Homefront: The Voice of Freedom (4 page)

Walker took a position in the press section and prepared to be underwhelmed. He wondered if it might be possible to try and be a classic investigative reporter
again by looking into Saint Lorenzo’s background and exposing the kid as a fraud. It was probably the boy’s parents who were behind the scam. Or a religious organization. Walker wouldn’t put it pass the pundits.

It was something to think about.

   Yi Dae-Hyun also came to the LA Arena to hear Saint Lorenzo speak. His objective, though, was not to pay any attention to the young charlatan. Yi was there to observe the mood of the public, assess the malleability of LA’s citizens, and issue a final report to his superiors in Pyongyang prior to the momentous day of Korean Victory over the puny United States of America.

When Yi first came to California in 2021, he had successfully integrated himself into American society as a mild-mannered electronics salesman working for a Korean microchip manufacturer. He had taken an American wife—of Korean ethnicity, for he couldn’t have abided bedding a Caucasian—and lived in a small house in Van Nuys.

No one knew that his code name was “Salmusa,” after the Asian viper, or that he was a childhood friend of the Brilliant Comrade, Kim Jong-un. They had been born on the same day—January 8—in the same year. Yi’s father had distinguished himself to the North Korean regime in 1983 by taking part in the bombing of Burma, a patriotic act that killed several South Korean officials. Thus, Kim’s father, the former leader Kim Jong-il, granted Yi’s family special status. Young Dae-Hyun was allowed to play with young Jong-un, and when they were of age, both were sent to the English-language International School of Bern in Switzerland. They studied martial arts together, conversed in foreign languages, and, while in Europe, were inseparable.

Yi always knew Kim Jong-un would be a better leader than his father. When Kim Jong-il died in 2012, Jong-un took over as dictator with the support of his uncle Chang Sung-taek. Jong-un immediately promised a new era of peace and prosperity. He announced, with great fanfare, that North Korea would give up nuclear weapons and seek peaceful reconciliation with South Korea. He even allowed United Nations inspectors into the country in the interest of complete disclosure of all its secret programs. Any domestic opposition in the country quietly disappeared with little notice from the public.

Then came the historic signing of the peace treaty between the North and the South in 2013. Yi was present at the monumental event. Kim Jong-un won the Nobel Peace Prize and was named
Time
magazine’s “Man of the Year.” Nicknamed “The Unifier,” Jong-un was responsible for a fever of nationalism that overwhelmed South Korea. There were calls for the U.S. military withdrawal from the South, and the country’s historical economic woes were blamed on America.

So America left.

In 2014, North Korea appropriated Western—including U.S.—technologies that were previously sold only to the South Koreans. The Korean economy reaped benefits from untapped mineral resources, as well as from an influx of educated, cheaper labor. Nevertheless, despite the best efforts of Unified Korea’s propaganda arm, the peninsula continued to be referred to internationally as North Korea.

In 2015, Jong-un took direct control of the military without much protest. He immediately began an effort to upgrade equipment and standards. He made use of U.S. technology as well as arms bought from the Chinese and Russians. Meanwhile, Yi Dae-Hyun
was given a job in a hidden cell of the secret police to help shape public opinion in the South. Opposition leaders were either engulfed in scandal or they suffered terminal “accidents.”

It was an occupation Yi thoroughly enjoyed.

By 2016, Kim Jong-un enjoyed a cult of personality in his country. He was seen as the savior of the people, and a propaganda campaign depicted him as the man who would lead the New Juche Revolution. Yi watched with pleasure when, in 2017, the Korean government made formal protests against violence toward ethnic Koreans in Japan and demanded international condemnation. Meanwhile, North Korean Special Forces units took part in elaborate amphibious and airborne-landing training exercises. War against Japan was declared in 2018. The Koreans took control of a number of nuclear facilities in Japan. In an act to show resolve, they destroyed one of the reactors, killing thousands instantly and laying a death sentence on countless Japanese living within the radiation fallout.

Japan surrendered without firing a single shot. In a reversal of history, Korea occupied Japan.

Throughout 2019, Korea exerted its control in the Far East. The military took over Japan’s Aerospace Exploration Agency and captured the latest M-V rocket, which was based on the Peacekeeper ICBM. The Koreans also established prison camps. Yi smiled as he reflected on how similar they were to those still in place in North Korea. Jong-un promoted Yi to a role overseeing public executions in Japan. At this point, the viper-like operative earned his code name, “Salmusa.”

Korea obtained military equipment from Japan; thus, by the end of 2020, the growing armed forces began learning how to operate U.S. gear.

The Greater Korean Republic was formed in 2021,
with the annexing of Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines, Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. Once the alliance was in place, the propaganda machine doubled its efforts to blame the West in general, and the U.S. in particular, for continuing conflict in the Middle East. This was also the year Salmusa was sent to the United States to integrate into American society. His cover as an electronics salesman allowed him to quickly find a wife. Marrying Kianna further solidified his disguise while he implemented the beginning phases of the Brilliant Comrade’s master plan.

The year 2022 saw the Koreans conducting various military exercises, such as using converted commercial cargo ships for moving troops between its allied nations in East Asia. They also began a convoy system, providing Aegis escorts for actual commercial cargo ships traveling to Mexico and back in the name of “protection against a U.S. attack.”

The Brilliant Comrade came up with another ingenious idea in 2023—in order to obtain Korean citizenship and join the People’s Party, one had to enlist in the military. The size of North Korea’s regular military exceeded twenty million, including five million in the expedition force. They all marched under the banner of the Korean People’s Army.

Finally, just last year, Salmusa’s home country reinvigorated its unmanned space program with the stated goal of rejuvenating the decaying global GPS system. The West was unable to justify a protest when the Koreans launched a satellite for this purpose.

Salmusa, the Asian viper, was one of the few who knew what the satellite really contained.

   After Saint Lorenzo’s ridiculous performance, Salmusa left the Arena in his Hyundai, the largest
selling automobile in the world. He would miss driving it, but that was a frivolous emotion he had inherited by living in America. In two days, he would no longer care about it.

It was time for the Execution Phase of the Brilliant Comrade’s plan, one that was set in motion years earlier.

Salmusa looked at his watch as he drove onto I-110.

Less than twenty-four hours to go.

JANUARY 15, 2025

10:00
A.M.
, PST.

Walker had spent no more than an hour the previous night writing his piece on Saint Lorenzo. Basically he ripped the performance—and the kid—to shreds. He compared Lorenzo to the phony faith healers from yesteryear and described the scene at the Arena as nothing more than a “circus sideshow act.”

After sending the article to his boss by e-mail, Walker had a glass of Jack Daniels and then, surprisingly, slept very well.

Thus, he felt relatively good as he chained his bike to a meter, swiped his Meter-Card, and then stepped around the homeless beggars camped out on Hollywood Boulevard. The famous Walk of Fame had deteriorated in stature and glamour during the past decade. The city no longer supported the Walk, allowing the various stars on the sidewalk to fall into disrepair. Most tourist-themed shops were long gone. Grauman’s Chinese Theatre was now a homeless shelter. The Kodak Theatre was one of the government-run heating centers, although every now and then Hollywood’s old guard attempted to put on some kind of live show once or twice a year. Very few people attended. Walker often wondered where the money came from to finance the production. He figured
somebody, somewhere, had the cash to drop into the nostalgia bucket and satisfy his or her own personal need for old-style Tinseltown hoopla.

The
Celebrity Trash
offices consisted of two rooms in what once was a cinema bookshop. In fact, the place still doubled as a bookstore with much of the old stock still on the shelves—but no one had bought a book during the entire five years Walker had been employed there. Most of the time he worked from home. The state government encouraged folks who could to do so. It saved gasoline, power, and city utilities.

Johnny Slazbo, the owner and publisher of webzine
Celebrity Trash
, stayed glued to his computer screen as Walker came in. (Walker referred to him as Johnny “Sleazeball” behind his back.) The boss didn’t bother hiding the porn he was viewing. That was one industry that still seemed to flourish. People couldn’t afford gasoline or food, but they still spent money on pornography. Walker often pondered the correlation between hard times and vices. Did immoral habits increase during periods of economic strife? He didn’t know. It was a fact, though, that prostitution, drug addiction, and alcoholism ran rampant. There was something very wrong with that picture—the only people currently making real money were the porn stars, pimps, and drug dealers. Not since the legendary 1920s had organized crime become so powerful.

“Did you get my article on Lorenzo, Johnny?” Walker asked as he pulled up a chair in Slazbo’s cubicle.

“Yep.” The man refused to take his eyes off the skin on his screen.

“I was thinking my next piece should be an exposé on the kid. You know, really dig into his background,
his parents, his manager, his financial supporters. There’s got to be some spicy stuff there.”

Slazbo continued to study the action on the monitor. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because the kid’s a fake! Look, I don’t want to hurt a ten-year-old, it’s his handlers I really want to go after. They’re selling bullshit to the public and I want to call ’em on it. Johnny, would you turn that off and talk to me?”

Finally, Slazbo punched something on his keyboard and the nasty video shut off. In its place was salacious computer wallpaper that was just as disgusting. The boss, who was in his twenties, turned to Walker and said, “I don’t think our readers would appreciate that. Saint Lorenzo is a hot topic. We can get some good copy on him while he’s popular. Maybe in a few months, after his fifteen minutes of fame dies down, then you can do that.”

Walker expected that answer. “Okay, how about this? Let’s go after the Koreans. I want to do a hatchet job on Kim Jong-un. That guy is a fraud, too. The propaganda coming out of the Greater Korean Republic is too Nazi-like for its own good. Look around outside. If it’s not filth and trash and reminders of the sorry state of affairs, then it’s signs of the Korean dominance in our marketplace and society. They’re all around us, even after we’ve declared them to be a menace!”

Slazbo drummed his fingers on the desk. “Very passionate speech, Ben, but I’m gonna have to say ‘no’ to that one, too. Too political. We don’t do political editorials at
Celebrity Trash
. It wouldn’t be popular. I don’t think anyone gives a shit about Kim Jong-un. Everyone is miserable. They just want something to laugh at, if they can. We try to provide a little bit of entertainment.”

Walker didn’t like that answer. “Jesus, Johnny, don’t you care about what’s happening out there? No one gets real
news
anymore. I’m guilty of dishing out the garbage, too. For the past five years, I’ve just been a hack, churning out these trashy stories about
nothing important
, and worse than that, I’ve stepped on a lot of toes and hurt people doing it. I don’t have many friends left in this business.”

“Damn right, Walker. And you know why? You’re the best reporter we’ve got. I don’t mind telling you that. You’re unscrupulous. You’d sell your grandmother for a story. And that’s what I like about you. We need that kind of no-holds-barred attitude around here. The only good reporter these days is one with a lot of enemies. And that’s you. So shut the fuck up and get out there and find us another celebrity to interview.”

Walker got up and left the cubicle. He hesitated at the front door before stepping outside, and then turned around and confronted Slazbo again. The man was already once again staring at the porn on his computer screen.

It was time to do what Walker had planned. There was no turning back now. He’d given the boss one last chance to assign him something worthwhile.

“Johnny, guess what. I quit.”

That got Slazbo’s attention. “What?”

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I quit. Please pay me what you owe me. I’m walking away.”

Slazbo’s mouth dropped. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I’m through.”

The boss laughed. “Are you nuts? Where else are you going to get work? Have you seen what’s going on in the streets?”

Walker leaned over the desk. “That’s what I just said to
you
a few minutes ago!”

Slazbo just snarled. “Go on then! Quit! Your damn check’s in the mail. Maybe it’ll actually get delivered.”

“No way, Johnny. I know damn well you keep cash on hand for tipsters and weed.” He held out his palm. “Pay me now. You owe me.”

Cursing, Slazbo grudgingly opened his desk drawer, unlocked a petty cash box, and counted out several bills. “Here. Don’t slam the door on your way out.” The man turned back to his computer, fuming.

Walker pocketed the money and said, “Okay, Johnny. Goodbye and good luck.” He turned and left the building.

   As Walker pulled the Spitfire into the gravel drive of his house in the hills north of Mulholland Drive, he saw his neighbors, the Gomezes, getting out of their old station wagon. Their house was the nearest structure to his, maybe fifty yards away. Walker had been lucky, having inherited the home from his mother. She had bought it in the late 1980s, just before Walker was born. Properties were not in close proximity this far north; the privacy and isolation suited him.