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

by T. S. Ransdell

  “Well,” Dori smiled, excited to brag, “as you know, he’s been getting more conversational, these last few weeks. Shortly before his shift ended today, he told me that he and Agent Daniels were coming here to listen to the jazz band tonight. And”–she drew the word out for effect–“he hoped maybe I would like to meet him here as well.”

  “Do you even like jazz?” Naomi smiled.

  “No, but I’d listen to opera if Jaden Henrich was into it.”

  The two women laughed. Dori had understated her excitement. Jaden Henrich was everything she had thought she had hated since her freshman year in college. He was tall, rugged, and patriotic. He even wore an American flag on his lapel. Yet she found him irresistible. She justified her attraction by the fact President Tang entrusted his life to the man.

  Anyone willing to die for Ben Tang, Dori thought, has to be a good man. At least, workable.

  The way Jaden Henrich looked, she was willing to put in the work.

  “Oh, we’ve needed this.” Naomi raised her glass for a toast. “It feels so good to laugh. We’ve been so overworked lately.”

  “Mmmm, yes,” Dori agreed. “Tang’s got a bold agenda. But it can’t become a reality without hard work. A lot of hard work.”

  “Yes, we’ve all got to make sacrifices,” Naomi said somewhat sarcastically. “Speaking of which–” she lowered her voice and smiled “–rumblings are that Tang’s desire to abolish the Marine Corps is gaining traction.”

  Dori widened her eyes and smiling nodded, but said nothing. She wanted to avoid talking about what Tang did, or didn’t want, and talk more about Jaden Henrich.

  “It’s about time. We don’t need the Marines any more than we need that illegal war,” Naomi continued, oblivious to Dori’s lack of interest in the subject.

  “Hello, ladies,” Henrich’s baritone voice seemingly boomed out of nowhere. He approached the bar with Agent Gabriel “Gabe” Daniels. All the barstools were taken, so the two men stood next to Dori and Naomi as they sat. “Can we buy you two a drink?”

  Introductions were made as they waited for another round of drinks. Then, as if in conspiracy, the band started playing, making conversation nearly impossible. Much to Dori’s pleasure, Jaden stood close and leaned in so they could hear each other.

  “Your people ready to head out to San Diego next week?” Jaden spoke close enough that Dori could feel his breath on her ear.

  “Yes,” she answered a little more loudly than needed. “When are your people flying out?”

  “The advance party went out sometime back,” Henrich answered, purposefully nonspecific. “The rest head out soon. Maybe I’ll see you out there.” He smiled and looked into her eyes.

  “I’m so looking forward to being out in San Diego and spending some time at the beach house.” Dori referred to Bison’s residence, where the president often stayed.

  “Yeah.” Henrich chuckled. “I don’t mind getting out of this November weather. It’ll be a good time to spend a week in Southern California.”

  “Most definitely.” Dori giggled and subconsciously played with her hair. “Although, I don’t imagine it’s going to feel like much of a break to you all.”

  “Hey, even the Secret Service can find time to relax, you know, and, uh, take the edge off things.” Henrich grinned enticingly and winked. Dori blushed. She wasn’t used to getting this sort of attention.

  “Yeah, but I’ve heard President Tang say he’s looking forward to the biggest shit storm this country has ever seen, and he wants to get to the beach house as soon as the ceremony is done. It sounds like a long week for you. But I suppose you already know that.” Dori stopped speaking to take a drink. Jaden noticed her glass was nearly empty, so he ordered another round.

  It was news to him that the president was anticipating the “biggest shit storm” over his tribute to the returning troops in the upcoming week.

  Henrich knew protests and marches were planned for the week of Tang’s visit. The subjects of the women assaulted by Marines as well as American war atrocities under Ragnarsson’s command were hot topics in the news the last few weeks. The media was worked up even more than it had been the during the invasion of the People’s Republic. However, Henrich thought there could very well be more to what she had been implying. He intended to find out. After all, those were his orders, and his reason for meeting Dori Hermon tonight.

  Victor Forge sat at the bar behind a highball filled with club soda and a lime wedge. He loved the joint. Although he never came for pleasure, only for work. It was tucked away in a quasi-residential and commercial block, just far enough from San Diego’s touristy and trendy bars, but close to Balboa Park, the location of his next meeting.

  The TV in front of him showed a football game between two of some of the last colleges to still have a team. Anyone would assume he was watching the game. His seat, however, gave him a good view to the front door reflected in the bar’s mirrored shelves, stocked with glasses and liquor bottles.

  His contact was nearly fifteen minutes late. Based on previous experiences with the guy, he’d anticipated this in his agenda for the evening. It wouldn’t be a problem unless the man his contact was meeting showed up early. Prepared with a contingency plan for that, he foresaw no problems. Still, he always stayed sober and casually observed everything around him. Previous experience had also taught him to count on unforeseeable problems.

  Johnny Sanchez was amazed by the fact he could live in LA and San Diego most of his life and still find places he had never been to before. He liked that about the area. Be it favored restaurants, bars, or women, he tired of them usually within a few months, and always within a year. Throughout his adulthood, he had found this an ideal way to live. He didn’t care to be burdened with boredom. His time was too important. He was too important, so when something was no longer exciting, he moved on to something else.

  He made an exception, however, for Maria. He stayed, but only when he found out she was pregnant. He’d lived with his own mother’s pain of abandonment and saw how it had crushed her. He believed anyone less superior than himself would have been destroyed by the mess his parents had made of their marriage and family life. Faced with the decision to stay or not, he decided he could not leave an infant son, his heir, to deal with that. Sanchez felt he should at least stay around long enough to give the boy a fighting chance in life.

  Much to his own surprise, Johnny found himself fantasizing about establishing his son in the ruling class, where no amount of wealth or power could be denied him. These dreams fed into Sanchez’s own sense of superiority and served to strengthen his resolve to stay with Maria.

  Over time, he discovered he could indulge in sexual indiscretions without any repercussions from her. She continued to cook and clean without one word of complaint. And he did love her cooking.

  Sanchez realized he’d found the perfect woman, the perfect situation, for him. She took care of the tedious details in life that bored him, and he provided her with a sense of security. The more he considered the situation, the more just it seemed to him.

  After all, I’m a man of superior mind, body, and charisma, Johnny thought. Why should I be denied anything?

  If he’d believed in a god, other than himself, he would have thought it a cruel joke when he found out he was having a daughter. Enraged that something so trivial could be beyond his control, he considered forcing Maria to have an abortion. But then he feared that would end their pleasant arrangement. Instead, he adapted his thinking. He would make his daughter into what he wanted her to be. There was no reason to accept anything less than what he wanted.

  Having worked his way high up the ladder of radical progressive leaders in the United States, now he feared his rise would be stalled by the fact that he could not find Mo Tariq in the bar they were to meet.

  Am I too early or, worse, too late? Did I come to the wrong place? Sanchez asked himself in a panic, just as quickly reassuring himself he was at the right place at the right time. />
  He had not met Tariq in person but knew what he looked like from media coverage of the Tang administration. The place was small and not that crowded. He walked around and looked, afraid he was looking too conspicuous.

  Suddenly, he saw Mo Tariq emerge from a back hallway that led to the restrooms. Sanchez laughed in relief.

  Toughen up, Johnny, he told himself. Events over the next couple of weeks are only going to get more intense.

  Sanchez walked over to Tariq, who was picking specks of lint off the front of his shirt.

  “John.” Tariq finally looked up and noticed Sanchez. He stuck out his hand and smiled. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I’ve been running late, and by the time I got here, I had to piss like a Russian racehorse.”

  “Not at all.” Sanchez smiled back, hiding his revulsion of Tariq’s damp hands. “In fact, I just got here a couple of minutes ago.”

  Tariq slapped Sanchez on the chest with the front of his hand, as if they were old friends, even though this was the first time they had met. “Come on, let’s go grab a table.” Tariq motioned with his head toward a circular booth in the back corner of the joint, next to the restrooms.

  “What’ll you gentlemen have?” The bar’s only waitress wasted no time making her way over to take their order.

  “Two beers,” Tariq ordered for both of them without asking Sanchez.

  “And what kind would you like?” the waitress asked with a bit of frustration showing through her smiling face.

  “What kind do you have?” Tariq asked with a forced charm that was not convincing to Sanchez, nor the waitress. She rattled off a list of beers quickly. Slow to choose, Tariq had her go through the list again.

  “Oh, just give me whatever light beer you have on tap,” Tariq finally settled.

  “Same for me, please.” Johnny charmingly smiled. She had a common attractiveness, but Sanchez found her alluring.

  “Well, Johnny, we’ve been hearing really good things about you lately. Many are singing your praises. So I don’t want you to think my request to meet you is a bad thing.” Tariq spoke somewhat condescendingly. He wanted to impress Sanchez that he was an authority, a power to be dealt with. Tariq thought opening their meeting this way would send the message: if you screw up, you’ll have to deal with me.

  Tariq’s efforts were lost on Sanchez, who had all the confidence in the world that he was doing a good job. He had good reason to. Other than a few phone calls to check in, Johnny was running the show for ULA representation at the anti-war/anti-Marine Corps protest on November 10. If his sources were correct, his people had been outpacing Black First in campus recruitment over the last several months. He thought his recently asserted control over Pablo Martel had gone smoothly. While Sanchez’s outreach had been focused on schools and communities to get numbers, Martel’s outreach focused on regional gangs and organized crime to recruit much-needed muscle for the protest. A “peaceful protest” didn’t preclude violence against those who deserved it. It was effective intimidation, and the media loved it. They would play video clips of assaults and vandalism for days if it was violent enough. Better yet, if the civic authorities cracked down too hard to restore order, the media played plenty of video of police brutality.

  It was a win-win for progressive radicals. The media never blamed them for the violence. More often than not, journalists assigned responsibility to the victims for the perpetuation of violence. Sanchez intended for ULA to get that kind of media attention on November 10.

  “I never thought it was a bad thing, Mo,” Johnny answered with a more convincing smile than Tariq could ever muster. “Actually, I’ve been quite looking forward to meeting you. I’ve been a fan of President Tang since my childhood. I’ve particularly admired the way you’ve managed his presidential campaign.” Sanchez was sincere on this issue.

  “Good! I’m glad to hear that.” Tariq failed to hide his disappointment. He preferred those working for him to fear him, at least a little bit. His instincts told him Sanchez did not. “Well, as I said, you’ve…” Tariq broke off the conversation as he saw the waitress arriving with their drinks. “You’ve done excellent organizing lately. How many do you think will actually show?”

  “As of now, ten thousand.” Sanchez knew his number was optimistic, but he hoped it would turn out to be a minor exaggeration.

  “That would be great if you can pull that off.” Tariq insincerely smiled. They wanted a high number of radicals to shut the city down. However, Tariq found himself leery of Sanchez’s confidence. He feared success would only make Sanchez that much harder to control.

  “I will,” Sanchez was quick to reply. Tariq thought he sensed a touch of uncertainty in Sanchez’s voice.

  “Excellent.” Tariq felt a bit more confident. “We need to discuss with you some of our expectations so we can all coordinate our efforts and resources for maximum effect.”

  “Absolutely,” Sanchez answered. This is MY moment, he told himself.

  Tariq smiled at the young man’s excitement. It made him feel a little more in control. He took a drink of beer, spilling some on himself. Then he set the nearly full glass on the table and looked at his watch.

  “Johnny, I’m going to leave you now. I hope we will meet again soon.” Tariq enjoyed the look of surprise on Sanchez’s face. “We need you to stay seated after I leave. You’re going to meet a man whom very few know.” Tariq’s condescending tone returned with his renewed sense of control. “He will be your contact in San Diego for this event. Do not try to contact me. I will contact you, but it will not be until all this is over. You got me?”

  Irritated by Tariq’s tone, Sanchez only nodded his acknowledgment.

  “Good.” Tariq scooted out of the booth, feeling he had established a level of control. He walked out the front door with a smile on his face.

  Sanchez sat alone at the big table with two nearly full pints of beer.

  “What the fuck was that?” he mumbled to himself. Sanchez exhaled a lot of frustration over the unexpectedly negative vibe of the meeting and took a big swig of beer.

  After fifteen minutes, Sanchez ordered another round. He tilted back his head to drain the remaining beer, when through his beer glass he saw a strange man casually sit down in front of Tariq’s abandoned pint of beer.

  “Hello, Johnny. I’m Victor Forge.” He did not offer his hand in greeting. His voice was emotionless. Despite his sudden arrival, his relaxed appearance suggested he’d been sitting there for hours.

  For a few moments, Johnny did not know how to respond. Everyone involved in the movement had heard of Victor Forge. However, he was never on TV. Nor was he photographed or interviewed. Many, including Sanchez, believed the man didn’t really exist, but was just a mythological hero of the progressive movement. Kind of like a radical progressive’s version of King Arthur.

  It was rumored Victor Forge was the lead organizer of WAR, World Anarchist Resistance. No one publicly admitted to having a leadership role in WAR. Sanchez taught his people that WAR was more of a tactic than a group. It was a method by which radicals could protest, assault, and vandalize safely. Members wore black and covered their faces with red bandanas. They moved in formation. If a member, or members, stepped out of the formation to attack police, shatter a storefront window, or set a car on fire, they quickly slipped back into the formation and disappeared. Everyone looked the same, or at least similar enough to make identification by the police impossible.

  Victor Forge was said to be the best. He could organize from several hundred to several thousand protesters at a time. He could turn a protest into a riot, and a riot into a war zone. His destructive talents were infamous throughout Europe and the United States.

  Over the years, Sanchez had listened to several people who claimed to have seen Forge. However, they all gave different descriptions of the man, and he had never given their claims credence. Yet now he sat in front of Johnny, introducing himself.

  As his mind grappled with the reality of Victor
Forge, Sanchez couldn’t shake the feeling that his life, at this very moment, had changed. For better or for worse, it would never be the same.

  Go for it, Johnny, he told himself. It can only get better.

  “Hello,” Sanchez finally spit out. He followed his instinct to be blunt. “I didn’t know you were real. I thought you were made up.”

  Though genuinely surprised by the comment, Forge’s manner remained neutral. Experience had taught him the less people know about what you’re thinking, the more they show you what they think.

  “In some ways, I am,” he said.

  The man looked nothing like Sanchez would have imagined, had he believed Forge was real. He was of average height and build. He had long dark hair he wore in a ponytail, covered by a ball cap with the profile of a bald eagle. He wore a dark gray flannel shirt over a light gray T-shirt with an American flag on it. His face was covered with large eyeglasses and a thick beard. Sanchez thought he looked more like a trucker than the world’s most notorious radical.

  “I–” Sanchez started to say.

  “Listen,” Forge interrupted. “Your work has garnered attention. I think you’ve got some potential. You will be my ‘go to’ for November 10. Understand?”

  “Yeah…of course. I–” Sanchez had a lot of questions he wanted to ask. But Forge interrupted again.

  “I understand you’ve been recruiting muscle as well as brains for this protest.”

  “Absolutely,” Sanchez spat out, finally getting his mind in gear. “I always use both. We need people who can give the march cred with home folks. On the other hand, somebody’s got to fuck folks up to keep them in line.” Sanchez decided not to mention Pablo Martel’s role in recruiting the muscle.

  After all, he thought, I’m the brains, not Pablo.

  Forge noticed Sanchez wasn’t giving credit to Martel, who, his sources had told him, was an old friend of Sanchez’s. Forge saw it as ruthless in Sanchez, and he liked it. In his experience, Forge found that men who were corrupt enough to betray a brother were easy to predict, and thus, manipulate. Through the manipulation of such individuals, Forge had built his career.