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

by T. S. Ransdell

  “Harris! McCurry!” Edwards headed towards them. “What the hell? I thought I’d find you two downtown stacking bodies.”

  The Marines laughed. Mia rolled her eyes.

  This is so unlike Jimmy, she thought.

  “Stacking bodies?” Jessica quietly asked McCurry, not understanding the reference. Sarah asked nothing, not knowing nor caring what the comment was in reference to.

  “Hey!” Harris slurred. “We’ve been waiting for you guys to show up and join us.”

  “Yeah, well, drink up, buddy. We’ve got to get back to Horno.”

  McCurry stood up, seemingly resigned to going back. He had no desire to butt heads with Edwards.

  “Horno,” Harris scoffed. “It’s the Marine Corps’ birthday. Any devil dog worth his salt is supposed to be out getting drunk! Right? We’re supposed to…to…as ‘the people’s president’ Tang put it, ‘to honor our service’?” Harris looked Edwards in the eye, the edge starting to come back to Harris’s voice. “Hell, if we don’t, who will?”

  A loud beeping emitted from Mia’s and Jessica’s cell phones. They looked at each other in surprise, not knowing they were both FedAPS agents. They checked their phones.

  “There’s a problem, Jimmy. I’ve got to report to the north central substation immediately.” Mia spoke to Rivett, but looked at Jessica.

  “Me too,” Jessica replied. “Sorry, babe.” She looked at McCurry. “I can’t take you back to Camp Pendleton.”

  “None of you can go back.” Mia abruptly broke in. “Pendleton is now declared off-limits. No one goes in. No one goes out.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” McCurry asked Jessica.

  “I don’t know the details. Just got the message myself. All FedAPS agents off base are supposed to report to the north central substation ASAP.”

  “Sorry, Jimmy. Good luck getting back on base. You all may be better off, if they let you, waiting here until tomorrow.” Mia gave Rivett a kiss goodbye, and both agents left.

  Is she giving us good advice or setting us up? Edwards thought as he watched them leave. His mind began to spin with all the possibilities this night could hold. None of them looked good to him. He eyed Harris’s beer and found it tempting. “Can I get a Coke from you, please?” Edwards asked Mackenzie.

  “Me too, please, and please turn the TV to the news,” Rivett called after Mackenzie. “Maybe we can find out what’s going on.”

  “Good idea,” Edwards agreed and sat down next to Harris.

  “The goddamn media ain’t going to tell you what’s going on. Not unless it’s what they already want to tell you,” Harris barked.

  Mackenzie changed to a local news station. To her relief, they were reporting about the fire in Arizona and not replaying the Kruschinsky story.

  “Dang! That fire ain’t all that far from my home. I hope they get that under control,” Rivett worried out loud. No one responded, however; they all thought they had more immediate problems to deal with.

  Mackenzie brought over the two large Cokes. She dropped the second one, spilling soda all over the table, when an earsplitting screech emitted from everyone’s cell phone.

  “Fuck is that?” Harris complained, but made no move to look at his phone.

  “FedAPS alert?” Rivett questioned what he read on the screen of his phone, never having received one before.

  “Martial law?” McCurry asked, seemingly sober all of a sudden and a little nervous. “That can’t be a good thing.”

  “Anyone on the streets after 2400 hours will be arrested and detained,” Rivett read aloud.

  “We’ve got to lock up here and get home,” Sarah said. Out of habit, she began collecting empty glasses.

  “Forget those. We’ll get them when we reopen. Let’s get out of here,” Mackenzie said, staring at Edwards. Her earlier fears returned. This reminded her too much of the invasion years before.

  “You’ll come home with us?” She hoped Edwards would not leave her alone.

  “We’re going to need a place to stay,” Edwards said, glad she brought it up. “Look, now’s not the time to worry about cleaning up,” Edwards repeated to Sarah, since she was still attempting to clean off the tables. “Let’s get the place locked up and get out of here. We’ve got less than thirty minutes,” Edwards commanded. He looked at Harris and McCurry. “One hell of a time to go UA.”

  Raed inhaled deeply on his cigarette in anxious anticipation of death. Not his own, but the deaths of hundreds of Americans. He could think of no other reason for the late-night meeting with General Mythers. The supreme military and law enforcement commander of FedAPS had ordered Raed to alert his regiment to stand by, and to meet him outside the DSF regimental office to receive further orders.

  FedAPS’s Domestic Security Force, formerly the American Jihadist Regiment, specialized in the confiscation of civilian-owned weapons. His regiment was trained to act with a brazen disrespect for gun-owning citizens, with the expectation of instigating violence and allowing the DSF to use deadly force against those resisting federal authority.

  Aware that all units were being mobilized, Raed assumed FedAPS was now making its move to establish complete sovereignty over Southern California. His only question was whether his men would immediately take out local gun owners or the downtown rioters. He figured the protesters had to have served their purpose by now, and nothing more could be gained by letting them destroy the city.

  If the decision were left to me, Raed thought as he exhaled smoke into the the night, I’d take the protesters out first. It’s a greater opportunity to kill. To eliminate unproductive malcontents, establish fear, and thus secure a more submissive compliance by the population. Either way, it’s an opportunity to celebrate in the blood of infidels.

  “Good evening, Mufeed. I trust you and your men are ready for what the night holds,” Mythers greeted him.

  “Of course, General. I trust you didn’t come out here this late just to ask.” Emboldened by his adrenaline for what lay in store for the night, Raed allowed himself an extra degree of contempt for his superior officer.

  You arrogant bastard. Mythers forced a smile and glanced down at his own wristwatch. I’m going to enjoy watching you squirm in about five minutes. “No, Mufeed. I did not. It should go without saying that what we discuss tonight is classified. Other than issuing orders to your junior officers, you will not repeat anything we discuss. Am I understood?”

  “Of course, General.” Raed was taken aback slightly. He was not accustomed to Mythers speaking to him in such a commanding tone.

  “DSF’s first objective is to engage and destroy First Battalion, First Marines at Horno, as well as all other Marine Corps officers, NCOs, and families in base housing. You will accomplish this no later than 0600. After which your regiment will round up and dispatch all other Marine Corps personnel remaining in Camp Pendleton. There will be no quarter given. There are to be absolutely no survivors. Do you understand me, Colonel Raed?”

  Raed’s mission caught him completely by surprise. He stood dumbfounded. Beyond a doubt, he hated Marines the most of all Americans. But he also feared them the most. He preferred to kill protesters or civilians instead. Before he could muster a reply, he saw the headlights of a car pulling into the parking lot and stop a short distance from where they stood in front of the DSF office.

  “Excellent. I see Lieutenant Colonel McGregor, true to his reputation, is ahead of schedule.” Mythers’s smile broadened.

  What’s this? A trick? A joke? Some kind of test? Raed threw down his cigarette and nervously rubbed his hands on his trousers.

  “Keep the engine running,” McGregor ordered his driver and then exited the car. “I don’t want to spend any more time with these assholes than necessary,” he mumbled to himself as he walked across the lawn. Although he’d spent very little time with Raed or Mythers, McGregor felt an immense amount of hatred for each man at that moment.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” McGregor saluted.

&
nbsp; “Good evening, Bill,” Mythers greeted him as he watched his bodyguards approach McGregor’s driver.

  One of the guards stopped just short of the driver’s side window, pulled out his pistol, and shot the Marine in the driver seat. McGregor instantly spun around towards the sound of gunfire. Mythers, with rehearsed precision, pulled his pistol from under his combat blouse and shot Lieutenant Colonel McGregor in the back of the head.

  “There, Mufeed, I’ve given you a head start.” Mythers smiled, although he wanted to laugh seeing the fear on Raed’s face. “Finish the rest of 1/1 off by 0600 hours, or I’ll have your head.”

  “Yes, sir,” Raed reverently responded, with a salute and newfound respect for Mythers.

  “I envy you, brother,” Osmanović lied to Rahman. “I wish I were going into Horno with you.” Osmanović preferred his assignment to terminate the families in base housing. Imagining the terror he would inflict upon scores of women and children left him feeling more enthusiastic than usual.

  Morale in the Domestic Security Force was high. For tonight they would lord justice over the United States Marine Corps and fulfill one of the major objectives the American Jihadist Regiment was founded on.

  All thought Allah was with them this night. Colonel Raed assured them they had the complete support of General Mythers and President Tang. The Marines were outnumbered and disarmed. A single battalion concentrated in four barracks. With all communications cut, they were isolated from the world. Before sunrise, they would be destroyed.

  While a small detachment commanded by Huso Osmanović would sweep through base housing to kill Marine officers, NCOs, and their families. The rest of DSF was divided into four assault teams. Teams A and B would move in on the 1/1 barracks from a south and easterly direction. Using tactics learned in their weapon-confiscation training, individual fire teams would go from one room to the next, killing every Marine inside. Any Marines escaping the sweep would be caught and dispatched by teams C and D positioned to the north and west of the barracks for that purpose.

  “Yes.” Rahman smiled. “We’ll get to see how tough these Marines really are when they don’t have all their missiles, jets, and rifles to fight with. Tonight, Allah will throw fear into the hearts of those who disbelieve.” Both men laughed.

  “It will be a bloody slaughter,” Osmanović gloated. “It will be everything we’ve dreamed of for years.”

  “It will be glorious.” Rahman slapped Osmanović on the back. “See you when this is over, my brother.”

  “Over?” Huso grinned. “This is only the beginning.”

  “What time you got?” Morgan asked more out of boredom than a desire to know the time.

  Rodriguez glanced at his watch and answered, “A little before three.”

  “Four more hours! Damn, I’m craving a smoke right now.”

  “Don’t do it,” Rodriguez warned. “Out here in the dark, we’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “Yeah, I know. The whole goddamn barracks is lit up like a Chinese whorehouse, but don’t fucking smoke! Somebody might know we’re here at Horno.”

  “It’s a listening post, dumb ass.” Tiring of Morgan’s complaining, Rodriguez’s temper slipped. “We’re the ones supposed to be concealed, not the barracks.”

  “I thought this bullshit was done when we got back to the States.” Morgan continued complaining, too prideful to let Rodriquez stop him.

  “If I find Harris sacked out when we get off duty, I’ll shoot that bastard myself,” Rodriguez vented.

  “Sacked out? Hell, I bet they’re all out getting drunk.”

  “Bars are closed. For an hour, at least. He should be getting back anytime.”

  “Unless they’re sleeping it off in town over at what’s-her-name’s apartment. Or,” Morgan added, “they’re over at the FedAPS barracks, partying with the female agents.”

  “You don’t think they’d come get us if that were the case?” Rodriguez laughed.

  “Hell, we should have gone with them. Then West couldn’t have thrown us on this fire watch bullshit for the whole–”

  “What the fuck?” Rodriguez interrupted when all the street and building lights suddenly shut off.

  “Barracks going tactical now, too?” Morgan cracked, but he was not attempting humor. He wedged his rifle butt tighter into his shoulder. “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t like it either,” Rodriguez agreed. “I’m going to get West on the radio.”

  Raed smiled in complete darkness. All of Horno’s lights were shut off at 0300, as planned. His convoy pulled into a parking lot about three hundred yards south of the 1/1 barracks. The DSF teams unloaded their gear from the trucks into an abandoned barracks from where they would launch their assault on the Marines.

  His men were louder than what he would have preferred.

  Are they overconfident? Raed wondered. He wanted to instill confidence in them by telling them this would be an easy mission. In fact, he had every reason to believe it would be. This was to be a surprise attack against unarmed Marines. This time the infidels were cut off and isolated, in their own country. There would be no reinforcements nor high-tech weapons of the American war machine to save them. There was no place for the Marines to run. There was no place to hide. They could only die at the hands of the American Jihadist Regiment.

  Yet Raed could not shake a growing sense of dread welling up in him. On the ride over, his mind had drifted to an occasion when, as a young jihadist, his outfit had attempted to destroy a platoon of US Marines by luring them into a minefield. Then the jihadists rained mortar fire on the trapped Marines. Any survivors were to be shot. To their shock, all the Marines survived. The mortars, the mines, killed no one except other jihadists. Then the Marines had ordered an air strike on their position, killing even more of them. That was supposed to have been an easy mission. Where was Allah then? Would he be with them now, like Raed promised?

  “Yosuf,” Raed quietly called to his second-in-command.

  “Sir?”

  “Quietly tell the men not to make so much noise. And tell the team leaders I want to meet with them one more time before we launch the assault.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yosuf acknowledged, and did as he was told.

  The Marines are outnumbered and unarmed. What could they possibly do? Raed told himself to allay his worries. Still, he could not shake the bad feeling.

  “Why does shit like this always happen in the middle of the fucking night?” Staff Sergeant West grumbled when Lance Corporal Aaron, the assistant duty NCO, woke him up to inform him of their loss of electrical power. Guided by Aaron’s flashlight, West made his way to the phone. No signal.

  “Goddamn hard line is out also. Didn’t storm, did it?” West asked, not really believing something like this could have happened, but trying to find a reason.

  “No, Staff Sergeant,” Aaron bluntly replied.

  “Other than Rodriguez,” West exhaled, attempting to calm himself, “anybody else radio in?”

  “No, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Radio check the other LPs. I’ll go out and check up on them. Don’t tell them I’m coming,” West ordered as he headed out of the office, letting his irritation get to him. “I want to see what the hell everyone is up to. If Edwards and Rivett make it back with Harris and McCurry while I’m out, you tell them to wait here. I want to talk to their sorry asses,” West threw in as an afterthought.

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Aaron robotically replied as West headed out of the duty hut.

  Lieutenant Rahman peeked from behind a dumpster. They were less than one hundred yards from the southeast barracks. He gave a hand signal ordering his men to stop and take cover. They spread out and took positions among the cluster of small shuttered buildings. It was the last point of cover between them and the barracks they were assigned to attack.

  “Team A Leader to Command. Team A is in position. Over,” Rahman radioed back to Raed’s mission headquarters, proud to be the first team leader in position.
/>
  “Roger, Team A. Wait for order to attack. Over.”

  “Roger.” Rahman looked around. “Only a few more minutes. Nothing can save the Marines now,” he assured his men.

  “Foxtrot One, this is Three. Over.” Russo’s voice came through Rodriguez’s earpiece.

  “Go, Three,” Rodriguez answered.

  “You or Morgan seeing bodies to the south?”

  “No, man, we’ve got nothing between us and the old admin buildings,” Rodriquez answered as he flipped his scope to thermal and began looking south. “Whoa, scratch that, Three. Affirmative, I see bodies. Down around the old admin buildings.”

  “You know what’s going on?” Russo queried.

  “Negative, Three.” Rodriguez whispered to Morgan, “Check this shit out.”

  “Already zeroed in on one. Is that FedAPS? What the hell are they doing? Night drills?” Morgan responded, unusually perplexed.

  “Foxtrot One, this is Two. I see the same. Over.”

  “This is Three. I got a visual on a column west of the old admin buildings. Moving north towards Bravo’s barracks. It’s a complete gagglefuck,” Russo continued. “It’s got to be FedAPS trying to play warrior.”

  Morgan began scanning to the west to see if he could spot them.

  “This is Two. I got a visual on seven bodies down at the old admin buildings,” Meade confirmed.

  “Three, this is Four. We are negative on that visual. We will keep looking.”

  “Echo-Six Whiskey, this is Foxtrot One. Are you getting this?”

  “This is Echo-Two Alpha. Whiskey is not here at the moment,” Aaron answered with his usual curtness.

  “What do you need, Rodriquez?” Hearing the distress, West tried to announce his arrival in a reassuring manner.

  “All posts except Boucher and Voigt on Four are seeing bodies moving around the old admin buildings.”

  “The goddamn power! That explains it. Probably FedAPS playing ninja games,” West rationalized. “Tell everyone not to sweat it. I’ll head back to the duty hut and radio FedAPS and straighten this shit out.”

  “You’re supposed to be farther west.” DSF Lieutenant Sharif, leader of Team B, struggled to keep his composure.