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

by T. S. Ransdell

  “I told President Tang we made a good choice in you.” Happy to see Raed anxious, Mythers wanted to string him along a little more. “We, and by that, I mean the president and the intelligence community, have yet to figure out just how deep this dissension goes within our very own military.” Mythers paused again at another attempt of dramatic flair. “You will start to see many units and commands being broken up and scattered throughout Asia. However, some of these troops will be brought back to the States and, ultimately, discharged.

  “Our concern is how some of these troops are going to respond when General Ragnarsson, among others, is found guilty. We are going to need a well-trained and well-equipped force to deal with such malcontents, by any means necessary. Do you understand, Colonel?”

  “Yes, General.” Raed could not believe what he’d just been told. Would FedAPS give us an opportunity to kill American troops? In their own land? Raed wondered. Praise Allah! “As you said, they are the ‘old America.’ My regiment will do whatever it takes to defend the new America.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Colonel.” Mythers’s smile slowly disappeared. “Troops will start arriving stateside within a few months. Prepare your men to move out within the next few weeks. The American Jihadist Regiment is being reassigned to Camp Pendleton, California.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Harris crawled out from the wooded brush. He straightened up and saw the meadow, a safe place from his childhood. Running across the meadow with liberating speed, he found the dirt road that led to the old bridge at the creek. Still there, across the bridge, was the ruin of a stone farmhouse. Abandoned a century before, the house had been reincarnated as a castle, a fort, or anything else the child Sean Harris imagined it to be. Despite a sense of being home, he avoided the ruin. Dark and cold, it was no place he wanted to go into. Sean chose to stay in the warm autumn sun.

  His eyes traveled down the gravel road leading to the house he grew up in. The sound of children playing floated on the breeze. He stepped toward home, but his attention was drawn again to the ruin.

  “Hey, buddy, what’s up?” The torn and bloodied body of Billy Hastings emerged from the inner shadows, smiling.

  Harris felt he should say something, but he didn’t know what to say.

  “You know the old saying.” Hastings spoke as if knowing Sean’s desires and fears. “You can’t go home again.”

  Harris’s eyes popped open. Confused and drenched in sweat, he sat up, then realized he was in his barracks. He was back at Horno.

  Weapons Company, First Battalion, of First Marines had arrived at Horno, Camp Pendleton, five days earlier. As did Charlie Company, what was left of it. Alpha and Bravo companies were to arrive next week. All of First Marines was to return to Camp Pendleton. Instead of transferring the whole regiment at once, orders came to do it piecemeal. The other battalions were to arrive within the following weeks.

  The slogan “First of the First” became a joke for this occasion. They were leading the “invasion” of California. Harris was not amused. It only served to reinforce his bitterness at being ordered to quit a war that others had sacrificed so much for.

  While on the transport ship back to San Diego, the captain aired a speech by President Tang calling for the United States to lead the fight for “international healing.” The president then laid out a point-by-point plan of what he would do to bring about world peace.

  “Every time he says, ‘I’m going to…’ it’s always something somebody else has to do.” Edwards mocked the presidential speech. “Look at him, acting so smug about quitting a war he ain’t fought. Then ordering the men who have to rebuild the PRC’s infrastructure. What a bunch of horseshit!”

  Left restless by his dream, Harris got out of his rack, grabbed his cigarettes, and went out the door. He stood on the third-floor walkway, which was pleasantly cool in the early dawn. Harris lit his first cigarette of the day. The wooded hills of Horno were beautiful, and the morning bird songs peaceful, but it was not enough to soothe his mind.

  “Hell yeah! This is a lot better than sitting around the barracks all night, huh?” McCurry nudged Harris.

  “Yeah,” Harris agreed, but seemed underwhelmed. He didn’t come along for the party, but for the booze. He lit a cigarette and realized it didn’t quell his apprehension of attending a FedAPS party at FedAPS housing in Camp Pendleton.

  “It’s not a FedAPS Party,” McCurry told him earlier that Friday, shortly after libo was called. “It’s a party at a FedAPS agent’s house.”

  “Everybody there going to be a FedAPS agent?” Harris’s question sounded more like an accusation.

  “How the fuck would I know?” McCurry answered defensively. “There’ll probably be other Marines there.”

  McCurry didn’t actually believe his last statement. In fact, he himself was apprehensive about being the only Marine at the FedAPS party. His only motivation to attend the party was the opportunity to go out with FedAPS Agent Jessica Marcos. They had met four days earlier when Agent Marcos stopped by the Horno PX while on patrol, to get coffee. They’d met two more times for coffee that week before Marcos invited McCurry to come with her to the party.

  As of yet, the Marines in First Battalion were not allowed to leave Horno on liberty. This fact was not as important to McCurry as the opportunity to go out with Jessica Marcos, who had offered to pick him up, plus any friends he wanted to bring. McCurry didn’t know Harris all that well. Although he thought Harris was a nice enough guy, McCurry found him a bit standoffish. Actually, that was one of the reasons McCurry asked Harris to come along. Harris didn’t talk much, and McCurry accurately surmised Harris to be the kind of man to keep his mouth shut. Additionally, he’d overheard Sergeant Edwards describe Harris as a badass to the other NCOs. In McCurry’s opinion, Edwards looked intimidating - a big man with ice blue eyes - who looked mean as hell. If Edwards thought Harris was a badass, that was enough for McCurry. If there was any trouble at the party, he figured Harris would be a good Marine to have around.

  “Don’t tell anyone you’re from Mainside. This is an admin party. That’s where most of them work,” Jessica coolly advised as they headed toward the house. “Just tell everyone you’re from FedAPS Motor Pool, San Diego.”

  Though her demeanor didn’t show it, she was slightly worried about sneaking the Marines off Horno.

  What harm can it really do? Jessica had asked herself. Since childhood she had defied those in authority. Not out of a malicious desire to be disobedient, but to understand her limits. Throughout her whole life, she’d never suffered a serious consequence for breaking rules. To the contrary, during her school years, being rebellious won the approval of her peers. It made her cool.

  FedAPS wasn’t high school, however. During her training, she’d known two recruits who were recycled for cheating on exams. The Marines had a reputation for being even more strict.

  But that was cheating, Jessica rationalized. This is a party. Even if anybody finds out, who’s really going to care? It’s not that big a deal.

  Loud music emanated from the crowded house. Aside from a few strange looks, no one realized, or cared, that two Marines were in attendance. Feeling reassured and confident, Jessica said hello to a few people and made some vague introductions. Harris gratefully accepted a cold beer. Other than some exotic hairstyles and body piercings, he concluded they were all somewhat normal. After an invitation to chug some tequila shots in the backyard, Harris began to wonder if he should rethink his opinion of FedAPS agents.

  Some of the gals are pretty damn hot, he thought to himself as he scanned the crowd. Seeing no cause for concern, Harris decided to have another drink.

  He was feeling good. The best he’d felt in a long time. Then a woman shrieked; Harris heard a sickening thud. A watermelon, supposedly soaked in alcohol as a party treat, rolled from its place on a table and now lay in pieces scattered on the concrete patio slab. After mild curses, the party continued. Few had even noticed. Except for Harris–h
is mind was ambushed by the memory of Hawke’s death.

  Private First Class Elias Hawke and Harris had served, for a while, in the same gun team back in China. One day Hawke took Harris’s place in the gun turret to give him a break. The good deed had gotten Hawke a sniper’s bullet in the forehead.

  Harris fought the memory, then felt guilty for trying to push it from his mind. He was tired of feeling bad. Harris drained the last half of his beer and went to the cooler to grab another. Then he went back for two more tequila shots in a desperate attempt to regain the good feeling from before.

  “Hey, dude.” Someone roughly nudged his shoulder. “You wanna play a drinking game?”

  “What’s the game?” Harris asked, not certain if he wanted to commit to it.

  “It’s one I made up. Come on, it’ll get you fucked up.” The FedAPS agent slapped Harris on the back. “What’s your name?”

  “Sean,” Harris answered. McCurry, Jessica, and he thought it best they not use their last names under the circumstances. “What’s your name?”

  “Colten,” the agent answered as he led Harris towards the patio table. “All right, we’ve got our last player! Everybody, say hello to Sean.”

  Colten began the drinking game, explaining the rules as they played. Coincidently, the rules were fluid enough to always benefit Colten. Harris found Colten’s personality even more irritating than the game’s rules. Although a cute girl with light-brown hair, who was also playing, made it tolerable.

  I’m here to get drunk anyway, he told himself. Why worry about some silly-ass rules?

  “How come it’s always the girls who end up having to drink?” one of the female players complained after Colten insisted she would have to either chug her cup of beer or down a tequila shot.

  “I think these rules are bullshit, Colten. You’re just making them up as we go along so you can get us drunk,” the girl with light-brown hair accused.

  “Fucking kidding me? Come on. Pay attention, will you!” Colten replied. He was guilty, but would confess to nothing.

  “At best, these rules are confusing.” Harris sided with the girls.

  “Damn!” Colten exclaimed defensively. “Feel like I’m dealing with a bunch of those dumb-ass Jarheads we’ve got on base!”

  Colten smiled, proud at his display of humor and wit.

  “Oh, come on.” The girl with light-brown hair protested the comparison as she giggled.

  “We’re not THAT fucking stupid, you asshole.” The other girl slapped Colten on the back, but did it with a smile.

  Harris clenched his jaws tight. His face flushed, no longer feeling the best he’d felt in a long time.

  Who the fuck are these people? he thought. Hawke and then Hastings came back into his mind. Who the fuck are they to talk like this?

  “Fuck you,” Harris said aloud, looking directly at Colten. “You fucking ponytail-wearing piece of shit.”

  The gravity with which Harris said this left the others in stunned silence. Slow to realize Harris was not teasing, Colten felt compelled to respond. He’d put too much work into showing off for the girls to let, whom he assumed to be, a rookie agent disrespect him. He began to stand up, turning towards Harris with his chest out in a show of aggression.

  “Hey, fuck–” was all Colten said before Harris’s left fist connected with his right ear. Immediately, Colten raised his hand to his ear in response to the pain. The agent’s display of weakness only infuriated Harris all the more. Who was this guy to talk down about such good men?

  Harris struck again with his left fist. Colten went down and, instinctively, tried to curl up into a ball as a means of defending himself.

  Surely someone will stop this, Colten thought. This isn’t supposed to happen.

  Yet no one did anything but stare. Harris began kicking Colten in the ribs and head. He stopped only to grab the tequila bottle as a weapon to crush Colten’s skull.

  “Whoa! Buddy.” McCurry, accurately assessing what was about to happen, stepped in, grabbing Harris by the wrist. “Not here, man, not now.”

  Still rational enough to understand McCurry was right, Harris pulled himself back from his rage. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to McCurry.

  Jessica was already a step ahead of them. Choosing not to exit through the house, she led the Marines to the side gate. They quickly walked to Jessica’s car. Several times along the way, Harris and McCurry looked behind them to see if anyone followed. No one did.

  “That was so fucking cool, Sean! Colten is such an asshole,” Jessica exclaimed as she drove off. She had never seen a fistfight before and thought it was thrilling.

  “Fuck, man, you clobbered his ass hard!” McCurry praised. “I heard what he said, man. He got what he deserved.”

  “Yeah, he did,” Harris agreed, but was solemn in tone. However, he felt good. Confronted with what he hated, he’d taken control.

  Rivett sat down with a Coke. Edwards shot him a questioning look as he drank his beer. Rivett looked around the crowded NCO club once more. He did not want to be overheard by the wrong set of ears.

  “You told Gunny everyone in the section was accounted for last night,” Rivett said, hesitant to get to his point.

  Edwards looked back at him, but said nothing in reply.

  Rivett stared at his Coke for a moment, nervously cleared his throat, then looked Edwards in the eye. “That description had to have been Harris,” Rivett stated just above a whisper.

  “You don’t know that,” Edwards shot back.

  “Do you know that it wasn’t?” Rivett replied more aggressively. “You were around here last night. Where was Harris?”

  “What’s the big deal?” Edwards asked. Annoyed, he still attempted to ease Rivett’s apprehension. “You were there. You saw Gunny and the FedAPS officer. A FedAPS agent gets his ass kicked, they assume it had to have been a Jarhead. They’re just following protocol. Relax.”

  “The agent had to be hospitalized. They’re looking for a guy with a scarred face.” Rivett wasn’t buying Edwards’s logic.

  “A lot of Marines have battle scars.” Edwards’s annoyance came through. “A lot of FedAPS agents do as well. I don’t know who kicked the hell out of that agent.” Edwards leaned in and lowered his voice. “And I don’t give a shit.”

  Taken aback by Edwards’s intensity, Rivett straightened up and leaned back. “Look, I’m not trying to get Harris in trouble here,” Rivett explained. “I’m his squad leader, and I like the guy. He’s a good Marine. I’m just worried about him. I don’t want to see him get himself into a lot of trouble when we’re all on the verge of finally going home.”

  “No problem.” Edwards shrugged to convey his understanding. He then turned and looked Rivett in the eye. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of Harris.”

  Husein Osmanović rubbed his chin and smiled at his reflection in the mirror on the other side of the bar. Not that he would have admitted it out loud, but he was relieved to be without his beard for the first time in six years. He also preferred the buzzed, Marine-style haircut he had gotten. His reflection reminded him of himself as a teenager, when life, even if it had been corrupt, had felt carefree. He then pushed those memories from his mind. They were of no use to him now. They would only weaken him when he needed to be strong.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender shouted just loud enough to be heard over the Sunday football crowd.

  “Two light beers.” Osmanović held up two fingers, ordering for his brother Ahmed, as well. He took another look around the bar. It had been years since he’d seen so many Green Bay Packers jerseys in one place, but then that was why he had chosen the place.

  Husein “Huso” Osmanović had been born and raised just outside Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His parents had migrated to the United States as children, along with their parents. They were in a wave of Bosnian refugees escaping the violence and warfare that plagued Southeast Europe, as well as the Middle East. His father was given employment at the Veteran’s Admini
stration Building; his mother worked at the Federal Day Care Center. His parents married and, through a federal program, bought a house. The neighborhood was primarily made up of other Bosnian and Turkish ethnics. Husein enjoyed his early childhood. He was the oldest child in a family of four boys and four girls. He was close to all his brothers and was popular at school. His parents were a happy couple. They taught their children to feel blessed to live in such a safe and prosperous land.

  However, throughout his school years, American teachers taught him the land they lived in was corrupt. That American culture was dysfunctional and destructive. The American people were as arrogant as they were rapacious. They self-righteously preached false concepts of liberty and freedom, when their true goal was to enslave and exterminate. Thus, they created a country responsible for the greatest social injustices in world history.

  These lessons were reiterated in college, but with more detail. By the time he was twenty, Huso believed that the “America” his parents had felt so blessed with was corrupt and savage. Democracy and capitalism were only mechanisms to enslave and control people. However, it was the American Jihadist Council that taught him constitutional law was a tool of Satan, designed to prevent the will of Allah from ruling over the land.

  During his junior year in college, Huso attended a rally on the university campus. Students and professors were protesting President Clark and the American response to the Sino-American War. One of the speakers at the rally, Yasin Haddad, from the American Jihadists Council, opened Huso’s eyes. He did not just speak of America’s sin, he presented a remedy to the evil of the United States: Jihad. Only a holy war could cleanse the planet of the cancerous corruption of Western culture. American infidels must convert, or they must die. Allah demanded it.

  Huso never attended another university class. Instead, he attended the mosque, where Yasin Haddad taught how the United States would be brought down. To Husein Osmanović, jihad seemed to be the perfect solution. The hate that had been indoctrinated in him for years would, finally, have a constructive outlet. He could serve his god and earn his salvation through violence. He also learned of an added bonus; he could enrich himself through jihad. After all, an infidel has no more right to property than to life or liberty.