by John
Colossal explosions shook the structure, producing so much black smoke that Salmusa couldn’t see the results of the strike. Then, with the velocity of molasses, huge chunks of steel and concrete dropped into the radioactive water, causing mammoth tidal waves in north-south directions. An enormous section of the bridge collapsed, bringing with it the remains of a burning, annihilated Abrams tank.
“Yes!” Salmusa shouted. “I got him! The Voice of Freedom is no more!”
One of the pilots spoke. “Sir, we await further instructions.”
“Go back to base. Mission accomplished.”
“Yes, sir!”
The two choppers wavered unsteadily in the heavy rain, then turned toward the city and shot away.
Terribly pleased with himself, Salmusa couldn’t wait to get back to base and contact the Brilliant Comrade. Kim Jong-un would be happy with the news. It had taken several frustrating months, but Salmusa had not let down his leader.
The operative opened the doors to the Humvee, grabbed hold of Byun and the unconscious soldiers, one by one, and tossed them out on the road. They would die anyway, he thought. They were useless to him now.
Just as he was ready to get in the driver’s seat, a glint of light pierced the haze to the south.
What the hell was that?
Salmusa rummaged through the front of the Humvee and found his pair of binoculars. He then got out, took several steps away from the vehicle, and focused the glasses on the old Chain of Rocks Bridge, the smaller one that zigzagged across the river. It wasn’t very far away, maybe between two and three thousand feet.
There! That glint of light again. It was moving east across the bridge!
No!
A bicycle.
A man, wearing an Iron Fish, was riding a bicycle across the Mississippi River.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The original pavement of the narrow old Chain of Rocks Bridge was covered with a smooth, brownish concrete surfacing more conducive to bicycles and foot traffic. An ancient sign declared it was once a part of “historic” Route 66. It was open to the elements, but steel girders and latticework surrounded the sides and top. Walker pedaled the bike as fast as possible on the crossing, but the weight and bulkiness of the protective suit, plus the added load of his backpack and weapon, slowed him down considerably. Nevertheless, he made good progress until he saw the Apache helicopters hit the I-270 bridge and the Abrams tank. He felt as if he’d been stabbed in the chest. The force of the explosions nearly toppled the bicycle, so Walker stopped and watched the heartbreaking destruction with tears in his eyes. He said a silent goodbye to Sergeant Wally Kopple, and then pedaled on.
Salmusa jumped into the driver’s seat of the Humvee, started the ignition, and turned the vehicle around. He gunned it westward, back over I-270 to the Riverview Drive exit, where he veered off and headed south to the old Chain of Rocks Bridge entrance. On the way he spotted the demolished drone control station and cursed the Americans’ resilience. Reaching the turnoff, he plowed through the guardrail and plunged past the useless, deactivated drones. He increased his speed and pushed the Humvee forward onto the bridge, which was barely wide enough for the vehicle.
The rain and fog, together with the poor visibility of the Iron Fish’s viewport, obscured the road more than twenty feet ahead. Salmusa drove on pure faith that he would catch up with the Voice of Freedom before the man reached the other side. After all, a Humvee was faster than a bicycle. Salmusa couldn’t see the bike, but he knew it was just ahead of him … somewhere.
Walker approached the halfway mark across the bridge, where there was a slight jog to the left; on both sides of the crossing were old stone buildings jutting up from the water. Were they ancient lighthouses? He didn’t know.
Then he heard the engine noise behind him. He stopped to look, but couldn’t make out anything beyond a few dozen feet away. Walker knew what the sound was, though—a vehicle on the bridge. They had discovered his bait-and-switch ploy. It was most likely a Humvee or a jeep or something. The bridge was too narrow for a tank.
Could he make it across before the vehicle reached him?
Walker couldn’t allow the Koreans to follow him to the other side. He had to stop them somehow. Thinking quickly, he got off the bicycle and stood it up next to the guardrail. He removed his backpack and dug inside for the C-4 bricks and remote control box that Kopple had given him.
The question was—did he have enough time?
The Humvee scraped the side of the guardrail, causing Salmusa to reflexively pull the steering wheel too far to the right. The vehicle slammed into the rail on the other side of the bridge, forcing him to stop. He cursed aloud again, threw the Humvee into reverse, pulled out of the tangled steel girder, and continued forward. That blunder had cost him a precious thirty seconds.
He floored the gas to compensate for lost time.
Walker hopped on the bicycle and pedaled like a demon from hell. It was impossible to determine how far behind him the KPA were and there was also no way of knowing how much distance he needed to put between him and the little surprise he’d left on the bridge. He figured another hundred feet or so would be enough, so he strained to cycle faster.
The noise of the vehicle grew louder. It wasn’t far away.
It was now or never.
Walker stopped pedaling, rested the bike with one foot on the bridge, and held up the remote control device.
He now saw a pair of headlights cutting through the gray soup some forty yards behind him.
“So long, suckers,” he said as he pushed the button.
Nothing happened.
Fuck!
What did he do wrong?
The headlights kept coming.
He frantically examined the remote control.
Christ—the on/off switch!
He flicked it on and then pressed the trigger button.
I have him!
Salmusa squinted as the man known as the Voice of Freedom came into view. The fool was standing in the middle of the bridge some thirty or forty yards away. It was going to be easy after all. The Humvee would plow into the dissident and drag his body all the way to the eastern side of the bridge. If the treacherous American wanted to reach the other side so badly, then Salmusa would help him!
Yi Dae-Hyun wanted to laugh, but instead he shouted, “Die for the Brilliant Comrade, you piece of vermin!”
He floored the gas pedal; but a flash of bright light blinded him before he heard the powerful detonation that engulfed the Humvee. An intense blanket of fire instantly smothered the Korean operative, disintegrating the Iron Fish and liquefying his skin.
Salmusa’s final thought was not that he was dying, but that he had failed his friend and brother, the mighty Kim Jong-un. The Asian viper had lost every shred of honor he had managed to achieve during his glorious years of service to Korea. He was nothing now. He deserved this blazing, molten fate and a watery, radioactive grave for all time.
Forgive me, Jong-un! I love y—
The strength of the explosion knocked Walker down. He fell over with the bicycle and landed hard on the bridge surface. He feared he had punctured the protective suit and that radioactivity was pouring over his body—but the iron lining prevented a tear. He had merely bruised himself.
Walker managed to raise himself on one arm to watch the devastation behind him. A large chunk of the old bridge broke away and plummeted to the river below. A tremendous surge of smoke and debris masked the headlights. Pieces of girder and concrete flew at him, forcing Walker to duck his head to avoid injury. The bridge section upon which he lay creaked and lurched; for a moment he feared the entire thing would fall apart.
He counted to ten. To twenty.
The bridge tilted down. Walker started sliding toward the abyss created by the detonation. He frantically scissor-locked his legs around the Schwinn to keep from losing it and lunged wildly for the steel girders on the side of the railing. The suit gloves, wet from the rain, slipped against the m
etal. His body—and the bike—glided precariously farther along the incline. Walker tried again, blindly waving his hands at anything he could grasp.
He caught another girder and this time the grip held.
Walker dared to look down toward the demolished section. Smoke still covered it, but there were no more headlights. No sound of a vehicle. Keeping his legs tight around the bicycle, he pulled himself up to get a better clasp on the girder. Calling on every bit of strength he had left, he reached down, drew the bike to his waist, slipped his arm under the top tube, and heaved the entire thing up so he could carry it on his shoulder. Then, slowly and carefully, he climbed the latticework up the tilted bridge some thirty feet until he reached a level, flat surface.
It was all over.
Walker pushed himself off the concrete and stood. He moved to the guardrail and looked down at the bubbling, raging river. There it was. Walker saw the Humvee sinking in the toxic deathtrap. Was there a man desperately attempting to save himself? It was too murky to know for sure, but there was no question that whoever was in the vehicle would not survive.
Never having been a religious person in the past, Walker felt obliged to say a prayer of thanks. He then got on the bicycle and continued the rest of the way across to the east.
Malloy handed Wilcox a plate of cold beans and spooned some for herself. “It’s not T.G.I. Friday’s, but it’s better than starving,” she said. They sat on a picnic table located at an old roadside rest stop on the western side of Jefferson City, Missouri. The contacts Malloy counted on had come through—the Kawasaki’s fuel tank was full and nothing would stop them from reaching Kansas City.
Wilcox ate her dinner in silence, but her mind was buzzing a mile a minute. So many things to think about. So much to plan for.
Was Ben all right? What was happening back in St. Louis? Would she—
She suddenly stiffened.
“What?” Malloy asked. “What’s wrong?”
Wilcox blinked and took a breath. “I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
“What?”
“I think he made it, Martha,” she said. “Ben crossed the river. I know he did.”
Kelsie Wilcox smiled and continued her meal.
WALKER’S JOURNAL
NOVEMBER 11, 2026
This date was once known as Armistice Day. I wonder if it means anything that it’s also the date the Voice of Freedom crossed the Mississippi River from the west to the east. Who knows?
What’s important is that I did it. I’m here in Illinois. Of course, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do next, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. I was just so excited and goddamn proud of myself that I had to stop and write this down.
I don’t know what I’m going to find here in the “great unknown” east of the river. In many ways, it’s the opposite of what occurred those centuries ago when settlers crossed from the east to explore the mysterious territory west of the Mississippi. St. Louis, after all, was always called the “Gateway to the West.” I guess now it’s the Gateway to the East.
I keep thinking about that son of a bitch Wally and his ultimate sacrifice. He drew the Koreans’ attention away from me so I could cross the river. I will remember him until the day I die. He is a true hero, worthy of the highest honor.
Kelsie is certainly on my mind. I have to find a way to get a message to her as soon as possible. She needs to know I’m safe. I miss her terribly. After the BIG NEWS she told me last night, I can’t wait to accomplish whatever it is I’m going to do over here and then get back to her. What a reunion it will be. I love her more than anything.
After all, she’s carrying my child. Can you believe it?
Later, man.
