by John
Walker paced the ground outside the parking garage, also using his own pair of binoculars to study the converging streets. At first there was nothing to see but fog, but then he noticed something moving in the distance. He called Bendix over and handed him the field glasses. “What do you make of this? It’s a vehicle.”
Bendix took the binoculars, studied the view, and nodded. “Yeah. The air’s too hazy to get a clear view, but you’re right. It’s some kind of vehicle. It’s coming our way.”
“Is it the supply unit?” Julian asked. He also focused on the street in question.
“Don’t know.”
The seconds ticked by. The vehicle finally reached a range in which its shape was discernable.
“It’s a goddamned tank,” Julian said.
Bendix gasped. “Did the Koreans intercept our messages?”
“They must have!”
Walker took back his binoculars and looked again. Sure enough, he made out the dreaded flag of the New Democratic People’s Republic of America—the heretical red-washed United States flag dominated by the Korean coat of arms. The tank was covered with the profane emblems.
“We better hide,” he said. “Can’t risk driving the SUV out of the garage. They’ll see us.”
Bendix issued the orders. “Everyone take cover. Don’t fire a shot unless I give the signal.”
The five men dispersed. Walker ran into the parking garage and knelt behind a concrete wall. He thrust a magazine in his M4 and pulled back the charging handle. Locked and loaded.
The tank rumbled louder as it grew closer. It moved slowly and ominously down the stretch of road. Walker dared to take a peek, studied its shape, and determined it was an American Abrams, most likely one that was confiscated by the KPA.
No one moved. The group wouldn’t give itself away unless infantry jumped out of the tank to search the garage. They had neither the personnel nor firepower to take down an Abrams.
The roar of the tank’s engines growled to peak volume as the vehicle rolled onto the drive in front of the garage. Then it stopped. Obviously, the site was indeed the tank’s destination. Now there was no doubt—the resistance cell’s secret supply rendezvous was blown.
The men held their breath.
Then, music piped out of the Abrams’ loudspeaker system, the volume cranked to a deafening level—the Beatles’ recording of “Revolution.” The searing fuzz-distorted guitar and John Lennon’s passionate singing pierced the street’s deadly silence.
What the fuck? Walker thought. Was this a trap? Was the KPA playing us at our own game?
He held up his palm and shook his head at Bendix—wait.
After another nerve-biting minute of nothing but music, the tank’s top hatch opened. A man appeared and he wasn’t Korean.
After a long and hoarse coughing spasm followed by a spit of phlegm over the side of the tank, the American turned down the music and called out, “Are you guys here, or what?”
Walker didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He jumped up and went outside to the tank.
“Wally Kopple, you old son of a bitch!”
The sergeant’s eyes widened when he saw the Voice of Freedom.
“Holy Mother of God!” Kopple yelped. “I had a feeling I might find you here. Could you or your friends use some assistance?”
WALKER’S JOURNAL
NOVEMBER 2, 2026
A lot has happened since I last wrote.
First of all, I’ve reunited with my good friend Wally Kopple. About a month ago he broke off from Boone’s resistance cell in Montrose and started heading east in search of me, or so he says. Wally told me he believes in what I’m doing and wants to offer some assistance. He met up with another cell in the Denver area and helped them take down a Korean weapons storage facility. They captured a bunch of tanks and weapons, which is great for the Resistance. Anyway, they let Wally have one of the tanks and he took off east again. Then he worked with a Kansas City cell for a while and that’s how he got wind of where I was. This cell was making supply deliveries to the St. Peters outfit every three months, so Wally volunteered to bring the supplies in the tank this time. And here we are. Besides the much-needed food and water and gasoline, Wally brought a bunch of explosives. No guns, unfortunately, but maybe the C-4 will come in handy. The cell might use it to blow up some Korean checkpoints or supply centers. The stuff even comes with a couple of remote control devices to set off the firecrackers. Just push a button and kaboom! Wally told me Hopper Lee himself repaired the remotes and got them to work.
His cough is terrible. He’s lost a lot of weight and his skin is pale. The poor guy doesn’t have the strength he once had, and he can stay active only a few hours a day. The rest of the time he has to lie down. Wally’s dying. I don’t know how long he’s got, but it’s bad. If I had to make an honest guess—and I’m no doctor—then I fear he won’t make it to the New Year.
Still, it’s good to have him around. At least he hasn’t lost his sense of humor.
Kelsie’s another thing altogether. Something has happened and I’m damned if I know what it is. She’s changed. It started around the end of September or beginning of October. She became moody and quiet, which is totally unlike her. I asked her what was wrong and she kept putting me off. Said it was nothing. Then, finally, during one of my endless sessions of thinking out loud about how we were going to cross the Mississippi River, she came out with it. She didn’t want to do it. She has an aversion to getting near the river but won’t tell me why. She said if I’m going to cross the river, I have to do it without her. I don’t understand it. I know it’s dangerous and it’s a big risk, but haven’t we been doing dangerous stuff and taking big risks for months? She knows how much it means to me to see what’s on the other side. It’s important.
So things have been kind of weird between us. She still loves me—she says so, every day. And I still love her. But I think something else is bothering her and she won’t open up about it. Like a typical stupid male, I don’t know what I can do. At least she has Martha to keep her company. In the month we’ve been in St. Peters, Kelsie and Martha have become good friends. Martha’s funny. She was once married to a Hell’s Angels type of guy, but he died a year or so ago. Martha must be in her 50s. She owns a fucking beautiful motorcycle that I’d love to get my hands on. She acts tough but she’s really a softie with a lot of heart. So she’s taken Kelsie under her wing and I think it’s done some good. I wonder if I should ask Martha what I can do about Kelsie. Maybe Kelsie’s confided in her.
Nevertheless, I’m still determined to cross the river. Against Kelsie’s wishes, I’ve been discussing a plan of action with Wally, the professor, and Julian. I think we’ve come up with something that just might work.
All we need is a tank—which we have; a bicycle—there are plenty around here; and some of those protective suits. That’s the hard part.
TWENTY-SIX
NOVEMBER 10, 2026
It was the night before Walker’s attempt to cross the Mississippi River.
As he went over what he needed to take, Wilcox sat on the motel room bed and watched.
He knew he needed two or three changes of clothes, the M4 and M9, ammunition, a working flashlight, water, food, a jacket, and what camping gear he could carry. Kopple had also given him some bricks of C-4 explosives, a portion of the supplies he had brought to the cell. The sergeant had shown Walker how to place the explosives, set the detonator, and use the remote control to trigger the big bang. Walker stuffed his backpack and went over everything one more time. Then he picked up the portable transistor board that Wilcox had made and sat beside her.
“Kelsie, you need to hold on to this.”
“Why? You need it. You’re the Voice of Freedom.”
“Darling, unless you’re coming with me, then you need to keep it and use it yourself. You might … you might need to carry on my work.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Come on, Kelsie, we both know it’s possi
ble. First of all, this plan of ours may not work. I could die tomorrow. Secondly, if it succeeds and I do get across, there’s no telling what I’m going to find. I could die over there, too. But hopefully there will be people with radios in the East. I will find them and I will continue my broadcasts. But I want you to promise me something. If you don’t hear me make a broadcast within two weeks, you’re to continue as the new Voice of Freedom. You can do it. You have the gift of gab, too, you just haven’t used it. Will you promise me that, Kelsie?”
She looked away, but a tear ran down her cheek. “I can’t imagine losing you.”
“You’re not going to lose me. We’ll be together again, I swear. I’ll either be back or I’ll find a way to get you across. Now will you promise me?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded and took the circuit board. She got up and placed it in her backpack, already full of emergency equipment for a quick getaway if necessary. Then she returned to the bed and he put his arms around her.
“Last chance, Kelsie. Will you come with me?”
Wilcox shook her head. “You need to do this alone, Ben. I’ll wait for you here. It’s all right. Professor Bendix and his crew are good people. Martha will take care of me. If anything bad happens, she’s already said there’s room for me on the back of her motorcycle.”
Walker nodded. “Stick with her. That’s a good idea.”
The couple looked at each other in silence for a few moments.
“Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked.
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“The hell there isn’t. You haven’t been yourself the last couple of months. I even asked Martha about it. She told me it was a ‘female thing’ and I should be smart enough to figure it out. Well, I guess I’m pretty dumb about female things. I always have been. That’s one reason why my wife left me all those years ago. So help me out. What is it I’m missing?”
Wilcox smiled and placed a hand on Walker’s face. “Oh, Ben, you’re not dumb. You’re the smartest and bravest and most wonderful man I’ve ever known. Don’t worry about me. It’s something personal I have to work out.”
“Does it have anything to do with us?”
She made a face, thinking about the answer. “Hmm. Maybe. But not right now. The important thing is for you to concentrate on the job tomorrow and getting across the river.” He shook his head, bewildered and frustrated. She laughed. “Stop. It’s okay. Really. Chalk it up to the never-ending mysteries of the opposite sex.”
“I guess I’ll have to.” He leaned over and kissed her.
“Are you done packing?”
“I think so.”
“Is it bedtime?”
“I guess so.”
“Wanna fool around?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
She laughed as she took off her top. “At least that’s one thing regarding women you don’t have a problem with.”
NOVEMBER 11, 2026
The weather turned miserable. Cold rain blanketed St. Louis, eastern Missouri, and southwestern Illinois. Added to the thick gray fog that seeped from the polluted river, the showers reduced visibility to a new low. Bendix and the others attempted to talk Walker out of his plan and wait until the weather cleared—but the Voice of Freedom insisted the bad climate would improve his chances of succeeding. There was less likelihood that surveillance helicopters would fly in the present conditions. In fact, Walker asserted, the circumstances couldn’t be better.
Wilcox had already said her goodbyes the night before after an intense session of lovemaking Walker would never forget. She didn’t want to see him in the morning when he took off. Instead, she hid in Malloy’s room and spent the rest of the night there. Walker was upset about it, but he understood. A tearful farewell in front of the rest of the cell would have been uncomfortable for everyone.
Bendix and the others wished him well, saying they hoped to see him again soon. Then, he and Kopple strapped a Schwinn Sporterra bicycle on the back of the Abrams tank, climbed inside, and drove away, leaving the motel, the resistance cell, and Kelsie Wilcox behind them.
As they traveled along Interstate-70 through St. Charles, Walker asked if Kopple could see well enough to drive. The sergeant looked terrible. He had spent most of the week in bed, coughing up blood and maybe half his lungs. What antibiotics the cell managed to obtain for him did no good. They both knew the inevitable was soon.
“I’m fine,” Kopple answered. “I’ve always been almost blind anyway. A little rain and fog ain’t gonna make much difference. As long as I don’t run into an old truck or something that’s in the middle of the highway, we’ll be okay.”
Even with the headlights on, they could barely see ten feet in front of them. The fog grew thicker as they moved farther east and the rain never let up for a second. Kopple described it as driving through “gray soup.”
At the intersection of I-70 and Highway 90, large signs written in Korean and English warned travelers to turn back. DANGER! RADIATION POISONING! KOREAN PEOPLE’S ARMY CHECKPOINT AHEAD!
“I couldn’t read those, could you, Wally?” Walker asked facetiously.
“Nah. I can’t read or see nothin’.”
The M1A3 Abrams tank was armed with the standard M256A1 120mm smoothbore gun that shot a variety of ammunition, including high explosives, multiple flechette, anti-personnel, advanced kinetic energy, and advanced multipurpose rounds. There were also three machine guns, one of which could be fired by the commander while the tank was buttoned up with all hatches closed to protect the crew.
The intel the St. Peters cell managed to obtain about the Korean checkpoint on I-70 indicated there were roughly thirty troops stationed there. While the enemy had no tanks at the location, the soldiers employed a stationary T8 anti-tank gun the U.S. Army once used as a towed field weapon. It was capable of firing 105mm caliber rounds up to a range of over a dozen miles. Kopple and Walker knew the gun could inflict serious damage on the Abrams, so it would have to be taken out first. Besides automatic assault rifles, the infantry most likely also had grenade launchers, bazookas, and flamethrowers.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
The tank rolled over Arena Parkway Road. The Missouri River checkpoint was just ahead. More signs declared: TRESPASSERS SUBJECT TO ARREST.
Walker put the binoculars to his eyes, looked through the tank’s viewport, and studied the checkpoint through the thick haze. “I can’t see shit,” he said. “Wait. The anti-tank gun is on top of the building. Do you see it?”
“Nah. We’ll have to get closer.”
“There are men coming out. Six, seven, eight … geez, there are twenty of ’em, at least. They’ve got their rifles aimed at us. You sure that Korean flag is displayed in the front?”
“Unless the rain blew it off. I made sure it was secure.”
The Abrams displayed the Korean-made New Democratic People’s Republic of America flags on all sides. It was a tremendous gamble, but Walker and Kopple hoped that would fool the KPA into allowing the tank to pull up close.
“I see the T-Eight now,” Kopple said. “I’ve got to raise the gun a bit. Think they’ll notice?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Don’t have a choice, do I?”
“No, you don’t.”
Kopple stopped the vehicle thirty yards from the checkpoint. Besides the portable building, a gate stretched across the road and was protected by piles of sandbags. Soldiers stood in front of it, guns ready.
Walker felt the familiar rush of adrenaline. The next few seconds would determine whether or not the Voice of Freedom lived or died. Flashes of the last twenty months flipped through the recesses of his brain. One image stood out—the lovely face of Kelsie Wilcox.
He felt a brief stab of guilt for leaving her behind, but he knew now why she hadn’t come with him. Before she’d left their bed to spend the rest of the night in Martha Malloy’s room, she’d revealed what had been troubling her.
The revel
ation hit him like a ton of bricks.
But Walker couldn’t think about that now; he forced himself to concentrate on what was going on outside the Abrams. The KPA seemed confused by the tank’s arrival. Five men marched forward. Walker figured they’d been trying to contact the tank by radio to confirm the identity of its occupants. He focused on the anti-tank gun and saw it move.
“Wally, they’re aiming the gun at us. If you’re gonna do something, do it now.”
Kopple peered through the CROWS sight and lifted the rifled-gun’s crosshairs to the checkpoint roof and the deadly T8 on top. The KPA officers noted the rising cannon and halted in their tracks. One man turned and shouted orders to the men on the roof. Three soldiers huddled over the T8, moved the gun into place, and aimed it directly at the Abrams.
“Wally! Now, for God’s sake!”
Kopple fired the gun. A thunderous report rocked the bridge; Walker felt the tank lurch from the recoil. Looking out the viewport, he saw nothing but smoke and haze. He placed his hands on the 7.62mm M240 machine gun trigger in the loader’s hatch, where he sat, and squeezed, blindly mowing down whatever was in front of the tank. Kopple did the same with the 12.7mm M2HB in the commander’s hatch.
“Did you hit the anti-tank gun?” Walker shouted over the cacophony.
“I have no idea!”
“Hold your fire and let’s see what damage we’ve done.”
They released the triggers and heard enemy gunfire outside the tank. Walker peered through the viewport; the smoke had cleared some. Men had taken cover in the building, behind sandbags and other objects—but more than a dozen bodies littered the pavement. The top of the checkpoint was ablaze, even in the rain.
“Wally, you got it! Damn, it looks like the roof caved in. The place is on fire.”
Kopple held out his hand. “Let me see.” Walker gave him the binoculars. “Shit,” he growled.
“What?”
“You’re right, I must have hit the roof, but not the T-Eight. It fell through intact and undamaged, and now they’re maneuvering it into the checkpoint doorway.” He threw the field glasses at Walker and immediately began lowering the cannon to aim it at the building.
