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

  Denying the United States, a clear victory in the Sino-American War, and the election of Tang convinced Black First leaders it was time to escalate the revolution and finally destroy the constitutional Republic of the United States. They believed the San Diego protest, just as the bread riots started the February Revolution in 1917, would now be a catalyst for that final evolution. The moment was right, and the people were ready.

  Knowing events like this were excellent opportunities for serious-minded revolutionaries to network within the movement, Khari Z was among the first of the radicals at Balboa Park, or “Peace Village,” as the media described it. In reality, the “village” was an unhygienic collection of tents and campsites where the protesters consumed large quantities of drugs and had sex. While Khari Z did enjoy himself, after three days he was anxious to hurt someone or, at least, destroy something. For Khari Z, that was where his passion lay in the movement. To him, destruction was the true joy of being a leftist.

  When he saw a post on social media that a group of US Marines needed to be made an example of, he was ready to oblige. Although Cuppell’s orders prohibited a response, Khari Z thought his reputation would benefit if he were known for taking down US Marines. He fantasized that his actions might even inspire others to greater levels of violence on the day of the protest. Another incentive to defy Cuppell was Bella’s promiscuous reputation among the Black First leadership.

  Khari Z had a dozen of his boys with him and was counting on meeting up with a half dozen more as they walked towards Lulu’s. While the number seemed excessive, even to him, Khari Z was looking for victims, not a fight. A numerical advantage would only guarantee his success.

  On his way to Lulu’s, not far from the entrance of Billy Bones, he saw four white Marines standing on the street corner, smoking cigarettes.

  Hell yeah! Khari Z thought, presuming to have found his intended victims outside. Easier to escape after we pound their asses! He looked around and saw more of his comrades coming. Oh, this is going to be fun, Khari Z thought and licked his lips in anticipation.

  “Fucking bitch-ass Marines!” he shouted with a deep intimidating voice. A young couple jumped from fright at the sound of it. This nearly made him laugh. He enjoyed creating fear, and now he saw it in the faces of everyone around him except the Marines.

  Doesn’t matter, Khari Z told himself. I’ve got a three-to-one advantage. How can I lose?

  “Four of us. Twelve of you. You’d better get more friends. Make this a fair fight.” Huso smiled at the sight of wide-eyed infidels quickly scattering away from between the two groups. With a calm urgency, he typed “HHH” into his phone and hit send, to signal FedAPS for backup. He thought the anarchists might be armed, but he knew he and his men were armed. He slipped brass knuckles onto his left hand and flicked open a knife in his right.

  “You boys”–Meho loudly emphasized the word boys, just as they had trained–“are going to learn to mind your place when US Marines are around,” Meho raged at the oncoming anarchists.

  Huso heard onlookers gasp. Fucking brilliant! he thought, proud of his little brother’s delivery.

  “Allah has blessed us, brothers. Don’t lose faith now,” Huso whispered encouragement.

  Khari Z saw the man he determined was their “leader” slip on brass knuckles and flick open a folding knife. He involuntarily slowed down his pace. Reality suddenly hit him like a brick in the stomach.

  These ain’t candy-ass, white college kids, Khari Z thought. With his anticipation turned to hesitation, he looked to his left and right to make sure his guys were still in line with him.

  Huso delighted in seeing the man he presumed to be the black anarchist leader look to his right and left.

  He’s scared, Huso thought. We’re outnumbered, but backup is five minutes away.

  Never having been in any real form of combat, five minutes seemed an incredibly short amount of time to Huso. He believed that even if they were on the losing end of the fight, help would arrive in time.

  Huso and his men advanced toward the leftist radicals. Wanting to project confidence and strength, Khari Z stood straight and broad. Yet the tall white man, with short-cropped black hair, didn’t miss a beat. He advanced like he wanted to fight. Used to victims, not fighters, Khari Z froze.

  Huso loved the fear in Khari Z’s eyes. He moved to cut the man’s throat, but was rushed by another radical. A former high school wrestler, Huso instinctively went low. He dropped to one knee, secured his assailant’s right leg in his left arm, and then drove his knife into the radical’s rectum. The wounded leftist terrified all who heard him scream except Huso. His legs thrust upward as he pulled the knife across the thug’s scrotum, twisted, and sliced into his lower abdomen. The radical lay in a puddle of his own blood and intestines. Khari Z stared in horror.

  I’m a dead man. Khari Z accepted his death as the black-haired Marine came at him with the knife. His mind commanded him to run, but his body refused. Another radical rushed the black-haired Marine, but he too ended up on the ground with his belly sliced open.

  Unlike the college protests and the urban riots he had participated in, this was the first time Khari Z encountered consequences for his violence. Instinctively, he sought safety in the center of his pack as Black First radicals rushed the Marines. Khari Z intended to wait for the right time to join the fight, but the moment never happened.

  For the first time in years, Khari Z was grateful to see police lights flashing. Uniformed police officers charged out of their cars. The Marines threw up their hands to comply with the officers. The fear of death gone, Khari Z found the will to run.

  “Fucking move!” he screamed at people with their phones out recording the fight. They scattered in wide-eyed panic. Khari pumped his legs with all the adrenaline his fear had built up. The release felt good.

  He had no sense of how long he’d been running when he finally stopped to catch his breath. He laughed as he gasped for air.

  Motherfuckers won’t catch me. Khari Z cheered his escape. His celebration was short-lived, however. Bent over hands on knees to catch his breath, he realized he had wet himself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “You that fucking stupid?” Cuppell chastised Khari Z in front of several other Black First captains. He had reservations about taking this approach with Khari Z, but, for the moment, he was too angry to stop his outburst. All Black First leaders knew there was to be no violence leading up to the November 10 demonstration. Cuppell had ambitions to leadership, not just within Black First, but the movement as a whole. He feared Khari Z’s action made him look like he had no control over his people.

  “You that fucking weak?” Khari Z aggressively shot back. He felt a lot more brazen now that he had dry pants on. He, also, had ambitions within the movement and fancied himself as something of a maverick leader. Even though the night did not go his way, Khari Z was ready to spin it to his advantage. He wasn’t about to admit to a mistake.

  “I ain’t the one who got my ass kicked and lost eight men we need on Thursday!” Cuppell widened his eyes, flared his nostrils, and stepped up close to Khari Z with a threatening pose. He had no intention of actually fighting the man. He was counting on the others to step in before it came to blows.

  “We didn’t get our asses kicked, motherfucker! They fucking jumped us. What are we supposed to do? Run off like a bunch of bitches?” Khari Z called Cuppell’s bluff and stepped in closer. He too counted on the others breaking them apart if it came to blows.

  “Jumped you?! You go down into Pacific Beach stirring shit up and getting us in the motherfucking news!”

  “And who’s the motherfucking news going to side with?” Khari Z countered. “A bunch of white-ass US Marines or Black First? Huh?!”

  Cuppell knew Khari Z had a point; the media would never side with the Marines. His mind raced as to how he could make himself look wise and in control while he backed out of this confrontation. The last thing he needed now was to look timid, nor appear
to be a puppet of WAR.

  “Brother.” Cuppell consciously softened his tone. He held out his hand to Khari Z, who, relieved, reciprocated and then gave him a hug.

  “Comrade, I understand your anger.” Cuppell stepped back and looked around at the crowd. “I feel your pain. I feel your outrage, but we’ve got to stay cool. We’ve got to stay disciplined. We’ve got to stay together. On November 10, San Diego and the whole goddamn United States will feel our outrage. We’ve got to work this together. Individuals are nothing. The movement, the revolution, is everything.”

  Cuppell sensed a positive vibe from the crowd and thought he’d struck a successful chord. He went back and embraced Khari Z, who was more than happy to look like he was in tight with the leadership.

  You’re fucking finished, Cuppell thought. He promised himself to deal with Khari Z later. First they had to get past November 10.

  Huso Osmanović found it hard to believe his brothers fell asleep on the ride back to Camp Pendleton. He denied the temptation to wake them up. Instead, he focused on what to say to Colonel Raed.

  Pulling into their base, he saw Colonel Raed was standing out in front of their barracks at Los Flores, in Camp Pendleton.

  “Hey! Wake the fuck up.” Huso reached back from the front seat and smacked Ahmed in the chest. He sat up with a start and nudged Meho next to him. The FedAPS patrol car came to a stop, and Osmanović and his team got out. Huso thanked the driver and wished him a good night. Then he turned to face the colonel.

  “Good morning, Colonel Raed.” Huso smiled and put on his most confident face.

  The colonel stood silent for a moment. “You deviated from the plan. Tell me why and what happened tonight.”

  Huso was relieved to see a calm demeanor in his commanding officer. “Sir, an opportunity presented itself, and I took full advantage of it. I think this could be a best-case scenario.”

  Raed stood with his arms crossed, displaying no emotion. Osmanović pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Colonel Raed, who accepted. He lit the colonel’s cigarette then his own to buy a few more seconds before he pitched his scheme to Raed.

  “Several Black First protesters, thinking we were Marines, tried to attack us. I saw no way to avoid the fight. That was when I sent the alarm signal. However, I immediately saw the advantage for us. Witnesses and media will say racist Marines provoked a fight with the ‘people’ of the city.”

  “So tell me,” Raed interrupted, “how eight members of Black First in the hospital, loads of witnesses on the street, and who knows what video is out there, works to our advantage?”

  “Sir, we use the media to pin this and the past acts of violence on the Marines involved in the earlier assault tonight. Surely, sir, we could not have picked better victims than Black First radicals.”

  Raed liked the idea. In fact, his first impression was that it was genius, but he wasn’t ready to convey that.

  “And, sir, I still have the murder weapon.” Osmanović pulled a folding knife from his pocket and held it up for Raed to see.

  “And all the witnesses, those who have recorded the fight?” Raed pondered.

  “What of them, sir?” Osmanović smiled. “You told us, sir, that the media creates perception in this country, and the media is on our side.”

  Raed smiled for the first time in the conversation. He was glad to have this young man in his unit, but hesitant to give him too much credit. He didn’t want Osmanović to become arrogant, nor a threat to his own command. He held out his hand for the knife, and Osmanović gave it to him.

  “You’ve learned well, Lieutenant.” Raed paid the self-serving compliment. “Perhaps Allah has given us an opportunity here. Until I tell you otherwise, I want you and your team to stay here at Los Flores. Do not leave this area. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Osmanović didn’t relish being confined to Los Flores. However, he was satisfied to have sold Raed on his plan.

  “That will be all, Lieutenant.” Raed dismissed Osmanović. He wanted to call Mythers as soon as possible to pitch Osmanović’s plan. Of course, Raed intended to take the credit for himself.

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  Raed just nodded, and Osmanović headed towards his quarters.

  That old fat bastard is going to take credit for my idea. Huso chuckled through gritted teeth. That’s all right. Keep sight of the bigger picture. Soon chaos will reign, and his authority will not matter.

  “No, no, no.” Gloria Brenner shook her head. “We’re going live in fifteen minutes. I’m not taking phone calls.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Brenner, but General Johns specifically asked to talk to you before the broadcast.” The young assistant nervously handed over the cell phone.

  Brenner rolled her eyes. It’d better be worth it, Brenner thought. Going live or not, she knew it was unwise to reject the call. General Johns had shown herself to be a very valuable source up to this point.

  “General Johns, this is Gloria Brenner. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “One moment, Ms. Brenner. I will inform General Johns you are on the line,” a receptionist responded.

  Goddamn generals have absolutely no concept of the planning that goes into a production, Gloria thought as she took a deep breath and checked her anger. She didn’t want to sound angry, nor insubordinate, to the new FedAPS deputy to the Office of Balanced Media.

  “Good morning, Gloria.”

  “Good morning, General. How can I be of service?”

  “I’d like to share some very recent developments I think will reinforce the talking points we discussed for today’s show.”

  “General, I appreciate your help, but we’re going live in–”

  “Understand me, Gloria, you will want to use these in today’s news show.”

  Harris looked both ways before he crossed the street. A sharp gust of cold wind made the street wider and the crossing more miserable than Harris anticipated. There was no traffic, yet he felt anxious about crossing. The sparsely lit road was flanked by wooden buildings covered in peeling white paint. Without knowing where he was, Harris had a sense of where he was going.

  “So, I was saying, it’s impossible! Only a fool would try. Why take it seriously? Nothing you can do anyway…” A short ugly man, with a dirty face, spoke. Only now did Harris notice the man, though he realized he’d been talking to him for some time. Despite his freakishly short legs, the man kept pace with him. Harris tried to ignore the short man, but could not. Instead, he increasingly grew more anxious.

  At the corner of the sidewalk, Harris saw a man grilling a lobster tail over a small tin-can stove.

  This is too weird. Has to be a dream, Harris told himself, but the reassurance did little to put him at ease.

  He came upon a short structure with a large sliding door. Although the door took up nearly the entire wall, few inside seemed to notice when Harris opened it. Unlike the desolate streets, it was a warm and lively scene. People congregated at a bar, talking and laughing. In the center stood Billy Hastings. Harris walked up and slapped his old buddy on the shoulder.

  “Harris,” Hastings bellowed and embraced him, “it’s about time!”

  Overwhelmed with emotion, Harris couldn’t reply. Hastings understood and smiled. He motioned to a back table, where the two could talk away from the crowd.

  “I’ve missed you, Billy.” Harris finally spoke as he accepted a cigarette from Hastings.

  “Same here.” Hastings smiled. He leaned back in his chair as he exhaled smoke. “Man, we used to have some good times. And some pretty fucking bad ones too!” Hastings burst out laughing at his own punchline. “So, tell me, how’s everything where you’re at now?”

  “Ah, man.” Harris exhaled, suddenly hit again with all the anxiety and fear of before. “Nothing’s the same. It’s all different.”

  “How so?” Hastings leaned across the table to offer Harris a light.

  “I don’t know. It’s all gone. Everything,” Harris spa
t out. His apprehension only grew as he failed to articulate the evil he sensed. “I…I don’t know what to do!” Harris finally cried, hoping his friend would offer help or an encouraging word. “I’m scared, Billy. Real scared. I have no idea what’s going to happen, and I don’t know just what the hell to do about it.”

  “What?” Hastings shot back with frustration. He stared at Harris as he took another drag from his cigarette. “You’re afraid of living?”

  Harris’s eyes popped opened. He knew where he was. Unable to run back into his dream, he sat up on the floor, where he’d slept. Through a sliding glass door, he could see the darkness outside.

  He rubbed his head. He expected it to hurt more, considering all the beer he’d drunk the night before. Rivett, Rodriguez, Morgan, and McCurry were sound asleep on the living room floor of Mackenzie and Sarah’s apartment.

  The screen on his phone read just past seven. Still haunted by a sense of fear from his dream, Harris went onto the balcony and lit his first cigarette of the day. The Sunday morning was dark and cold. Past Sundays, of going to church with his family and having a big dinner afterwards, played through his memory. The reality that those days were gone forever depressed him. Overwhelmed by the need to escape, he climbed down from the second-floor balcony. An elderly couple walking their dog, cautiously stared as he landed on the sidewalk in front of them.

  “Good morning.” Harris forced a smile. “Do you know where I can get a good cup of coffee?”

  “About two blocks south, then a block west,” the old man said.

  “Thank you, sir. Good day, ma’am.”

  Harris headed into the wind. It was refreshing.

  Control your fear, Sean, Harris could hear his father’s voice. Don’t let fear control you.