by John
“Oh, right. I hadn’t thought of that. By the way, that was very clever of you to come up with the Beatles code. At first I didn’t know what the hell you were saying, but I finally figured it out. I was a huge fan when I was younger. It was like—duh!—when it hit me. Very cool.”
“Thanks.”
“So how can I be of help?”
“We want to start broadcasting while we’re here. Do you know of any old radio stations we could use? Our portable unit is fine, but we’d prefer more power so we can reach more people. On our way here we passed one in Topeka that had a huge antenna, so we went back the other night and broke in. It’s still operational. I think it’s still being used as a religious-talk station.”
Derby laughed. “I know which one you mean. That Family Radio station’s been around forever, it seems. Yeah, they’re still broadcasting. They must have a huge generator and a lot of gas. I guess the Lord provides when His message is being told.”
“They did have a big mother of a generator. And the place was easy to break into. I hate doing that, but as you know, the Voice of Freedom messages need to get out. They’re as important as God’s.”
“You said it. Well, I’m not sure about radio stations in Kansas City, but I know a college with its own station. The school is in session, too. The Koreans allow most people to live their lives as best they can, even without cars or electricity or running water. However, the kids at the college repaired the equipment and use a generator to play music in the afternoons after classes.”
Wilcox nodded. “Sure, lots of colleges had radio stations. My high school had a radio club, too. I think a lot did, at least the ones that had money for one. I’m surprised the Koreans let them use it.”
“Oh, the Norks checked it out, all right. As long as the students just broadcast music and school news, they don’t care. However, all radio transmissions are closely monitored these days. I guess you know that. It’s become very dangerous for the Resistance.”
“That’s why we move around and never broadcast from the same place,” Walker said. “So how would we do it? Get into the school at night, that is.”
“I know one of the janitors. He’s in the cell I’m in. Should be no problem. Can you be on the air tonight at ten o’clock?”
“We can try.”
“I’ll send you a message regarding the day and time.” He wrote down the university’s name and address on his napkin. “It’s over the state line in Parkville, Missouri, but it’s really still part of the Kansas City metropolis. There’s a loading dock in the back of the main building. I’ll meet you there at the appointed time. We’ll do it after dark, because it’s pitch black there without outdoor lighting.”
“That sounds good.”
“So what do you think of those garbled transmissions that have been coming through lately?”
Walker looked at Wilcox and she shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean,” he answered.
“You haven’t heard them? They come on every night at midnight. Someone’s speaking, but the signal is really bad. Goes in and out, full of static, and difficult to make out.”
“No, I haven’t heard them. When did this start?”
“Eight days ago.”
“Oh, well we’ve been on the air only once in that time. It took us a while to get settled here.”
“Where are you staying? Did you hook up with a resistance cell?”
“We’re in a trailer park with a lot of other transient folks. I’m thinking we need to move, though, ’cause the Koreans were there yesterday searching the vehicles and checking everyone’s IDs. We were out when it happened, but I’m sure they’ll be back. They’re looking for someone or something. Probably me.”
Derby nodded. “You may be right. They’re cracking down on the Resistance, big time. I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard your broadcast. What night was it?”
“Three nights ago. We found a six-floor apartment building where squatters lived. We used the top floor. So tell me more about these garbled messages.”
“Here, I wrote some of them down, at least what I could make out.” He dug into his pocket and removed scraps of paper. “This was part of the first one. ‘Something something something … persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished … something something …’ and that’s all I got.” Derby slid it over to Walker for him to study. It made no sense to him. “Here’s another. ‘After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses … something something something …’ and then the transmission died.”
Walker frowned. “Now that sounds familiar.” He rubbed his chin. “Keep going.”
“ ‘Something something … he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches.’ ”
Wilcox made a face. “What?” She shook her head. “It’s nonsense.”
“I’m not so sure,” Walker said. “You have more?”
“One more, this was last night’s. ‘Something something … and cussed everything and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again … something something … polished off with a kind of general cuss all around … something something.’ ”
“Can I take these?”
“Sure. I hope you can figure ’em out. Either it’s some kind of code or someone’s just plain nuts and using up valuable air space.”
“It could be Korean probing,” Wilcox ventured. “Maybe they’re trying to get one of us to respond.”
“I thought of that, too,” Walker said. “I’m gonna listen tonight, like we agreed.”
“The thing is,” Derby whispered, “we’re pretty sure these transmissions are coming from somewhere east of the Mississippi River!”
Salmusa, flanked by ten Light Infantry men, stormed into the Family Radio station on 10th Street in Topeka, Kansas, where three nights earlier, Walker and Wilcox made a Voice of Freedom transmission. It was true, the facility possessed a tower over five hundred feet tall, providing it with a strong signal throughout the state and beyond.
The place was manned with a skeleton crew—just a DJ in the booth and an engineer at the mixing board. When the soldiers burst into the control room, the announcer was in the middle of quoting scripture and urging his listeners to pray several times a day for “deliverance from evil.”
“Turn off the radio!” Salmusa snapped. “Now!”
The engineer stood. “Wait a minute. We’re not doing anything wrong.”
Salmusa drew his Daewoo, grasped it by the barrel, and pistol-whipped the man across the face. The DJ rushed into the control room, knelt by his companion, and shouted, “Why did you do that? What’s wrong? What do you want?”
The engineer was able to sit up, but there was a nasty, bleeding gash across his right cheek.
“The Voice of Freedom made a broadcast from this station three nights ago. Where is he?”
The announcer wrinkled his brow. “Who?”
“You can’t tell me you don’t know who the Voice of Freedom is.”
The two men shook their heads. “No, we don’t know. But you’re right, someone broke in here the other night. We found the back door jimmied open. Someone was in the control room. But nothing was stolen.”
“Show me.”
The DJ left the engineer sitting on the floor, nursing his wound. He took Salmusa and two other men to the back of the station and pointed at the broken door jamb. The Korean considered that the men might be telling the truth. However, he needed to send a deterrent to the Voice of Freedom.
“Go back to your microphone,” he ordered. “I want you to broadcast something for me.”
Knowing better than to argue, the DJ returned to the studio booth and sat behind the console. Salmusa gestured with his pistol for the engineer to return to his seat and do his job. The Korean then entered the booth and stood behind the announcer. When the red light came on, the engineer said, “We’re live.”
“Repeat after me,” Salmusa commanded. “This message is to the Voice of Freedom and his networ
k of rebels and dissidents.”
The man did as he was told.
“You will no longer use radio stations to make your disloyal and treasonous commentaries.” After the DJ replicated the words, Salmusa said, “Now identify yourself and this station.” The man obeyed. “Now continue repeating what I say. To show you that your traitorous words will do you and the Resistance no good, the Korean People’s Army will hereby execute me and my engineer.”
The DJ’s eyes widened. He turned to Salmusa. “What?”
“Say it!” He lifted the Daewoo’s and touched the barrel to the man’s temple.
The announcer met the eyes of his colleague through the window separating the booth from the control room. One of the other soldiers also held a gun to the engineer’s head.
“To show you that your … what?”
“Traitorous words will do you and the Resistance no good …”
“Traitorous … words will do you … and the Resistance no good … oh God, please help us! Jesus Christ!”
Salmusa cruelly jammed the barrel into the side of the DJ’s head. “… the Korean People’s Army will hereby execute me and my engineer! Say it!”
“Please, don’t do this …”
Salmusa nodded at his man through the window. The soldier squeezed the trigger of his weapon and blew the engineer’s brains out. The DJ screamed.
“If you do not say the rest, I will torture you for hours and then execute you,” Salmusa said.
With tears running down his face, the DJ stammered, but he managed to get the rest out.
“Very good,” Salmusa said. Then he pulled the trigger, making sure the noisy discharge went out over the airwaves for all to hear.
Walker and Wilcox set up their portable generator and radio in the seclusion of an abandoned gas station three miles from the trailer park. At eight o’clock, they went on the air. The frequency on their board was still set to that of the religious radio station where they’d last made a transmission. As soon as Wilcox fine-tuned the signal, they heard a broadcast—the voice of a very frightened announcer reciting words that another man in the control booth was dictating.
“This message is to the Voice of Freedom and his network of rebels and dissidents.” Pause. “You will no longer use radio stations to make your disloyal and treasonous commentaries.” There was mumbling and then the DJ identified himself and the station’s call numbers. There was no doubt it was the same place where the couple had been.
There were more unintelligible words between the two men, and then the DJ asked, “What?”
“Say it!”
Pause. “To show you that your … what? … traitorous … words will do you … and the Resistance no good … oh God, please help us! Jesus Christ!”
The sound of a distorted thud made Walker and Wilcox jump. They shared a glance, instinctively identifying the cause. After a moment, the DJ continued through sobs. “Please, don’t do this …” Another pause, and then the announcer screamed bloody murder. After a further moment of inarticulate words between the men in the control booth, the DJ stammered and said, “… the Korean People’s Army will hereby execute me and my engineer!”
This was followed by the sharp, jolting sound of a gunshot.
The recording repeated after a short silence. It was obviously on a loop so it could be heard continuously.
“Oh, my God, Ben, we got those poor people killed,” Wilcox said.
Walker stood and walked away. He kicked a chair across the room. He picked up a screwdriver someone had left on the floor long ago and threw it hard at the wall.
“There’s something else, Kelsie,” he said. “I think I’m responsible for Las Vegas, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Koreans track our signals, right? They must have heard DJ Ben’s broadcasts, didn’t like them, and figured out they were coming from Vegas. I bet they bombed the city because of me.”
“You don’t know that, Ben. The Norks did it to exert their dominance over us. Come on, don’t go thinking that.”
Walker shook his head, leaned against a workbench, and breathed heavily until he came to a decision. With purpose, he strode back to the radio, picked up the microphone, and spoke.
“My fellow Americans, this is the Voice of Freedom. This message is for our Korean occupiers. I know you’re out there. How dare you murder innocent human beings. How dare you use me as a reason to slaughter people. Every one of you bastards is a coward. You have no honor. You have no decency. You are the scum of the earth, the lowest of the low. And you know what? Your Idiot Comrade Kim Dung-un is the biggest coward of you all. He sits over there on his puny ass, preaching to the world what a peace-loving dickhead he is, and all the while he gives the orders to do this to innocent people. Let me tell you something, you uninvited sons of bitches who are in our country. The Resistance is gonna kick your asses out. Mark my words! It may not be tomorrow and it may not be next month. It may not even be next year. But one day it’s going to happen, and you’re going to regret stepping foot on our beloved soil. You are no better than slimy dung beetles, and we don’t want you here! The Resistance will bury you! Americans, are you with me? Are we going to bury these cowardly bastards? Are we going to kick our boots so far up their butts that our feet’ll bust out their noses? Hell yeah! Repeat after me! Hell yeah! Come on, louder—Hell yeah! Louder, louder! Hell yeah! Hell yeah! Hell yeah!”
He chanted for a full minute, screaming his lungs out, using the emotional outburst as a cathartic release for his pain. And when he stopped, Wilcox grabbed his arm.
“Ben,” she whispered. “Listen.”
At first he didn’t know what she was talking about.
Then he heard it. Voices. Outside.
Walker stood, went out the back door, and put his ears to the wind.
It was distant and it was faint, but it was in unison.
Hell yeah! Hell yeah! Hell yeah!
Thousands of voices across America had answered his call.
Salmusa made it a point to monitor radio traffic at night. The Voice of Freedom usually made his transmissions between eight and midnight. He had heard the eight o’clock broadcast and the ensuing cry of protest that echoed in the sky. He was so angry that he walked out on a pedestrian-filled Kansas City street and shot the first person he saw.
When the chatter began later that evening, Salmusa recognized the Voice of Freedom and another network operative known only as “Derby.”
“It’s been a Hard Day’s Night, my friends,” the VoF said. “And I’m looking for a place of higher learning.”
“Tomorrow Never Knows,” Derby answered. “Not until ten o’clock, anyway.”
“I copy that, sir. This is the Voice of Freedom signing off.”
Salmusa stared at the radio speakers. What was that all about? Obviously it was code for something. However, there was something about the phraseology that rang a bell. He clapped his hands for Byun, his assistant, who obediently jumped into the superior’s office.
“Get me the transcripts of the Voice of Freedom’s last ten broadcasts.”
The underling fetched them quickly. Salmusa laid them on the table and studied the texts.
Then he smiled.
His former wife Kianna had been a Beatles fan. She had played the disgusting Western rock music until he was forced to wear earplugs. But some of the words, song titles, and lyrics sank in.
He thought he understood the code.
Salmusa stood and entered the room where his team was working.
“Find me a school—a college or a high school—that has a working radio station!” he commanded.
JULY 22, 2026
Derby and his janitor friend, Eric, quietly rode their bicycles toward the university’s loading dock. They stopped at the entrance of the long expanse of road that led to the campus. It bordered a lush park. They could barely see where they were going in the dim light.
“What time is it?” Eric asked.
“I don�
�t know. It’s almost ten. I hope we’re not late.”
“This makes me nervous.”
“Relax. It’ll be all right. The Voice of Freedom will make his broadcast in five minutes and we’ll be gone before the Koreans can figure out we were here.”
The sky was black. There was no moon and the stars were hiding. Even though it was the middle of summer, Derby felt a chill in the air. “Come on, let’s get going.”
They rode on, pushing through the final mile to the campus. There were no cars in the parking lot in front; the building was dark and silent. They pedaled the bikes around to the back and stopped at the loading dock.
As soon as they dismounted, a floodlight cracked on, bathing the dock—and them—in bright light.
“Hands up! Do not move!”
The Korean officer barked the command through a megaphone. The voice was so loud and strident that the two men yelped in fright. The light blinded him, but Derby made out several uniformed soldiers pointing rifles at them. The man with the megaphone approached, now backlit so that his silhouette stood ominously before them.
“Which one of you is the Voice of Freedom?” he asked.
The men were too scared to speak.
“Or are you meeting the Voice of Freedom here and he hasn’t arrived yet?”
Salmusa moved closer so he could examine the fear in the captives’ faces. His eyes went from one to the other and back again. “You better speak, or I will kill one of you in three seconds. Are either of you the Voice of Freedom or his colleague Derby? I am counting to three. One.”
Derby swallowed.
“Two.”
“Wait! I am the Voice of Freedom!”
Salmusa wasn’t sure. The timbre and inflection in the man’s speech was familiar, but it wasn’t what he’d expected. He addressed Eric. “And who are you?”
“I’m just a janitor here at the college.”
“And you were going to let the rebels into the radio station?”
Eric hesitated.
“Tell him the truth, Eric,” Derby said.
The man nodded. Salmusa smiled. He was pleased. He turned and clapped his hands. Four solders trotted to the threesome. Indicating the janitor, Salmusa said, “Take this man and hang him from one of the light poles in front of the college.”
