Tang admired the picture of Joseph Stalin that covered his favorite biography of the man.
A visionary willing to perfect the world through socialism. Tang smiled at the thought.
Since his sophomore year of high school, Benedict Tang had revered Stalin. This was due to his high school world history teacher, Mr. Frossmen, who put Stalin’s leadership into its proper context for Tang. Men like Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin enacted a dream to improve the world. Ironically, however, many of the very people they strove to help didn’t want it. As Tang saw it, most people are too afraid to change, even when it is good for them. He’d seen it throughout his whole political career. Campaign after campaign, town hall meeting after town hall meeting, Tang had always had to argue with intellectual inferiors who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand what they needed. Most only cared about what they wanted. Those debates fueled his respect for the old Bolsheviks not content to slowly implement socialism. Through courage, strength, and force of will, they created true equality. A world where everyone was the same.
Understandably, those smart enough to implement a true vision of equality were the exception. They couldn’t be treated the same; that would be self-defeating. Frossmen taught Tang that a civilized society has to cultivate a ruling class if it is to not only remain civilized, but egalitarian. The key, as Tang saw it, was that the ruling class must be schooled in proper socialist doctrine. Otherwise, government is mired in competition, and the rest of mankind is left to wallow in their own petty self-interests.
Many of his leftist teachers and classmates often described Stalin as perverting Lenin’s vision, but Tang thought that was nonsense. He thought the two rather similar in their quest for power and their willingness to upset order to advance towards communism. Their only difference, as Tang saw it, was that Stalin was more successful at killing those standing in the way of progress. Perhaps, had Lenin had more time in power, he would have killed just as many, or more, but he had not. Others in history made the same attempt, but their efforts paled in comparison to Stalin’s.
In college, Tang had attended a lecture by a historian who had access to the old Soviet archives. The man claimed Stalin might have killed up to forty million Russians after World War II, many of whom were the war veterans of the Red Army. Many called it an atrocity, but Tang saw it as brilliance. How could a man assume the power needed to create change if millions of men were willing to fight for their people and present way of life? How could an intellectual elite control such men? Stalin had many arrested and shot. Others were sent to gulags, where they could spend their lives working for the people. Stalin’s brilliance was in exercising the courage and strength to kill tens of millions of people standing in the way of progress.
Long inspired by the communist dictator, President Tang now found himself in a position to emulate Stalin.
He, too, feared returned war veterans voting in the next election would impede his vision to a better world. Tang was yet to acquire the sort of total control Stalin had at the end of the Second World War. He thought, however, what he lacked in power, he made up for in intelligence, creativity, and what Tang liked to describe as “political artistry.”
Operation White Dove effectively gave Tang his gulags. Currently, the massive American army was dispersed throughout the communist People’s Republic of China, as well as the democratic Republic of China. More than half of that force had been sent into the People’s Republic, without weaponry, to rebuild the PRC’s infrastructure. They would not be home anytime soon, if at all. Those who did return would be too late. Tang would make sure of that. His propaganda campaign to demonize the US Marine Corps and create public demand to disband them was in full swing and going smoothly. As planned, a very small number of Marines were back in the United States. His ceremony to honor them in San Diego, on November 10, was on track. Radical progressives were already being recruited to protest the event. All he needed was a catalyst to create an explosion, a conflict to be used as a pretext for his future actions.
Tang smiled. He imagined a future great leader looking at his picture and admiring his strength to progress mankind by any means necessary.
“The conqueror’s peace of mind requires the death of the conquered.” Tang recited the quote from Genghis Khan found underlined in one of Stalin’s books.
With his progressive passions renewed, he set his Stalin biography down on the end table. He finally headed down to meet with General Mythers, thirty-five minutes late.
Mythers looked at his watch. The president was thirty minutes late for their private meeting. He resisted the urge to laugh or even smile. In case he was being watched without his knowledge, General Mythers kept an expressionless face.
As the supreme commander of FedAPS, the president’s Secret Service now fell under his command. He had access to the president’s schedule for the day. The president’s last meeting was scheduled to have ended over an hour ago. Mythers’s contacts in the president’s security detail had notified him that the meeting had ended on time.
Tang’s trying to play power games, he thought. Any man who feels the need to empower his ego with such a superficial action lacks a true sense of empowerment.
Mythers was searching for a sign of weakness from the president. Now he found one.
The president must feel a lack of control, to some extent, anyway, Mythers contemplated. Something to do with this meeting. Something that frightens him.
Mythers thrived on these types of meetings; they got his adrenaline going. He loved discussing what was politically taboo and doing what was unknown by the American masses. These types of meetings came with an element of danger, but they also came with an element of power. One had to have power to be invited, and one left with even more power over those who didn’t want the meeting to become public knowledge. He’d been looking to acquire an edge over the president, something he could hold as collateral. The secrecy of this meeting gave him optimism.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President, sir.” General Mythers stood at attention as the president entered one of the White House’s soundproof offices. President Tang was alone. Mythers presumed that would be the case when he was told the location for the day’s meeting. He’d confirmed his hunch through his agents on Tang’s security detail. They’d told him the president had ordered no recording of their conversation, and no other personnel were to be present. Just as Mythers expected.
“Please, General, sit down.” Tang granted permission as he seated himself. “Obviously, what I’m about to say today is for your ears only.”
“Yes, sir.” Mythers feigned respect and a concerned face.
“This pertains to Ragnarsson’s court-martial.” Tang paused, trying to imply with a look that Mythers might have done something wrong. He wanted Mythers to feel defensive. He counted on a mixture of surprise and confusion lessening Mythers’s confidence, thus making the general easier to control. “How do we stand on that, as far as a timeline goes? How long is this going to take you?”
“Well, Mr. President, we can draw it out for quite a long time. Enough for you to get the media coverage you want out of it.” Mythers knew of the talk in the president’s inner circle that this court-martial was just a pretext to ultimately disband the Marine Corps. While not officially conceded, this was not a secret. In fact, it was a rather hot topic on many news talk shows and blogs.
“Yes.” Tang purposefully looked down at his hands resting on top of the table. He exhaled loudly to indicate he’d been struggling with a tough decision. It was all theater. “I think we need to let the investigation go its full course. The American people do have a right to know what kind of war crimes and atrocities have been committed in their name.
“However, for the good of the nation, I have decided we need to put this issue behind us. I see absolutely nothing to be gained from persecuting General Ragnarsson. Therefore, on November 1, I want you to announce that all charges against Ragnarsson are dropped.
“As you know, I’m going out
to San Diego on the tenth to honor the service of the Marines returned home. I’d like that to be something of a day for national healing, so I need enough time between then and the announcement on Ragnarsson.”
Red flags went up in Mythers’s mind. Something wasn’t adding up. He’d understood the Marine Corps was being persecuted via Ragnarsson.
“Sir, why not just drop the charges now?”
“Well, as I said”–Tang struggled to keep his conciliatory tone; he hated explaining himself to those he deemed his inferiors–“I think the American people have a right to know what has been done. That, I think, will be sufficient for the good of the people.
“Marines will start being discharged at the start of the new year. We have essentially eliminated recruiting. Your FedAPS gets the pick of any Marines they want to transition into the growing agency. As well, you get the pick of any current Marine recruits you want. Would you not agree, General, that FedAPS, and you, are benefiting rather nicely at the demise of the United States Marine Corps?” Tang’s indignant tone had an edge of anger to it.
You conniving son of a bitch! Mythers thought. Acting like I need to be grateful. You’re trying to guilt me into compliance! Why?
“No, sir, I would not disagree,” Mythers said aloud in his most political tone. “And I assure you, Mr. President, FedAPS is grateful for your commitment to the safety and protection of the American people.”
Immediately upon closing his office door, Peter Mythers felt more secure. The meeting with the president had left him rattled. More than just feeling angry, he felt insecure. He had not seen the president’s order coming.
With a glass of scotch and Beethoven playing through his headphones, he sat down at his desk to solve his problems, and thus, to his mind’s eye, the world’s. Mythers thought he’d had a reliable contact in Mo Tariq. He realized now he was mistaken. Tariq had not clued him in on dropping the charges against Ragnarsson. The question that had plagued Mythers’s mind since the meeting was whether it was Tariq who was out of the loop, or was it himself?
Tang talked of healing the nation. However, Mythers thought that essentially pardoning Ragnarsson could create a political hailstorm that he, and not the president, would have to answer for. Was the president catching political flak for court-martialing a popular war hero? Tang would catch flak from his base of supporters if he was seen as going soft on the military. Was the president trying to have it both ways and setting him up to take the blame?
With most of the nation’s military scattered throughout East Asia in Operation White Dove, Mythers could see no way “most” of the Marines would be discharged within the next year. Was Tang going to back out of disbanding the Marines?
Is there an angle where Ragnarsson could be brought into FedAPS? Mythers contemplated, then quickly dismissed that notion. After a month of internal investigations and bad press, Ragnarsson’s, and the Marine Corps’, reputation would be ruined. That was the objective from the beginning, as he had understood it, anyway.
Mythers’s instincts told him his power could be in jeopardy. He decided to immediately, and quietly, begin a purge of the Secret Service.
Tang’s crafty, and you’ve always known he’s untrustworthy, Mythers told himself. I’ll need every advantage I can get against the man.
CHAPTER TEN
“Will you get your ass up already!” Thorna barked.
Cruzer lay still. He’d been awake for several minutes but hadn’t gotten up, nor ever opened his eyes. His head hurt too much to get up, or so he’d told himself. Now that Thorna was yelling at him, he realized his head hurt too much to go back to sleep. He sat up in his sleeping bag.
“Just chill the fuck out, will you?” Cruzer whined, but Thorna had already left the tent. Reaching over to his small backpack, Cruzer dug into the side pocket and pulled out a metal box originally designed to hold breath mints. Now, Cruzer used it for his hand-rolled joints. He selected one that was about three-quarters smoked, lit up and inhaled. That act alone was enough to instantly improve his morning.
In nothing but his underwear, Cruzer crawled out of his tent into the chilly Arizona morning.
“Fuck, man, when’d it get so fucking cold out?” Cruzer complained on his way to urinate five yards from the campfire.
“Just get your ass in gear,” Thorna complained.
“Made some coffee, if you want some,” Marvie offered.
“Thanks,” Cruzer answered while emptying his bladder.
“You know,” Rhodes said to Thorna, “I think we might save some time if we stay headed south on AZ 89 instead of heading back north to I-40.”
“Really?” Thorna turned her attention away from Cruzer.
“Yeah.” Rhodes smiled. “According to the GPS, we can eventually hit I-8 into San Diego. Saves some time even. Get in Friday, have more time to party before the protest.”
“I don’t know.” Thorna hesitated. Though anxious to get to San Diego for the protest, she felt like they were in the middle of enemy territory. Driving through rural Arizona scared her more than she wanted to admit to her friends. “It may just be safer to stay on I-40. We’re less likely to get lost.”
“Suit yourself.” Rhodes shrugged and went back to loading their van. He’d learned by this point not to argue with Thorna.
“Cruzer! Move your fucking ass!” Thorna shouted. “We need to get on the fucking road.”
“All right already,” Cruzer mildly mumbled. He too had no desire to cross Thorna. In his anger he flicked away the last bit of his joint into the brush and crawled back into his tent to get dressed.
“Start packing this shit up,” Thorna ordered Marvie, who immediately complied.
Having already washed the cookware, Marvie boxed them up. After filling all the thermos mugs with coffee, she then dumped what was left of the coffee onto the campfire and began stirring the ashes.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Thorna demanded. “This isn’t fucking playtime.”
“I’m putting the fire out.” Marvie defended her actions.
“It’s out,” Thorna snapped. “Let whatever inbred redneck who owns this land deal with the mess. We need to get to San Diego.”
“Libo,” an exuberant Jarhead yelled at the top of his lungs. Still in combat gear and soaked in sweat, Harris lit up a cigarette.
“How”, Rodriguez shook his head,“after running the better part of a ten-mile hump, could someone possibly want to smoke?”
“It’s the best time. The lungs are all primed,” smirked Harris.
WORK HARD, PLAY HARD was the battle cry for the week. Over the last five days and four nights, they’d humped over seventy miles, constructed a half dozen fighting positions, and played nonstop war games. No one had gotten more than twenty hours of sleep over the week. However, at the start of seventy-two hours of liberty, sleep was the last thing anybody wanted.
No official explanation was given for the battalion’s shift in priorities from working parties to war games, but it was a welcome change. For Harris, it felt like being a Marine again.
Now it was time to play hard.
“Harris!” Edwards bellowed from outside.
“Sergeant Edwards,” Harris yelled back. “This’d better not be some last-minute duty bullshit,” he mumbled to Rodriguez.
“We need to drink some beers tonight,” Edwards said with a big smile.
“Roger that!” Harris enthusiastically agreed.
“Mackenzie and Sarah get off at twelve o’clock tonight. They’re going to meet us at Billy Bones shortly thereafter,” Edwards said, still smiling.
“Well, lucky for you all, I’m in a mood to go out tonight.” Harris smirked.
“Hey, is Murph going to show up tonight?”
“He said most likely.” Harris hopped up and down as he answered, pulling off his boots.
“Hot Rod, show up and I may even buy your ugly ass a beer,” Edwards offered.
“Aye aye, Sergeant!” Rodriguez sarcastically bellowed.
&n
bsp; “Outstanding! Let’s clean up and get the fuck out of here!” Edwards walked out whistling.
“When did he get so goddamned happy?” Rodriguez cracked.
“Beats the hell outta me,” Harris answered. But he knew it had everything to do with Mackenzie.
Yeah, enjoy it now, Sean. Harris heard a voice in his head. When this all comes to an end, then what? You got nothing.
Harris resisted the thought. He was feeling good and didn’t want it to end.
I’ll worry about it later, Harris told himself. I got it all for now.
You got nothing! the voice screamed back.
Dorset Hermon, Dori to her friends, sipped her wine and giggled. It was good to be out. The previous month had been one of the hardest of her life, but productive. As President Tang’s press secretary, she played a large role in the media campaign against the US Marine Corps. The pace and intensity of the campaign had been a great source of stress for her over the last few weeks.
Ironically, she thought the toxic masculinity of the Marine Corps actually made her job easier. Several assaults on civilians over the last several weeks were easy to exploit. The story of the young woman who was raped and had her face cut up was media gold. Of course, Dori felt bad for the young woman. However, the timing of the incident could not have been better for the Tang administration, professionally speaking. It was such a good example of why the people should forsake the past American culture and embrace President Tang’s vision.
“With Tang as president, it’s inevitable,” Dori told people. “America will change.”
As she saw it, her job was to convince the American people to embrace that change. Not merely to make them accept it, but to create a demand for it.
According to the president’s internal polling, they were starting to get their desired results. President Tang had even thanked her personally. Dori was proud she could play such a vital role in creating history, in creating a new world.
“So tell me about Jaden Henrich,” Naomi Brensen, a White House correspondent for a cable network, asked with raised eyebrows. She was anxious to get the latest news about her friend’s flirtations with the handsome Secret Service agent.
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