Homefront: The Voice of Freedom (33 page)

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 revelation 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.

“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?”

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.”

Malloy 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.”