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

by T. S. Ransdell

  “Yes, Mr. Limen.” Hannah dutifully complied. You narcissistic jackass.

  She turned around to see several dozen black-shirted thugs in the street ahead of them.

  Aren’t we supposed to be leading this march? There’s no way they could have passed us, is there? Where did they come from? Tse flinched and ducked at the sound of a loud explosion.

  “What was that?” she screamed toward Limen and Hase. Limen was chanting, “Whose street? Our street!” along with the protesters, and he did not respond. Hase’s only acknowledgment was a frightened stare. Cheers rose from the protesters over another burst of small explosions.

  More firecrackers? Or gunshots? Hannah wondered. Should I be concerned for my safety?

  She turned around at the sound of shattering glass and saw black-shirted radicals emerging from alleys and side streets in front of them. Some were setting buildings on fire. Others chipped baseball-sized chunks of concrete from the curbs. The street was filled with smoke. It became harder to see.

  Something’s not right about any of this, an inner voice warned her. But this is great! She countered her own fear. You could be working on the national news story of the year! Perhaps even international!

  Hannah looked to Limen. He looked impassioned, not scared. She decided to follow his lead.

  Officer Tim Gates, of the San Diego Police Department, couldn’t help but feel good despite his stress. He began to wonder if his angst had been for nothing the previous week. Gates wasn’t alone. Many of his fellow officers had been concerned over what appeared to be a lack of manpower for the parade; especially with a countermarch and a US President being involved. Now, however, walking along the sidewalk filled with smiling faces and waving American flags, his anxieties seemed unnecessary. With all the media coverage about the people’s negative feelings about the war and military, it was easy to forget that patriotic Americans still populated this land. Seeing the crowd today served to remind Gates of everything he had fought for and sought to protect.

  Before the war, Tim Gates was an electrician, married, and had three daughters under the age of seven. Then the People’s Republic of China attacked the United States of America. Motivated by the immediate threat to his wife and children in California, he joined his state’s militia. He served in the Mexico Campaign. As the war moved on to the Philippine Islands, his militia unit was assigned to the occupational forces in Baja.

  Once criminal elements were eliminated, a grateful Mexican population made it an easy occupation. The experience inspired Gates to transition into the SDPD, which was in need of strong men to reestablish a sense of order and security in the city.

  In the flag-waving crowd that jammed the sidewalk, Gates saw the blondest little boy he’d ever seen, wearing a miniature version of a Marine Corps battle uniform, waving an American flag.

  “Excuse me, Marine, aren’t you supposed to be in the parade?” Officer Gates bent over to speak to the little boy standing with his mother.

  “No, sir.” The little boy’s smile was without any front teeth. “My daddy is. He’s home from the war.”

  Could this little boy be any cuter? Gates thought, smiling at the youngster.

  “I’m sure glad to hear that.” Gates looked up at the boy’s proud mother, also a stunning blonde. “I bet you’re looking forward to having your daddy home again.”

  “Yes, sir, it’ll be the first time I’ve ever seen him in real life.” The boy’s comment reminded Gates of the lost years with his daughters.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Gates patted the boy on the shoulder. “It’s good for a boy to have his father around. In fact, I can hear the Marines coming up now. It won’t be too much longer, and you just might get to see your daddy here in the parade.” Gates loved seeing the boy’s smile get even bigger. He stood up as the marching Marines approached.

  Suddenly, Gates whipped around. The distant, but distinct, sound of an explosion caught his, and everyone else’s, attention.

  Crusher spotted his wife about fifty yards out, to his left. At six feet tall, with striking blond hair, she literally stood out in the crowd. He clinched his jaw tight, resisting the urge to smile. He lost that battle when he noticed a little blond boy dressed in cammies.

  Look at that hair! Kruschinsky marveled at his son. With me and his mom, no wonder he’s a towhead.

  The sound of a distant explosion caught his attention.

  Don’t get paranoid, Kruschinsky told himself. The crowd turned its attention back to the parade. Probably nothing, he thought. The feds have got to have this place locked down with the president showing up.

  Kruschinsky’s previous concerns were pushed aside at the sight of his little boy jumping up and down with excitement. His wife picked their son up for a better view as he marched by them. Crusher breached protocol when he turned his head to look them in the eye and wink.

  To hell with it, Kruschinsky thought, turning his head forward after he passed his family. Marine Corps don’t like it at this point, they can fire me.

  Moments later, First Battalion was called to a halt where they were to stand in formation for the president’s speech. Kruschinsky could see his wife and son within fifty yards of where he stood.

  Lord, thank you for bringing me home, he prayed. Now if President Tang will just get this show on the road, I’ve got a family life to live.

  Pablo Martel descended from the building where he’d watched Johnny Sanchez and D’Shon Cuppell lead the Peace March towards the Marine parade.

  Typical Johnny, Martel thought, watching his handsome friend lead the march in front of the media cameras.

  Johnny’s always been blessed, Martel thought. He loved Sanchez like a brother, but he’d grown weary of watching Johnny catch the glamour and glory of their struggle while he powered through the ugly nastiness of revolution. Johnny loves being the pretty face of the revolution. Pablo smiled. I embrace being the hammer.

  Martel believed everyone had a role to play. Like a good communist, he believed all roles were equal. The last few years, however, he’d fought a growing resentment towards Johnny over the stardom he had acquired in their fight for equality. If they were all equal, why did Johnny get all the recognition? Why was Johnny seen more and more as the leader, and Pablo the peon? Why was Sanchez the face of compassion, when he, Pablo Martel, was the one willing to go to any length, no matter how despicable, to help the people?

  Now, on the biggest day of the revolution, with a rifle in his hands, he felt himself at a crossroads.

  The ends justify the means, Martel pondered. But to whose ends by whose means?

  His love and his anger for Johnny pulled his heart in two different directions. As did his love of the movement.

  Pablo Martel emerged from the building and pulled the red bandana up over his face, then he headed west towards the front of the march, stuffing his emotions. He’d do as he was told, at least one more time.

  Sanchez saw Martel approaching from his left. Even in a long black trench coat, with his face covered in a red bandanna, he knew it was Pablo. The sight of Martel gave Sanchez comfort. Once again, he felt they were a team. Martel had a talent for conflict and dirty jobs. Sanchez knew if the movement were to succeed, they had to masterfully employ violence.

  Martel could play a crucial role if he’d let himself be managed and not make himself a liability, Sanchez thought. I will need men like that if I’m to win the revolution.

  Forge told Cuppell to expect Martel to seemingly pop out of nowhere as they closed in with the crowd for the military parade. Yet he was surprised by how frightened he felt by Martel’s appearance. His eyes projected a look of violence that unnerved Cuppell.

  Mean motherfucker, Cuppell hated to admit to himself. Glad the violence is not intended for me. Sanchez will be a martyr, and I’ll be the emergent leader of the revolution.

  Hannah Tse struggled to focus on Cuppell and Limen in the increasing violence and destruction of the Peace March. While panning her camera, one particu
lar protester caught her attention. Dressed in black clothing like all the others, it was the way he carried himself that made him stand out. He walked like a man with a purpose, straight toward them. She zoomed in. Most of his face was covered with a red bandana; she saw violence in his eyes.

  Something bad is going to happen, Hannah thought, her blood turning cold. Something bad, but newsworthy.

  The man with fierce dark eyes pulled out a short-barreled rifle, like the ones she’d seen the military and police use. Hannah froze. The man fired several rounds.

  Shouldn’t the gun make more noise? Hannah thought, still standing frozen behind the camera, filming.

  The shooter tucked the short rifle back into his trench coat and ran into the crowd, disappearing as if he’d dived into a black sea, never to resurface.

  Limen knew he was not at risk. Forge had told him they would be approached by a gunman, but not to fear. The story was going to make him a media legend. It would give him wealth and immortality. Yet when Limen saw the gunman pull the short rifle out from under his coat, his legs went weak. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes. If he had believed in God, he would have prayed for the gunman’s accuracy.

  Sanchez fell to his knees screaming. He desperately reached out to Cuppell, on his hands and knees. He wrapped his arms around the man he’d competed with for media attention throughout his career.

  “Why?! Why?!” Sanchez screamed in front of the camera. It was everything he had hoped it would be. Johnny Sanchez was filmed holding the recently martyred leader of the progressive movement, D’Shon Cuppell. In a show of agony, he let Cuppell’s corpse slide from his arms. To Sanchez’s elation, his shirt was thoroughly stained with Cuppell’s blood.

  “They’ve murdered him! The fucking pigs murdered him!” Sanchez screamed at the young camerawoman.

  That’s it, keep filming me, girl! he thought. This has to be one of my best performances! Johnny couldn’t wait to watch himself on TV later.

  “Oh, God! What have they done!” Limen wailed then knelt down next to Sanchez, well within the camera’s view. “It’s murder, America. Pure, unadulterated murder,” Limen said with a cracking voice and tearful eyes. A skill he’d mastered in his early childhood. “You’ve seen it here, America! A man, a leader, gunned down for defending his people!”

  Sanchez has good instincts, Limen thought, sobbing in front of the camera. I wished I’d gotten some blood on my shirt. It’ll play well with the audience. His mind already envisioned a future interview with Sanchez where they would talk about this day and its impact on the people.

  “They’ve murdered Cuppell!” Sanchez stood up with his bloody shirt in full view. He turned to the camera, pouring all the hate he had into the lens. “Is this justice? Is this what our Constitution gets us?! Is this what law and order gets us?! D’Shon Cuppell’s murder demands justice! We demand justice!” Sanchez’s voice cracked from the strain of yelling. “NO MORE PIGS! NO MORE MARINE CORPS! NO MORE…” He stopped short, remembering effective chants need to be concise.

  “NO MORE MARINE CORPS” was all that stuck with the protesters as they worked their way toward the parade. Just as Forge had promised, social justice warriors emerged from “empty buildings” that were “secured” by FedAPS. These professional protesters scattered throughout the crowd to incite social justice vigilantes to violence. Within minutes, more businesses were afire. Rioters used hammers and crowbars to dismantle bricks and break up concrete to use as ammunition.

  Now America pays for her sins. Sanchez reveled in his sense of moral superiority as the black and red mob oozed its way towards the Marines and all who’d come out to honor them that day.

  There’ll be no presidential speech today, Gates sadly thought as protesters came at the parade. Why do they ruin it for these Marines? For all of us?

  No longer concerned about keeping spectators back from the Marines, Gates moved through the crowd to keep the radicals away from the spectators. He called in backup on his radio. With only a baton in hand–FedAPS had denied local law enforcement the use of their firearms around the president–Gates stood before the approaching rioters.

  “Was it Tang?” Rivett asked, short of breath from running to the TV lounge after McCurry had yelled somebody was shot on TV.

  “No, it was some Black First leader,” Harris answered him.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Edwards demanded, having just arrived after Rivett.

  “Some dude in a bloody shirt.” Morgan stated the obvious. “I don’t know why the fuck he’s crying so much.”

  “That’s Sanchez from ULA,” Rodriguez spat in contempt. “Fucking commie piece of shit.”

  “What’s with all the smoke in the background?” Rivett sounded concerned.

  “Because,” Harris nearly shouted, his own anger escalating, “they want to burn down the whole goddamned city in the name of social justice!”

  “Johnny Sanchez, I know you’re hurting right now, but can you tell us, can you tell the people, what has happened here today? What did you see?” Limen tried his best to sound sympathetic. It was theater. His only goal was to create an emotional bond with his audience. So he squinted his eyes, looked down at the ground, and spoke in the saddest voice he could muster.

  “Story,” Sanchez said, with even greater sophistication at feigning emotion, spoke with tears in his eyes, “today, the people have lost a true warrior for social justice.”

  “How, Johnny? Tell the people what happened,” Limen queried.

  “It’s just…we were just marching for peace…” Sanchez stopped for a moment as he teared up again. “The warmongering bastards shot him.”

  This is good, Johnny thought. People will eat this up! By the end of the day, I will be the social justice movement!

  “Am I glad to see you guys! What took you so long, Sergeant?” Gates couldn’t help smiling with relief. A couple of dozen San Diego police officers had arrived at his intersection. “FedAPS couldn’t make it, huh?”

  “They’ve turned this into a giant clusterfuck.” Sergeant Hernandez, SDPD, spoke in a low, frustrated tone. The police formed a defensive line across the street. “Listen. One of the activist leaders was shot. I think it was Black First’s. It’s turned into a riot. FedAPS is not allowing anyone to leave this perimeter. None of these people,” Hernandez continued in a low voice and nodded toward the crowd, “are allowed to leave.” The police sergeant shook his head. “Pray they’re not going to get more killed today.”

  “What the fuck are we doing here?” Kruschinsky heard a Marine grumble in the formation. The question had crossed his own mind. Standing in formation, the Marines could hear shouting and the popping of firecrackers. Smoke was rising above the crowd.

  Can’t see the President of the United States walking into this shit, Kruschinsky contemplated while watching his wife and son. Both looked concerned but did not look to be in danger. Not yet anyway. How long before this shit gets out of hand? Where the hell’s FedAPS? Or even that cop I saw marching in here?

  He fought the temptation to break ranks and go to his family.

  Surely FedAPS and the police aren’t going to let anything happen? You really want to trust your family to people you don’t know? Kruschinsky asked in answer to his own question. Or to a government that fucked up the war in China?

  No president. No ceremony. McGregor orders us out of here, so what are you going to do? Crusher clenched his jaw hard enough his molars hurt. I sure as fuck ain’t leaving my family in this shit!

  Bella Bradford was euphoric. In the riot, she’d found acceptance. In destruction, she’d found comradery. In violence, she found redemption. She never wanted this moment to end.

  Someone handed her two chunks of broken concrete. She ran to within five yards of the police line and threw both pieces with all her might, hoping to inflict as much damage as possible on whomever they hit.

  “Can this get any better?” she cackled to other rioters. The pistol. Bella remembered it was in her backpack. Her smil
e widened. It can get better! It can be perfect!

  Gates reflexively jumped when somebody set off a string of firecrackers next to him.

  “What are you scared of, pig?!” an unknown voice yelled.

  “Afraid you’ll get what’s coming to you, bitch?” another screamed.

  “Fucking chickenshit police!”

  He listened to the abuse while several middle fingers were shoved within several inches of his face. Inhaling deeply, Gates didn’t portray his struggle to remain calm.

  Act professional, not personal. Stay calm. Stay vigilant, he reminded himself. These sons of bitches would love you to lose your cool and post a video of “police brutality.”

  It was well known by law enforcement that these radical leftist groups loved to get video of their own being beaten by police. They considered it excellent propaganda.

  Unfortunately, to Gates’s way of thinking, Mayor Alison LaRocca and Chief of Police F. T. Sandmann also thought it was excellent propaganda for the activists. Out of fear, the media would portray law enforcement as brutality; they implemented policies and protocols to accommodate the radical leftists.

  Now social justice warriors seldom, if ever, suffered negative consequences for their illegal and destructive behavior. Unfortunately, the approach by civic leaders only served to encourage more destruction, not quell it.

  Of course, the civic and leftist leaders never accepted responsibility for the destruction they caused. Instead, they blamed America for a lack of compassion and demanded more accommodation. Thus, continuing the trend and making things worse.

  What kind of idiot is willing to act like a complete jerk, hoping that somebody cracks him in the head so the video can be used for propaganda? Gates wondered.

  “Fat fucking psychopath!” a protester screamed at him.

  The whistles, drums, smoke, and fireworks all contributed to an ever-increasing chaos. Two ignited road flares flew through the air and landed behind the police line.

  What do they think is going to happen if those land in the Marine formation? Gates wondered, thinking of the little boy he’d come across earlier. Or if they hurt one of the family members?