Hunting Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

An experienced agent of Mossad, Eli never questioned orders. Questions were a luxury for naïve idealists and dreamers. That was not Eli. He was a warrior fighting for the survival of his people, his homeland. It was not his job to make policy, to decide what course of action should be taken. Rather, he was an implement of action to ensure the desired results were achieved.

  Sometimes, that meant exporting the violence, so that others would understand.

  Everything Eli did this night, from the way he dressed, to the locations he scouted and ultimately selected, to the timing of his actions—everything—was coldly calculated to send a message.

  It was 3:00 a.m., and the sidewalks were all but deserted. He turned the corner into an alley behind Langan’s Pub, just off West 47th Street and a half block from Times Square. He passed a homeless man pressed tight against the brick wall, burrowed under a filthy blanket with the remains of a large cardboard box for cover. The rank odor of vomit, stale urine, and rotten food assaulted his senses.

  Ahead, the mechanical rumble of heavy machinery announced the approach of a garbage truck a few seconds before its lights appeared at the opposite end of the alley. The truck was just turning off West 46th, right on schedule.

  Eli jogged to a commercial refuse bin behind the pub. He only had a minute, maybe two, to complete his task without arousing suspicion from the truck driver. Plunging his hand into the messenger pouch, he retrieved a yellow-green object. It filled his hand as his fingers wrapped around the device, obscuring it from view of the security camera aimed from the far side of the alley toward the steel dumpster. With his free hand, he removed first a safety tie and then a metal ring attached to a pin. Then he carefully stuffed the grenade against a front wheel of the dumpster so that when the bin was pulled forward to be emptied, the lever would pop off and ignite the chemical fuze.

  His task completed, Eli turned and swiftly exited on West 47th Street. As he crossed Times Square, the sharp report of the explosion was proof his mission had succeeded. He strode down another alley, placing three more grenades, before vanishing into the night.

  The sanitation department driver was on autopilot. He’d been working this route for close to three years, long enough that the motions were more muscle memory than deliberate thought. With the diesel engine rumbling in idle, he hopped out of the cab and wrestled the dumpster forward about six feet. When the fragmentation grenade detonated, the driver was in the process of climbing back into the cab. The blast slammed the open cab door into his body, knocking him to the pavement. The dumpster cartwheeled into the air, landing with a clang 20 feet away. Dozens of steel fragments pierced the front of the garbage truck, including three that penetrated through the door and lodged in the driver’s thigh and shoulder.

  Almost immediately, passersby appeared from nowhere, drawn in the alley by the sound of the explosion. Soon, sirens blared and two police cruisers arrived on the scene, their flashing colored lights adding to the chaos. A civilian was applying pressure to the worst of the driver’s leg wounds, stemming the flow of blood.

  One of the officers was holding back the onlookers, whose ranks had grown to nearly a dozen, while the other was speaking over his radio to dispatch. “We have one victim, male, he’s conscious with multiple wounds. Request emergency medical help; this guy is bleeding pretty bad.”

  “Dispatch. Roger request for med―”

  The sharp crack of two nearly-simultaneous explosions drowned out the reply from dispatch. Reflexively, the two police officers ducked, but quickly it became apparent they were not in imminent danger. As the officer called in the report, one thought was foremost in his mind—It’s going to be a long night.

  With a 20-block area surrounding Times Square evacuated and sealed off, NYC police along with agents from BATF and the FBI, scoured the area for clues as well as additional explosive devices. The security tape from the video camera by the first bomb had been reviewed, and law enforcement knew their prime suspect was male, with short black hair—possibly Middle Eastern—but it was not possible to pull many facial details from the images.

  By noon, they had found only one unexploded device, a military hand grenade also placed at the base of a commercial trash bin close to Times Square. Fortunately, there was a surveillance camera nearby, and it showed images of the same suspect as from the first bombing. Declaring the streets safe, the evacuation order was lifted.

  Considering the nature of the recovered device, plus evidence that the three exploded devices were fragmentation bombs, possibly hand grenades, the investigative lead was turned over to the FBI. Before the day was over, an explosive ordinance expert from the U.S. Army confirmed the unexploded grenade was of Iranian manufacture.

  “You guys are lucky no one was killed,” the expert explained. He was video conferencing with FBI agent in charge, Special Agent Wilhelm. “That’s a fragmentation grenade. Killing radius is eight meters.”

  “We don’t often see military explosives in domestic bombings,” Wilhelm said. “Usually it’s homemade IEDs. You sure it’s Iranian?”

  “Absolutely. The markings are distinctive, as is the overall design. It’s a rough copy of the older pineapple-style hand grenade popular during the mid-twentieth century.”

  Wilhelm was studying the photograph displayed over the video link. “This is the condition of the grenade when it was found?”

  “That’s right. Apparently, a patrol officer found it at the base of a dumpster about a block away from the second explosion. The pin was still in place. It was completely safe.”

  “That’s odd. Why would the bomber place three grenades, pulling the pin and setting each to explode when the trash bins were moved, and yet fail to arm the fourth device?”

  The Army expert shrugged. “Can’t help you there. Anyway, that’s all I have. Let me know if any other questions come up during your investigation.”

  “Yeah, sure. Thank you.” And then a moment later, just before the expert hung up, “Oh, one more question.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “Any idea how someone in New York would come into possession of Iranian hand grenades?”

  “Well, the obvious answer is your suspect is connected to Iranian military, maybe the Revolutionary Guards.”

  Wilhelm had already thought of that possibility. “Yes, but how does he get the grenades—let’s say there were four of them—into this country? It wouldn’t be easy to get hand grenades through airport security; I don’t care what country you’re in.”

  “Like I said, beats me. Maybe he’s a diplomat?”

  “Iran and the U.S. don’t have diplomatic relations.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you with that one. Give me a call if you have questions of a military nature.”

  Special Agent Wilhelm eased back in his chair, deep in thought. How would I smuggle grenades from Iran into New York? If the answer involved secure diplomatic pouches, it would have to be through a government friendly—or at least sympathetic—to the Islamic Republic of Iran. I don’t even know how to begin investigating that angle.

  He decided to see what forensics came up with. Maybe the facial images captured by the security cameras would return a positive ID after running through the many data bases maintained by U.S. and European agencies.

  Wilhelm sighed. He was a realist, and he knew that short of a miracle, if the facial recognition software came up empty, this case would go cold within a week.

  Chapter 2

  Bend, Oregon

  April 8

  The chime from Emma’s phone woke her from a fitful slumber. She glanced at the clock—5:30 a.m. Hopeful that it was the email she had been expecting, she rolled out of bed, grabbed her laptop, and quietly entered the kitchen so as not to wake Kate. While her PC was booting up she heated a mug of water in the microwave and began steeping a tea bag—black tea infused with orange and spices—and returned to her desk. There it was, an email message from Jon Q with a single large PDF attachment.

  The file was titled “Traitors
Within.” She thought that odd, but then realized almost everything about this contact was odd. The communication was always email, always using aliases, anonymity being of paramount concern. Emma knew almost nothing of her contact—gender, age, race—all unknown. She didn’t even know if he—she had a mental picture of her contact as a nerdish male, about twenty-fiveish—lived in the United States or abroad.

  And then there was this whole dark web thing. Emma wasn’t a computer geek, but she had heard of the dark web—mostly in news reports about arrests of hackers charged with stealing financial and personal data. Emma had surfed several online forums about hacking government sites until she made the connection with Jon Q. That was almost three weeks ago.

  When Emma explained her request and how it had irreparably affected her family, Jon Q bragged that he could access the Department of Defense records and get the information she was seeking.

  “But how can you be certain?” she wrote. “You don’t even know where this information is. It could be anywhere after all these years—or nowhere. For all we know, it may have been deleted as part of the cover up.”

  “Relax Cupcake.” That was Jon Q’s pet name for Emma. She hated it.

  “With the exception of 18 minutes of the Nixon tapes, Big Brother never deletes anything. The information is there—always is. Just waiting for me to find it and bring it into the light of day.”

  “Why do you do this?”

  “It’s my duty as a patriot to expose the corruption and waste that pervades every aspect of government.”

  “You’re not a terrorist, are you?”

  “Cupcake, you really need to chill. I’m not going to blow up anything. I’m not a terrorist.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” she wrote back. “You can’t expect to change anything. People have tried before—you know, exposing government secrets, embarrassing secrets. And nothing changes, not really.”

  “I already told you. That and the money.”

  Emma sighed when she read that in the email. Of course she knew payment would be required. But it wasn’t the first thing Jon Q demanded, so she allowed herself to believe that maybe he wasn’t going to ask for much.

  “Naturally,” she wrote. “For love of country and money. Look, I’m a student. I don’t have much.”

  “Already trying to negotiate my rate down, and I haven’t even quoted you a price. Like I said, I’m on a mission—you might call it a crusade—to expose the lies and dirty secrets powerful people in Washington don’t want Joe Citizen to know. Sounds like you might be onto something here, a really juicy secret. So, I’ll cut you a deal. I’d normally get ten grand for this type of job. But for you, this job, I’ll settle for five.”

  By the time the negotiation was concluded, Emma had worked the price down to $3,000—all of her savings—payable in bit coins. Harder to trace, Jon Q had explained.

  That was two weeks ago.

  She was beginning to believe that Jon Q was running a scam; that he had taken her savings and would never actually hack the records that had been buried for close to half a century: records of a violent battle that claimed her grandfather’s life—a battle that should never have occurred.

  Emma had not received any messages from Jon Q for close to two weeks, but now she had this email and file. She double clicked on the icon. Several seconds later the file opened and filled her screen.

  The PDF document was actually a large collection of official reports and memos. At least they looked official, some with a Department of Navy header and seal, others from the State Department. There were even memos from the Department of Justice and the White House. The font was irregular, as would have been the case for typed documents from the period. They were all dated 1967, as early as June and then moving forward into July, August, and September.

  Her hand gripped the teacup, squeezing until her fingertips turned white as she read. And she continued reading, even as the tea cooled to lukewarm.

  She never heard Kate approach, and when her roommate gently placed her hand on Emma’s shoulder, she startled.

  “You’re up early. Is everything alright?” Kate asked.

  “Oh, uh, yeah—just couldn’t sleep.” Emma minimized the PDF file, allowing Kate only a brief glimpse.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Oh this? Just some research for my history paper. Thought I’d get an early start on it.”

  Kate eyed her friend suspiciously. “You sure everything is okay?”

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” Emma knew she wasn’t a convincing liar.

  Pressed for time, Kate decided to let it go… for now. She chugged down a spinach-blackberry smoothie, a favorite concoction she had blended the previous night and stored in the refrigerator. “Hey, why don’t you text me this afternoon if you want to meet after classes. Tim is tending bar tonight at Brother Jonathan’s.” Kate was smiling with her eyebrows raised as she mentioned this. For weeks she’d been trying to set up Emma with her friend, much to Emma’s dismay.

  “Yeah, okay,” Emma said, her tone contradicting her words.

  “I know that look. Let me know if you change your mind. Gotta go shower and dress; I’m already late.”

  Alone again, Emma returned to reading the Department of Navy memo. It was short, only three sentences, and addressed to the crew of the USS Liberty and their families. The order was simple, direct: Do not talk to the press… to your friends… to anyone. The incident is classified, and violation of this order will result in legal prosecution to the fullest extent of the law.

  This information didn’t help Emma. Her mother had already told her of the order to remain silent under threat of imprisonment at Leavenworth, the order still binding on descendants of the sailors who were engaged in the action. What Emma wanted—needed—were answers. She had tried in vain to get answers through official channels, filing four separate requests under the Freedom of Information Act. All were flatly denied.

  She sighed and moved on to the next document, and the next—searching for answers as to why an obscure battle that took place so many decades ago was still highly classified.

  Oblivious to the passage of time, Emma was completely absorbed by the documents, page after page. She stopped only long enough to grab a cup of strong coffee, hoping the caffeine would help to keep her mind sharp. As she read, she was taking notes, laying out the chronology of the attack on her grandfather’s ship.

  Her mother had told her some of the facts, such as the date of the attack—June 8, 1967. As well as the casualties—34 Americans killed and 171 wounded. Emma knew that the Liberty was heavily damaged and came close to sinking—probably would have had it not been for the heroic leadership of Captain William McGonagle and the desperate, tireless efforts of the crew.

  Other information about the attack she had gleaned from several books and Internet sites. All of the public sources retold nearly the same story.

  On the morning of June 8, four days into the Six-Day War, the USS Liberty was in international waters in the Mediterranean, off the coast of Egypt. Several Israeli aircraft flew over the Liberty that morning. However, the U.S. officially maintained a neutral position during the Israeli-Arab war, and Captain McGonagle had no reason to suspect his ship and crew were in danger.

  The attack commenced suddenly, and without provocation or warning. Israeli jet fighters repeatedly strafed and rocketed the lightly-armed intelligence ship. The crew fought back as best they could, but with only .50-caliber machine guns, they could not mount an effective defense.

  Another wave of jets came in and dropped napalm on the foredeck of the ship. Ablaze, the crew ducked bullets and rockets to fight the fire, eventually bringing it under control.

  The stars-and-stripes flying above the ship was shot down, only to be replaced.

  With ordinance expended, the Israeli aircraft broke off, making way for an even deadlier assault. Three torpedo boats motoring at high speed aimed directly for the Liberty. They launched five torpedoes. Miraculo
usly, only one struck the crippled ship, blasting a hole nearly 40-feet across. In that split second, Emma’s grandfather and 23 other servicemen lost their lives.

  Emma felt her anger rising as she read the account again, this time directly from the official reports and memos. She closed her eyes and imagined the screams from the wounded. The blackened steel plates, blood-splattered decks and bulkheads, limbs and corpses strewn haphazardly by the rocket explosions and large-caliber machinegun fire.

  She knew her grandfather was a radio operator and his desk was in a cabin below the waterline, exactly where the torpedo exploded with devastating effect. Like countless nights before, she envisaged the terror of water flooding into the ebony-black tomb. And like before, she prayed he had perished instantly from the explosion. To suffer through drowning, alone and in black isolation, was certainly hell on Earth.

  A myriad of questions swirled in her mind, festering over the years without answers. Now she was on the verge of unravelling the mystery, or so she hoped. Yet despite her optimism, after reading more than half of the documents in the file, she still was no closer to knowing why. Why did Israel conduct a protracted air and sea attack on a U.S. Navy surveillance vessel? Why did the U.S. Naval command recall fighter aircraft that could have helped to defend the Liberty? And why did the Navy, the Congress, and the President cover up the whole affair?

  She was beginning to think that this was a fool’s errand, that she had drained her savings and received useless information—likely acquired illegally—in vain. But if Emma was anything, she was determined.

  The next memo had been typed on White House letterhead. Across the top read CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET. It was a short memo and didn’t take long to read.

  “Oh my God.” Emma mouthed the words, her voice not even a whisper. Her pulse was racing, her mind swirling in a tangle of thoughts.

  She would have to go to the press, naturally. She’d start with the Bend Bulletin and convince them to write an exposé. But any journalist would demand proof that the documents she possessed were genuine.