Hunting Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  The team had two satellite phones—one was with Marcus and the other with Nadya. They were all armed with M4 rifles, and they each carried extra magazines, military-grade night vision goggles, spare batteries and food, and a sleeping bag. Each team member was trained in boreal forest and desert survival. They were also competent marksmen and skilled in hand-to-hand combat.

  The chatter of a gray squirrel brought Nadya to a halt. She raised her clenched fist, signaling the others to freeze. After a minute and no further sign of disturbance, she resumed their advance. They reached the end of the meadow, and joined up with Marie, squatting in the dark shadows of old-growth timber.

  “The tracks lead here,” Marie said. “He probably crossed this wooded break. This entire slope is dotted with meadows.”

  Looking back, Nadya saw they had gained about 15 meters in elevation. She checked the time. It had been close to an hour since they left the road. Marcus should be ditching the Ford pickup about now.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Peter was beginning to wonder if he’d miscalculated. More than two hours had passed since he’d heard the gunshot. Maybe they’re not following my trail?

  He looked again through the spotting scope. The shadows were growing long; the sun would set in a few hours. He was methodically scanning the tree line at the far end of the meadow—a skill he had honed over years of hunting—a few times from this very location.

  The motion was fleeting, and Peter wasn’t positive it was real, or what caused it. Could be a deer, or his imagination.

  Or the enemy.

  He left the scope fixed on the spot and watched, ever patient. Just as he was about to give up, he saw movement again. This time it persisted, and a person emerged from the shadows, following just to the side of Peter’s track.

  The terrain dipped where the creek exited the meadow, and for a full minute Peter lost the person. Then they climbed up the bank edging the creek and came fully into view. With magnification and a sharp image delivered by the Leica optics, he realized this was a woman. She was wearing camouflage, but not a military pattern. For a moment, he thought maybe this was just someone out for a hike. Maybe doing some early season scouting for deer. It wasn’t unheard of, and Peter had done the same in other locations that were new to him.

  As the woman approached closer, she stopped and leaned forward, like she was examining the tracks he and Diesel made. Or maybe she was just studying deer spoor.

  He could tell she was carrying a rifle, but as the weapon was held close to her body, he was not able to positively identify whether it was a sporting rifle or military. She placed the rifle to the side, butt to the ground and stood. At that instant he had a clear view of the weapon: it was an assault rifle. If a legitimate civilian version, it would be labeled an AR15. If it was military, it was an M4—fully automatic and packing serious firepower.

  “That’s interesting, Diesel. A suppressor. Now I wonder why a hunter would have a suppressor on their deer rifle? I guess it’s show time.” Peter continued to divide his attention between the approaching woman and the trees to the left of the meadow. He discounted the ridge on the right—it was steep and would be difficult for individuals to traverse its slope. Occasionally a squirrel chattered, but otherwise the forest was quiet. He couldn’t see any movement amongst the evergreens, but that was little assurance.

  The woman continued her steady advance, staying just to the side of his trail. Exactly as would be expected if she was following it.

  When she was about 400 yards out Peter snugged his rifle tight to his shoulder. With the variable-power scope turned all the way up to 20x, he acquired the woman’s image. The crosshairs danced across her chest and face, then settled on a patch of bare dirt and gravel about 15 feet in front of her. Unless she abruptly changed course, she would walk right over the spot.

  Peter started applying pressure to the trigger at the same time he was regulating his breathing. She was almost there, and he felt the flesh on his fingertip mashed against the trigger.

  Boom!

  Through the scope he saw the cloud of dust kicked up by the bullet cratering into the earth, not more than a foot away from her boot.

  She froze as the echo faded away. Peter chambered another round, and held the scope on her.

  He could see her eyes shifting, and then her head moved—at first it was minimal, and then the movement became greater as she searched for the shooter.

  “Stay right there!” Peter shouted. She was looking in the general direction of the point, but the movements of her head indicated she hadn’t pinpointed Peter’s exact location.

  “Who are you?” he shouted.

  “I’m just out for a hike.”

  “Nice try. I can make out every detail of your clothing, your face, and that assault rifle. You’ve been following the trail I left. Rather careless of you.”

  “What do you want, mister?”

  “Where are your friends?” Peter was rapidly scanning along the edge of the meadow for movement but not finding any.

  “I told you. I’m just hiking. There’s no one with me.”

  “Is that so!” Peter shouted. “You act like someone who’s used to being shot at. Most people, they would have dropped to the ground or run with a bullet that close. But not you. You’re pretty cool under fire.”

  Peter had her in his scope again. He saw her eyes move toward the rifle she clutched. He read the face. There was no fear, just determination and… anger? He was still studying her expression, trying to predict her actions a second before she acted, when a string of bullets stitched a line up the edge of the cliff and across the log he was resting against.

  At the same instant the woman raised her rifle, taking aim where her teammates were shooting. Peter fired.

  The hunting bullet struck her torso—center of mass. It expanded quickly, dumping energy into her vital organs before exiting her back. She was dead before she hit the ground.

  More gunfire, but it was muted and he couldn’t determine the source. Peter suspected it was somewhere within the cover of the forest on the far side of the meadow, but he couldn’t locate the shooters. He was moving the scope along the transition between grass and trees, desperately searching.

  A volley of bullets ripped the air above his head. There! He just caught a glimpse of muzzle flashes.

  Steady. Steady.

  Although his pulse was racing, Peter controlled his breathing and steadied his rifle and scope. At 20x magnification, he had to be absolutely motionless or the image in the scope would be jittery, a blur.

  Bullets impacted the log and then went high. They were zeroing in on the range. He and Diesel couldn’t stay here much longer.

  There! He made out a face, shoulder, and half of the chest. The shooter was male, and firing from a kneeling position next to a large fir tree. Peter rested the crosshairs on his chest.

  Flashes of white light covered the image, and a second later he heard the bullets strike the rocky lip and log. Peter put it aside, concentrating on the crosshairs…

  Steady… Squeeze…

  Boom!

  Through the scope he saw the man’s arms fly outward, the rifle leaving his grasp.

  Two down.

  “Time to go, Diesel!”

  Peter shoved the spotting scope into the pack and then inched backwards staying below the log so the assailants wouldn’t see him pull back. The rocky ground sloped away from the lip of the point, and after covering sufficient distance, Peter rose to a crouch. Holding the straps of the pack in one hand, his rifle in the other, he scampered further away from the edge of the point.

  There was more suppressed gunfire, and bullets were striking the log with regularity. Once he judged he was far enough from the edge that he wouldn’t be seen, he straightened upright and slipped the pack on. With Diesel by his side, they jogged away from the point, following the slope downward to the creek. The last 30 yards was very steep, and Peter held his rifle high while sliding down on the
seat of his pants. Diesel was waiting for him at the water’s edge.

  He turned upstream and continued at a jog, covering distance as fast as he could. Although the gully offered an escape route, he couldn’t be caught in it. With the steep sides, he’d be trapped without cover.

  Man and dog covered about 300 yards in five minutes. With adrenaline coursing through his veins Peter no longer noticed the protests from his knee. Directly ahead was a waterfall, and to the side a game trail was worn in the rock and dirt. Careful not to slip, Peter pushed up the side and emerged on the ridgeline. From his new location, he was about half a mile from the rocky point and at a considerably higher elevation.

  By now the shooting had ceased. Maybe they think they killed me, Peter thought. Quickly he ducked into a group of trees that was stretched out along the ridge, running up the slope at least the length of a football field. Still, he crouched as he sought a good hide—a location where he could glass the approach from the rocky point and set up a solid rest for sniping.

  Soon, they would discover he had escaped, and he knew they would pursue—exactly as he had expected. Peter knew he held the tactical advantage, even though he was clearly outnumbered.

  He settled for an old fallen tree. The dried and weathered roots were an extension of the trunk, forming an immense radial pattern. Manzanita bushes and two small evergreens were growing around the dead tree. Peter and Diesel hopped into the depression left by the fallen tree. One of the roots was at an optimum height to support the rifle and still allow Peter the correct angle to sight down the slope toward the meadow.

  As if they were following a script, two gunmen dashed across the meadow. As they approached the base of the rocky point, they split—one ascended the scree and the other approached from the western side of the point.

  Peter continued to watch. The range was too far to see much detail even with the high magnification of the riflescope, but it looked like they were also armed with M4 assault weapons. He decided to conserve his ammunition and not give away his position—he’d watch for now.

  And when they followed his trail, he’d take them out.

  Chapter 19

  Sacramento, California

  April 21

  “I’ve dug up everything I can access,” Lieutenant Ellen Lacey explained to her boss. “And I really didn’t find anything that wasn’t already in the public domain.” Not only was Lacey brilliant in all areas of intelligence craft, but she was dedicated to the Strategic Global Intervention Team. Of Irish decent, her red hair, green eyes, and shapely figure attracted many of the opposite sex. But she had yet to find a companion who equaled her intellectually. In the end it had been a simple choice—the mental challenges of her chosen career proved far more interesting than the mindless small talk and gamesmanship of the dating scene.

  “What surprises me,” she continued, “is that even I can’t access the top secret documents Peter referenced. In fact, I can’t even confirm that they actually exist.”

  “You’re not suggesting Peter imagined this,” Jim said, his patience thin.

  “Of course not. Just that I can’t shed any light on this mystery. Not yet.”

  It was a closed-door meeting in Commander Nicolaou’s office. For reasons of security, Jim had instructed Lacey to keep this investigation within a small group that included the two of them plus Mona Stephens, one of SGIT’s top intelligence analysts. She had proven her worth during the Belarusian affair. Presently, Lacey had Stephens researching relevant documents in the Library of Congress.

  “I suggest we call Gary Porter,” Ellen said. “Since Peter is not available, Gary is our best lead. Besides, he’s something of a genius when it comes to hacking and cyber security.”

  Although Jim didn’t care much for Gary’s bohemian attitude and apparent lack of discipline, he had to agree with Lacey. He thumbed through his card file—preferring the old-fashioned address system to a computerized database precisely because of people like Gary—and dialed the number.

  “Gary, it’s Jim Nicolaou.”

  “Commander! I was wondering when you’d reach out to me. I’ve been waiting.”

  Jim bristled. “This isn’t a social call.”

  “Of course not. I’d imagine you have questions about the files Peter and I read.”

  “That’s right. In case you didn’t know, Peter’s in trouble.”

  “Of course I know. It’s all over the national news. I can’t reach Peter, and I suspect you can’t either. That’s why you’re calling me.”

  Jim took two calming breaths. “Correct on both accounts. Those secret files… Lieutenant Lacey has been unable to access them. I understand that you and Peter read portions. What can you share with us?”

  “Oh, there’s a lot I can share—”

  “Hold it there,” Jim interrupted. “I have Lacey here in my office. I want to put you on the speaker.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Gary answered. He paused until he heard the change in tone of the signal before continuing. “The documents were from many different government sources—the Navy, Congress, even the White House. They all were dated between summer and fall of 1967. But I didn’t have a chance to read everything. In fact, we only scanned through maybe half of the memos and reports.”

  Gary spent the next 20 minutes relaying what he’d read and discussed with Peter. Jim and Ellen both took notes, occasionally interrupting to ask questions, seeking clarification before Gary continued. When he finished, they were dumbstruck.

  The silence hung heavy. Jim was the first to speak. “If those documents are genuine, it’s no wonder they were stamped with the highest level of secrecy and kept from the public.”

  “But why now?” Lacey asked. “I mean, the Six-Day War was a long time ago. Lyndon Johnson and Robert McNamara are both deceased. And why are these documents still classified?”

  “And why did someone commit murder over them?” Jim added.

  “If you ask me, maybe the Liberty really was spying on Israel and sharing information with Egypt. You know, covering our bets, just in case Israel lost the war.”

  Ellen Lacey rolled her eyes, earning a brief smile from Jim.

  “Did you find any evidence to support that theory?” Jim asked.

  “No, but you can’t disprove it either.”

  “Be that as it may,” Lacey said, “it wouldn’t justify the on-going top-secret classification of the documents you read.”

  “Okay,” Gary said defensively. “Maybe the government of Israel wants to keep the incident secret at all cost. Maybe they’re afraid the U.S. will halt arms sales and other support. You know, we give Israel billions each year in foreign aid. If the public learned about the attack on the Liberty and the role Israel played, maybe they would force Congress to cut off support.”

  Lacey was shaking her head. “That makes no sense either. It’s been public knowledge all along that Israeli forces attacked the Liberty. And the Israeli government paid reparations decades ago.”

  “Without time to carefully read or study all of those documents, I don’t think we’re going to figure out the why,” Jim said. “So how about focusing on who and how?”

  Gary was prepared for this opening. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I can’t say just yet who is behind the murders in Bend, but I may be able to tell you how they seem to know whenever the top-secret files end up in someone’s electronic mailbox.”

  “That would be a good start,” Jim said.

  “A simple bot that phones home whenever the file or files are opened. That’s how I’d do it if I were keeping tabs on information that no one was supposed to ever see.”

  “But you forwarded that file along with other emails to your server…” Lacey’s voice conveyed confusion.

  “And you’re wondering why no one has shown up yet at my door to kill me?”

  Lacey looked at Jim, who appeared equally confused.

  “Elementary. I didn’t open the file. Peter insisted I delete the PDF file and all emails I rec
overed.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Jim said. “You don’t have the files on your server?”

  “Like I said, I deleted them. They were there for only a few minutes. I never even opened them. Actually, that’s what clued me in. You see, if receiving the file triggered a flag, then I should have been stormed by now, too. But since that hasn’t happened—and I haven’t spotted anyone following me or otherwise being annoying, other than the cashier at the grocery store who wanted to chat way too much—I concluded that merely receiving the file was okay.”

  Jim raised his eyebrows. “It does make sense. Possessing the file is meaningless if the file isn’t opened to read or print.”

  “Or copied. The flag would also have to be triggered if the file was copied. The IP address for whatever machine was opening or copying the file would be sent to the owner—”

  Lacey interrupted, “Sorry. Owner?”

  “Owner, file manager… whoever is responsible to keep the information under wraps.”

  “But you did open the file, and print it, at Peter’s house,” Jim said.

  “Yes. Peter insisted I use his ISP address. He didn’t want anything to be traced back to me.”

  “And you did?”

  “Of course.”

  Jim and Lacey exchanged concerned looks. “So whoever is managing the file likely knows it was opened by Peter.”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so,” Gary answered, his tone conveying regret. “I could have spoofed a dozen ISP addresses from locations around the world. Had them following the trail for weeks. But Peter said that would tip them off and make it harder for us to figure out who they are.”

  “Well, what’s done is done,” Jim said. “Can you help us identify whoever is receiving notifications when the file is accessed?”

  “Oh, this application of bots to notify a manager when a subject file is accessed is rudimentary, barely more advanced than child’s play. Since this is my business, I figured it out pretty fast. But I’m certain you would have arrived at the same conclusion given enough time.”