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

by T. S. Ransdell

  “I appreciate you meeting me here in neutral territory, as it were.” Sanchez sought now to focus the meeting on their business. In a show of power, Cuppell stared after the waitress a moment longer.

  “Tell you what, I’m going to have to get me some of that.” Cuppell smiled. “Don’t worry, brother, I’ll be sure to let you have seconds this time.”

  Sanchez couldn’t tell if Cuppell resented or appreciated the girl from the party a few months before.

  “I’ve been approached,” Sanchez went on, deciding to ignore Cuppell’s last statement, “by some parties interested in a serious disruption during the festivities honoring the United States Marine Corps on November 10. Similar to, but much bigger than what we did on July Fourth.”

  “I’ve talked with some interested parties as well,” Cuppell replied.

  You are a petty piece of shit, Sanchez thought, picking up on Cuppell’s pompous tone, and smiled.

  “Then, obviously”–Sanchez struggled to hide his contempt–“you know the importance of this event to our interests. No?”

  Cuppell stared at Sanchez.

  “Sorry, my friend. I don’t mean to waste your time stating the obvious,” Sanchez continued. “What I’m trying to get at is, between your people and mine, we can shut this city down if we want to. There is no need for WAR to get all the attention. More importantly, I would like our groups to show a force of unity. I think it will force the media to examine this nation’s injustices through a racial lens instead of merely an economic one.”

  WAR, World Anarchist Resistance, was internationally what Black First and ULA were just starting to emerge as nationally.

  “In other words, I believe if we combine our people and resources, we both can end up with a bigger plate at the table.” Sanchez knew Cuppell’s pride could be an issue. He hoped Cuppell would go along, but Sanchez had a backup plan prepared.

  Cuppell saw it as a choice of lesser evils. Did he want to work with a bunch of rich white college kids and Euro trash radicals, or a bunch of Latino radicals controlled by white Hispanic socialists? He didn’t care to work with either side. Cuppell was a bigot who preached black supremacy in the name of restorative justice. However, for the time being, he needed both sides to advance his vision of revolution. So he would be friendly and cooperative, but he would never be loyal to them. He would use them as long as they were useful to his cause.

  “How do you know WAR’s even going to show up?” Cuppell asked. “You been talking to anybody?”

  “Probably the same people you have.” Sanchez worked to maintain his cool with Cuppell’s feigned ignorance. “Look, obviously something big is in the works for November 10, by people much bigger than us. People who fund our interests and WAR’s. Together, I think we can steal the media spotlight and establish ourselves as dominant suppliers of activism to those big people who fund our interests. We’ve got our own turf and agendas, but we’ve got more in common than differences. Let’s work together, as allies, and elevate ourselves from race politics into full-blown revolutionary leaders for social justice. What do you say?”

  Cuppell did find Sanchez’s offer enticing. He wouldn’t admit this to anyone beyond himself, but he also thought Sanchez was smarter, and he found that intimidating. Perhaps it would be wise for him to work with Sanchez and ride his coattails into the next echelon of the leftist movement.

  Sooner or later, I’m going to have to take Sanchez out. Perhaps after we rise to the top. The thought stirred Cuppell’s adrenaline. I may even get somebody to kill off that asshole Martel, too.

  “Hey, man, it’s all about the people.” He smiled and stuck his hand out to shake on the deal with Sanchez. Cuppell couldn’t contain his laughter.

  “I knew it! I knew I could count on you, D’Shon! We will make history together!” Sanchez sounded ecstatic. “Now, my friend, if you’ll order us another round of beers, my treat.” Sanchez placed his hand over his heart as a show of sincerity. “I will go take a much-needed piss.”

  Cuppell laughed, all though he found nothing funny about the statement. He looked around for their waitress. He caught sight of her out on the bar’s patio, talking to a group of men. She was smiling and had her hand on the broad shoulders of a lean, muscular man with short blond hair. It was obvious she was attracted to him. They looked happy and that angered him.

  Ugly motherfucker, Cuppell thought when he saw the scarred face of a redheaded kid lighting up a cigarette. Need to take care of that shit.

  As the waitress walked away from the Marines and towards him, into the main bar, Cuppell stuck his hand out to get her attention.

  I can’t believe I touched him on the shoulder, Mackenzie Fairbairn thought, smiling about her boldness. Even more, she could not believe the high she felt. It had been years, before US troops invaded the People’s Republic of China, since she had felt this good.

  At table six, Mackenzie noticed a customer frantically waving his hand in the air, like an obnoxious schoolchild.

  He looks angry, Mackenzie worried. Earlier, she’d noticed him and his friend leering at her. She found them creepy and would have preferred to avoid them.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?” she asked, smiling, trying to be hospitable.

  “I need two more beers over here now. And are you even aware those men are smoking out on the patio?” the customer nearly yelled, as if he wanted everyone else to hear him. “Is that even legal?” He threw up both his hands. “Don’t matter anyhow. I have an allergy to smoke. You need to tell them to stop immediately.”

  “I understand. I’ll talk to the manager right away about your concerns,” Mackenzie lied. The manager, a worthless guy, had yet to show up for work that day. As senior waitress, she was currently running the pub. “In the meantime, how about I comp you and your friend a beer for the inconvenience,” she said with a smile and wink. She had no intention of telling the Marines to stop smoking.

  I’m getting a free beer. And, after all, why shouldn’t I? Cuppell reveled in his masterful use of anger. He always preached a victimized class has the right to demand retribution for the sins of others. Experience taught him people are always willing to pay for forgiveness, especially with someone else’s money. I’ll tell Sanchez I paid for it, and he can get me back on the next round. Cuppell smiled.

  “Sarah, can you take over table six for me? There’s a creep there I just don’t want to deal with.”

  “Sure, Mackenzie, did he do anything to you?”

  “No. He’s just an asshole. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll buy you dinner for your troubles.”

  “Sure, you got it,” Sarah happily replied.

  “Oh, and put their next round of beers on my tab. And if he complains about the Marines smoking, tell him the manager says there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  “You got it,” Sarah repeated, getting a better grasp of the situation. Mackenzie began to fill up three more pints of beer to take out to the Marines. She planned to pay for that round too. After all they’d been through, she thought they deserved it.

  “Boy, you owe me big time for table six,” Sarah exclaimed as they were closing up.

  “I’m sorry, was it that bad?” Mackenzie truly felt bad for her roommate.

  “Both of those jerks placed their hand on my ass!”

  “At the same time?” Mackenzie hoped she was teasing.

  “No!” Sarah winced. “Gross! Fortunately, they only stayed for one more beer, and they didn’t leave a tip either. The cheap perverts!”

  “I owe you,” Mackenzie said as a way of apologizing again.

  “Yes, you do. But for now, you can tell me about the blond Marine you were talking to.”

  “Sergeant Edwards?” Mackenzie coyly replied.

  “Sergeant Edwards,” Sarah repeated with mock formality.

  “His name is Ethan.”

  “He seemed nice,” Sarah said in hopes of getting Mackenzie to talk more.

  “Yes.” Mackenzie smiled.

  Six yea
rs earlier, Mackenzie Fairbairn had fallen in love with a young Marine by the name of John Walsh. Wounded during the Mexico Campaign, Walsh was sent to Balboa Hospital, then later stationed at Camp Pendleton as an instructor at the School of Infantry.

  They’d met at Mission Beach the weekend it was officially reopened for recreational swimming. Six months later, Walsh asked her to marry him. Although her parents were against the idea, they gave their blessing under the condition she finish her college degree first. Since John agreed this was a good idea, she complied. As a sophomore, Mackenzie was confident she could graduate within two years.

  Within a year of her engagement, John Walsh deployed to China as part of the invading force. He was killed in action the first day of the invasion.

  Even more than the pain of her loss, Mackenzie suffered from the guilt of having postponed their marriage. She entered an emotional darkness she never imagined possible.

  To add to her pain, she endured one college professor after another diminishing the service of American warriors and the defense of the country for which they fought. It didn’t take long for many students to mimic, then to exceed the anti-war vitriol of their elders. Their words hurt her personally.

  They didn’t know John, she thought. He’d never do those evil things. Others might, but John never would.

  In her memory, John was perfection. As well, she imagined their life together could have been nothing other than perfect.

  No longer able to bear the campus atmosphere, Mackenzie dropped out of college. Then she dropped out of life. She went to where she and John had met and spent much of their time together. She found a job as a waitress at a beachside bar. Nearly all her pay went to the rent for a run-down apartment near the beach. The coastal neighborhood was still in shambles from the People’s Liberation Army Navy attacks earlier in the war. It was dirty and grimy, but she didn’t see it. To her the sea air smelled clean, and she could stare into the never-ending ocean and forget the world behind her. Feeling insulated in the past, Mackenzie became comfortable.

  Only within the last year did Mackenzie start to think of a future life. She took more of an interest in her work and began to take on more responsibilities of the business. But she had no desire to return to college. She saw nothing worth learning there.

  “So, is he going to call you?” Sarah asked.

  “He said he would,” Mackenzie cautiously answered.

  “I saw the way he was smiling,” Sarah said. “He’ll call.”

  Story Limen couldn’t believe what he was looking at. They were the least exciting, the least condemning leaks he’d ever seen. Not what he had expected from a “high level” government whistleblower.

  Hell, these aren’t even leaks, Limen told himself. But it’s a starting point at least.

  For the third time, he looked over the reports of active US military chapels in China, in defiance of FedAPS orders for them to be shuttered. As well as a collection of pictures from a father-son hunting trip Ragnarsson had taken decades ago. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. He didn’t feel like working, let alone being creative. His lack of sleep from the night before, in addition to all the alcohol, left him feeling “foggy headed” late into the afternoon. He helped himself to some of the cocaine left over from the meeting with Bison the night before.

  “Now, how can I create an injustice? Or a scandal of colossal proportions?” Story shouted in his empty room.

  Since he’d broken the Marketplace Massacre story, his career skyrocketed. Now Stone Bison saw him as a big talent, and he wanted to keep that perception rolling. The night before, Bison had taken him out as a show of appreciation for his work covering the assault of the two San Diego women by US Marines. Stone even let him in on leaks that promised to be the next big story. It was a night of expensive food, drugs, and women. It was a lifestyle Limen wanted to be addicted to. If that meant following Bison’s suggestions on these pathetic leaks, so be it.

  I just wish they’d given me some shit worth working with. Limen helped himself to more cocaine, hoping to find inspiration.

  “So how do you destroy Edgar ‘Fast Eddie’ Ragnarsson and take down the whole goddamn Marine Corps in the process?” he shouted in his rush. Moments later, he was on the floor, laughing and slapping the side of his desk hysterically.

  It’s that fucking stupid, it ought to work, Limen thought in his sudden burst of inspiration. Who was it who said, “The bigger the lie, the more people will believe it”? Yeah, well then, the American people will swallow this bitch and beg for more!

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Are you fucking serious?” Harris grappled to accept what he’d just been told.

  “I am fucking serious,” Edwards answered. “So grab your shit and let’s go get some chow while we still can.”

  “All right.” Harris rubbed the scar on his left cheek as he went to grab his cover. Silently, he admitted he felt a sense of relief.

  “So why the hell are we digging fighting holes on a Friday night?” Harris made another attempt to regain his sense of righteous indignation. “Why weren’t we doing this during the week instead of all those bullshit working parties?”

  “Who knows? Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s what we got to do now.” Edwards’s voice shifted to an understanding tone. “Look, man, I’m sorry it worked out like this. I know Sarah was looking forward to going out with you. Mackenzie told me herself. Maybe we can meet up with them tomorrow night when they finish up at Lulu’s.”

  “Yeah,” Harris flatly replied. He found Sarah attractive, but never having been on a date before, the idea of going out with her was as terrifying as it was exciting to him. “Anyway”–Harris decided to change the subject–“all this FedAPS bullshit is getting old fast.”

  “Gunny says this is coming down from battalion,” Edwards replied.

  “Really?” Harris was shocked. “I didn’t figure McGregor was the type to order these kinds of fuck-fuck games.”

  “Me neither,” Edwards agreed. “Maybe it ain’t a game.”

  “Sergeant Major, there’s one more thing I’d like to talk to you about before we call it a night.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sergeant Major Stevens’s manner didn’t reveal his fatigue and irritation with Lieutenant Colonel McGregor. At three o’clock on Saturday morning, after giving the battalion commander a tour of the foxholes and observation posts he’d ordered dug that night, Stevens didn’t want to hear “there’s one more thing.”

  “Sergeant Major, can I buy you a drink?” McGregor asked, showing Stevens a flask of bourbon.

  “Yes, sir.” Stevens dug two mugs out of his desk drawer, kept there for this very purpose.

  “Between the two of us, we have about fifty years of Marine Corps experience.” McGregor talked as he poured.

  “Yes, sir, we do. Between the two of us, there ain’t much we haven’t done.”

  “I agree. With that in mind, I’d like to pose a hypothetical question. How could we go about keeping some of Alpha and Bravo Company’s weapons, for battalion use of course, without FedAPS knowing?”

  “Well, sir, that’s a real interesting question, hypothetically speaking. One that, I’d say, begs even more hypothetical questions.”

  “That it does, Sergeant Major. That’s why I brought the bourbon.”

  It was five o’clock in the morning when McGregor got back to his base housing that night. As he expected, his wife and teenage son were asleep. Only his dog, Buford, was awake to greet him. Tired but not sleepy, McGregor decided to have one more drink before he’d call it a night.

  He went into his study to find his desk cluttered with his son’s high school textbooks and homework. He was slightly irritated by the mess, but it was outweighed by how flattered he was that his boy liked to emulate him in so many ways. He leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on the desk.

  He fought the temptation to call his cousin, who was his commanding officer. Aside from being family, the two were close friends. Billy McGregor, being two ye
ars younger, had always looked up to Arty as a leader. As men they’d attended Texas A&M, served in the Marine Corps, and gone to war together. During all those periods of his life, McGregor always appreciated Arty’s advice and counsel, but now he realized how much he truly valued it. Liddell was still in China, and what McGregor wanted to discuss was nothing to talk about over an unsecure line.

  McGregor’s mind explored ways he could vaguely hint around the issue.

  “No, that’s a stupid idea, ain’t it, Buford?” he said out loud to the dog. Buford, lying on the floor next to his owner, lifted his head in response. “Nope, we just have to figure this one out for ourselves.”

  McGregor took a last swallow of bourbon and set his glass down. Exploring all of the avenues of vulnerability his Marines were exposed to was driving him mad.

  “Dear Lord, am I just paranoid after so many years of fighting?” Again, Buford lifted his head with a look of concern over his master’s stress. “Could we really be dealing with a hostile government? With a…a domestic enemy?”

  Over the last twenty years of wars and conflicts, William “Bulldog” McGregor had dealt with self-serving government bureaucrats, as well as an ideologically driven media. As much as he hated the fact, it was something American military officers had to learn to deal with. Just like the enemy on the battlefield, it was a part of modern American warfare. However, he found it difficult to explain to himself how this time was different. FedAPS seemed too confrontational, the media reports seemed too malicious. But what bothered him the most was the vibe among the American people. Too many were passively compliant, yet way too many were vigorously collaborative. Gut instinct told him something wasn’t right, that a fight was coming. It was a feeling that had served him well over the years. He listened to it.

  Ben Tang sat in his private quarters of the White House. He was twenty-five minutes late for a meeting scheduled with General Mythers. Yet, in no hurry, he stayed still.

  The general will wait and ultimately do as he’s told. Tang laughed at the thought. “After all, I’m his boss. What choice does he have?”