Bend, Oregon
April 8
The chime from Emma’s phone woke her from a fitful slumber. She glanced at the clock—5:30 am. 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. 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 John 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 John 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, place the laptop on the passenger seat, and drove away.