“Historians say there most likely was collaboration between the San Diego Police and the Marine Corps that day.” Levine stated his comment like a question to entice Harris to respond with his own opinion.
“Hell, the whole event was Tang’s call. Historians say he was in on it too? Was Tang betting on who would win in a fistfight?” Harris asked sarcastically.
“Protesters were killed that day. Eighteen, I believe, and well over a hundred more were hospitalized,” Levine self-righteously answered in response to Harris’s jocularity.
“Yeah, and how do you know that, Mr. Levine?” Harris leaned forward, his smile gone.
“Well.” Joel thought the question was bordering on the absurdly obvious. “I’ve got the file right in front of me, of course. Even without that, the event made history.” He tried to sound conciliatory. He did not want to lose the bond he felt they had formed over the interview. “Listen, I first learned about it in grade school. It was even one of the questions on the high school graduation test. It’s something everybody knows.”
“How many Americans died in the Sino-American War?” Harris shot back.
“The war?” Levine responded weakly. He didn’t know the answer to that question, and he could tell Harris knew he didn’t. “I don’t know, Mr. Harris.” Levine felt embarrassed. “School never taught us that. My grandfather was the only one who’d talk to me about that sort of thing, and I made a point to forget much of what he told me.”
“Why is that?”
“Everyone said he was a bigot and a fascist. Everyone said he and men like him were evil. I was taught to hate him and people like him. Even by my parents,” Levine confessed.
“Do you think your grandfather was evil?” Harris’s tone softened a bit.
“No one was kinder or more loving to me in my life,” Levine bluntly said, staring at the table, as if the truth were sitting right there. “No, I don’t think he was evil.”
“Then why listen to them?”
“Why?” Levine leaned back and smiled. “Because it was what everyone said was right. It was what everyone else was thinking. Who was I not to think the same?”
“My dad loved General Patton, from World War II,” Harris said. “You ever heard of him?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Levine smiled. He found it humorous that Harris would bring up something as trivial as World War II.
“Well,” Harris continued, ignoring Levine’s condescension, “he said, ‘If everyone is thinking alike, then somebody isn’t thinking.’”
“Ha.” Levine welcomed the opportunity to sound witty. “I don’t know about this World War II, but today, thinking is a whole lot more dangerous than obedience.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Of course it is!” Harris laughed, to Levine’s surprise. “Where’s the danger in being a slave? There’s no danger in doing what others tell you to do, or thinking what others tell you to think. But be the man God made you? That’ll piss off a lot of folks.”
“Yes, and some are very powerful.” Levine imagined Madam General Perro. “So why do it? Where’s the value in it?”
“A free man has got a right to own his thoughts, like anything else he creates or makes for himself. It makes life worth living. That’s your value. Otherwise you’re just dying a slow death.”
Like Sergeant MacTaggart in Perro’s office. Joel closed his eyes and pushed the memory away. “That all sounds quaint. Like something my grandfather would have said.” Levine shifted his glance up to look Harris in the eye. “Maybe that was true in his day, and yours. But today it’s compliance and submission that make life worth living. It’s the only way to get VIP status.”
“People with VIP status can say and think what they want?”
Levine thought of his own situation. If he wrote a history General Perro didn’t want, he would not keep his VIP status. At the very least, it would end his career.
It’s like dealing with my grandfather, Levine thought. How do I tell a man like Harris that freedom isn’t worth the risk of ruin? That it’s too far gone and just not worth the fight to get it back?
“So, at that point in time, it’s right before the attempted coup.” Levine wanted to shake the thoughts in his head and get back to the task at hand. “Some have suggested the San Diego police were involved. One theory is that the Marines’ attack on the peace marchers was a signal to the Marines in China to instigate their mutiny. Others argue it was the other way around. That is, the mutiny kicked everything off. What light, if any, can you shed on this?”
“What’s the government’s perspective right now?” Harris asked as an answer.
“There’s never been an official history. That’s why I have the job to create one. It has been acceptable, over the decades, to presume the Marines were a problem waiting to happen. Clark’s Marine Corps is perceived as evidence that international peace cannot exist when cultures breed and train men for war. Thus…” Levine paused, thinking of how to inoffensively state the truth.
“We had to be destroyed,” Harris finished for him.
Levine shifted around, not able to get comfortable. “It was for the sake of peace.” Levine sheepishly regurgitated the reasoning cited through his school years. “A matter of moral integrity, really.”
“Of course.” Harris laughed. “Re-education has taught me: Marines killing during an act of war is murder; but when progressives kill, then it’s justice.”
“Some have said the turnover of Ragnarsson instigated the mutiny,” Levine went on, not wanting to think about what Harris said, but then still thinking about it. “Tell me,” Joel continued after a pause, “do you see the turnover of Ragnarsson as an injustice?”
Harris, assuming the question was rhetorical, said nothing.
“Would that not, from your perspective, justify a mutiny? An act of war?” Levine felt he was making a great point. “Would this not, from your perspective, be a justification to overthrow the President of the United States?”
“It would.” Harris’s voice softened with regret. Levine, sensing a breakthrough, pursued his line of thought. “Other Marines had to have thought the same. I mean, after you heard what happened at the parade, and then media reports Ragnarsson was to stand trial for war crimes in the People’s Republic of China, you had to have heard some talk of rebellion, some talk of treason against President Tang.”
“No. Not a word.”
“The file of your interrogation says you admitted to ‘non-specified statements of discontent.’” Levine’s tone became more aggressive, as Harris seemed more contemplative and suddenly less confident. “You claimed civilians and Marines were attacked in San Diego. Yet Marines were the only ones arrested and publicly blamed for the violence. You then find yourselves confined to Camp Horno. Finally, the media reports Ragnarsson was to stand trial for crimes against humanity. Within twenty-four hours American forces in the Republic of China, mostly Marines, mutiny against the president. First Battalion, First Marines attacked FedAPS forces at Camp Pendleton in a failed coup.
“You had to have heard more than ‘statements of discontent.’ There had to be some planning, some forethought put into this. Are you going to claim now that you didn’t hear of or know anything that was about to happen?”
“There was a lot of anger.” Harris looked pained in his recollection. “But there was no talk of mutiny or rebellion. But there should have been!” Harris suddenly growled; his eyes became hard. “Despite all we’d been through, we were still foolish and naïve. We thought we had rights. We thought we had protection under our laws.”
Good laws do absolutely no good without good, strong men to enforce them, Joel remembered his grandfather telling him years before.
“No, rebellion was far from our thoughts. At least mine anyway. I was a goddamn fool.”
“Then what was?” Joel felt confused.
Harris stared and did not answer.
Levine looked back down at his copy of the timeline FedAPS had p
ut together. “FedAPS surmised that you, Edwards, Rivett, and…”
“McCurry.”
“McCurry,” Levine continued, finding the spot he was reading from in the report, “absconded from Camp Pendleton for the purpose of launching a diversionary operation of mayhem on the local civilian population, as First Battalion, First Marines prepared to attack FedAPS forces on Camp Pendleton.”
“We got drunk,” Harris said, looking Levine in the eye, his voice sounding dejected. “Me and McCurry. He called a female FedAPS agent he’d been messing around with, and she got us off base.”
“How?”
“Snuck out in the trunk of her car. Edwards and Rivett were incidental. They came out looking for us. That’s how we all ended up off base that night.”
“Why?” Levine couldn’t imagine a good reason. “With everything that had happened that day, why would you sneak off base to get drunk?”
“We were fools, throwing some kind of childish tantrum. Like most men angry over their lack of control. Instead of doing anything constructive about it, we sought an illusion of control through self-destruction.” Harris shifted his gaze to the table for a moment’s thought, then back to Levine. “Yet, oddly enough, had it not been for that foolish decision, you and I would not be sitting here today.”
***
“Fucking Vogel,” Limen fumed. His anger expelled on a biodegradable coffee cup in the network’s production truck, splattering coffee over some of the monitors.
“Story, please relax,” producer Janice Wayne responded with her most soothing voice. “Getting angry is not going to get you back on the air. Finding an eyewitness, or better yet witnesses, who say they saw a Marine murder Cuppell, will.”
“But, Ms. Wayne–” Hannah Tse cut in.
“Not now, sweetie. Let us talk for a moment, please.” Wayne dismissed Tse with a saccharine voice and wave of her hand.
“Janice, it’s not fair! I was promised–”
“Story, you will be.” Wayne interrupted Limen. “As soon as you get witnesses who say a Marine killed D’Shon Cuppell.”
“Ms. Wayne,” Hannah said loud and fast, “I saw the killer. We all did. He wasn’t a Marine.”
“Fuck!” Limen groaned, threw his hands up, and turned around in a fit. “Goddamnit, Hannah!”
“How do you know you saw the killer?” Wayne asked.
“I recorded the murder.” Hannah was unequivocal. “We’ve got video of the killer! We’re exclusive on this! We could run the video and give a copy to the police–”
“And how do you know the killer wasn’t a Marine?” Janice maintained her smile, but her voice was no longer sweet.
“Well–” Hannah hesitated a bit, confused by the question “–he was dressed like a protester. I assume–”
“Let’s not assume, dear,” Wayne interrupted. “What you recorded is irrelevant.”
“How?” Hannah fired right back.
“Because,” Wayne snarled, “what you think you saw or any other bullshit facts are not important right now.”
“How can facts not be important in relation to the truth?” Tse matched Wayne’s condescending tone.
“Because our viewers are fucking stupid!” Limen yelled, more frustrated than angry.
“He’s right, Hannah.” Wayne was back to using her saccharine voice. “You see, there’s too much information for the average person to take in. It’d be too confusing and overwhelming. As I’m sure you learned in journalism school,” Wayne’s condescension continued, “our job is to guide the public through selected information so they can conclude the appropriate truth. Facts do not matter, only reality. And reality, dear, is what the public thinks is the truth. And the only truth we’re concerned with is that an advocate for social justice was murdered, and US Marines are the killers. Now, are you on board, or do you need to go back to school?” Wayne glared.
Hannah Tse stood dumbfounded. It was only at that moment she realized the reality of this situation. “Yes, Ms. Wayne, I’m on board.”
“Good girl.” Wayne smiled and turned back to Limen. “Now go get my witnesses.”
“Fuck! How many times are they going to run this thing?” Sergeant Beaumont got up from the sofa, stiff legged, and limped over to the NCO refrigerator to get himself another beer.
“Fucking media horseshit,” Sergeant Monroe griped as he crushed his beer can and threw it across the lounge, missing the trash can. “Grab me another beer, Beau.”
Edwards and Rivett said nothing. They’d seen the clip of Staff Sergeant Kruschinsky beating the protester to death all afternoon and had become numb to it. Most of the Marines, those not arrested, had returned to base ninety minutes earlier. Only now were they becoming saturated with the day’s media coverage.
“When are they going to show the protesters tearing up the city?” Corporal Payne complained while the TV played a clip of President Tang speaking.
“Tang’s a goddamn piece of shit!” Monroe muttered and popped open another beer.
“Does this mean you’re not campaigning for his re-election?” Beaumont’s joke fell flat.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Edwards angrily mumbled so only Rivett could hear him.
“What’s up?” Rivett asked, concerned that a bad day could get worse.
“Mackenzie’s text. Come on.” Edwards nudged Rivett and they headed out down the hall.
“Rodriguez! Morgan! Get the fuck out here!” Edwards bellowed as he approached the end of the hallway.
“How the fuck did they get off base?” Edwards spoke in a low but angry voice.
Rodriguez stepped out of the room he shared with Harris. Not wanting to lie, and not wanting to tell the truth, Rodriguez stayed silent. Morgan emerged from the next room. Standing still, he hoped to avoid Edwards’s wrath.
Instead, Edwards stepped in front of Morgan and glared at him. “I just got a text from Mackenzie. Harris and McCurry are at Lulu’s getting drunk. Harris is starting to act pissed off. Tell me what you two fucking know - now!”
“McCurry’s been banging some FedAPS chick. He called her up. She said she’d get them off base,” Morgan fessed up.
“Do you know about this too?” Rivett looked at Rodriguez.
“Yes,” Rodriguez sheepishly answered.
“What were you two thinking?” Rivett asked, more surprised than angry. “After all that’s happened today, you let them leave?”
“Who the fuck wants to try to stop Harris from doing anything?” Morgan defended himself. “He was pissed off; saying it’s a free country and he’s got more of a right to go out than those shit bags have got to tear the city apart.”
“He’s got a point too.” Rodriguez felt compelled to add to the defense.
“This ain’t a goddamn civics class!” Edwards snapped. “There’s literally a fucking riot downtown. FedAPS is looking for Jarhead skulls to crack, and you two shitheads think Harris and McCurry got a right to go out and get drunk! Fucking bastards are going to get themselves killed.”
Edwards paced and collected his thoughts for a few moments.
“Keep an eye on Staff Sergeant West,” Edwards addressed Rivett. “He’s got duty tonight. He notices anything, you shoot me a text ASAP. You two,” he said, turning to Rodriguez and Morgan, “if those dumbasses show up back here, you don’t let them leave for nothing and get word to me ASAP. Understand?”
“What are you going to do?” Rivett asked Edwards.
“I’m going after them.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rivett volunteered.
“No. Stay here. This already has enough clusterfuck potential without getting more of us involved.”
“How are you going to get off base?” Rivett asked.
“I’ll figure something the fuck out,” Edwards angrily replied.
“Well,” Rivett hesitantly offered, “I also know a girl in FedAPS.”
“Fuck,” Edwards grumbled as he walked off. “Come on, then.”
“Americans were subjected to
yet another horrific act of violence at the hands of a Unites States Marine,” Dash Vogel announced with rehearsed gravity. “We warn you the following footage may be disturbing to some of our viewing audience.” The network began to broadcast footage of Kruschinsky’s encounter with Khari Z earlier in the day. Once again Americans could witness the Marine pulverizing the skull of the social justice warrior with a crowbar. “Today Michael Hill was murdered,” Vogel continued as the network showed Khari Z’s class picture from his freshman year of high school. “Hill, himself from a military family and whose own cousin gave his life in service to the country, was a college student. He was pursuing a degree in engineering through an academic program established by the Clark administration, expressly for intellectually gifted young adults.
“His life was tragically taken by a Marine we have now confirmed as Staff Sergeant Michael Kruschinsky.” The network showed a grim-looking photo of Kruschinsky taken from his military identification card. “Military sources say Kruschinsky was known to his fellow Marines as ‘Crusher,’ named for his propensity for crushing the skulls of Chinese victims of the Sino-American War.”
“Oh my.” Gloria Brenner silently celebrated the balance of outrage and offense with which she delivered her line.
“One has to ask, Gloria,” Dash continued his report, “after documented examples of wanton violence from the Schmitt case during the war, the Marketplace Massacre, the brutal killings taking place here in San Diego, and now today’s horrific events, as Marines come back to the US, who exactly and what kind of dangers are Americans exposed to?”
“Yes, indeed, Dash.” Gloria paused to indicate she was in deep, but brief, contemplation. “Thank you for your report from the heart of the protest still taking place where the mayor has declared a ‘no-go zone’ for local law enforcement.” Gloria turned away from the monitor, positioned to make her look as if she was watching Dash Vogel live, and faced the camera. She clenched her jaw tightly and swallowed hard to stifle the smile she wanted to let spread across her face. Brenner knew it wouldn’t be appropriate, no matter how exciting the day’s events.
The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel) Page 24
