Homefront: The Voice of Freedom (34 page)

“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 them 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.

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.

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!
”