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

by T. S. Ransdell

  “Whoa, whoa! What are you talking about?” One of the surprised guards rested his right hand on his pistol. Irving noticed the frightened look in the guard’s eyes, and, fearing for his own life, considered drawing on him, until he was blinded by the other guard’s flashlight.

  “Easy, Townsend, he looks legit. Keep your hands where we can see them,” Sergeant Estrada ordered. “Now, say again.”

  Irving repeated himself, hoping he’d made the right decision in complying.

  “You been drinking?” Townsend demanded.

  “No.” Irving was losing patience. “Listen, quit fucking around and call command ASAP.”

  “Easy, Marine.” Estrada enjoyed the assertion of control. “This is my post. I give the orders here.”

  “Then fucking give ’em, Sergeant. We’ve got Marines dying, and somewhere you got rogue DSF agents running around. I’ve seen FedAPS dead at Area 52, as well.”

  “Keep your hands up,” Townsend ordered and patted Irving down, retrieving the knife, gun, and radio. “How do we know you didn’t kill them?”

  “Don’t be a jackass.” Irving glared. “Call 1/1 on my radio to confirm it.”

  “Ha, that won’t prove nothing,” Estrada grumbled. “FedAPS Command, this is Sergeant Estrada at the San Onofre Gate. We’ve got reports of shots fired and dead Marines at Area 52 and Camp Horno.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Irving spoke softly with gratitude that someone was finally doing something. Estrada condescendingly nodded, as if he had bestowed a magnificent favor.

  “Yes, sir. That is affirmative.” Estrada straightened himself and spoke in a formal tone. “Yes, sir. Over and out.

  “All right, Marine. You’d better not be bullshitting us. General Hooker wants to speak to you personally.” Estrada was perplexed and angered that Irving only stared at him with a look of bewilderment. “Do you know who General Hooker is, Marine?”

  “I have no fucking idea.” Irving barely kept the lid on his temper.

  “He’s the FedAPS commander of this base.” Estrada raised his own voice in an attempt to maintain dominance. “He’s agreed to hear your story.”

  “Marvelous,” Irving muttered in frustration.

  “Yes, sir. He says he’s Lance Corporal Jordan J. Irving, First Battalion, First Marines. He checks out. I’ve got the guards holding him. I told them not to say a word until I can speak to him, and that I’d send someone to pick him up.” Hooker fidgeted with the US Air Force mini-sword letter opener his wife had given him on his last birthday (when he still served in that branch) as he spoke to Mythers on the telephone.

  “Good work, Ken. I’ll have my bodyguard pick them up. Listen, don’t worry about this. You’ve done an amazing job so far. We’ve had no other reports. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, this is not happening.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Hooker was relieved by Mythers’s understanding.

  “Listen,” Mythers continued, “you can stay home, but expect a Colonel Stewart to stop by soon. He’s a new assistant of mine. I’ll have him stop by your place to give you a debriefing. All right?”

  “Yes, sir. Not a problem. I’ll have a hot pot of coffee waiting for him.” Hooker hoped his generosity would gain him gratitude from his commanding officer.

  “Thanks, Ken.” Mythers chuckled. “I’m sure he will appreciate that. As you can imagine, we’re all having a long night here.”

  “Not a problem, sir.” Hooker smiled, feeling the gesture was a success.

  “You have a good night. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. We’ll work our story out. And tell Clara I said hello. You’ll have to invite me over again for dinner, Ken. You married an excellent cook,” Mythers said with a tone of affection and goodwill.

  “You’re welcome here anytime, sir. You have a good night.”

  “You too. Talk to you tomorrow.” Mythers hung up the phone. He rubbed his temples as he leaned his elbows on his desk. “What a day this is turning into.” Mythers looked over at Colonel Gavin Stewart, the commander of Mythers’s newly formed bodyguard, sitting on the other side of his desk.

  “Yes, sir,” was all he said. Stewart was a firm believer that the less said, the better.

  “Send trusted people to pick up this Marine–who is it? Irving?–and the FedAPS guards at the gate. Then”–Mythers looked Stewart directly in the eye to convey his seriousness–“I want you, personally, to go to Hooker’s house. Kill everyone there. In fact, check his phone calls, and kill anyone else he’s talked to tonight, if there is anyone. Then I want you, personally, to handle the Marine, Irving, and the FedAPS guards. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I will personally see to it that you have a clean house,” Stewart said with confidence.

  “Now this problem with 1/1.” Mythers sighed. “Gavin, you were a Marine once, how come they never die when they’re supposed to?”

  Despite his own hatred for the Corps he’d served in, Stewart’s body tensed with disgust for the way a man like Mythers said the word Marine. Even after his dishonorable discharge, Stewart still thought of himself as something of a warrior. He didn’t shy away from getting his hands dirty doing what had to be done. Stewart looked down on political types, like Mythers, who needed men like himself to acquire their power.

  “The thing you need to understand about Marines, sir, is that they are more concerned with living like Marines than with staying alive. With all due respect, sir, your mistake was to presume Marines would just fold if attacked in the middle of the night by a terrorist militia with twelve weeks of federal training. They’re going to fight back with everything they’ve got.

  “The way to kill them, sir, is like what you did to 2/1 and 3/1. Drones strikes in the middle of the Pacific eliminates the chance for survivors. Quick, precise, and efficient. No chance of resistance.”

  Mythers straightened up in response to Stewart’s blunt language. A big smile broke across his face. Far from angry, he was inspired. “Goddamn, Gavin,” Mythers said, “I knew I picked you for a good reason. Listen, add Major General Mark Canegallo on your list of housekeeping chores, but make that last on your list. And you confirm with me before you do it? Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. You’ve got your orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As soon as Stewart left the office, Mythers got Canegallo on the phone.

  “Mark, listen, I want to personally congratulate you for a job well done. The speed and precision with which you destroyed our mutinous troop transports in the Pacific speaks to your professionalism and courage.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Canegallo replied, relieved the call wasn’t bad news.

  “No, thank YOU. You have my personal assurance that I will personally speak to the president about your contribution in taking care of this crisis. And I am very confident that he will feel as I do, that you deserve that third star.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m honored to have been of service.”

  “Now, I’ve got another mission for you,” Mythers continued. “Whatever RX-25s, or any other high-explosive drones you’ve got, aim those at Horno, in Camp Pendleton. For that matter, take out all of northwest Camp Pendleton. Just don’t hit San Clemente.” Mythers chuckled.

  “Sir, Camp Pendleton?” Canegallo knew he’d heard correctly but wasn’t comfortable about it.

  “Mark”–Mythers shifted his voice back to a serious tone–“it appears this mutiny is bigger than we first thought. Listen, I’ll give you more details at the appropriate time, just know for now this is a matter of national security. The president’s life may even be at stake.”

  “Yes, sir,” Canegallo answered with a sincere sense of urgency. “We’ve got enough high-explosive warheads at Vandenberg Air Base to take care of all of Camp Pendleton.”

  “Outstanding, Mark. I told the president we could count on you. Listen, saturate Horno, Area 52, and the whole northwest corner of the base.”

  “Sergeant Estrada, you and your men foll
ow me,” Lieutenant Mace ordered. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he led them into FedAPS Headquarters, Camp Pendleton. Irving chafed at being referred to as one of Estrada’s men, but kept his mouth shut.

  The number of personnel in the building at that time of the morning impressed Irving. He hoped it was a sign that they were aware of the situation at Horno and were already in the process of doing something about it.

  Irving, Estrada, and Townsend followed Mace down a long hallway. It did not escape Irving’s attention that six armed FedAPS agents followed them. When they reached the end of the hall, they turned right and continued to the end of another long hallway, where a FedAPS colonel stood waiting.

  “Sir, Lance Corporal Irving, United States Marine Corps; Sergeant Estrada and Agent Townsend, FedAPS,” was all Mace said to the colonel.

  “Right through here, men,” the colonel addressed the detainees.

  “Yes, sir,” Estrada acknowledged and walked through the open door. Irving, Townsend, and several armed FedAPS agents followed. They walked into the middle of an empty room that was well lit and lined with plastic sheeting. For a brief moment, they all looked around for whatever chair or desk they were supposed to sit at.

  “Son of a bitch!” Irving shouted with regret for complying with FedAPS. At that point, it was all he could do.

  “You see the shit I’m seeing?” Boucher whispered to Voigt.

  “I see it,” Voigt confirmed.

  “I knew those shifty bastards would try to flank us. Fucking pikers, though, compared to the ChiComs,” Boucher continued. “I’ve got the lead fucker, he’s mine. You take whoever the fuck else you want,” Boucher ordered, although he was junior to Voigt.

  “You take the lead. I’ll go for the rear. We’ll work our way towards the center,” Voigt offered. He figured Boucher would comply only if he wanted to. Nor did he really care, as long as Boucher killed like a demon.

  “Yeah,” Boucher mumbled in a low voice and flipped the safety to fire. He let out half a breath and squeezed the trigger.

  “Sir, Team B is in position. We’ve got a clear field of fire. No Marines in sight.” Sergeant Khalil spoke quietly into his microphone.

  “Excellent,” Osmanović replied. “Expect my command to fire within the next two minutes. Do you copy?”

  “Yes, sir. Roger that.” Khalil’s eyes looked from left to right, trying to pick out anything that looked out of place. His ears searched for any noise, outside of his own team, that could indicate misfortune. Everything seemed good. He glanced down to his right and noticed a jihadist nervously readjusting his rifle.

  “Relax, Sattar. Allah is with us. Soon we’ll get the order to fire, and we will own this night,” were the last words out of Khalil’s mouth. No sooner said, a bullet from Boucher’s rifle tore through his skull.

  “Dammit, Huso,” Nasar cursed under his breath when he heard shots to the north. Did he just not give the order, or was he attacked? Is this another trap? Nasar froze, hoping for an answer that did not come.

  “Team B Leader, this is Team C Leader. Do you read me? Over.” There was no response. His own men began to move forward to open fire on the Marine barracks, and in the process, drew enemy fire.

  Nasar fought the cold panic spreading through his limbs. Through his night vision googles, he scanned the barracks compound to the north, hoping to get a visual on Osmanović’s team. He could see nothing but the glare of tracer rounds. His mind vacillated between aborting the mission and advancing on the compound. Without orders, nor a clear resolution, Nasar did nothing.

  At the sound of the first shot, Osmanović thought one of his men had made a costly mistake. He almost radioed Khalil to inquire, but as more shots rang out, he realized his team had been ambushed.

  Is it a trap after all? His brain could just not come to terms with that idea.

  “Hold your fire, men,” Osmanović ordered. At the sound of Nasar’s voice over his earpiece, he shut off his radio. He didn’t want the distraction while his mind scrambled for his next move.

  If this is a trap, I need to get out of here immediately, Huso thought. But if it’s not, we can’t lose the element of surprise. He remembered the moments when his victims were frozen with an inability to respond. Even when they had to have known their lives were at stake, their brains could not formulate a response fast enough to save them.

  “All teams advance! All teams advance!” Osmanović ordered into his mic. Then, remembering he’d turned his radio off, he turned it on and repeated the order. Now, Huso told himself, we exploit the element of surprise.

  “What?” Hassan involuntarily shouted when he heard Osmanović’s orders over the radio. He fought to regain his mental composure. “Team D Leader to Team B Leader, what are your orders?”

  “Attack! All teams attack.” Osmanović confirmed Hassan’s fear.

  His euphoric illusion of leadership all but vanished, replaced with doubt and fear. It’s suicide; we’ll all die. Can the will of Allah be wrong? Hassan asked himself. Cold and half numb, he stood straight amid all the gunfire. Then, ignoring every instinct he had for survival, Hassan yelled, “Advance!”

  In the darkest night, Osmanović watched his plan of attack disintegrate before him. Only too late did he see the failure of their training. They had prepared to attack isolated individuals and families. People caught by surprise and unprepared to resist. They were told most Americans were liars and braggarts. Marines, he’d been taught, were the biggest offenders, living off a fictional reputation for greatness.

  Then how could they do this? Why would Allah allow it? Huso’s mind raced for an answer. Were we wrong? Have we been too friendly? Yes! We’ve been corrupted by our compliance with the infidels. No more, Osmanović decided. He cut to his right and began to run uphill, away from the rest of DSF.

  The path to peace, Osmanović concluded, can only be through destroying the infidel, not working with him.

  Boucher aimed for the back of the head, squeezed the trigger, and watched the body drop. Far from feeling mercy or remorse, it warmed his heart to see enemies die by his own hand. It warmed him even more to know he and Voigt had turned their enemies’ flank, broken their morale, and now had them in a rout. But not wanting to give any an opportunity to return and attack again, they followed, gunning them down as they ran away.

  “You chickenshit son of a bitch,” Boucher mumbled. Through his night scope, he saw a figure break from the group. The only thing he hated more than his enemy was a coward. He fired three rounds at the fleeing figure.

  “Stupid fucker,” Boucher cursed at himself for not leading his target enough and losing him in the trees. Confident with his familiarity with the hills around Horno, he ran after the fleeing coward.

  You’re not going to survive this one, you yellow bastard! Boucher thought, running uphill after Osmanović.

  “Damn,” Carver muttered in frustration after another failed attempt to reach FedAPS command on the radio. After Irving had radioed in that he made contact with the gate guard, he expected someone to reach out to him. The complete lack of communication troubled him.

  “West, West, this is Carver. How are you doing? Over.” Carver forced himself to focus on the immediate problem.

  “Good. We can kill like this all day. The only question is if we’ll have enough ammo. Over.”

  “Hold out, West. It’ll be daylight in less than thirty minutes. Help is on the way. Over and out.” Carver only wished he believed it himself.

  Nasar took cover behind a fallen tree. His team, repelled, was falling back and seeking cover.

  “Osmanović,” he shouted into his radio mic, too frightened and fatigued to remember call signs. “This isn’t working. Do you copy? Over.” He got no response.

  Is he dead? Does that put me in command? “Take cover! Take cover!” he yelled at his men. Nasar spun around in a panic at the sound of gunfire to his immediate left.

  Desperate cries of “Don’t shoot!” emanated from the dark woods. Nasar reco
gnized the DSF uniforms.

  “Cease fire! Team C, cease fire!” he ordered. “What’s happening?” Nasar grabbed one of the agents who had emerged from the woods. “Ahmed?” He was shocked to find the younger Osmanović. “Where’s Huso?”

  “I think he’s dead. Who knows? They’re behind us, Mohid. Marines! They’re coming after us!” Ahmed broke loose of Nasar’s grip. “It’s a trap! Run!” Ahmed screamed.

  Nasar helplessly watched several of his men jump up and run into the darkness.

  “Retreat,” Nasar ordered more for his own sake. He wanted to feel like he still had some control over the situation. “Fall back to the old barracks!” Then Nasar ran south with all the energy he had, believing his life depended on it.

  “Forward!” Hassan yelled as he stood up again to charge towards the Marine barracks. Despite the darkness, he could see his dead comrades all around. The hundred meters of open space between the old admin buildings and the Marine barracks had become a killing ground. He knew it was bad, but he was determined to carry on this time. Allah will grant victory to the faithful, he told himself as he prepared his body to hit the ground and roll. Then he jumped up and ran forward again. But just at that moment, he felt a bullet tear into his neck. It scared him more than it hurt. He’d lost all feeling from the neck down before he even hit the ground. Facedown, he tried to scream, but there was no sound. He felt the soil under his cheeks become warm and wet from his blood. His face began to tingle, and his brain became foggy. And then even that sensation faded away.

  “Bastards are on the run!” Rodriguez yelled, high on adrenaline. “Goddamned if we didn’t do it one more time!”

  “Fuck yeah, we did!” Morgan smiled big at his friend and slapped him on the back. They watched the jihadists fall back behind the shuttered admin buildings, with no indication they were coming back. It was a rout. He fished out his cigarettes and offered one to Rodriguez. “No fucking thanks to FedAPS.”

  “Thanks, brother,” Rodriguez said with a laugh. With a hand shaking from adrenaline, Rod took the cigarette. He looked away from the killing field and up at the sky, to relax his mind. The light of a new day was just starting.