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

by T. S. Ransdell

  Mythers resisted the temptation to remind the president the two countries were, technically, at war with each other.

  Tang inhaled deeply, attempting to calm down.

  “So tell me, just what the fuck good are your political officers if they can’t even detect Ragnarsson, or the whole fucking First Marine Division for that matter, is not obeying my orders?” he accused Mythers. Tang enjoyed watching his subordinates squirm when he was angry. He felt it helped him stay in control.

  “Who else is not following my orders, General Mythers?” Tang continued. “Do you even have a clue what your people are doing?” Let this five-star bastard think he’ll be the fall guy for this, the president told himself. See if that’ll motivate the idiot.

  Mythers wanted to smile, but didn’t. He had anticipated this sort of reaction from Tang. “Well, Mr. President, I think the problem lies in the limited authority of the FedAPS officers.”

  The president was pleasantly surprised by General Mythers’s answer. However, his gratitude was lost in his sudden inspiration. “We’re going to need a congressional investigation. Dori, set that up with the Speaker, ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir,” she quickly and obediently answered as she made note of it on her tablet.

  “Mythers,” Tang barked, “you’re going to testify before Congress. You’ll state that one of the major problems with administrating the Federal Agency of Public Safety is your lack of centralized control over the different military, law enforcement, and intelligence organizations. We do not want to give any indication that the problem with the agency is that it has too much on its plate, so to speak. Let’s use this occasion to acquire even more control. Do you have a problem with that, General?”

  “No, sir, not in the least,” Mythers answered with a smile.

  “Another major problem is this–” Tang paused to think of a phraseology that would appeal most to the media “–hypermasculine? Hyper-patriotic?”

  “Hypernationalistic, sir?” Tang’s closest confidant, Mohammad “Mo” Tariq, suggested.

  “Yes! I like it.” Tang enthusiastically pointed at the young man. “This hypernationalistic culture of Clark’s Marine Corps. You”–Tang pointed his pen at Mythers for emphasis–“tell Congress that, in your professional opinion, any military branch that cultivates independent thought and personal initiative on top of patriotism is a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. As we have just seen in China. Follow me?” Tang stood up, enthused by his political brilliance.

  “Yes, sir.” Mythers nodded. He felt like he had the president right where he wanted him.

  “Dori,” Tang ordered, “get your friends in the press in on this. Have them increase the number of stories that not only demonize the Marine Corps, but demonize the Marine as an individual. You know, something like ‘what kind of man would join such a deranged organization’ sort of thing. Follow?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Dori obediently acknowledged.

  “And emphasize ‘man’!” Tang continued. “We’ll play the angle of women being victimized by the Marine Corps. That should get some excellent play in the media and rile up our feminist support.”

  There were two full seconds of silence in the Oval Office.

  “Ah, Mr. President,” Tariq began to speak. Although not credited, it was he who had presented this media campaign to the president earlier.

  “Mo.” The president held up one finger to silence his confidant. “I know what you’re thinking,” Tang cut him off. “People”–always conscious of theatrics, Tang stood up and began to walk around the room as he spoke–“Ragnarsson has given us a golden opportunity. We will paint the Sino-American War as a prime example of why the ‘old America’ and, specifically, the US Marine Corps are evil: They produce men who enjoy killing. Hell, even the enlisted men, like…who was that kid a few years ago who attacked that little Chinese girl?”

  “Smith?” Tariq thought out loud.

  “Schmitt, sir,” Dori corrected.

  “Whatever, it’s a case in point.” Tang felt too excited to be bothered with trivial facts. “This recent dustup along the Yellow River is just another example of the danger they represent to humanity.

  “Look.” Tang sat down on the arm of a sofa, enjoying his speech. “The people gave Clark the opportunity to run the war his way, to run the Marine Corps his way. Let’s remind everyone the Marines have had no UN oversight, and look what it has brought us. This war could have ended years ago were it not for this…American warrior culture.

  “We will end this war. We’ll put Ragnarsson on trial. In doing so, we’ll not only convict him but every single Marine alive today. People”–Tang stood up to add drama to what he saw as the climax of this meeting–“this is our golden opportunity to transform everything we hate about the whole goddamned American way of life.”

  “What a mess,” a dispirited Lieutenant Colonel William “Bulldog” McGregor growled, running his hand over his short hair.

  “Monnett and Radford also.” Colonel Arthur “Lucky” Liddell poured bourbon into his cousin’s glass, breaking the news of the arrest of Seventh Marines’ commanding and executive officers along with General Ragnarsson.

  “What about the other regiments? Hell, are we on the FedAPS ‘most wanted’ list as well?” McGregor snarled before he took a drink.

  “We knew the risks,” Liddell said with no sarcasm, looking into his own glass, then back to his cousin. “We knew the deal, Billy. We followed Ragnarsson’s orders, and we played games with FedAPS.”

  “Miserable sons of bitches!” McGregor straightened up. “Sending Marines into harm with no ammo! That’s the goddamn war crime!”

  “Damn straight,” Liddell uncharacteristically swore, “and I’d defy those orders again. I’ll keep doing it until they court-martial me.”

  “Tang!” McGregor spoke with contempt. “He’s going to court-martial Ragnarsson and let the American people know he wants troops going into battle without any fucking ammunition? People won’t stand for it!”

  “Won’t they?” Liddell looked his cousin in the eye. “They’re the ones who voted Tang into office. Or perhaps you’re counting on Congress for backup?”

  “Congress,” McGregor grumbled. “They’re as bad as Tang. Most, anyway.”

  “You got that right.” Liddell’s eyes narrowed. He leaned over his desk towards his cousin and lowered his voice. “The battlefields are changing, Billy. We need to start thinking of this war in a whole other light. For the time being anyway.”

  McGregor nodded in understanding.

  Liddell raised his voice to his normal tone. “I have word from General Jared of FedAPS, the First Marine Division is to be disbanded along with Seventh Marines.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” McGregor said out of habit, not a sense of disbelief.

  “I’m not. For the time being, First, Fifth, and Eleventh Marines are to remain intact. Although, we are to start preparing to be redeployed,” Liddell stated flatly.

  “Any idea where we’re going?”

  “None whatsoever,” Liddell answered.

  McGregor stared at his glass of bourbon and said nothing.

  “Billy.” Liddell lowered his voice again. “I’d be shocked if Tang weren’t in bed with the PRC. Between you and me, I do not think he is above setting us up to get slaughtered out here. We can’t trust the media. We can’t trust Congress. Our best-case scenario is that we have a communist sympathizer as a president, who thinks this war is unjust.

  “All we’ve got is the Marine Corps. Stay sharp and prepare for all potential enemies. You understand me?”

  “Aye aye, sir.” McGregor finished off the last of his bourbon.

  “Stone, the smoked duck was exquisite.” Tang folded his napkin onto the dinner table.

  “I’m glad you approve. I was afraid it would seem too proletarian compared with the White House,” Stone Bison smirked. He displayed faux modesty as he waved his hand across the dining room he’d spent five million dollars to fu
rnish.

  They got up from the table to make their way to Stone’s study.

  Their friendship had begun as college dorm roommates at Berkeley. In those days they explored drugs, sex, and Marxist politics together. After graduation, Tang went on to law school and pursued a career in politics. Stone Bison had inherited a corporate empire from his father, and thus pursued a career in business. However, he stayed active in politics and thought of himself as a key player in the fight for social justice. Over the decades their lives and careers became ever more entwined in their quest for power.

  President Tang lit a joint, inhaled deeply, and listened to some new style of jazz that Stone was into. Tang didn’t care for the music, but thought it agreeable enough to get stoned to.

  “So.” Bison paused to light up his own joint. “How’s Mo Tariq working out for you?”

  “Great,” Tang replied. “He was an excellent recommendation.”

  “Glad to hear it. Keep an eye on the young fellow. He’s smart,” Bison said in an attempt to lead the conversation where he wanted it to go. “I think you’ll find him very…creative.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see,” Tang replied. Always hesitant to give credit to his subordinates, Tang wanted to get back to talking about himself. “Say, speaking of creative ideas, let me throw this at you. In college, what was the one institution we said symbolized Americanism, tyranny, and patriarchy more than any other?”

  “The military.” Bison smiled, pleased Tang was taking the bait.

  “What if I told you of a way to not only publicly humiliate the Marines, but to create such a furor that people would demand their disbandment?”

  “Fuck, dude, I’d say you were onto something.” Bison’s smile grew wider.

  “As we’ve previously discussed, I still plan to station US military units throughout the People’s Republic of China. That’s as good as any gulag, as far as keeping them out of the country and not causing problems for us. Well, it occurred to me–” pleased with Bison’s positive response, Tang paused, hoping to create greater anticipation “–why not bring a small number of Marines back into America? You know, put on a big national display of honor and respect for them. It keeps us on the high ground of public perception.”

  “Back up, Benny.” Pleased with what he was hearing, Bison feigned confusion, hoping to encourage Tang to explain more. “Other than playing to the polls, how is allowing Marines back into the country keeping us on the high ground? It’ll hurt you with our base. And how does that give you the opportunity to humiliate them?”

  “I’m going to give the PRC money. I’m going to use the American military to rebuild the People’s Republic–”

  “I know they’ll all do what they’re ordered,” Bison interrupted, impatient for Tang to get to the crux of the plan. “So fucking what?”

  “Oh, what, like Ragnarsson followed orders? They are a threat to our power.”

  Allowing Tang his moment, Bison held his tongue and nodded his head in agreement.

  “Why do you think Stalin threw so many of his veterans into the gulag after World War Two? The last thing we need is a bunch of patriotic men who know how to fight, believing in their independence over the common good. How do we control such men?”

  Bison said nothing; he just shrugged his shoulders.

  “We can’t. That’s why Stalin killed, some even say, forty million Russians after the war. He had many of his veterans arrested and, if he didn’t have them shot, sent them to work camps.

  “So, we send troops into the PRC to help ‘rebuild’ the country; that will be, in effect, a work camp. They’ll be there for years. Presumably, some will never make it back; and those who do, will be too late to stop us.”

  “Still, why allow some back in the country? How does this lead to their humiliation and disbandment?” Bison once again attempted to get Tang back on track.

  “Stone, Stone, Stone! How can a man with your vision not see where this is going?” Tang leaned over the sofa and snorted some of Bison’s cocaine. He felt like his mind was on a roll and wanted to keep it going. “I allow a small number of Marines back into the country. We honor them or some such bullshit. But right before that, I will pardon Ragnarsson and some other officers of their war crimes against the People’s Republic of China.”

  Bison feigned a skeptical look, but he was pleased with where the conversation was going.

  “As a nation we appear to do everything we can to honor them. But the political activists will protest. This will cause tension. In fact, I predict riots throughout California, at least. Then I will reconcile my administration with my activist base by ordering Ragnarsson to be turned over to the PRC, to be tried for war crimes.”

  Bison remained silent but nodded to show his approval.

  “Marines may be fascist bastards,” Tang continued, “but there is one thing they do well - fight. Most Marines will be in China, so let them deal with it. A small number will be here, but I expect all hell to break loose all the same.”

  “You brilliant bastard.” Bison told Tang what he wanted to hear. “Bernie would have a fucking meltdown!”

  “Stone,” Tang replied in a sarcastic tone, “Governor Bernard Wilmore is a dedicated, hardworking servant of the people. If, somehow, he were to become overwhelmed by such an unforeseeable outbreak of violence, he would have my personal support and all federal resources at my disposal to assist him.”

  “Mr. President, still,” Bison mimicked Tang’s sarcasm, “I believe you, for the good of the nation, should personally take control of the situation.”

  “For the good of the people, I’d have to send FedAPS in to take over the security of the state until the threat was eliminated.”

  He’s taken the bait. Hook, line, and sinker, Bison thought. He celebrated by snorting a line of cocaine.

  “Camp Pendleton?” The sarcasm was gone from Bison’s voice. He was all business.

  “One hundred twenty-five thousand acres of undeveloped land in Southern California. Not to mention Marine bases in North Carolina, Hawaii, etc.” Tang smiled, thinking his friend had finally connected all the dots.

  Bison filled two shot glasses with tequila. “Dude, with my connections, we’ll start a whole fucking revolution in California and make a fucking bundle in the process!”

  “Stoner.” Tang smiled, calling his friend by his old college nickname. “We will start a revolution, and the people won’t even realize we’re behind it.” He held his shot glass of tequila up, and the two men drank a toast to the transformation of the United States.

  ***

  CHAPTER SIX

  “A couple of days after I got back to 1/1, we got word Ragnarsson was arrested and going to be court-martialed, along with a bunch of other officers of Seventh Marines who were involved in the Marketplace Massacre.”

  “Was there a lot of anger?” Levine immediately regretted his question.

  “Well, yeah, there was a lot of fucking anger,” Harris answered.

  “Was there any talk of a coup at that time?” Levine asked.

  “We’re finally getting down to what this interview’s all about, huh?” Harris smiled at the younger man.

  “No,” Levine answered. Perhaps inspired by the memory of his grandfather, he was feeling uncharacteristically blunt. “History remembers you as a vile murderer. We were taught that all of you, the Marines, were savages. In school we learned the United States Marine Corps was one of America’s greatest sins. You all were homophobic, racist, violent,” Levine recalled. “Men whose natural tendencies for hatred and violence were cultivated by the old America to enact terror and injustice upon weaker nations.

  “No, the purpose of this interview is to remind everyone how dangerous the Marine Corps was, and the destructiveness of your way of thinking,” Levine confessed.

  Harris stared straight at Levine, but said nothing.

  At least he doesn’t look like he’s going to try to kill me, Levine thought.

  “I was told my grandfather w
as the same kind of man,” Levine continued, “but I could never really see it. I never wanted to believe it, but I did. I made myself believe; no matter how much it hurt, I believed it.”

  Harris remained silent. He’d been through enough re-education to have an idea of what Levine had gone through as a child.

  “Do you think Ragnarsson was innocent?” Levine’s mind came back to his business at hand. Harris was surprised by the edge in the younger man’s voice. He didn’t think Levine had it in him.

  “No, none of us were innocent. But tell me, what is so goddamn virtuous about innocence in a time of war? What is so innocent about complying with tyranny? What is so innocent about arresting a Marine Corps general for ordering his troops to be ready to fight and kill their enemy?”

  “But,” Levine shot back, “you were supposed to maintain order during the peace talks. Ragnarsson’s order to devastate that block was a serious setback to that. History remembers Ragnarsson as a murderer and cites the Marketplace Massacre as an example. Do you not see that?”

  “I don’t know who blew up that block, but I don’t think it was Marines; and I don’t think Ragnarsson ordered it. In fact, he was never charged with that. He was charged with defying an order from the Tang administration, prohibiting Marines from carrying loaded weapons. And tell me, Mr. Levine”–Harris’s manner became aggressive–“where’s the fucking ‘innocence’ in issuing an order to send troops into battle unarmed?”

  “Tang didn’t want anyone to get killed! The Marines were dangerous!” Levine argued.

  “Of course we were dangerous!” Harris nearly shouted and pounded the table. “Our job was to fucking kill people and break things. It was war. Otherwise, don’t send us in.”

  “You don’t see the problem in that?” Levine fired back, wishing he could ask his grandfather the same question. “Don’t you see the destruction of that kind of thinking?”

  “You’re coming from a premise that killing is wrong,” Harris calmly stated, deescalating the conversation. “That any kind of violence is wrong.”

  “You really believe violence can lead to any good,” Levine stated more than asked.