Levine tried to lighten the moment with lighthearted praise. “Nobody else seems interested in it these days. I loved our conversations, and with your father too. It’s not often I get to talk history with such a well-educated and articulate man.

  “Your father, Sean”–Levine became more solemn–“he’d be proud of the man you’ve become. I’m grateful for the opportunity to have gotten to know you both.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Harris was genuinely touched by Levine’s words.

  “I’m going to do everything I can for you, Sean, before I leave. I don’t know what good it will do, but I will do it. Rest assured. Meanwhile, exercise some of that famous Marine Corps discipline, and keep yourself out of trouble, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Harris smiled. “Believe me, the last thing I want is to stay stuck in this kind of hellhole.”

  After Levine knocked, the guard opened the door to let him out. Harris stared down at Levine’s home address. He was going to miss the doctor.

  “Private First Class Harris,” Edwards greeted his friend as he entered the small cell.

  “Sergeant Edwards,” Harris acknowledged.

  “Nice fucking room.” Edwards glanced around the small cell. “Grab your shit. You’re coming back to 1/1.” Edwards shook his head. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Harris wanted to shout with joy at this news, but he played it cool. The day before he’d been informed he might serve years in the brig for assault, in addition to receiving a dishonorable discharge from the Marine Corps.

  Harris couldn’t walk out of the room fast enough. In the hall was a small cadre of MPs and FedAPS personnel to escort him from the hospital grounds. A FedAPS sergeant handcuffed Harris.

  “Don’t try any funny stuff, Marine, and this will go nice and easy,” the middle-aged and overweight FedAPS sergeant warned with an aggressive tone.

  Yeah, whatever, fat boy, Harris thought. As long as I get out of this joint.

  “You got a fucking bargain, Harris. Hell, I’d give all three stripes to beat the fuck out of a FedAPS zero myself.” Edwards caught the sideways glare from the FedAPS sergeant. Edwards smiled back at him, but it looked more vicious than disarming.

  “Let’s get a move on,” the master-at-arms ordered.

  When they stepped outside the hospital, the FedAPS sergeant took the handcuffs off Harris.

  “Good luck, Marine,” the master-at-arms said and shook hands with Harris before turning around and going back into the hospital.

  They stopped at the parking lot’s edge. Edwards pulled out two cigarettes and handed one to Harris.

  “You are a lucky son of a bitch,” Edwards said as he handed Harris his lighter. “Doc Levine, Captain Shelby, hell, even Lieutenant Colonel McGregor spoke up for you to Colonel Liddell. Not to mention, a room full of witnesses who couldn’t agree as to who started the altercation. They saved your ass from going to the brig for the next six to ten years.” Edwards couldn’t hold back his laugh. “The fucking FedAPS CO was demanding your head on a plate.”

  “Fuck FedAPS.” Harris relished the words with a renewed appreciation for saying what he thought and felt. “Who are they to demand anything from us?”

  ***

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “In some ways, it was good to get back with my old battalion, but not in others.” Harris absentmindedly placed the fingers of his left hand under his chin and rubbed his scar with the tip of his thumb. “Like with so many things these days, I was homesick for a place that just didn’t exist anymore.”

  �
�What, exactly, had changed?” Levine asked.

  “Well, for one”–Harris looked back to Levine–“the people. It wasn’t the old Second Section. Second, there were more journalists allowed in the DMZ attached to units. And then there was the addition of FedAPS personnel. Especially the political officers. They were a pain in everyone’s ass.”

  Levine chuckled. He understood all too well. Although these days one didn’t complain about it in public.

  “Why would more journalists be bad if everyone is being honest?” Levine didn’t like the self-righteousness of his own question. But what choice do I have? he thought. I have a job to do.

  “It wouldn’t, if everyone, including the journalists, were honest. But they ain’t. You know that.” The old man smiled, but had an angry look in his eyes. “I learned in the war that journalists are the most dishonest sons of bitches on the planet, next to politicians.”

  “Like with your friend Schmitt?” Levine hesitantly recalled the Marine killed and mutilated at the battle for Nanjing.

  “Precisely.” Harris’s mannerism became more intense. “The media made Schmitt the poster boy for everything they hated about Clark and the war effort. Just as they made the Marine Corps the symbol for everything they hated about the United States. But you already know that too, don’t you? Ain’t that why this interview is taking place? To remind everyone just how evil we were? How evil America was?”

  Levine squirmed in his chair. He felt the truth in Harris’s words, yet his mind still fought to deny it.

  “Why do you think journalists would do that?” Levine asked, afraid the question might push Harris further into his anger. To his surprise, Harris roared with laughter.

  “Propaganda! Tang wasn’t ending the war. He was bringing it back to the United States.”

  ***

  “Who the fuck do these Marines think they are?” Tang shrieked as his face grew red. Privately, Mythers enjoyed seeing President Tang out of control. “I’ve got Zhang calling me up and chewing my ass out over why our Marines are armed and killing his people.”