Peter Savage Novels Boxed Set

by Dave Edlund

“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.

  s

  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. Miraculously, 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.

  That was a troubling question, since Emma had received the file from an anonymous hacker. Maybe the file wasn’t genuine? Maybe Jon Q had compiled a fake?

  No, she wouldn’t let herself believe that. She would print several of the most damaging memos and use that to garner the reporter’s interest. Maybe she would eventually share the emails and electronic file, too. Then it would be up to the reporter to authenticate the information. After all, that’s what a good investigative reporter does, she reasoned.

  The doorbell interrupted Emma’s planning. Through the sidelight she saw a man at the door. He was dressed in a gray suit with tie and wearing dark sunglasses. His black hair was cropped short, military style.

  “Hello,” she said as she opened the door.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I’m with the FBI, Portland office.” He held out his ID next to a metal badge. Emma looked hard at the ID.

  “Agent Barnes?” She read his name.

  “May I come in? I need to discuss an ongoing investigation concerning cyber security.”

  With paranoia gnawing at her gut, she motioned him inside.

  The rented house had a small living room. Emma directed Agent Barnes to an armless padded chair, and she sat at one end of the sofa. She hoped her mounting fear wasn’t showing.

  “What is this about? Why do you want to talk to me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even. How would someone normally act, she thought. Curious, I should be curious.

  Barnes made a show of looking at his pocket-sized notepad. “Miss Emma Jones, is that correct?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I need to ask you some questions about your email. Is that alright?”

  Emma’s pulse quickened. Stay calm, she thought. He can’t possibly know about the messages from Jon Q And so what if he does; I haven’t hacked into any restricted servers.

  Emma nodded.

  “Do you receive a lot of junk mail or spam?”

  “Sure, I suppose. What’s a lot?”

  Barnes seemed to be looking right through her, trying to interpret her body language. It was normal for people to be anxious and uncomfortable when questioned about a case. Often perspiring, sometimes stumbling over words to construct a coherent sentence. In fact, it was the criminals who were most likely to be casual, uncaring in their response, thinking that was the normal reaction.

  “Over the last
few days, have you received any suspicious or odd emails from anyone you don’t personally know?”

  “Well,” Emma said, “you mean other than the spam?”

  “Yes. Other than the usual junk messages and advertising.”

  Emma felt the weight of his stare as she thought how to answer his question. Surely he knows. Maybe I should just tell him the truth.

  “Miss Jones. Please answer my question.”

  As Emma rubbed her hands, they felt clammy. “Well, let me think…”

  Barnes held his pen, ready to scribe her answer in his notepad.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Agent Barnes leaned back in the chair and laid his pen down.

  “Miss Jones.” He spoke in an even tone, his words measured, carefully chosen. “I don’t believe you are being completely honest with me. You are pretending to be ignorant. Now, why would you do that?”

  She stared back, chewing her lip.

  “I know that a file was emailed to you last night. It came from an individual who likes to call himself Jon Q. And I also know he sent several other email messages to you over the past three weeks. It seems that you and Mr. Jon Q had a rather extensive correspondence.”

  Emma felt her heart pounding, beads of perspiration threatened to slide down her forehead. She was squeezing her hands so tightly the knuckles were white.

  Under the FBI agent’s withering gaze, she slowly nodded.

  Barnes sighed and then placed the notepad in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Emma said. “Honest! You can read the emails yourself.”

  Barnes had heard it all before. He sighed again, this time louder, and placed both hands on his knees. “Okay. I believe you. But you will have to cooperate with the investigation. You will have to truthfully answer all my questions.”

  “Okay,” she nodded.

  “Let’s begin with the emails. Let’s look at your computer.”

  “It’s in the dining room, I was reading his last message when you rang the doorbell.” She rose and walked toward the table next to the kitchen, Barnes following closely.

  “Here,” she pointed at the laptop, the screen still displaying the White House memo. “This file was attached to his last email. I really think this is important. It should be made available to the public. My grandfather was on the Liberty. He was one of the sailors who was killed.”

  Barnes leaned in and inserted a thumb drive into a USB slot. Then he took a step back.

  “I’m sorry for your loss Miss Jones, but it was a necessary sacrifice. Now, please save that PDF file to the thumb drive.”

  She entered a few keystrokes to transfer the data, then ejected the portable drive.

  “Thank you,” he said, and pocketed the thumb drive. “I just have a couple more questions—” Barnes coughed. “Do you have some juice, or a soda?”

  “Sure.” Emma wanted to be helpful. She believed that if she fully cooperated, the FBI would treat her as a witness rather than someone who helped in the crime.

  She turned her back to Agent Barnes and walked to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator.

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  Emma looked over her shoulder into the barrel of a gun. She still had one hand holding the refrigerator door, her eyes wide in fear.

  “Who are you?” Emma asked.

  Her question was met with a silent glare.

  “Please, just let me go.”

  “I can’t do that.” He held the gun steady.

  Tears welled up in Emma’s eyes. “Please…”

  That was the last sound she heard.

  A small red circle formed instantly between her eyebrows, and Emma collapsed to the floor.

  Barnes holstered the weapon, slipped on gloves, and then proceeded to ransack the house. He entered the bedrooms and dumped the drawers onto the floor. In the dining room there was a small desk, and he again tossed the contents on the floor, pocketing a ten-dollar bill he found in the pencil drawer.

  Satisfied, he turned his attention to the laptop. Reinserting the thumb drive, he opened an executable file. Soon, he was prompted to type in and confirm a new password. His job nearly completed, he gathered the laptop.

  As he closed the front door, Barnes glanced around the neighborhood. It was quiet, with older ranch-style homes set well back from the street on large lots. Every house had at least one mature pine tree in the front yard. It was mid-day, and no one was strolling the sidewalk; no cars or delivery trucks were moving on the street.

  Agent Barnes walked to his car, placed the laptop on the passenger seat, and drove away.

  Chapter 3

  Bend, Oregon

  April 8

  The yellow crime-scene tape spoke volumes. Behind closed doors, the neighbors all asked the same question: What happened? By the time the ambulance arrived, a crowd of about two dozen had gathered on the far side of the street. Some were holding cups of coffee; a few were drinking from beer bottles. The atmosphere was one of morbid curiosity.

  The local television station had their van parked nearby and was transmitting live updates. The cameraman was there to film the covered body wheeled out on a gurney late in the evening, footage guaranteed to be played on the 11:00 p.m. newscast.

  The forensics team was still busy collecting evidence, room by room, and documenting the crime scene. It was going to be a late night.

  Standing in the living room, Ruth Colson was looking toward the kitchen and dining room. Colson was a handful of years away from retirement, yet her energy and passion for solving crimes had not abated in her 34 years of police work. Her gray hair was short, giving her a masculine appearance. She had been on her feet almost continuously for the past three hours; thankfully, she was wearing her trademark neon-green Oregon Duck sneakers.

  With both hands braced on her narrow hips, she said, “No shell casing… we have a small-caliber entry wound, but no exit… and no stippling on the victim’s face, consistent with a lack of observable GSR…”

  Standing beside Ruth was her junior colleague, Niki Nakano. “The lab may still find gunshot residue on the victim’s clothing.”

  Niki was relatively new to the Detective Unit and had been mentoring under Ruth for close to a year. A third generation Japanese-American, her parents had instilled in Niki a thirst for excellence and success that drove her from Patrol to Detective by age 32.

  “True, but for now all we know is that GSR is apparently lacking, suggesting the shot was fired from a distance.”

  Detective Colson stepped toward the kitchen until she had a clear view of the refrigerator. She stretched her left hand out, miming a gun. “If the perp was standing here, the gun would be only five or six feet from the victim. At that distance there should have been extensive blood stippling on her face from the powder and bullet residue.”

  Niki walked around the dining room, which was separated from the kitchen by a wall of cabinets with a pass-through counter. Finding the spot where she had an unobstructed angle on the refrigerator, she repeated her mentor’s exercise. “This is as far away as the shooter could have been; and it’s still—what—maybe twelve feet?”

  “Plus, the shot would have just missed the wall and cabinets,” Ruth pointed to the wall on either side of the pass through. “Make sure they swab this area for GSR.” She leaned in close, careful not to brush her face against the painted surface, her flashlight on, scrutinizing the white paint for particles that could have come from the discharge of a firearm. She shook her head. “I don’t see anything.”

  “None of the neighbors reported hearing a gunshot. Maybe the shooter used a silencer?”

  “No, it just isn’t right. In order to account for the evidence, the theory is getting too complicated. We have what appears to be a simple home invasion burglary that went bad because Emma Jones wasn’t supposed to be home. But why?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Why this house? It’s a
rental. Two students. They don’t own much property of value. And to suggest that a silenced weapon was used… that’s for the pros. It doesn’t fit. This crime screams amateur.”

  Niki understood. “Except for the ballistics.”

  “Could be subsonic .22 ammunition.”

  “Maybe. We’ll know more once the lab results are in.”

  “The roommate—Kate—what did she say when asked what was missing?”

  Niki referred to her notes before answering. “She didn’t take an inventory, she was pretty distraught. But she said they didn’t have much—no money or jewelry, no guns or expensive electronics. She did mention that Emma’s laptop was gone. She said it was on the table when she left in the morning, that Emma was working on something. We’ll have her go through the house later, probably tomorrow if she can handle it. She was taken to the station for a complete statement.”

  “So only a laptop was taken. And we have a most unusual head wound on the victim.”

  “I don’t know what to make of it,” Niki said.

  Ruth frowned. “Neither do I.”

  s

  Sheltered from North Pacific storms by Vancouver Island, the quaint port city of Friday Harbor on San Juan Island is a recreational paradise. Accessed only by boat or plane, getting to and from this sleepy town takes just enough effort to keep the population at a little over 2,000.

  When Mitch Kemmel dropped out of college to pursue his computer interests, Friday Harbor suited his needs well. With good civic infrastructure, including an undersea cable providing electricity and high-speed Internet, he had all the modern necessities his newfound profession demanded. Yet he was far enough away from Big Brother that the thought of government oversight was almost laughable. Many of the people calling San Juan Island home embraced bartering to avoid taxes and aligned themselves with the most liberal political positions. Mitch had two friends living on acreage outside the city limits who had gone completely off the net—hadn’t filed tax returns in years and, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist in the eyes of the local or Federal Government.

  Like most other days, Mitch was working at his office—a study in his modest house on Browne Street. The solitary window was covered with aluminum foil, ensuring no one could spy on his activities. He preferred a more powerful tower PC to a laptop for most of his coding. On the desk were three monitors side-by-side between two art-glass desk lamps.