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

  Solak can pay for it, but I’m the one who can make it happen. Forge smiled at the thought.

  “Money can always be found,” he said aloud on the empty sidewalk, “intelligence cannot.”

  He turned north and then headed back along Sixth Avenue. He wouldn’t be present for the upcoming assault. He never was. Instead, he watched the action take place through the media, which he arranged to be in the right place, at the right time, to give the right narrative. Forge thought of himself as a field marshal, not cannon fodder. His talents and his life were too valuable to be risked. He would watch events unfold from his hotel suite.

  “Life is good,” Forge said aloud on the sidewalk. “The world is my kingdom.” A big smile creeped across his face. “My will be done.”

  Johnny Sanchez couldn’t have slept the night before if he had wanted to.

  “Why should I?” he asked himself all night. “When my dreams are coming true!”

  Since childhood, Sanchez romanticized he was predestined to be a great leader of the progressive movement. That night, the fantasy evolved into him being a “Chosen One” to bring down the greatest abomination to the people in history: the United States of America.

  November 10 will be big, Sanchez told himself. Bigger than most will be able to understand. But they will learn to accept it. The thought made him laugh. “This will be my day to emerge as the savior of social justice. THE SAVIOR OF SOCIAL JUSTICE,” he said to himself in the bathroom mirror. I love the sound of that, he thought. It has to be true, I feel it. Even Victor Forge says so.

  For the first time in his activist career, he was completely in the inner circle. He’d been given a heads-up from Forge that Mayor Alison LaRocca, sympathetic to their cause, had ordered the chief of police to look the other way when protesters crossed the barriers on Sixth Street to invade the business district and disrupt the ceremony to honor the Marines. WAR would show up in big numbers today. He knew today there’d be chaos, and many would feel pain. Yet he also knew the reporting of an allied media would make him a leader of a victimized people and a warrior for justice.

  Sanchez even had enough pull with Forge to persuade him to let Martel play a crucial role in the day’s violence. This, he felt, had gone a long way to soothe the recent tension between them. Another sign that destiny was on his side.

  “Pablo is a good attack dog,” Sanchez mumbled to himself as he drove in the morning’s early light, thinking of how the day, and his destiny, would unfold.

  Will he ever attack me? He thought about the rift that had developed between them over the last year.

  No, Sanchez assured himself. I give him direction. I give him legitimacy. Without me, he’s nothing more than a common thug. Besides, I’m a “Chosen One.” Martel has to know that by now.

  Sanchez parked his car several blocks north of the planned demonstration. It would be his escape pod if anything went wrong. He got out of the car and checked his watch. Running about five minutes late, he stepped out at a fast pace. A TV crew was supposed to film him serving pancakes to peace demonstrators, so as to present him as a man of the people.

  I can’t be late. He laughed to himself. I’m the savior of social justice.

  Bella Bradford opened her eyes and looked around a tent full of men. To her surprise, it was light out, but all was quiet outside the tent.

  It’s early morning. I must have dozed off a bit, she thought. She sat up, trying to cover herself the best she could with the blanket she was using, while looking for her backpack and clothes. Her bag was within arm’s reach, but her clothes were scattered throughout the tent.

  Figures, she thought and rolled her eyes. She reached into her bag, fumbled around, and found the joint she was looking for.

  Just what I need to take the edge off the day. Bella smiled at the thought before she lit up. Why do you need to take the edge off a day that’s just started? she asked herself, then quickly ignored the question.

  She had been with six men the night before, all of them associated with WAR. She hoped, if nothing else, last night would earn her a spot in their inner circle. Rumors throughout Peace Village were that this day would make history. It would be revolutionary, and Bella wanted so much to be a part of that. Since her grade-school years, she’d wanted a role in the fight of good versus evil. More than that, she desired the power to enforce that morality on others. Yet it did not matter what she did. She always lacked the moral authority to lead that fight. Her upbringing was too privileged for that.

  In college, she’d tried desperately to earn that authority through campus social justice groups. She could always find acceptance if she said and did the right things, but she could never find the prestige and sense of control she craved. No matter what she contributed to the movement, she was never accepted as a leader. The matter always came down to her being too wealthy, too attractive, or too white. She tried so hard to be everything they wanted her to be, but others in the movement could never look past what she was. It infuriated her that the past “sins” of her Anglo-American ancestors would now inhibit her ability to advance herself. She hated them, and herself, for their association with the old America. Now she would do whatever was necessary to destroy what was hated about herself and become what they wanted. She believed that then she could gain control. She could be the one to give them what they wanted, to give them what they needed. Bella believed she would find power in the name of redemption.

  From her experience, sexual intercourse was her most effective means of exerting control. Unfortunately for her, the sense of control was short lived and followed by a sense of shame. This she blamed on her ancestors. After all, it was their patriarchal morality creating a cultural sense of guilt in her. Otherwise, Bella believed she’d be fully content with her liberated lifestyle. It all served to fuel her anger against the old America.

  She extinguished her joint, carefully saving what was left to enjoy later. Bella let go of the blanket and her modesty. Ballet lessons as a child allowed her to gracefully hop and bounce across the sleeping radicals to collect her grungy black garments. She pulled aside a partially opened backpack to pick up one of her boots, and she noticed an automatic pistol and two extra magazines. The irony of a loaded weapon at a so-called “Peace March” in a so-called “Peace Village” was not lost on her. In fact, Bella found it reassuring. These were exactly the kind of men, and this was exactly the kind of power, she sought to attain.

  Quietly and carefully, she dressed herself, so as not to wake the others. She slipped the handgun and the magazines into her own backpack. Bella had seen enough movies to feel confident about working the firearm. With speed and dexterity, she hopped over the sleeping men and left the tent unnoticed.

  Pablo Martel poured his first cup of coffee of the morning, then stared out the open window a few minutes before taking a sip. He found the cool air invigorating. He focused on the day’s events, envisioning the day’s operation before it happened. Like scenes from a movie, he played out possible scenarios in his mind. He didn’t believe he could plan for every contingency. The ritual gave Martel a sense of peace, however, and an outlet for his nervous energy.

  The course of events over the last week gave him much to contemplate. Sanchez told him that he was now privy to confidential information within the movement. Martel was somewhat surprised, and relieved, by Sanchez’s confidence to have shared that information with him. While Martel thought of Sanchez as his brother, their relationship had become strained over the last couple of years. Their differences were pushing them apart, and Martel had been concerned for the future of their friendship. Sanchez had always been political in his approach, and had done so with an air of arrogance. Even in childhood, Sanchez always took the route of trying to be appealing in his rhetoric and attractive in appearance, as a way to persuade others. Martel’s instinct was always to rely on his own sheer force, be it of mind or body, to get things done. Why waste time convincing if you can just force someone to do what you want?

 
Over the years, Martel came to appreciate the way Sanchez did some things. They complemented each other and made a good team. However, Martel saw himself as an equal player, and he thought Sanchez treated him as a lieutenant. This impression had become more bothersome to him over the years, as had Johnny’s philandering. Unknown to anyone, Pablo had fallen in love with Maria. She was a good woman and a loving mother. Pablo’s heart ached for Maria, to see her treated so badly by Sanchez.

  Now, Sanchez was starting to do drugs with this Limen reporter. Martel feared Sanchez was losing perspective and, worse, control of himself. Martel didn’t intend to see the movement, or himself, go down in the mess Sanchez was making out of his personal life. Yet Sanchez had gotten the attention of the legendary Victor Forge, and now, so had Pablo Martel.

  “Is that conniving bastard lying to me?” Martel spoke out loud to himself as his mind drifted to a bigger picture than the day’s protest march. Is he lying to himself? Is he being lied to? Do they really want to make him the face of the revolution?

  “Only if they thought they could control him,” Martel answered out loud to himself.

  Could “they” control Sanchez? Martel walked over to the M5 carbine he was supposed to use today. Was today’s plan a good one? If not, would Sanchez stand with him, or cut him loose so Johnny could advance his career? Would Forge?

  Exhilarated by the feel of the gun, Martel smiled.

  Guns are always loyal, he thought. Martel knew who he wanted to kill that day, as well as he knew his orders.

  “What if I miss?” Martel asked the gun. “What if I accidentally kill the wrong man? Would the movement not still have its martyr? The revolution would still go on. So I ask you, who should I kill today?”

  Cuppell couldn’t help but smile watching Sanchez scurry around to serve breakfast to the “People” in Peace Village. The media cameras had left ten minutes before Sanchez arrived, having already gotten footage of Cuppell serving food to people. Sanchez missed out and didn’t even know it.

  That’s it, serve pancakes, Sanchez. That’s all you’re fucking good for. Cuppell imagined his grandfather saying, “The boy is a day late and a dollar short.”

  Feeling confident, Cuppell walked a little taller as he went to meet with his Black First lieutenants. They would be the ones to inspire and manage an appropriate level of violence today. Cuppell’s task was to play the role of the peaceful organizer demanding justice. Victor Forge did not want him to be seen as condoning any kind of violence today. When, in fact, destruction was the day’s objective.

  Although WAR was a big player in the day’s events, Cuppell wanted America thinking Black First was leading the demonstration, and Cuppell was leading Black First. With the help of the media, the people were to learn that he was the one to be appeased if Americans did not want more violence in the streets. The power and prestige Cuppell coveted finally appeared within reach. Even the “mythical” Victor Forge was on board, promising Cuppell a starring role in today’s march, and was already delivering on that promise. It was Forge who had arranged for the media to show up early, before Sanchez got there, to film “leading peace activist” Cuppell serving scrambled eggs and pancakes to his followers. Effectively cutting Sanchez out of the story.

  If only we could cut him out of the march completely. Cuppell grinned at the thought. Oh well, he won’t matter in the long run.

  Forge had promised Cuppell he would be the day’s star, with Sanchez having the supporting role. The media would get the message across loud and clear: keep Black First happy, or there would be hell to pay.

  Today, San Diego will get a sample of that hell. Cuppell could not stop smiling.

  “What the hell is this shit?” Sergeant Edwards’s voice reverberated off the concrete walls of the barracks TV lounge.

  “Since when do you boys watch cooking shows?” Corporal Rivett joined in the taunting.

  “I’ve discovered a passion for the food industry.” Harris grinned, knowing how bad it looked.

  “Bum a smoke?” Edwards cuffed Harris on the shoulder just hard enough to get his attention. Without a word Harris handed Edwards his pack of cigarettes and lighter.

  “It’s the news,” McCurry, the humor lost on him, answered with indignation. “They’ve got some fucking Black First dilrod on here serving breakfast to a bunch of asshole radicals.”

  “Thanks.” Edwards handed Harris back his cigarettes.

  “I hope he at least washed his hands first,” Harris said in an exhale of smoke.

  “That’s quite a spread they got there. I wonder who paid for it all?” Rivett asked, not expecting an answer.

  “One gets a real sense of the world spirit here in Peace Village,” a female reporter’s voice emitted from the TV speaker. “Just take a look around.” The camera panned across a selection of protesters. One held a sign that read RAGNARSSON EQUALS MURDER. “One can see that unlike the carefree youth of a generation before, young Americans today are serious about doing what is right and making the world a better place. There is a real collective moral vibe about today’s peace demonstration.”

  The camera stopped on a young man wearing a red bandana over his face and holding a sign that read US MARINE CORPS KILLS – KILL US MARINE CORPS.

  “Dingy-assed motherfuckers.” McCurry got up in disgust. “I’m going to go make sure the barracks ain’t burning down.”

  “Ain’t it good to be back home,” Harris wisecracked without a smile. He looked at Edwards.

  “I ain’t home until I get back to Arizona,” Rivett responded, not recognizing Harris’s sarcasm.

  “I’m not sensing any moral world spirit here, devil dogs.” Edwards dropped his cigarette into an empty soda can. “Bright side is, we’re out of the dog and pony show, and we’ve got ninety-six hours of libo coming up. You might want to head down to Peace Village tonight, Harris, after we get off duty.”

  “Why’s that?” Harris, sensing a joke, braced himself for the answer.

  “I bet that little dreadlocked blonde gal’s down there looking for a collective vibe of her own.” Edwards kept his usual straight face that always made others wonder whether he was serious or not.

  “That’s so wrong.” Rivett smiled, shaking his head as he walked out. “I’m going to check on Morgan and Rodriguez.”

  The news broadcast switched over to a shot of the new Sino-American War memorial next to the statue honoring the United States Marine Corps. Both to be unveiled by the president during his speech.

  “You know,” Harris became serious, “I’d like to see that memorial before I leave California.”

  “Yeah.” Edward sighed. He didn’t know how to tell Harris that there was a part of him that didn’t want to see the memorial. He knew the names; he remembered how they got there. It wasn’t that he wanted to forget - he never would - but he didn’t want to relive it either. It was past; he wanted to leave it there. Edwards was already well into imagining his future without war, and without the Marine Corps. Getting stuck in the past frightened him.

  “Dog and pony or not,” Harris continued, “a part of me would not have minded being in the parade today.”

  “Really?” Edwards thought it was out of character for Harris.

  “Yeah. It… I don’t know… kind of a last chance to honor those we lost before we move on, to whatever the hell we’re moving on to.”

  “Yeah.” Edwards paused a moment. He hesitated to ask, but felt encouraged Harris was talking about the future. “You want to head down and see it over the weekend?”

  “Yeah.” Harris smiled, but he looked sad.

  “Why not? We need something to do over a four-day weekend besides getting drunk and getting into fights,” Edwards said.

  Harris took the comment in good humor. Edwards began heading towards the door. “Keep an eye on things around here. Watch the ceremony if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Harris said, sounding appreciative of the gesture.

  “Just don’t let the place burn down,” Ed
wards said and walked out the door.

  “Aye aye, Sergeant,” Harris said sarcastically and lit up another cigarette.

  Staff Sergeant Michael “Crusher” Kruschinsky had not stepped foot into the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego since he was an eighteen-year-old recruit. A time the old Marines called the Dark Days. Joseph P. Leakey was president then, and the United States of America seemed to be passively slipping into serfdom under the growing power of the People’s Republic of China.

  Back then, many people thought military service was too risky an endeavor. Not from the possibility of combat, but because Leakey was likely to put troops under the authority of another country’s leader. Even his own father, a Marine veteran of the Islamic Wars, told him it was foolish to join up.

  That was ten years ago. Since then, so much had changed. Clark had been elected president and gave the Marine Corps autonomy from international control. The People’s Republic of China attacked the United States, and there was war in the continental United States for the first time in over a hundred years. Kruschinsky had survived the Mexican Campaign and kept a promise he’d made to marry his high school sweetheart. It was another decision many called foolish, but, like the first, it felt right to him.

  Time with his new wife was short. He shipped out for the Philippines in a campaign to push the PRC back to its mainland. He was wounded fighting on Luzon and was sent to Hawaii on convalescence leave. Although civilian travel in the Pacific was limited, his wife was allowed to visit him. The time they spent together on Oahu was the best of their lives, and from that they produced a son.

  Clark was reelected. Kruschinsky was assigned to First Marines. The invasion of the PRC commenced. The death of Clark, the wasted opportunities under the Harmon administration, and the abandoned war effort by President Tang created a sense of futility among many Marines. Kruschinsky was not immune either. He could not help feeling his life’s work, and the lives of his friends, had come to naught. Yet today he felt excited. He hadn’t seen his wife since Hawaii. He’d never hugged his son. That would change today.