“Well done.” Solak nodded his approval.
“Thank you.” Bison bowed his head in appreciation.
“I have very high expectations of his usefulness,” Solak warned, still smiling. “Speaking of new talent.” Solak turned his attention towards Mo Tariq, President Tang’s chief of staff. “I’m impressed with the show Sanchez put on today. He seems to be coming along very nicely.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tariq humbly expressed.
“I agree,” the third man confidently interposed. “He has the look, the charisma, that we need for this operation.” Bison and Tariq stared at the unknown man who spoke. It was understood that one did not speak at Solak’s meetings until addressed.
“Comrades, I want you to meet Mr. Victor Forge.” Solak uncomfortably smiled. He tolerated Forge’s boldness because the man’s skills were essential to his plans.
Bison and Tariq were taken by disbelief. They had heard of Victor Forge but, like many of the power class, had assumed he was a figurehead of conspiratorial myth.
“Well, this is a pleasure! I’ve admired much of your work.” Bison stood up and extended his hand. Tariq followed suit. Forge remained seated. Bison awkwardly cleared his throat. Tariq looked to Solak, who motioned for them to sit down. Both men did as he commanded.
“Rest assured, Mr. Forge is very familiar with both of you,” Solak said in the tone of a veiled threat. Privately, he enjoyed their discomfort. He thought it encouraged their compliance, as well as confirmed his own sense of superiority. “I want the two of you to work closely with Mr. Forge in the upcoming months. He is crucial to our plans. Just as crucial as your confidentiality in dealing with him. Am I understood?” Solak’s smile was gone.
“Absolutely,” Bison confirmed.
“Yes, of course,” Tariq said nervously after he realized Solak was waiting for his answer.
“I would like to meet Johnny Sanchez in the upcoming weeks,” Forge said to Solak. “I think he is perfect for what we discussed.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Solak’s response was rehearsed. He had already discussed these plans with Forge. “Mo, you will coordinate this. Each of you”–Solak looked at Stone to indicate him as well–“will be given a phone to communicate exclusively with Mr. Forge.
“Now”–Solak pointed his cigarette towards Bison to indicate a change of topic–“update us on the media campaign.”
“Gentlemen, if you recall from our meeting last winter, we discussed a two-pronged media attack. One, to direct public anger at the US military, specifically the United States Marine Corps. As we discussed earlier, Limen has worked out great,” Bison said with a deceptive display of confidence. “The Marketplace Massacre was a huge success. Controlling the narrative online, via search engines and social media, has exceeded our expectations so far. We have four television series and three movies soon to be released dealing with American war crimes and atrocities. All with an emphasis on toxic Marine Corps culture. You know, the whole brainwashed, racist, nationalist killer sort of thing.” Stone moved his hand in a rolling motion as if physically working his way through the clichés. “Our social media team will continue to make Limen a rising star. Thus bringing more attention to the stories he’s fed via Gupta and Bader.
“Since the Marketplace Massacre, military atrocities and American war crimes have remained top-trending topics. And we will keep them that way.” Bison paused, hoping Solak would be impressed.
“Yes, it does seem to be all anyone can hear in the news these days.” Solak patronized Bison. “How about entertainment?”
“Ah!” Bison felt a boost from Solak’s praise. “That brings to us to the other prong - ridicule. I have people encouraging and cultivating derision from radio DJs, stand-up comedians, and musicians. The word is out. Mocking patriotism and the military, particularly the Marines, is not only acceptable, it’s a fast track to getting noticed in the entertainment industry. Tonight, in fact, one of our networks is debuting a new war series based on the Marine war crimes. The first episode is about that Marine - Smith - I think, who murdered that little girl…”
“Schmitt,” Forge corrected.
“Yeah.” Bison shrugged. “Schmitt. Anyway, we’ll arrange for raving audience reviews and for encore showings throughout the summer. We will have broadcasted ten new episodes by November tenth.”
“Excellent, your timing could not be better.” Solak nodded his approval. “Now, you’ve both talked with the president. What is your take?”
“Mo,” Bison deferred.
“Well, sir, so far, Tang’s responded well. He picks up the advice we give him and runs with it,” Mo reported. “In keeping with Stone’s experience, Tang seems only too happy to oblige. Of course, he likes to believe in his own myth, and that he’s making history.”
“Stone?” Solak looked to Bison.
“I concur. From my discussions with him, he believes he’s the genesis of all this. And”–Bison looked to Tariq–“he is making history.”
“Absolutely,” Solak mocked. “He will be the glorious leader of the movement in the history books.
“What is your take on Mythers?” Solak directed the question at Tariq.
“He’s compliant,” Mo answered confidently. “An ambitious man, hungry for power. So far, he seems willing to do anything for it.”
“Do you think he will remain controllable?” Solak asked.
“Yes, sir,” Tariq continued, unfazed by the questioning. “I think long enough for us to make him the fall guy.”
“Good. Inform me if your opinion changes. Either of you. I remind you all, this is our end game. Events are in motion. It is crucial that we steer them in the direction we want them to go.
“With that, gentlemen”–Solak looked to Bison–“shall we allow our gracious host to get back to his party? After all–” the old tycoon began to laugh “–we have the birth of our new nation to celebrate this Fourth of July.”
Sanchez walked out of the bedroom and shut the door on the girl with the blond dreadlocks. He was finished with her. Although the girl was easy to manipulate, the experience left him invigorated and confident. He thought of it as a nice cooldown after the success of his Fourth of July flag burning. Though on an emotional high, mentally he was exhausted. An easy seduction was just what he needed.
Now, the girl had served her purpose, and it was late. Time to leave the party and get back to his live-in girlfriend and newborn daughter.
“Reparations!? No, fuck no, this is OUR home, OUR land. The rest of you are just interlopers,” Pablo Martel shouted.
“Interlopers, my ass, motherfucker, it ain’t like we had a choice to come to this fucked-up country!”
Sanchez groaned in frustration. He recognized the voice of D’Shon Cuppell, southwest regional leader of Black First.
Sanchez sought to brand himself as a “progressive contractor.” When political powers needed the “people” to rise up, Sanchez wanted to be the guy they hired to make it happen. After the hard work of bringing together various leftist groups for the day’s counterculture rally, he did not want it to fall apart because of a fistfight between two progressive racists.
He was one of the few in the United Latino Alliance, and arguably the most successful, to make inroads into the up-and-coming social justice group Black First. Some in ULA saw Black First as a threat, a competitor for funding and media attention. Others, like Martel, saw their activism as placing African-American interests over Latino interests. Sanchez recognized both groups’ common goal in the destruction of Western culture and thought the younger group could be commandeered.
Secretly, Sanchez admired Black First’s political tactics. They did not limit themselves to any preconceived morality. Essentially, they declared themselves gods. Inserting themselves as a moral authority, with the media giving them legitimacy, they could guilt the American people into compliance.
Black First’s message was that social order was in perfect balance until the Western concepts of “ren
aissance” and “enlightenment” infected the planet through European migration, capitalism, and, of course, the birth of the United States. Sanchez was quick to realize the media was more receptive to the promise of a returned peaceful balance than ULA’s message of violent revolution. He’d begun to adapt Black First’s rhetoric to his audience and his agenda, to great effect.
He was now a rising star in the social and ethnic justice movement. This put Johnny Sanchez in direct competition with D’Shon Cuppell. He feigned comradery with Cuppell, hoping to continue riding his coattails, but Sanchez didn’t like nor trust him.
“Whoa, comrades, brothers.” Johnny smiled with open arms as he walked into the living room. “Remember, we’re all on the same side here. Yes?” He placed his hand affectionately on Cuppell’s shoulder. “We’ve had success today. Let’s enjoy the success we all deserve.
“D’Shon, my friend, I believe there is someone waiting for you in the bedroom down the hall, second door on the left,” Sanchez said with a smile and a nod.
“Really? Why, exactly, would someone be waiting for me?” Cuppell cautiously smiled back.
“Well, let’s say that she, at least, is in no condition to complain. Hmmm?” Sanchez worked to exhibit all the charm he had inherited from his father.
“Sanchez, you are one smooth, undocumented fucker.” Cuppell laughed, clasped his hand, and gave him a hug. Then he headed toward the hallway, stopped, and turned around. “I’ll give you a call in a couple of days. We’ll talk,” Cuppell said with a smile before he disappeared down the hallway.
Fucking pig bastard, Sanchez thought, but said, “I look forward to it, my friend.”
“Why do you kiss his black ass?” Martel said loud enough for others to hear, and didn’t bother to hide his disgust.
“Pablo”–Sanchez turned the charm onto his friend–“because we are all on the same side and want the same things,” he said for the sake of the other party guests. He then lowered his voice so the rest of the party guests would stop paying attention to them. “They’ve got media, they’ve got people, and they’ve got funding working for them. We can use that to further our cause. When we no longer need them…” Sanchez shrugged his shoulders as a way to communicate their fate.
“You give their bullshit legitimacy when you condone it,” Martel said, still angry, but now lowering his voice.
“Pablo”–Sanchez looked Martel straight in the eye and got very serious–“you know me. Trust me. We will make it happen. We play this game, but we keep our goal, not theirs, OUR goal as our priority.” Johnny softened his tone. “Right, my brother?”
Martel was uncomfortable with the eye contact and looked away, but nodded his head.
“Look, come by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have Maria cook something, and you need to see my baby daughter.” Sanchez smiled at his old friend.
“Yes.” Martel smiled and nodded some more, but his demeanor wasn’t friendly. “I’ll come by tomorrow.” He exhaled deeply, then smiled. “Maria is a good woman. You need to appreciate her more.” His tone became affable. “And your daughter is a beautiful child. If she has her mother’s intelligence to go with your charm, she’ll end up running this country.” Both men laughed.
“Yes, my friend.” Sanchez pulled out a joint and offered it to Martel as he dug in his pocket for a lighter. “I believe today has been the best Fourth of July ever.”
Colonel Mufeed Raed smiled although he was not happy to see General Mythers. He told himself that one could expect this sort of thing when you were the commanding officer of the American Jihadists Regiment of FedAPS.
“General.” Instead of saluting, he stuck out his hand to shake the general’s. “How pleasant it is to see you today,” Raed lied. He had no respect for Mythers, nor any of the infidels. He saw them as weak. After all, it was President Harmon and General Mythers who had approached the American Jihadist Council for help with their Federal Agency of Public Safety. They needed him, so he saw no need to show them respect. Especially since they had never demanded it.
Raed had been born Mufeed ibn Raed al-Qadir. Since birth, he was taught to hate the West even though they had given financial aid and military assistance to his people throughout his life. Raed had been trained to fight by US Army Special Forces when he was a young man. Back then, the fight was against the secular dictators of western Asian and northern Africa. He considered the gesture proof of American stupidity. Why else would the American leaders send US soldiers to overthrow their own puppet leaders? But then, he’d learned never to question the ways Allah worked. Indeed, Allah was not what the West would call logical.
Once Sharia law had been reestablished, he had used his military training to kill the American “crusaders” and drive them out of the Middle East. Of course, the Americans’ departure didn’t bring peace. War with the heretics of his own religion had to be won. Only, it was lost. Raed’s faction was defeated; he felt anger and confusion as to why Allah would allow this. But all was not lost. The United States accepted Mufeed, and others like him, as refugees. Mufeed began to call himself Raed, hoping the US government would not connect him to his jihadist past. The precaution turned out to be completely unnecessary. Allah was generous. The American government gave him a home, money, and the right to vote in their elections. American leaders even succumbed to their demands that American police stay out of Muslim neighborhoods and communities so they could practice Sharia.
It was a miracle. Raed fully recognized Allah’s blessing when Russia devastated the Middle East and North Africa with nuclear weapons. He and his brothers had been spared, and America was now the seat of Islamic power.
Now, the same American government needed their protection and asked them to serve in their FedAPS. Allah was giving them further opportunities to conquer these corrupt, inferior people without even having to fire one shot. Raed saw no reason to show respect to a people who were so stupid and weak. Therefore, he refused to salute any of their officers, and they had never demanded he do so.
“I thought today was one of your holidays, and you would be home celebrating. However, I am honored you would spend your holiday with us,” Raed said with a slight bow as he shook Mythers’s hand. He still was not above a token show of submission, however.
“Oh, it’s just a minor holiday. More of an excuse, really, to take the day off, barbeque, and drink beer,” Mythers said with a smile. “I daresay that if you asked most Americans what the Fourth of July was about, they couldn’t tell you.” Both laughed and shook their heads at their own perceptions of American stupidity.
They stood in the sun and watched members of the AJR run the obstacle course on the undisclosed training facility in Virginia.
“Colonel Raed, I am impressed that you would condition your men on such a hot and humid afternoon as this.” Mythers directed Raed towards the shade of a large tree. Mythers had never particularly liked training outside in the heat. He always preferred working from an office. Today, however, he wanted to keep this meeting as private as possible. So he had requested an outdoor meeting, without electronic devices, to avoid any inadvertent eavesdropping or recordings of their conversation.
“General, you told me our mission would most likely be in your southern states. Most of my men were born and raised in the Great Lakes region. I thought it best they get accustomed to this summer weather.”
“You know–” Mythers smiled and turned on his charm “–I told President Tang that your American Jihadists boys would make a fine addition to FedAPS. Today you are proving me right. I could not be any prouder of your regiment. They are the embodiment of a new America, of a new American culture, that President Tang and I envision as the future for our country.” Mythers affectionately wrapped an arm around Raed as if he were talking to his own son.
Mythers didn’t trust Raed or any of his officers. When it came to his career, Mythers trusted no one. However, he thought his act would help to secure the loyalty of the AJR.
Any man who uses this much flatter
y when he has so much power lacks strength. He cannot be trusted, Raed thought. It took every ounce of deception he’d cultivated throughout his life not to cringe at Mythers’s touch. When the time is right, I will destroy him.
“General, you are too kind. Now, how may I be of service today?” Raed countered with his own charm.
“Colonel Raed, how do you like the weapons and gear you received last week?” Mythers asked.
“What is there not to like?” Don’t waste my time, you fucking idiot! Get to your point! Raed thought behind his wide smile.
“It’s top-of-the-line equipment, Colonel.” Mythers looked Raed in the eye. “The kind, in past years, we issued to our special operations units.”
Raed kept his mouth shut. His face became serious. He was very interested in what Mythers would say next.
“Let me put it this way, Colonel, the mission of the AJR may be evolving.” Mythers paused to let his meaning sink in. “Perhaps more than the mere enforcement of the new National Weapons Act. As I said before, we are in the midst of rebuilding this country, and I don’t mean all that American Renaissance crap Clark used to espouse. I mean, truly, a new America under President Tang.
“Unfortunately, Clark did too much to rejuvenate the old America. He set us back years from the progress achieved by the Leakey administration. Now, however, much of that ‘old America’–” Mythers broke into a smile “–is in uniform overseas.
“Why, you’ve probably seen in the news that even one of our own Marine Corps generals has been working to disrupt the peace negotiations with the People’s Republic of China.” Mythers raised the tone of his voice for a little dramatic flair.
Raed found it patronizing, but he remained silent. He was very curious as to where this conversation was going.
“Now, Colonel, what I’m about to tell you is highly classified and is not to be discussed outside our circle. Is that clear?”
“Yes, General Mythers.” Raed hated the eagerness in his voice, but curiosity was getting the best of him.
The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel) Page 9
