The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel) Page 19

  Harris found the coffee shop easily enough. It was small, only six tables, and crowded.

  Must mean good coffee, he told himself.

  A big-screen TV hung on the wall, playing the Sunday news talk show. Mostly, it was ignored by most of the patrons, who were too focused on their conversations or on whatever they were reading. Only those standing in line to order paid any attention to it. The exception was a young couple in line in front of Harris. They were too interested in each other to notice anything else. The young man was small and lean. The woman was short and thick. They wore black clothing, with red bandanas, and had a manicured dinginess popular with the radical protesters.

  “Excuse me, the line is moving forward,” Harris interrupted their public affection, with a feeling somewhere between embarrassment and disgust. The man, without acknowledging Harris, led his girlfriend closer to the register. The woman looked back at Harris and curled her upper lip.

  Why would anyone kiss that hog face? Harris shook his head, almost feeling sorry for the small young man.

  “Right on, dude,” the cashier enthusiastically greeted the dingy couple. They ordered without paying, then went to the far end of the counter to retrieve their coffee.

  Harris stepped in front of the register and was greeted with a blank stare.

  “Good morning.” Harris paused for a moment, waiting for a reply that didn’t come. “I’ll have a large black coffee and the egg and cheese sandwich.”

  “Fifteen ninety-five,” the cashier replied with a stone face. Harris paid the man, who turned away without a word to pour the coffee.

  “Get your sandwich at the end of the counter,” the cashier mumbled and placed Harris’s coffee before him.

  Yeah, you’re fucking welcome, shit bag, Harris thought and walked to the far end of the counter.

  “…this morning’s breaking story is the acquittal of United States Marine Corps General Edgar Ragnarsson…”

  Harris snapped his head toward the TV, wondering if he had heard right.

  “With me today is Daria Presser, and joining us all the way from San Diego at this early hour is Story Limen…”

  Harris dug his buzzing phone out of his pocket. He had a message from Rivett asking where he was. Harris responded he was getting coffee and to check out the news on Ragnarsson. The barista tossed a reheated egg and cheese sandwich in front of Harris.

  “Nothing like service with a smile!” Harris called out, catching the attention of everyone in the shop. He grabbed the sandwich and dashed out the door. Rivett’s request for coffee came too late.

  “Story, let’s start with you. What will the people make of the Ragnarsson acquittal?” Gloria Brenner opened her Sunday morning news show to commentary.

  “This appears to be yet one more example of the military protecting its own,” Limen expounded with the most morally indignant tone he could muster. “I mean, here we have it, once again, a blaring, ugly reminder of Clark’s legacy: a patriarchal, racist, warrior culture not accountable to the people.”

  “Daria, is this yet another example of the Clark legacy?” Brenner asked her other guest, Daria Presser.

  “Absolutely, it is. The United States has a history of an out-of-control Marine Corps, all in the name of nationalism. We, the press, have documented numerous atrocities throughout the Sino-American War. The Schmitt case, the Marketplace Massacre that Story so courageously broke, and now the Ragnarsson acquittal–all examples of an ‘ole boys club,’ if you will, taking care of itself at the expense of the people.”

  “And by the way, it can’t go unsaid, Gloria,” Limen interrupted. “It’s just been a few months since Marines have returned, and we’re seeing the same kind of violence the American government exported to the People’s Republic of China now brought home to the American people.”

  “Hmmm.” Gloria pursed her lips and squinted to attain a certain look of thoughtful concern for the TV camera. “That brings us to our other breaking story: the murder of four Black First members, and others in critical condition, at the hands of, witnesses say, white US Marines. Do you all think the domestic terrorism and racial violence we’re seeing in San Diego is just the beginning? Is there more to come?”

  “Gloria”–Limen liked the way Brenner had segued into the topic they were really there to discuss–“we’ve only received one battalion so far. That’s a small fraction of what is out there. The Marine Corps grew to six divisions under Clark. Think about that for a moment, Gloria, and I want to drive this point home to our viewers: That’s nearly seven hundred thousand trained killers. It’s all they know. Now they’re coming here. One can only imagine the repercussions the American people have in store for them when the full weight of Clark’s military is back in our country.”

  “It should not go unmentioned, Gloria,” Daria cut back into the discussion, “that most of the American military under their new Commander-in-Chief, President Tang, has since been redeployed throughout the People’s Republic of China to rebuild infrastructure.”

  “Yes, Operation White Dove,” Limen interjected, sounding more irritated on national television than he had intended.

  “Exactly,” Daria cut back in, refusing to give up the spotlight. “For the first time we’re seeing the military being used for humanitarian reasons. It’s evidence that, under proper leadership and control, the military can be a positive thing. Remember it was Clark’s disregard for international administration over the US Marines and his militias that caused so much of what plagues the world today.”

  “So, Story”–Gloria went back to her star guest–“what do you see as the solution to this plague, as Daria has described it?”

  “Well, Gloria.” Limen sighed and spoke slowly, portraying his intellectual thought process, just as he had rehearsed it in his hotel room. “At a time…like this…in a time of change, when we are adjusting, and some would say even redefining the purpose of our military, one has to ask, especially in light of the newly expanded Federal Agency for Public Safety, do we really need a US Marine Corps? It’s not the first time in our nation’s history this question has been asked, Gloria. Perhaps now we’ve finally progressed enough, are secure enough, to rid ourselves of this, as we have other archaic American institutions.”

  “Daria?” Gloria asked in such a tone to convey that an unconventional, and perhaps revolutionary, idea had just been proposed.

  “I agree completely.” Presser smiled at Limen, attempting to jump back onto his coattails. “If the American people are to be the leading example for world peace, then we must destroy these–” she paused, pretending to think of the word, although she was reciting a prepared statement “–primitive warrior elements in American society.”

  McCurry had the look of a bad hangover when he opened the apartment door to let Harris in.

  “Mornin’, devil dog!” Harris beamed, walking into the place. Rodriguez was on the balcony smoking a cigarette. Rivett and Morgan were sitting on the sofa in front of the television. Edwards walked into the living room. They all stared at him.

  “Did you see on the news Ragnarsson has been acquitted?” Harris continued. “Finally some sanity in this whole…”

  Everyone continued to stare at Harris without saying a word.

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get you all coffee. I got your message after I’d left,” Harris apologized.

  “Forget the coffee.” Rivett stood up from the sofa.

  “Harris,” Edwards said, “you may be a suspect for murder.”

  On the television screen Harris saw a police composite sketch of a man with a long scar running across the left cheek.

  ***

  Levine looked at his copy of the same composite sketch on his computer screen. It was one of the worst he’d seen. Other than the scar, it barely resembled Harris.

  Seems odd there’s no CCTV footage of the killing, Levine thought. He spun his computer around to show Harris the drawing in his file.

  “If I say so myself, they failed to captur
e the essence of my beauty.” Harris grinned. “Hell, if it hadn’t been for the scar, the drawing wouldn’t have looked anything like me.”

  “Did you do anything to disguise yourself that night?”

  “Like what?” Harris laughed. “Wear dark glasses and a false mustache?”

  “Yeah.” Levine sighed. “It just seems odd there’s no CCTV footage of the killings that night.”

  “I’m sure there was, but not of me killing those dudes. Nor were there witnesses who saw me do it, despite what reporters said. Hell, if anything, there were witnesses who knew where I was at that time of night. Problem was, most of them were dead by the time of the trial.”

  “You’re claiming to have had nothing to do with the Black First killings?” Levine asked.

  “Absolutely nothing.” Harris looked at Levine. His grin was gone. “I did a lot of killing, we all did, but that wasn’t us.”

  “Why didn’t you say so at your trial?” Levine was still skeptical. He hadn’t read any of this in the court transcripts.

  “I did. Prosecutors, media–all said I was lying. They had witnesses who said I did it.” Harris looked Levine in the eye. “They had a myth to establish, not the truth.”

  “None of this is in the transcripts,” Levine said, throwing up his hands in a show of confusion.

  But it makes sense, Levine thought. White Marines would want to kill black social justice advocates. Just like it makes sense the Marine Corps would make a brutally crude attempt to overthrow President Tang, the greatest progressive hero of our era. They were old America, enemies of change, enemies of the people. That was shown at the trial…That was the narrative. Still is. Levine closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Thinking was giving him a headache.

  But did the government need that narrative? Levine asked himself. They murdered all those other people. Harris admitted that then, and admits it now. Why would Harris deny the Black First killings? Why would the government want to pin it on him? A false narrative wasn’t needed to convict Harris. Levine’s mind raced to answer his own question. Was it needed to convict the whole Marine Corps? A whole culture? That’s what was done at Harris’s trial. But would prosecutors really be motivated by narrative instead of facts?

  Levine grew cold. He too was motivated by that narrative, not facts. Even if Harris’s facts were pointing him towards a different narrative. What if the purpose of the trial was not to convict Harris, but to vindicate the killing of Marines? The thought frightened Levine to his core.

  “More coffee?” Harris nodded towards Levine’s cup as he stood up. Harris looked pained as he stood up and limped over to the coffee maker.

  “What went through your mind when you saw the composite sketch?” Levine continued.

  “Like I said earlier, even I’m not that ugly.” The old man limped back to the table.

  “Thank you,” Levine said as he took his coffee.

  “I was relieved the drawing was so bad and that they didn’t have my name.” Harris became more serious. “Honestly, it scared me. Earlier, I’d felt relief at having gotten away with beating the shit out of that asshole the night before, and was happy for Ragnarsson. That morning in the girls’ apartment, ironically enough, it hit me that I could go to jail, with no chance of getting out. The idea terrified me.”

  “What did Edwards do? Was there any fallout with your unit, or when you got back to base?”

  “No, not really. My buddies knew it was bullshit. We got back to base. Edwards talked to the platoon sergeant. He put us on fire-watch duty the day of the parade so as to keep us out of San Diego.”

  “Nobody suggested you go to the police and tell your story?” Levine asked before taking a sip of coffee.

  “And tell them what? That I was only guilty of assault, not murder?” Harris scoffed. “Besides, the picture doesn’t really even look like me. Everybody figured when the police, or FedAPS, directly blamed me, we’d tell them what all happened then. I had witnesses and the truth on my side. For all we knew, the cops were looking for some other scarred-faced son of a bitch. Or so we rationalized anyway.”

  “What happened when the authorities showed up on base?” Levine asked. There was nothing about that in Harris’s file.

  “Oddly enough, they never showed up. No cops. No FedAPS.”

  “I bet that was a relief, huh?” Levine tried to empathize. “I would have been so stressed in that situation.”

  “I was, at first. Then I got angry about it.” Harris furrowed his brow at the recollection.

  “Why?” Levine asked, genuinely surprised by Harris’s reaction.

  “If the authorities were concerned enough to put word out on the national news, why didn’t they show up at Horno?”

  That’s a dangerous question! a voice screamed inside Levine’s head. In an attempt to delay, if not avoid, answering, Joel reached for his coffee.

  “Hell, the only one who cared enough to come out looking for me was your granddad,” Harris continued.

  “What?” Levine set his coffee mug down hard enough coffee spilled over the edge. He couldn’t tell if Harris’s smile was nostalgic or sinister.

  “Yeah, he was stateside by then. Working at the Balboa hospital. He’d seen the news and was concerned. Wanted to come up and see me. It was the last time I saw him.”

  “Really?” Levine asked reflexively, but he was too afraid to inquire further. I don’t need him to be involved in this, Levine’s internal voice shouted.

  “Yeah.” Harris stared into the dark sky. Any trace of a smile was gone. “He had a notion something bad was going to happen. And he was right.”

  You could always play the interview off as redemption for ancestral sins, Levine thought. Why risk it? the internal voice nagged. Cover it up. Perhaps he was worried about Harris being unstable?

  “He thought something bad was going to happen to you?” Levine timidly asked.

  “Me? No, the whole country! Your grandpa”–Harris turned back to Levine–“he saw trouble coming. He was worried about all the ‘protestors’ massing in San Diego while Tang honored,” Harris added sarcasm, “the Marine Corps. He said that kind, meaning the radicals, were an enemy, just as bad or worse than the Pricks.

  “Actually”–Harris sadly smiled–“he was telling me to be careful at the parade. He told me what his uncle went through when he came home from Vietnam. He said people like that never fight you straight on. They hide behind the very laws they work to undermine, behind the very civilization they seek to destroy. He told me they see us as evil, as an abomination. They don’t seek to live with us but destroy us. I knew he was right.”

  “Do you think you’re a victim of those events?” Levine tried to think of how he could spin this into a perspective Perro would approve of.

  “No, if anything, I think I was, like this nation, a victim of myself. I let myself get too angry. Angry at God, angry at myself; all it did was make me self-destructive.”

  You may have something here, Levine thought.

  “Why would you still be angry?” Levine wanted to pursue this line of thought. “Surely, after the acquittal of Ragnarsson and the November 10th commemorative ceremony, I’d think morale had to have been pretty high among the Marines.”

  “Yeah,” Harris said with a caustic laugh. “In retrospect, I can see Ragnarsson’s acquittal for what it was. For what it did that led to events on November 10.”

  “You blame that for the events that followed?” Levine was not following Harris’s thought process.

  “No,” Harris quickly replied, “it was just another step in that direction.” Harris paused and stared at Levine for a moment. “It’s like what your grandfather told me. Those events were decades in the making, if not longer.”

  “Explain.” Levine tried to sound calm. He thought he could see where this was going and it terrified him.

  “For the federal government, which usually can’t find its own ass with both hands, to act with such speed and precision, I think it was all set into
motion long before. I don’t see Ragnarsson’s acquittal as the cause, but as a designed catalyst for the riot, as well as the mutiny.”

  To vindicate the killing of Marines…went through Levine’s mind again as his stomach went queasy. Was it fear, or too much coffee and bourbon? Either way, he had a narrative he’d been selected to write.

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Victor Forge loved cities at early dawn. He loved to watch the early hustle of the workers who got the city up and running for the day. He found the atmosphere far more vibrant and inspiring than the peak of the workday or the height of the work commutes. They were the people that set the course for the day.

  The morning of November 10 in San Diego was no different. In fact, it was even more invigorating. He was among a handful of people in the world who had any idea of what was to fully transpire today; and of those, he knew the most.

  Forge sipped his gourmet coffee and stared south into the downtown’s business district, where most of the violence was planned to take place. The Marines would march south from the Marine Corps Recruit Depot to San Diego’s Memorial Wall, which honored all who had died during the Sino-American War. Presumably, they would be honored by President Tang, and he would unveil a memorial to the Marines of the Sino-American War. The “Peace March” would start from Peace Village and parallel the Marines along Sixth Avenue. The mayor allowed this at the governor’s request, as a way to give those opposed to the war a voice, without interfering with the president’s ceremony. Two marches, of opposing ideologies, would be separated by less than three-quarters of a mile.

  Forge couldn’t wait for the events of the day. He buzzed more from the impending conflict than from the coffee. Of all the conceivable outcomes for the day, the Marine Corps could not come out looking good. Not after the media did its job. He was confident in his plan. He felt pride that so much would change because of him, and this also gave him an immense sense of power. He had the ability to orchestrate mobs, dictate violence, and alter the course of nations and history. That knowledge was enough for him; he didn’t need, nor want, fame for his work. In his mind he gave no credit to Fidal Solak; the old man was merely a patron.