Homefront: The Voice of Freedom

by John

  Anyway, Boone and Wally think Kelsie and I should stay out of the fight and concentrate on being the Voice of Freedom. The name stuck. We made two more broadcasts with Hopper’s portable radio and our transistor board. The first one we made from the old golf course and the second one we made from the west side of town in an abandoned McDonald’s. I reported how more Koreans had moved in to Montrose, and I also heard from two of my followers. They’re calling themselves “the Voice of Freedom,” too. Yankee Doodle in Washington State and Cecilia up in North Dakota said they’re part of the Voice of Freedom “Network.” That made me feel good. I think I really have started something.

  MAY 8, 2026

  Nguyen was killed yesterday. I can’t believe it. I’m really broken up about it, too.

  He led a team to confront a large contingent of the enemy at the intersection of Highways 50 and 550. Well, it turned out the enemy force was larger than they’d thought. We lost three people, including Nguyen, before the team realized they were committing suicide. They had to turn back and run away. I don’t blame them one bit.

  Nguyen Huu Giap was a hero. I paid tribute to him in a broadcast about him last night. Derby, in Kansas City, acknowledged the report and forwarded it through the Voice of Freedom Network.

  There are about ten of us now that I know of. More and more people have repaired radios that work. The Voice of Freedom Network is spreading like wildfire. I’m really proud, but I’m going to miss Nguyen …

  MAY 9, 2026

  I’ve decided to leave Montrose. I think my usefulness with Boone’s cell has run its course. I had a long talk with Kelsie about it, and she agrees and wants to get the hell out of Dodge, too.

  Last night we presented our decision to Boone, Wally, and Connor. They’re sorry to see us go, of course, but they totally understand our intentions.

  The thing is, I want to see the Mississippi River. I have to. I want to see for myself the horror the Norks inflicted upon our country. I need to report it through the VoF Network.

  And most of all … I want to cross it. I have to see what’s going on east of the river. No one has heard anything from Washington. Nobody knows if our president is alive or dead, although the VoF Network reports rumors that he’s in the UK. We have no idea if the Koreans are present in New York or D.C. or Boston or Philadelphia.

  I have to know …

  So tomorrow morning, Kelsie and I are heading out. The cell has donated a repaired 1999 Jeep Cherokee SUV for us to use, as well as a decent supply of gas. Hopper gave us his portable radio. The cell has two more, so he didn’t need it. We’re taking the hand-cart generator, too, so we can make broadcasts on the road.

  We’re going to head east toward Kansas City. Derby already said he’d meet up with us. From there I guess we’ll go to St. Louis and see about getting on the other side of the river. I don’t know how we’ll do it, but as the saying goes, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  JUNE 18, 2026

  It’s been Road Trip Heaven and Hell.

  Kelsie and I are in Salina, Kansas. I can’t believe it’s taken this long to get only this far.

  First, the good stuff. Interstate-70 is surprisingly uncluttered with derelict cars. The highway infrastructure is not a junkyard like it was a year ago when I was first traveling cross-country. Either people have moved them off the roads, stolen and repaired them, or whatever. We still see a few rotting hulks on the side of the highway, but not as many as before. There are also many more repaired vehicles actually driving. I was afraid our SUV would be too conspicuous, but so far we’ve blended right in with the light traffic—VERY light traffic. It still isn’t the kind of thing that was normal ten years ago, or even two years ago before the EMP. But I reckon a car passes us in either direction every five or ten minutes. We usually wave and they wave back. I’ve also seen some black market gas stations every now and then. I’d say that’s progress.

  More good stuff. The people we’ve come into contact with have all been nice and helpful. There’s not a lot of Korean presence on the road, but we do see a convoy of troops every now and then. They don’t bother stopping the cars on the highway. They act like they’re on a mission to get somewhere. We don’t bother them, they don’t bother us. I guess that’s good.

  Now the bad stuff.

  You’d think we were in the Great Depression again, only ten times worse. Kansas is deserted. Yes, there are pockets of people, and they’ve all been nice and helpful like I said above. But finding a pocket of people takes some doing. Maybe they’re all living away from I-70, or maybe they’ve just plain evacuated the state and moved to a big city somewhere. Apparently the Koreans have taken over a lot of the farms. They’re sucking our agricultural industry dry. And rather than being forced to help them do it, the farmers and townspeople just left.

  I also found out through the Voice of Freedom Network there was major trouble in Salt Lake City, Utah. Apparently there was a large uprising by the civilian population against the Korean military occupation, and it worked—at first. They took back control of the greater Salt Lake City area, commandeered Korean vehicles, and imprisoned occupational leaders! But on May 16th, the bastards responded by firebombing downtown with a series of Massive Ordnance Air Blast bombs—or MOABs, as they’re called (the “Mother of All Bombs”). I can only imagine how terrible it was. There were more civilians in the city than there were in Vegas when it got whacked. Then I received an even uglier report, and I sincerely hope it’s a rumor. In the ensuing couple of weeks of clean-up operations, the Koreans supposedly executed any man they found who was over the age of sixteen.

  Last night I broadcasted this news over the VoF Network. If that doesn’t raise the level of outrage in this country, I don’t know what will.

  The last bit of bad news was that the SUV broke down near the Colorado-Kansas border and we were stuck there for three weeks before someone came along that happened to have a badly needed gas filter. It was a worrisome three weeks, too. The closest town was a ten-mile walk to Burlington, Colorado, and there was nothing there. No one around. So after trying that, Kelsie and I went back and stayed with the SUV. We lived off of crackers and apples and water. And love. I guess you could say that’s what really kept us going.

  In the end, a couple of guys in a tow truck (!) happened to come by. I couldn’t believe it. It was almost as if we were suddenly back in the good old days when motor clubs would send out guys to fix your car if it broke down on the road. Anyway, Benny and Charlie—that was their names—they had a bunch of automobile parts for emergencies, and they happened to have spark plugs that fit. They wouldn’t take anything for payment.

  America. You gotta love it.

  TWENTY-THREE

  JULY 5, 2026

  Salmusa never took a holiday.

  The Americans’ former Independence Day proved to be a challenge for the KPA all over the nation. Protests occurred all over the country. Fortunately, Salmusa had received intelligence that such displays of disloyalty were going to occur. Where possible, KPA Light Infantry divisions dispersed the protests with tear gas, beatings, and arrests. In addition, resistance movements made it a point to celebrate the so-called “Fourth of July” by attacking various Korean outposts. Some were successful. Korean units in Dallas, San Diego, Montrose, and Oklahoma City were hit hard. The KPA simply couldn’t be everywhere at once.

  Thus, the week leading up to the Fourth was a busy one. While minions under his command felt the need for a day off, Salmusa allowed no such thing. The GKR never rested, not until all goals and objectives were met.

  Always setting an example to others, it was the crack of dawn when Salmusa stepped into his office at the Greater Korean Republic’s military headquarters in San Francisco’s old city hall. Other than the security guards who manned the building 24/7, he was always the first one there. The first hour he spent exercising in the gym, for it was important to keep in shape. Salmusa believed the second most essential requirement for any member of the Korean
People’s Party, after loyalty and allegiance to the Brilliant Comrade, was discipline over one’s body.

  Following his workout, Salmusa spent a couple of hours analyzing intelligence reports from around America. Kim Jong-un had expressly dictated that resistance cells be squashed like bugs, so the operative was determined to locate every rebel hideout and destroy it. The task was proving to be more difficult than he had imagined. These simpleminded Americans had more fortitude than anyone in North Korea had predicted. Salmusa thought the military analysts in Pyongyang were fools. They had not lived in the United States as citizens, as he had done. Had he been the one to set military policy and goals in the New Democratic People’s Republic of America, Salmusa would have been much harsher in dealing with the population from the first day of the invasion. In his opinion, the approach was too soft. There was no need to build shelters for the homeless, provide food and clothing, or allow them to keep owned property. If he’d been in charge, Salmusa would have slaughtered all the men and male children. Best to keep the vermin from reproducing.

  Of course, he knew that would have been an impossible undertaking, but he enjoyed the fantasy.

  Salmusa checked the clock. It was time for a scheduled video call with the Brilliant Comrade. How privileged he was that he had direct access to Kim Jong-un! Only three other KPA men stationed in America could now claim such an honor.

  After the usual satellite linkups and security checks, Salmusa was connected to Kim’s office in Pyongyang. When his handsome face appeared on the monitor, Salmusa was reminded of the man’s godlike charisma. He had watched the leader grow and mature from the days when they were both toddlers. Even then, Salmusa knew that one day Jong-un would be a great ruler. One of the most meaningful moments of Salmusa’s life was when Kim Jong-un commented that he considered the two of them brothers.

  Salmusa bowed slightly and said, “Good day to you, Brilliant Comrade.”

  “And to you, Salmusa.”

  “I hope you are well.”

  “I am fine. I understand you’ve had a difficult week.”

  Salmusa shook his head. “It’s never too difficult to serve the Greater Korean Republic and the New Juche Revolution.”

  “You are a loyal servant, Dae-Hyun. Still, there were several uprisings and protests yesterday.”

  “Yes. We took care of every situation. The Americans will think twice before staging demonstrations in the future.”

  “But we lost some units?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. But not many. Compared to the damage we inflicted on the Resistance and the general population, it was a worthwhile sacrifice.”

  “Very well. However, while I agree with your sentiments regarding the American people, the Greater Korean Republic must take care with regard to the international community and its perception of our treatment of the population. Our propaganda campaign is powerful and reaches every country in the world, but these resistance cells are managing to spread stories of our … work. We cannot allow it.”

  “No, sir.”

  “The so-called Voice of Freedom is a thorn in my foot, Salmusa. We have discussed him before.”

  “Yes, Brilliant Comrade. I am focusing all my energy in attempting to locate this infidel, the instigator of the radio network.”

  “Recordings of his broadcasts were delivered to me. We conducted an analysis of his voice and determined the Voice of Freedom is the same man who once went by the name ‘DJ Ben.’ ”

  Salmusa stiffened. “I was under the impression that DJ Ben was dead. After Las Vegas—”

  “He continued to make broadcasts as DJ Ben following the strike on Las Vegas, so obviously he escaped prior to the bombing. Then—he was silent for a while. But he returned as the Voice of Freedom. And now he has a nationwide network of followers and collaborators. He is single-handedly the best recruitment vehicle for the American Resistance. He must be stopped.”

  “I understand, my Brilliant Comrade.”

  “I place you in charge, Salmusa. I trust no one else to find him and eliminate this threat.”

  “I will see to it that he is hung by the neck in public, my Brilliant Comrade.”

  “You are to suspend your other activities and concentrate solely on this task. I have the utmost faith in your abilities.”

  “Thank you, sir. It is my duty and pleasure to serve.”

  Salmusa spent the rest of the afternoon with his communications analysts and technicians. While they didn’t possess recordings of every transmission the Voice of Freedom had made, there were enough to establish a pattern of physical movement across the American landscape. The first broadcast, as they all knew, was made on April 10 in Montrose, Colorado, the same day a battalion of troops arrived in the town to begin the shale oil mining operations. KPA security forces confirmed that the radio speech was made in an abandoned radio station—now destroyed. Subsequent transmissions occurred in a variety of locations around Montrose.

  Salmusa trembled with anger. Why did the security forces not find him then? How difficult could it be? Idiots!

  Other broadcasts were made along Interstate-70 in Colorado, moving in an easterly direction. The most recent was in Kansas. Where was the man headed? Surely not the Mississippi River. Did he not know it was certain death to get near it?

  Salmusa studied the U.S. map on the wall in front of him. It was possible the Voice of Freedom might head south toward Oklahoma City or Dallas, Texas. There were reports of strong resistance cells in those cities. However, Kansas City was also a hub to various points. From there, the insurgent could travel to Arkansas or eastern Texas, or perhaps to Des Moines, Iowa. He could disrupt GKR activities in those areas with his despicable, radical commentaries. The man was obviously moving with some purpose in mind.

  The operative made a decision. Salmusa returned to his office and began assembling a small team. They would fly as soon as possible to Kansas City. If that was where the Voice of Freedom was going, then Salmusa would be there to snare him in a trap.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  JULY 21, 2026

  Walker and Wilcox sat with the man known only as “Derby” in a coffee shop located near Blue Valley Park, not far from the Truman Sports Complex in Kansas City. After having arrived in the city a week earlier, the couple found the Korean presence in town to be more frightening than what they’d seen so far. Kansas City was a large, sprawling city, and it took a great number of troops to regulate it. An entire brigade of an estimated four thousand men policed the metropolis, although Walker wasn’t entirely clear why. Kansas was known for its agricultural resources, for which the Koreans demonstrated a desire—but the city itself held no strategic value. Or did it?

  “It’s the gateway into Missouri,” Derby explained. “And because Missouri butts up against the Mississippi River, it’s important.”

  Connecting with a member of the Voice of Freedom Network proved to be a challenging prospect. Walker and Wilcox were well aware the Koreans listened to the VoF broadcasts. Other resistance cells also made transmissions; it was the only way Americans could communicate with each other. Cellphone service was still nonexistent and landlines had never been repaired. Therefore, a code was established that had to be intuitive to American listeners and bewildering to the enemy. Walker figured most people knew the works of the Beatles so he tried preceding any meet-up information with a reference to a Beatles song, which he hoped would make no sense to the North Koreans. A little later in the broadcast, Walker cited a different Beatles allusion and another piece of the rendezvous information. For example, he might say, “Good evening, my fellow Americans. This is Mean Mr. Mustard looking for a Ticket to Ride with Derby. In today’s news …” Then, after his report, he’d say, “They got a crazy way of loving there, and I’m gonna get me some. Coffee at Blue Valley Park.” The first part was a lyric from the Wilbert Harrison tune called “Kansas City,” which the Beatles covered on an early album. This meant the meeting would take place in Kansas City. Later in the broadcast, Walker would say,
“Goo-goo-ka-choo, Tuesday at three,” which quoted the nonsensical lyric in “I Am the Walrus,” followed by the day and time of the rendezvous. It took awhile for resistance members to catch on; but like a lightbulb snapping on in one’s head, once the connection was made there didn’t seem to be a problem.

  Derby was a thin and diminutive middle-aged man who appeared extremely nervous to be meeting in public with the Voice of Freedom himself. Walker knew him at once because Derby wore a faded Beatles T-shirt. The shop, a former Starbucks, specialized in coffee made with homegrown coffee beans and boiled rainwater. They did a brisk business.

  The threesome sat at a table on the sidewalk in plain view of Korean soldiers who stood across the street eyeing every pedestrian. Walker figured the less suspiciously one behaved, the better the chances of the guards not noticing.

  “What’s your real name?” Derby asked. “Mine is—”

  Walker held up his hand. “Best not to reveal our real names. If one of us were to be caught and tortured, well … you know.”