by Dave Edlund
It was a good plan.
Peter started running again. Not far to go, but he had to get there and settle in. Here he was exposed with little cover to fight from.
Onward he pushed, his faithful companion beside him.
He was holding a constant elevation now. Far below, to the east, the trees were thick. But at this altitude, the evergreens were small and sparse. He could see at least 100 yards in any direction.
There, just ahead, was the rocky outcrop. Without climbing gear it could be reached only from the left, the upslope side. Peter had discovered this location years ago when deer hunting in these woods.
Without slowing, he navigated around the fortress-like projection and entered a large grassy expanse. It was almost perfectly flat, and Peter surmised that dirt and gravel had washed down over eons, filling up behind a semicircular thrust of hard volcanic rock. Near the center of the arc was a slight cave. It didn’t extend far, only eight feet or so, but enough to offer protection from rain or dew, and the surrounding rock would radiate meager warmth to chase away the chill at night. On previous visits, he’d had a campfire in front of the cave entrance. Not tonight.
“Diesel, stay.” The red pit bull sat at the cave and waited obediently while Peter conducted a quick inspection. It was exactly as he’d remembered. Near the ends of the arc were large boulders, offering a protected view of the approach. Unless the gunmen went far upslope or down to lower elevation and then circled back, Peter would see them coming. And he didn’t think they’d make such a long detour since there was no reason for them to suspect that he was making a stand at this location.
Peter leaned the Weatherby against a boulder and removed the pack. The exertion had raised his core temperature, and he needed to cool and allow the sweat to evaporate before sunset. Hypothermia was a real danger if his clothes were soaked from perspiration.
He removed a water bottle from the pack and consumed the contents. Taking out a second bottle, he called Diesel and poured some into a small pot. The dog lapped up the water eagerly. Peter poured out more, allowing his companion to drink his fill. Using the binoculars, he glassed the terrain. The enemy wasn’t in sight.
There was no time to prepare a meal, and Peter wouldn’t take a chance with a fire anyway. The next best thing was jerky and salty crackers. He shared some of both with the pit bull. The salt tasted good and would help to restore his electrolyte level to normal.
Between bites Peter was using the binoculars and searching for any sign of his pursuers. They had to be close now. He switched to his riflescope. Although the field of view was not as great as with the binoculars, the magnification was equivalent and he would be ready if—when—he spotted their approach.
The adrenaline was still pumping through his body, but at least his breathing had returned to normal. And he was cooling down, the sweat-soaked portions of his shirt feeling cold. Before long the moisture would evaporate completely.
The shadows were growing longer by the minute. In less than an hour, the sun would drop behind the Tam McArthur Rim. He hoped to put an end to the chase before then.
s
Nadya surveyed the numerous bullet holes gouged in the log and the old, dried roots of the fallen tree. Somehow, Peter Savage had escaped. There was no blood. Nothing was left behind.
“We will follow the trail, but stay to the side. And stay within sight of me at all times.”
Joshua acknowledged the order, and they set out. The path was easy to follow. Rather than descend into the creek drainage, Nadya led Joshua around the spring since they were able to see the tracks emerging up the far slope.
There, above the spring, she picked up the trail again, with Joshua keeping pace to the right of the footprints. She was constantly looking ahead, using the binoculars to search for hiding spots and to follow the footprints. As long as she could see the path leading forward and not circling back, she was reasonably confident that Peter Savage was ahead, probably still running. But eventually, he would have to stop.
Nadya signaled for Joshua to join her at a cluster of manzanita bushes. The open terrain made her nervous even though she could clearly see the disturbed ground where feet landed heavily and pushed off.
She removed the satellite phone. It was time to coordinate with Marcus. After a short pause, he answered. Nadya quickly updated him on the loss of Marie and Ben, and she gave her location as coordinates displayed on the handheld military GPS unit. Marcus had heard the gunfire, but was still about two miles away.
“I can be there in about half an hour,” he said, entering the coordinates Nadya had given him.
Nadya and Joshua separated again, paralleling the trail. Heads swiveling from side to side, searching for danger, they stalked forward. Ahead, Nadya saw that the footprints lead directly to a rocky outcrop, and then turned to the left. Made sense since it was very steep to the right.
They continued their approach.
s
At first, Peter didn’t recognize the small shapes. They were gray-brown and blended well with the earth, passing easily for rocks. Plus they were moving slowly and directly toward Peter, such that he didn’t recognize their motion until they were much closer. At about 250 yards out, he suddenly realized the shapes were getting larger.
Those aren’t rocks. He looked through the riflescope. The gunmen were bent over, trying to maintain a low profile given the lack of cover. Peter recognized the figure to the right as a woman, and neither showed any indication they’d spotted him.
“Looks like our guests have arrived, Diesel.” Peter shifted his gaze to the other figure, the man, and followed his approach. Then he swung the scope to the woman. They were now about 200 yards out, he estimated.
Abruptly, the woman looked directly at Peter. It was as if she suddenly knew he was scoping her. She dove and rolled to the same cluster of stunted trees that Peter had stopped at earlier.
He squeezed the trigger, but immediately knew he’d missed. The bullet kicked up a dust cloud where she had been only an instant earlier.
Peter spun to his left. Gunfire rippled through the thin air, but the bullets were high. He settled the crosshairs on the man who was struggling to cover the distance uphill to his partner. Peter tracked him. Smooth and steady.
Boom!
The man plowed forward in a somersault, coming to rest on his back. Motionless. Dead.
Chapter 22
Sacramento, California
April 21
The bot that Gary had constructed was nothing more than a collection of code. Lines of software following a logical series of instructions to achieve a desired goal. Despite the implications of the name and the way he spoke of bots as if they were mechanical or living beings, nothing could have been farther from the truth. In fact, there was nothing tangible about bots at all—they existing only in the digital world of zeroes and ones.
After completing a rigorous debugging exercise, the bot was uploaded to his server. Although it housed terabytes of information, the bot would be directed to the specific file of interest. There it would read every digital bit. Its function was simple: find and highlight sections of code that matched essential programming for the file flag to function.
Gary executed the program and unleashed the bot. He routinely used bots to search his massive digital depository, searching for the presence of malware and viruses. Although the commercial antivirus software was fine for the vast majority of PC users, Gary had rather special needs in his business of cyber security. Plus, he’d made a few enemies over the years fixing breaches for corporate clients, making his own computers something of a tantalizing target.
The first problem was that his security bots were not programmed to find the lines of code he presently sought. By reprogramming a security bot he’d addressed this first challenge. He was confident the secret files on the USS Liberty did contain a flag, a short executable file that would send the IP address of any computer that opened or copied the file to a third party. He needed to know who that
third party was.
That led to the second problem—how to identify a specific person or persons associated with the file flag. He hoped he would be rewarded with an active IP address. If so, he’d plant a packet of code within the recipient’s email account. That packet would spoof the account to reply to his server with a message that would provide direct connection to a real person.
Or so he hoped. There were many ways his plan could fail: the email account could be a cover—lacking identifiers of the account holder. Or the IP address could be fake, one of many that would have him chasing a digital ghost around the globe. If the roles were reversed and Gary was managing the secret file and file flag, he’d have implemented these shields in the event someone discovered the flag and attempted to trace it back. But then again, Gary was counting on the file manager being sloppy, or at least not as good at cyber security as he was.
Gary was leaning back in his chair when a brief message appeared on his monitor.
Program complete. Suspicious code identified and downloaded to desktop.
He worked his keyboard and opened the file. Next he copied the IP address from the code and placed it in the program of a spoofing bot. Using a generic Internet-access portal, he sent the bot to the IP address. In a few minutes he’d know whether or not his worries were founded.
Unlike many cyber security experts, Gary Porter had never used hacking maliciously. He’d never broken the law to illegally gain access to files and accounts that he had no legitimate reason to open. But his ability to think like a criminal was uncanny, and it had earned him a reputation as a genius at solving data breaches. Working mostly for Fortune 500 corporations, he’d earned an enviable income and purchased a large ranch in the gold country of California, east of Sacramento. He lived in a modern ranch house with his wife and business partner, Nancy, and three llamas, two dogs, a miniature horse, and seven goats. Due to the risk of wildfires in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Range, the Porters designed their home to be constructed from concrete and cement block. An added advantage was that his servers were housed in a bunker-like room that offered a high degree of protection from just about any assault, including fire, water, and people.
A chime sounded, indicating an email message had arrived. Gary clicked on the message, and read the name and email address of the sender. He looked at the time—just after 6:00 p.m. He phoned Jim Nicolaou.
“That was fast. What did you find?”
“It was there, as I expected. Whoever programmed this flag was rather careless; they should have attempted to hide the code.”
“Where you able to trace it to a person?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell. But the email address is the House of Representatives—the U.S. Congress.” Gary smiled, imagining the surprise that would accompany this revelation.
Jim eased back in his chair, trying to understand what it meant.
“Hey, Jim, can you hear me? You still there?”
“Yeah, still here.”
“Did you get that? The IP address is a computer at the Capital.”
“What’s the name on the email account?”
“Angela Meyers,” Gary replied.
Jim rolled the name over in his mind. “No, I don’t recognize it, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ll have Lacey or Stephens look it up. My guess is it’s the name of a staffer. Are you certain this is the person managing the secret file?”
“No. I already explained how the real manager might shield their name from this type of cyber discovery. But then again, this code doesn’t show signs of being written by anyone trying to do something unique. If it were me, you’d never get a name that easily or quickly. So, no guarantees. It could be a diversion.”
“Well, it’s the only solid lead we have at the moment. And it makes sense that someone within the government would be trying to maintain government secrets.”
“Did it ever occur to you that it might make too much sense?”
“You’re paranoid, Gary,” Jim said, refusing to allow his hopes to be dashed.
“Yes, I am. And it’s because there are a lot of people out to get me. I’m something of a legend, you know. There’s even a rumor that my servers have a bounty on them of fifty grand each if destroyed and one hundred grand each if delivered in operational condition.”
“Your servers are wanted—dead or alive—is that what you’re saying?” Jim chuckled, finding the analogy irresistible.
“You may think it’s all fun and games, but this is serious business,” Gary said defensively.
“No argument from me on that point. Look, is there anything more you can do to verify that information?”
Gary thought for a moment before answering. “Maybe. I can send a phony email message to Angela Meyers using a government email address, only her reply will be routed to my account. She’ll only see the government address, and if the message is intriguing, she’ll reply—basic human nature. That will tell me the account is real and active.”
“You can do all that?” The skepticism came through in Jim’s tone.
“Really? You still doubt me? After all I’ve done?”
Jim couldn’t hold back the laughter.
“Ha ha,” Gary said. “Now, if I’m done entertaining you, I have work to do.”
“Thank you. Really, I mean it. Peter is fortunate to count you as a friend.”
“Yeah. Just so you know, he’s the brother I never had. Now, you need to do something for me.”
“And what’s that?” Jim asked.
“You watch after him. Do what you do best.”
s
Lieutenant Ellen Lacey and Mona Stephens were sitting at Jim’s desk. He’d called them in immediately after his call with Gary Porter.
“I know it’s the end of the day,” Jim said, “but we have a lead. And it can’t wait until morning.” He went on to share his conversation.
“I’ll get on it right away,” Lacey said. “It won’t take long to find out if an Angela Meyers truly does work for the House of Representatives.”
“Thank you,” Jim said. Turning to Stephens he asked, “Was your search at the Library of Congress productive? Did you learn anything about the Liberty incident that might shed light on this mystery?”
She leaned forward in her chair. “Maybe. I read many reports run in major newspapers and scores of statements given by members of the House and Senate. There was certainly a large population at the time who believed Israel committed an overt act of aggression against the United States, maybe even an act of war. The question was—and still remains—why? Why did Israeli forces attack the USS Liberty with a determination to sink her?
“The New York Times ran a series on the incident, concluding that the Israeli government had acted in self-defense, fearful that the Liberty had intercepted radio communications just prior to the Jewish attack on the Golan Heights.”
Lacey added, “Recall that at the time—four days into the war—negotiations were underway to end the conflict and freeze all military forces where they were. Had that diplomacy been successful, Israel would not have captured the strategic Golan Heights creating a buffer with Syria.”
“And the thinking was,” Stephens continued, “that if the Johnson administration had known of the impending invasion, they would have pressured Levi Eshkol, the Prime Minister of Israel, to stand down.”
Jim nodded. “So they aimed to sink the Liberty. Dead men tell no tales.”
Stephens went on. “Only the Liberty didn’t sink. The rest of the story we know.”
Jim stood and paced behind his desk, arms folded across his chest. “There’s more to the story—has to be. Why won’t the government, to this day, declassify every document related to the incident? And why did the possession of some classified files result in murder?”
“I’ve been working on that,” Lacey said. She opened a file folder she was holding, and read from the contents. “Both the America and the Saratoga launched aircraft multiple times to defend the Liberty. A
nd every time, the planes were quickly recalled by Robert McNamara.”
“The Secretary of Defense. Yes, I recall this. But why would he countermand such an order?”
“Exactly,” Lacey said. “Answer that question, and you’ll have solved the riddle.”
“That was a question asked by several lawmakers from both sides of the aisle,” Stephens explained, “but no answer is published in the Congressional Record. As strange as it seems, the White House did not put that query to rest. And what’s even stranger is that no one—no journalist, no member of Congress, no one—insisted on an answer.”
“What about the newspapers?” Jim asked.
“Not much more. Some editorials stopped just short of accusing Johnson and McNamara of treason. It was a politically-charged time: the Vietnam War was underway and the Arab Coalition was aiming to destroy the Jewish state.”
Jim rubbed his thumb and index finger over his eyes. They could speculate all night and still not be any closer to solving the mystery. Maybe Lacey would be more successful in her search of Congressional staffers. Sooner or later, they had to get a break in the case.
Chapter 23
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 21
Nadya stared at the lifeless body, the young man she knew as Joshua. Somewhere, probably in Israel, he had a family. Would they ever know where Joshua died? Probably not. The Mossad was renowned for secrecy—in life and death.
Her thoughts drifted to her own family. She had a younger sister living in the U.S., but both parents had died years ago. She recalled pleasant memories from her childhood, laughing with her sister on the farm her parents owned in the Golan Heights. She was born on the farm; her parents were settlers who benefited from cheap land—land she knew was captured from Syria. It was a standard practice in her homeland. Settle the captured territory, make it part of Israel, and it will be impossible for the international community to force a return to pre-war boundaries.
The Jewish state needed buffers all around. The nation was surrounded by hostile neighbors, countries that had recently fought to destroy her homeland. She was taught that her government was justified in settling these captured territories. It was a fair price to extract from the aggressors as compensation for the Jewish lives lost, the millions of dollars and resources simply wasted.