by John
Wilcox suppressed a laugh; the testimony was too sobering to act otherwise.
“I suggest to those of you listening that on the anniversary of the attack, on January sixteenth, get together with as many of your family, friends, and loved ones, and hold a vigil. Organize it as you think best. If it’s prayer you’re into, then go for it. If you want to burn effigies of Kim Jong-un, knock yourselves out. If you just want to hold hands and be silent for a few minutes, that works, too.
“That’s our news for this evening, January twelfth, 2026. Keep that truth coming in and I’ll do my best to get it out there. Once again, this is DJ Ben. And now, here’s Miles Davis and his sextet, performing the album Kind of Blue.”
Wilcox hit the CD player button and the jazz standard “So What,” began it’s plaintive, soulful groove. Walker switched off the mic.
“How’d it sound?”
“You’re getting better and better,” she answered. “You know, I think you could parlay this new talent of yours into something bigger.”
“What do you mean?”
“Right now you’re very entertaining. You’re fun to listen to and you play good music. But when you read the news, especially the more serious stuff, I see and hear a passion that might be very useful. To the Resistance, I mean.”
Walker creased his brow. “I don’t understand. Isn’t reporting these things useful to the Resistance?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud. Maybe we need to establish a stronger transmitter so we know you’re reaching the entire country. Then I think you could really do some good. You’re very inspiring, Ben. I think you need to become something a little less frivolous than ‘DJ Ben.’ ”
Walker rubbed his chin. “I’m flattered. Let me think about it. In the meantime, sure, let’s make a better transmitter. But first, let’s go to bed.”
“Isn’t it a little early?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Who said anything about sleeping?”
She slapped his arm and laughed.
JANUARY 21, 2026
Salmusa removed the “Iron Fish,” a specially-designed iron-lined radioactive repellent suit supplied by the People’s Nuclear Transport Company. It was much like a scuba outfit, only baggier. The face mask resembled any other protective gas mask except that it, too, was iron-lined and contained eye goggles made of an unbreakable plastic, originally designed by NASA, used for windows on space shuttles. The suit was not completely efficient. A man wearing the Iron Fish could not be exposed to the Cocktail Materials for more than five hours, or he could be contaminated. Contamination meant death.
After depositing the suit in the decontaminator, Salmusa stepped naked into the shower and scrubbed himself with near-scolding hot water. He took no chances with the dangerous chemicals. They had killed at least sixty Korean scientists and handlers since their creation on Marcus Island in Japan. Nevertheless, Operation Cocktail was a success. The combined Materials—X, Y, and Z—were ready for implementation of the Brilliant Comrade’s master plan, Operation Water Snake.
Salmusa turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and dried himself. The next procedure was to pass through the radiation detector to see if any remnant of the Materials was left on his body. After he passed the scan, he quickly dressed and then went to the office at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in Livermore, California, where he’d spent much of the last three months. As the overseer of Operation Water Snake, Salmusa took this particular assignment far more seriously than anything he’d thus undertaken for Kim Jong-un and the Greater Korean Republic.
He sat and studied the scientists’ reports. It was determined that to maintain the high levels of the three combined Source Materials, mixing and depositing the Cocktail worked best underwater. Unfortunately, team members who physically performed the below surface task of mixing and depositing the Cocktail would die from the exposure. The Brilliant Comrade already decreed that these volunteers would be designated as martyrs for the GKR.
Salmusa was pleased. It had been a long, complicated process to reach this point. Transporting the Source Materials from Marcus Island in Japan to Los Angeles, and then delivering them to Livermore, had taken months. Now it was time for the Korean People’s Army Light Infantry Division to carry the Materials to the five designated Deposit Locations on the western banks of the Mississippi River. By the beginning of February, Operation Water Snake would commence.
The Light Infantry was charged with staging and deployment of the Cocktail at Deposit Locations 2, 4, and 5. Two groups of American collaborators from Montana and Texas, code-named Red Eagle and Red Bison, respectively, were responsible for staging and deployment at Locations 1 and 3.
A knock at the door interrupted Salmusa’s thoughts.
“Yes?”
One of his assistants, a young man named Byun Jin-Sang, opened the door and stood at attention. “Sir! The radio broadcast you’ve been anticipating is on.”
Salmusa stood quickly and followed Byun into another room where new electronic equipment, including a high-powered radio receiver, lined the walls and shelves.
The American was already speaking over the airwaves. Salmusa stood and listened, his eyes narrowing with hatred.
“—wish we could all, and I mean everyone in the world—and that means you, Koreans!—could remember John Lennon’s words “give peace a chance.” We’re going to play some more of John Lennon’s music—but first, I have this report from our correspondent Max in Texas.
“Apparently a misplaced airdrop of Korean Special Forces led to a hasty march through downtown Galveston, Texas, where the idiots were met with a nasty surprise. Elements of the Texas National Guard and an estimated ten thousand-plus citizens attacked the invading forces along Interstate-45 with a mixture of light infantry firearms and deer rifles. I regret to report that losses were tremendous on the American side, especially when the Norks called in air support. Attack helicopters showed up and made short work of the Texans’ defensive positions. However, a minor victory occurred when several tugboat operators launched their explosive-laden ships against the Galveston Causeway, bringing it down. Score one for America! This distracted those dog-eating Koreans long enough for two dozen privately owned pleasure yachts packed with women and children to make it out of the Port of Galveston before those Korean Nazis managed to secure it. Our people slipped out under their very noses and sailed to Mexico.”
Salmusa bristled at the announcer’s depiction of his people.
“You know, folks, that just goes to show you that Americans are not going to just lie down and let those cowardly, slimy, emotionless, cold-hearted bugs that crawled out from under a rock run over us. Those Norks may think they’re winning, but I’m hearing more and more accounts of the opposite.
“Say, I hear they call Kim Jong-un the ‘Brilliant Comrade.’ Well, from now on, on this radio station, he’s going to be known as the Idiot Comrade. Did you know he comes from a long line of mutant baboons? His father was a baboon, his grandfather was a baboon, his entire family … baboons! Oh, I’m sorry, maybe that’s an insult to the rest of the baboons. Heh heh, I got that one from Groucho Marx. I tell you what, faithful listeners. Let’s have a contest. Whoever sends me the worst insult—or maybe I should say the best insult—for Kim Dung-un, I’ll deliver it on the air and we can all have a good laugh at the Idiot Comrade’s expense.”
Fuming, Salmusa felt the blood rushing to his head. He had to stop this disrespect and dishonor. Now.
“I’m sorry, folks, I tend to get a little emotional. And here I am about to play music that’s all about peace and love. Maybe that’ll calm me down. Up next is John Lennon’s solo masterpiece, his album from 1971, Imagine.”
The music began and Salmusa glanced at Byun. The young assistant shook his head and made a “tsk tsk” sound. Salmusa turned to one of the operators. “Do you know where that signal is coming from?”
“Yes, sir,” the technician replied. “We’ve used signal interceptors and
triangulating signal positions to pinpoint where it is. Las Vegas, Nevada.”
Salmusa nodded. He pushed past Byun and went back to his office to make a call to Kim Jong-un. He had known for months that the GKR’s work at Hoover Dam provided Las Vegas with luxuries other occupied cities did not enjoy. As there was never any reason for the Koreans to waste time and resources with that useless community in the desert, they had reluctantly and carelessly left the city alone.
It was now apparent that Sin City had to go.
EIGHTEEN
JANUARY 24, 2026
The anniversary of the Korean invasion gave people cause to reflect. On the evening of January 16, hundreds of Las Vegas citizens gathered on the Strip, lining the blocks from the old Mandalay Bay Resort to downtown. Several ministers, a priest, and a rabbi from various congregations in the city conducted a candlelight vigil just after sunset. Walker and Wilcox attended; in fact, Walker was asked to say a few words, as he’d become something of a celebrity in town. He politely declined.
Ever since that somber occasion, Walker began having nightmares. He’d wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, alarming Kelsie, but unable to remember the dreams. All he knew was that they were premonitions of something bad about to happen. He didn’t know what was coming, but he suggested to Wilcox that they stay prepared. They packed backpacks with emergency supplies—water, food, first aid—and fashioned a carrying case for their jury-rigged radio transmitter/receiver. The antenna was designed to collapse, umbrella-style, to the size of a ruler. Unfortunately, the generator was too heavy and cumbersome to consider taking in haste.
But the days passed without incident and life in Sin City went on as before. Walker continued his DJ Ben broadcasts, and he and Wilcox carried on as if they were married.
Then, just after midnight, on the twenty-fourth, Walker’s forewarnings came true.
The couple was asleep in their room. The cool January breeze blew through the open windows and made their home in Caesars Palace quite comfortable. Street noise was nonexistent. All was quiet and peaceful, until the low hum of airplanes woke Wilcox. She opened her eyes and listened. The community was used to a Korean-controlled U.S. military aircraft flying overhead every now and then, usually headed east or west. This sounded more ominous. There were many planes.
“Ben, wake up,” she nudged.
“Hmm?”
“Wake up. Listen.”
“What?”
“Planes.” She got up and looked out the window. At first she couldn’t see anything, but then the blinking lights in the sky caught her attention. “Ben, there’s a bunch of planes coming this way.”
Then a massive explosion rocked their world. Wilcox screamed. Walker jumped out of bed and joined her at the window.
Another detonation, this one much closer.
“My God, what’s going on?” she cried.
“We’re being bombed!”
They scrambled to get on their clothes. Wilcox rushed into the bathroom and gathered a few necessities while Walker grabbed the M4 and ammunition.
Another explosion. This time, they felt the hotel lurch.
“Kelsie, we gotta run! Grab your backpack. We have to get outta here!”
They saw flashes of bright light through the window. Fires burned in the distance. Walker paused long enough to see an American F-35 drop its payload right on top of Harrah’s, right across the street. He felt the impact’s sonic boom as a fireball engulfed the huge hotel. Glass and steel flew out from the impact.
“Go!” he shouted.
They scrambled out the door with their backpacks and other things. Dozens of residents were already in the hallway, panicked and confused.
“Everyone get out of the building!” Walker shouted. They headed for the stairwell with the rest of the crowd, but there were too many people. The exit became bottlenecked, forcing the desperate ones to push and shove.
Amidst the screams were shouts of “Take it easy!” “Keep calm!” “Stop pushing!” “Get out of the way!” Walker and Wilcox felt crushed as they squeezed through the stairwell door. The stampede carried them to the stairs, where things grew more precarious.
Another explosion jolted everyone off balance. Dozens fell down the stairs to the next landing. The ones who got to their feet first trampled on the people who couldn’t get up in time.
Mass hysteria.
Walker and Wilcox were aware they were stepping on human beings but there was nothing they could do. The swarm had a life of its own and there was no fighting it. If they could simply remain upright, the mad charge would do the rest.
When the throng reached the second-floor landing, chunks of plaster rained from above. Several residents were hit on the head and collapsed, causing those behind them to trip and fall. Another wave of bodies crashed down the next set of stairs as the pandemonium increased in intensity. Wilcox was almost sucked with them but Walker quickly grabbed her by the waist to keep her from plummeting. At the same time, however, the mass behind them kept pushing forward, which created an avalanche of people. There was nothing to do but ride the surge, locked between arms and legs and torsos. Walker gripped the M4 as tightly as possible with one hand while holding on to Wilcox with the other. A foot slammed into his face, busting his lip, just as the rolling accumulation of humans smashed into the wall at the bottom of the stairwell.
At least the descent was over. Those that were able stood and ran into the lobby, leaving the injured piled on top of one another, struggling to break free.
Another explosion. The stairwell actually shifted, causing larger concrete pieces to drop on the helpless heap. Walker saw that Wilcox was dazed—she must have been hit by something or someone. He squirmed out of the stack of writhing bodies, managed to stand, and pulled on her arms. She slipped out just as the entire stairwell caved in, burying the stragglers.
They ran into the casino, which was ablaze in several spots. The couple zigzagged through the maze of flames as portions of the ceiling collapsed around them.
Yet another explosion. And another.
A wall of heat and flames erupted from the building’s core and rushed at the crowd of civilians, racing them to the exits. But just as Walker and Wilcox reached the main lobby, the floor buckled and swept dozens off their feet. The couple collided into a glass display case, shattering it to bits and lacerating Wilcox’s arms and legs. It saved their lives, for the lobby ceiling completely collapsed behind them, killing everyone else.
“Can you get up?” Walker whispered.
She was in tears and frightened out of her wits, but she nodded. As he helped her out of the mound of broken glass, Walker saw that he, too, was cut badly in several places. They were both covered in blood.
Outside, the city was another Dresden. Frantic citizens filled the street, running for their lives. The swarm headed south, the closest way out of the city. Walker looked up in horror as he saw the F-35s make way for a squadron of B-2s that began circling and dropping their deadly consignment. He knew it wasn’t going to stop until the entire city was rubble.
“Can you run?”
She nodded.
They followed the exodus, which from the sky likely resembled frenzied insects fleeing exterminators. Buildings all around them were partially or fully demolished and burning. The boulevard itself was an obstacle course of flaming chunks of debris. Charred and broken corpses littered the road. Every few seconds Walker saw someone on fire, screaming in agony, running blindly toward a private hell.
Miraculously the couple made it to the intersection of Las Vegas and Tropicana Boulevards. Sheriff Mack stood in the middle, waving the evacuation southward. Half of his uniform was blackened; his left side and face were badly burned, yet he continued to do his duty.
“Mack!” Walker shouted. “Come on, don’t stand here! They can find their way, there’s no other place to go!”
The man shook his head and yelled back. It was difficult to hear over the screams, the bomb blasts, and the crashing of
buildings. “I’m the captain! I go down with the ship!”
“Don’t be daft! There’s nothing you can do!”
“Go on, Walker! If I see you again, great. If not, it’s been real nice knowing you!” He leaned over and kissed Wilcox’s bloody cheek. “Kelsie, take care of him.” He looked at Walker. “And you take care of her! Go! Go!” He pushed them on; the couple couldn’t afford to stand there and argue. They left him in the intersection and continued south.
More explosions behind them. Walker didn’t dare look back. He knew the bombers were now targeting the fleeing civilians. Up ahead, the fiery remains of the Excalibur and Tropicana Hotels spilled onto the Strip. Black, debris-filled smoke blanketed the streets, making it extremely difficult to see and breathe. Getting around the ruins was a challenge; too often people blindly ran into pieces of buildings. Fireballs and stone fragments continued to soar through the air, hitting the ground haphazardly. Repeatedly a human was in the way.
Eventually they made it to McCarran Airport, which was also in ruins. Another mile or two to go and they’d be out of the city limits. Despite the lack of oxygen, their wounds, and exhaustion, the couple didn’t stop running. But just as they reached the I-215 overpass, another bomb struck the road in front of them. Walker tackled Wilcox and covered her body with his own as a gale of combustion and wreckage shot toward them. Hard, hot fragments of pavement pelted their backs, but the worst of the blast gushed over them. The unfortunate ones who hadn’t hit the dirt were killed instantly.
They laid there for a minute until the rumble diminished a bit. Walker looked up and squinted through the smoke. The overpass was destroyed and there was no way they could get through to continue south.
“We have to take another way. Come on.”
Wilcox went to stand, but as she got up she grimaced in pain. “Ow! Fuck, my ankle. I must have sprained it.”
He helped her move toward a golf course on the left. Some of the greens were ablaze, but there seemed to be a safe passage leading east. A few people followed their lead and trailed behind as the couple half ran, half limped across the ground. Walker and Wilcox ducked reflexively at the roar overhead as the bombers turned for another pass. It was at this point that he laid eyes on the annihilation that spread to the north. He had never seen anything like it. Even the aftermath of the EMP in Los Angeles was nothing remotely similar to the tragic display in front of him. Las Vegas was gone. In its place was a burning, smoking mass of devastation that most likely had buried thousands of human beings. He knew then that he and Kelsie were among the lucky ones. They weren’t out of danger yet, but areas farther south that led to the edge of the city limits were untouched.
