Homefront: The Voice of Freedom

by John

  “We can’t destroy the place, Wally, we need the suits inside.”

  He coughed twice and said, “Buddy, if that T-Eight hits us, you’ll never get the suits. Shoot the bastards in the doorway!”

  Walker gazed through the machine gun sights and fired. Because of the flames, the debris, the fog, and the rain, visibility was worse than before. He aimed for the door and hoped for the best. Kopple finally got the cannon in position.

  “Here we go again!” He released the shell—and another powerful explosion jolted the tank. Walker kept his eyes on the building and waited for the black clouds to clear. The structure still stood but now there was a massive hole in the front. Several KPA still fired assault rifles from concealed positions.

  “You got it, Wally! Now we just have to mop up.”

  They both manned the machine guns and spray-fired the gate and sandbags; but as long as the enemy stayed behind cover, the battle would remain a stalemate.

  Kopple revved up the tank’s engine and drove forward.

  “What are you doing?” Walker yelled.

  “There’s only one way we’re gonna finish this!”

  The Abrams lunged forward and rammed the temporary structure’s front. The walls collapsed around it and more men scattered on the road. Now there was nothing to hide behind. Walker swerved the machine gun around and caught the men retreating from the sandbags. Kopple cut down the infantry on the other side. Then, he grabbed his own QBZ-03 and climbed up to the hatch. “I’ll cover you,” he said. “You get out there and find one of them goddamned suits!”

  He unlocked and swung open the hatch, thrust his upper torso through it, and fired his weapon like a maniac. Walker squeezed up behind him, slipped out, and jumped onto the tank’s hull. With the M4 up and aimed at any object in his way, he leaped to the pavement and pushed into the burning debris that was once the checkpoint structure. There were no clear spaces to step without trampling on bloody, burned body parts or remains of the anti-tank gun. Kopple continued to fire at anything else that moved while Walker searched the rubble. He finally found a metal locker on its side, its door flung open but the contents intact.

  Six rubber iron-lined suits.

  He picked up two—they were much heavier than he’d expected—and made his way out of the ruins. Kopple stopped shooting.

  “If there’s anyone else alive, they’ve run off,” he said.

  Walker took that moment to survey the bridge. More than twenty Korean corpses lay in jumbled, misshapen arrangements. Many of them were missing limbs and other body parts. The gate, surprisingly, was still standing. There was nothing left of the checkpoint aside from the dregs of its destruction.

  He climbed back atop the Abrams and handed one of the suits to Kopple. “This is for you.”

  The sergeant grimaced. “You know I don’t need this.” He tossed it on the ground below.

  “I thought you might change your mind.”

  Kopple shook his head. “That ain’t gonna happen. Let’s get out of here before the reinforcements come. You know they will.”

  Once they were safely inside the tank, the sergeant fired it up and slammed through the gate. Surrounded by dense rain and fog, the tank continued along I-70 through Bridgeton and Maryland Heights, the western suburbs, and finally into dark, deserted, and dead St. Louis.

  The squad surrounded the motel on I-70 and the men indicated they were ready. Salmusa gave the order to fire an 81mm high explosive, white phosphorous shell from a mortar aimed at the building’s office. The explosion brutally shook the structure and filled the street with thick black smoke. The five armed resistance cell members burst from their rooms, guns blazing, but they were quickly wiped away by a KPA Light Infantry assault weapon barrage. The remaining, unarmed rebels emerged from the motel with arms up and white handkerchiefs in their hands. The troops roughly herded them into a circle. Salmusa calmly walked around them, his hands clasped behind his back. He approached one of the men and asked, “Which one is your leader?”

  The insurgent pointed to the dead man on the ground. “Professor Bendix. That’s him.”

  “Where is the Voice of Freedom?”

  The survivors all shared a glance. “Who?”

  Salmusa cold-cocked the man with his Daewoo. Two KPA dragged his body away from the small group and emptied three bullets into his head. Salmusa addressed the rest. “I know the Voice of Freedom was here. I know he was here this morning. I want to know where he’s gone and what his plan is.”

  Suddenly, one of the motel doors opened, following by the roar of a motorcycle engine. A Kawasaki practically flew out the room, skidded in front of the KPA and its captives, made a sharp turn, and sped off onto the feeder road. Two women sat astride it—a heavier one driving in front, and another in back, holding the driver’s waist for dear life. The KPA quickly knelt, aimed their weapons, and fired at the fleeing bike. The driver gunned the engine and shot forward as bullets sprayed the road behind them.

  “Let them go,” Salmusa shouted. “It was just a couple of weak and cowardly American women.” The soldiers obeyed, stood, and resumed positions around the captives.

  “Now then,” the Korean said. “Are you going to tell me what I want to know? No? Then who do I get to torture first?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The turnoff to merge with I-170 North didn’t exist anymore. The overpass was in ruins, the casualty of some earlier battle or act of vandalism. The plan had been to connect with I-270, but now they couldn’t. Kopple dug into the recesses of his memory to recall St. Louis’ street layout, for he’d been there a few times in his past. Eventually he took the Lucas–Hunt Road exit and headed north through a labyrinth of rotting vehicle hulls.

  “Can’t you go faster?” Walker asked. “Those reinforcements are surely on our tail by now.”

  Kopple coughed violently and spat. “You wanna drive, Walker? If you’d look in front of us, the road is an obstacle course and it’s still raining and the fog is so thick only a chainsaw could get through it.”

  “Sorry.”

  It seemed to take forever for the tank to reach Halls Ferry Road, where they turned left and drove north to the Interstate. The going was no better, but Kopple increased the speed the best he could.

  “What happened here, Wally? The road’s all torn up, buildings are demolished … I know they had to evacuate, but it looks like bombs were dropped on St. Louis, too.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, but Bendix told me he’d heard a rumor that the residents initiated a scorched-earth policy when they left. If they couldn’t have St. Louis, then neither could the Koreans. Looks like the rumor is true. I can’t imagine what good it did. Even if the river gets cleaned up, no one can live here for years and years, not even the Norks.”

  Walker shook his head. “I used to hate driving during road construction. Road destruction is no better.”

  The tank finally made it to I-270, sped up the ramp, and steered east toward the river.

  Kopple said, “Ben, you better put on that suit now.”

  Malloy veered the Kawasaki off I-70 at Highway 61. She had pushed the motorcycle hard since their escape from St. Peters. Behind her, Wilcox panted, “Oh my God, oh my God …”

  “You all right back there? You’re squeezin’ the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry. That was a, er, fast ride. And bumpy. Yeah, I’m okay. You think we made it?”

  “They’re not behind us. I guess they figured we weren’t worth the chase.”

  Wilcox dug into her backpack and retrieved a bottle of water. She took a swig and handed it to Malloy. “So what now?”

  “We’ve got enough gas to get a third across the state. I have some contacts in Jefferson City. Why don’t we head there first and see if we can find gas. Then I say we move on to Kansas City.”

  “That’s where I told Ben I’d be.”

  “I figured. Did you end up telling him about the other thing?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  Mal
loy turned to look at her. “And is it all good?”

  “I don’t know, Martha. I don’t know. I really don’t want to talk about it. Let’s keep moving. I’ll try not to squeeze the shit out of you.”

  “Okay, honey.” After a long drink, she handed the water bottle back to Wilcox and revved the engine. “Let’s burn rubber.”

  And she did.

  Dressed in an Iron Fish protective suit, Salmusa rode in the front passenger seat of one of the squad’s Humvees. He held the radio mike to his mouth and repeated his orders once again. “I want two Apache helicopters over the bridge on Interstate-270 connecting Missouri with Illinois. Now.”

  Reception in the bad weather was terrible, but a voice broke through the static. “But, sir, the pilots insist the inclement weather prevents them from flying. Visibility is—”

  “I don’t give a damn about visibility! You tell the pilots the first two men who get the choppers in the air and over the bridge will be promoted and the others will face a firing squad! Tell them!”

  He threw down the mic and slammed his fist in the window next to him. Salmusa knew if the Voice of Freedom made it across the river he would disappear forever. This was the Korean’s only chance to catch the vermin.

  “Drive faster!” he barked to Byun, the driver. The underling did as he was told, but he and none of the other men in the squad were pleased with venturing into toxic St. Louis. Why did Salmusa get to wear a radioactivity-shielded suit while no one else had protection? The leader had seen fit to bring an Iron Fish for himself and neglected to mention it to his men.

  Salmusa glanced in the side mirror and confirmed the two other KPA-controlled Humvees trailed closely behind his. Conditions on the road were terrible. Wrecked automobiles, sections of razed buildings, fallen telephone poles and street lights marred the streets—St. Louis was a wasteland. Salmusa was thankful he didn’t have to spend much time in such a crypt.

  “Sir, the turnoff to Interstate-One-Seventy appears to be destroyed.”

  Salmusa punched the dashboard in front of him. “Damn it! Find another way! We need to get to 270!” He picked up the mic. “Have you got me some helicopters yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Two Apaches are on their way.”

  “They are to knock down the bridge by any means available. Hurry!”

  The Abrams reached Riverview Drive, just a mile or two from the New Chain of Rocks Bridge on I-270 that connected Missouri to Illinois. Immediately south and parallel to this conduit was the original Chain of Rocks Bridge that dated from 1929. Its name came from a large shoal, which made that section of the Mississippi River extremely hazardous to navigate by boat. The old bridge was once U.S. Highway Route 66, but it closed in 1968 when Interstate-270 was completed and the New Chain of Rocks Bridge became the official crossing for vehicular traffic. The original Chain of Rocks Bridge was instead relegated for bicycle and pedestrian passage only. Like its newer counterpart, the smaller, narrow two-lane bridge connected Missouri with Chouteau Island, part of Madison, Illinois.

  The tank finally reached the head of the New Chain of Rocks Bridge and stopped. As the resistance cell’s intel predicted, it was guarded by three small drones that resembled miniature tanks, the size of Labrador Retrievers. As soon as the Abrams got within thirty yards of the bridge, the unmanned ground vehicles perked up and aimed their weapons.

  “See those little fuckers?” Kopple asked. “Those are Gomez-Miller TALON SWORDS units. The SWORDS stands for Special Weapons Observation Reconnaissance Detection System. Goddamned Norks stole ’em from the U.S. Army. Bendix told me they’ve got those pesky robots guarding all the bridges. Look, see how they activated as soon as we got near? If we get closer, they’re gonna start firing.”

  “With what?” Inside the iron-lined protective suit, Walker’s voice sounded like he was shouting from the bottom of a barrel.

  “Oh, I imagine they’ve got a grenade launcher or two, a SAW M249, some machine guns of various calibers, a friggin’ flamethrower.… The Koreans must’ve figured the drones wouldn’t come up against anything but resistance fighters on foot or in cars or something. But you know what? They ain’t no match for a genuine Abrams motherfuckin’ tank. Watch this!”

  Kopple coughed ferociously before he could do anything, and then he vomited all over his lap. “Aww, fuck,” he said. “I guess I don’t feel so good.”

  “Wally?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “It’s the radiation. I’m starting to feel it, man. But hey—maybe it’ll fight off some of the cancer that’s inside me.”

  “God, Wally. What can I do?”

  “Nothing! Where was I? Shit, I’m losing it … Oh, yeah. I’m gonna blow the smithereens out of those automated cigarette lighters.”

  He pulled the M256A1 smoothbore gun down, peered through the targeting sight, and placed the crosshairs on the middle robot.

  “Don’t put a hole in the bridge!” Walker implored.

  “Shut up, I know what I’m doing. It’s just like bowling. Watch this strike.”

  He pulled the trigger; the anti-personnel round shot out the cannon with a satisfying zzzip. The ensuing explosion completely obliterated the targeted drone and knocked the one on its right off the bridge and into the water below. The drone on the left remained standing and began firing its ineffectual machine gun.

  “Okay, so I’ll get a spare,” Kopple said. He swung the gun a few feet over and fired again. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of the robot.

  “Nice shooting, cowboy,” Walker said.

  “Now for Part Two. Bendix said there’s a control station somewhere around here. It directs any other drones within a couple of miles. Probably manages robots on the Illinois side of the bridge, too. Do you see it? It’s probably a big metal box-like thing, looks like an electrical power generator or something.”

  “Uhhh, no,” Walker answered. He couldn’t see anything except what was straight in front of him due to the limited sight lines of the suit’s viewport.

  “Oh, right. Hold on.” Kopple climbed up to the hatch and opened it. Rain showered inside the tank as he looked around. “Goddamn gray soup! I don’t—wait, there it is!” He ducked back in and shut the hatch. “It’s over to the right, in between the two bridges.” Kopple manipulated the cannon’s targeting controls and veered the gun in position. “I think a high explosive is called for here. Remember the Alamo!” He fired the weapon and the two men heard the blast in the distance. Gazing through the viewfinder, he confirmed the hit.

  Kopple turned to Walker. “You need help with the bicycle?”

  “No, I can get it. I hope it’s still strapped on the back of the tank!”

  “It’s there.”

  For a moment they didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m not gonna hug you with that creepy suit on you,” Kopple said. He held out his hand. “Good luck, Ben Walker. May the Voice of Freedom live on and lead our country back to the glory it once was.”

  “Damn it, Wally, you sure you want to do this? You could go on back to the motel.”

  “Shut up.” He coughed and wheezed. “You hear that? It’s over, man. I’m checking out. I can’t take any more of the pain. Besides, I’m about to pass out. I expended every bit of energy I have left getting you here. Now go on, get out. Go do your hero thing.”

  They clasped hands tightly and then Walker climbed out of the tank.

  The small KPA caravan rushed past Riverview Drive and approached the New Chain of Rocks Bridge.

  “Where are my Apaches?” Salmusa shouted into the mic. He saw nothing through the Iron Fish’s viewport. He punched Byun. “Do you see them?”

  The driver swerved the Humvee and almost crashed into the guardrail, but he quickly pulled the vehicle back on the road.

  “You fool! What’s the matter with you?”

  Byun felt nauseous and could barely keep his head up, much less drive. Already the toxic air had affected everyone on the team except Salmusa. The sound of a collision behind t
hem drew the operative’s attention to the side mirror. One of the Humvees had slammed into a light pole on the side of the highway. Its driver must have passed out from the exposure.

  Salmusa faced forward again and saw the Abrams tank shoot forward across the bridge.

  “Stop!” Salmusa shouted. “Let me out!”

  Byun managed to put on the brakes and immediately vomited. Salmusa looked behind him. The other infantrymen were unconscious. The other Humvee rolled to a stop by ramming the back of the first vehicle. Everyone inside was too sick to move. Cursing, Salmusa opened the door and stormed outside. He moved as fast as he could in the bulky iron-lined suit to the edge of the bridge.

  The tank’s taillights disappeared into the thick rain and fog.

  “Where are my helicopters!” he shouted to the sky.

  And then he heard them. Scarcely visible through the dark haze, two Boeing AH-64 Apaches, confiscated from the United States Army, soared overhead. Salmusa raised a fist at them and ran back to the Humvee to grab his radio.

  “Put me in contact with the pilots! Hello? Hello!” The receiver garbled with static. “Damn it, can you hear me?”

  “Sir! Yes, sir, you’re breaking up—”

  “Put me in contact with the pilots! Now!”

  More radio noise followed; Salmusa was tempted to smash the mic against the dash. Finally, he got an answer from the Apaches.

  “Do you see the tank on the bridge?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Blow it to hell! Now!”

  The two pilots fought the raging elements to remain airborne and managed to fly to advantageous positions from which to attack. The first chopper placed itself north of the bridge and then unleashed two AGM-114 Hellfire anti-tank missiles from its stub-wing pylons. They were direct hits on the Abrams. At the same time, the other Apache hovered on the southern side of the bridge and let loose two Stinger missiles. They struck the bridge itself, just in front of the speeding tank.