Pilotfish

By Dean Bradford

A secret Israeli assassination team has been operating in the United States to take out Muslim terrorists before they strike. They deal with radicals that the Americans haven’t yet discovered or don’t have the stomach to deal with themselves.
Meanwhile, in the course of Mossad’s worldwide fight against terror, a plot is uncovered to smuggle a weapon of mass destruction into the United States from Mexico. Mossad knows little beyond that the deadly instrument will be brought over via a secret drug tunnel along the El Paso - Juarez border area. Having warned the Americans, who do not take the threat seriously, and wanting to stop the largest terror attack on American soil since 9/11, Israel has no other option but to send its secret Pilotfish team to Texas in an attempt to thwart the impending tragedy.
Out of their element and with few resources, the Israelis tangle with drug dealers, border patrolmen, and a cartel kingpin, all the while searching for a tunnel that Homeland Security doesn’t believe exists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Bradford
• Release date: May 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311231826

Dean Bradford

Dean Bradford lives in Southern California. Pilotfish is his first novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

He entered the apartment via the front door. It was an old wooden door in an edgy complex, Scratches near the bottom from a rodent trying to get in at some point. Wood varnish worn through years ago. He guessed it was built in the ‘60s. As he was surveilling it, he hoped the oil he had squeezed into the hinges the night before had seeped into the right orifices. One of the worst enemies for an assassin when dealing with a wary mark is a squeaky door hinge.

The curly brown-haired man pushed the door, having already defeated the dead bolt that looked as old as the rest of the place. A small crrreeekk as the door slowly opened. Not as bad as he’d heard from his hiding spot across the street the previous night, but still noticeable – if not for the overriding sound of the shower. Silently, he entered the living space on rubber-soled shoes and immediately encountered the standard Middle Eastern dank smells: cardamom, cumin, and body odor. Do all these jihadi whack jobs have to stink like that? he wondered. Hard to believe they shared a common ancestry from way back when. Avi figured he would kill the mark quickly just so he could go back to the house and take a shower. This one was scheduled for termination only; others had determined that his brain held no more significant information that they needed.

He stopped completely in the middle of the room and took a deep breath to calm his slightly elevated heart rate. Breaking and entering into someone’s home to assassinate him doesn’t lend itself to normal blood pressure. Even if one did this regularly.

He walked over to the front window blinds that were three-quarters closed and twisted the plastic rod all the way. Then he glided across the floor to the ajar bathroom door. He stood just outside, trying to perceive where the shower door was in relation to the opening of the bathroom door. Avi realized that as he opened the bathroom door inward, it would be covering the shower door and whoever was behind it. No need to open both, he thought. The nine-millimeter full metal jacket rounds would go right through a cheap hollow door and a glass or vinyl shower door. The hollow points that were loaded every other round in the magazine would probably make it through as well. Best move would be to quickly open the bathroom door all the way and start shooting.

Which is what he did. He reached into his jacket and palmed his pistol’s grip. It gave and slid out of the leather holster silently. He checked his six, took a final deep breath, and grasped the door handle. His right hand at center-mass level, he swung the door in swiftly with his left. Avi twisted into the bathroom so he was facing the door – and fired three shots. Although silenced, he was glad for the shower noise. He realized that he heard a surprised gasp as he fired, which turned into a sickening whoosh as air left lungs in a way nature never intended. There was no way to fake that noise. There was a stumble, followed by a drop and a crashing of plastic shampoo bottles. The assassin recognized that he had the upper hand when he noticed his target’s weapon sitting harmlessly on the edge of the sink. Job probably done, time to confirm.

Pointing his weapon towards the floor, Avi stepped through the thin cloud of spent gases and shut the door; then pulled open the shower door. Water was spraying onto the body and bouncing onto Avi’s trousers, along with sprinkles of diluted blood. He reached in and shut the water off. The man’s head had turned away from the door. Avi grabbed Reza Farhad by the hair and turned his head towards himself. Yep, this was the guy. And still alive, barely. He turned the faucet back on to cover the noise. Two quick shots to the head finished it. He looked at the tile where the mark had been standing – two cracked porcelain holes. Only one of the first three shots had gotten him, but it had hit right in Reza’s side and punctured a lung or two. He would have died at that within a few minutes, but no need to let him place a warning call.

Per his instructions, Avi grabbed the man’s laptop computer off of the living room desk, along with its canvass case and power cord so that anyone looking wouldn’t know it existed. He ignored the desktop unit in Farhad’s bedroom, which the Israelis had no interest in. He turned the lock on the door knob and left. Israeli intelligence didn’t like leaving bodies behind, but through painful experience, they had decided that in most cases the risk of removing bodies in urban areas and disposing of them was not worth it. They actually felt bad about making the local police deal with the investigations; the cases were never closed.

Chapter 2

The CIA is NOT involved in these killings, Mr. Steeson. I don’t understand why you keep bringing this up to me. After all, you won’t let us investigate this thing.

SLAM… The chief of staff to the president of the United States threw the briefing packet across the room. It hit hard, and a few pages flew out.

"Don’t BS me, Clark. Whatever you have on the president to stay in your position isn’t going to impress me. These people have rights! They can be interrogated! You don’t need to – no, you cannot –send your hit squads to protect the citizens." Chief of Staff Calvin Steeson sneered these last words as if they were poison.

"Throwing your fits and hurling paper across the room doesn’t impress me, jerk," retorted CIA Director Clark Willingham. What Willingham hated most was the spur-of-the-moment summons to the White House every time Chief Steeson got his panties in a bunch. And Willingham truly didn’t know who was knocking off Muslims suspected of terroristic activities on U.S. soil. But he wasn’t going to try too hard to find the perpetrators, either. He felt that the U.S. had no real leadership on the terror issue. If he was in charge, he would have nuked half the Middle East, plus North Korea, by now. …Ok and maybe a stray accidental discharge over France – just to let them know we mean business. Willingham’s eyes glossed over as he went through this little fantasy again in his mind. A small smirk emerged.

He shook himself out of it and looked up at the Chief of Staff, who, due to his extreme anger at the moment and the fact that his shirt collar was too tight, looked as if he would stroke out any minute. Steeson’s beet red face had that bulging vein on the right side of his temple that Willingham could see pulsing.

This isn’t funny, and you can’t talk to me like that! blasted Steeson. I’m the president’s chief of staff, and you will respect me! Don’t think I won’t have the attorney general subpoena you, and we’ll find out what you know or don’t know. Now why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?

Director Willingham held up his hand in a "give me a moment to catch my breath" sign and sighed. He really didn’t understand how such pompous egoists could actually reach the heights of American government. Ronald Reagan, George Washington, and Teddy Roosevelt were all rolling over in their collective graves right now. It’s a good thing they were already dead. They might up and die if they were transported from their times to the current era, where one’s mortal enemies were given visas to come into your country, build mosques, collect government assistance, and misuse freedom of speech to plan bombings and the like. What has the Republic come to? he often thought.

Look, Calvin, you don’t like me, and I don’t like you. I don’t tell you everything because, by statute, I can’t. Also, we quite obviously disagree as to what we would do with various intelligence. But I am looking you in the eye and saying – we aren’t involved in this. Willingham used his deepest, most serious voice to get the last part out. Silly he should have to speak that way, but it seemed to work sometimes on Steeson. I think you know this started before last year when I wasn’t even in the top seat. Now, if it isn’t us that’s behind this, you and I can think of two or three other possibilities, can’t we?

I don’t even want to speculate about that. Steeson started walking toward the door, turning his back on the CIA director. And don’t think that was an empty threat about the AG, either. He pulled the glass door open and walked through in a huff. Director Willingham was grateful it was one of those soft close doors that couldn’t be slammed. He was getting a headache from this testosterone-fest.

Or estrogen-fest, he said out loud, giving a parting shot at Steeson’s expense.

No one had accomplished anything here besides wasting time. And neither man impressed the other with threats. A subpoena would get nowhere because there was no information to be had. Central Intelligence truly was not involved, although he wouldn’t mind it if it was. With a shake of his head, part sad and part amused, he gathered his briefcase and walked out.

Chapter 3

Avi made the block-long walk back to the staff car to head back to Costa Mesa. His friend and partner, Charley, was waiting for him, along with their newer associate, Annie. Last names were never spoken, although he knew Charley Levin from their days as youth in Haifa. Who would have thought they would both be on the front of the front lines in the fight to save their homeland? Who also would have thought that their longtime protector and ally, the United States, would be such a safe haven for some of Israel’s more intelligent terrorist enemies?

These thoughts constantly crossed his mind as he cooled down from a mission. More than three years into it now. The first one in late 2012. Ten total within the next twelve months. Those first ten provided a lot of information – information that led to a slew of exterminations in the United States. The targets ranging from imams who were confirmed to help jihadis, to Muslim businessmen who passed skimmed funds to the wrong people, to university radicals who went beyond talk in their waging of cultural jihad. Avi thought nearly all imams should be killed, because he was sure they all, in some way, helped promote the Muslim takeover of the world. They were already well-established in England, and especially France, where their prayer-time rituals shut down city blocks. The local constabulary in Paris has no power or spine to stop them. In England, which does not have a First Amendment right to free speech, preachers are now being arrested for speaking out against Islam. Not to mention the odd mass-bombing of public places. It would happen in America if they were allowed.

Avi thought of the misguided American educators and media types who preached tolerance of Islam. Anytime anyone did or said something against a Muslim, the media plastered it on every newspaper and internet news site. Not so much for the Jews, however. We get missiles lobbed into Ashdod and Ashkelon every day, just about, and no one says anything, he thought to himself. Wait till America gets what it is asking for – those hot little college girls wrapped head to toe in burqas in the warm California sun. Having virtually all female freedoms taken away. Of course, being killed if you don’t convert. It would be too late to stop, then. Avi’s head started to hurt. He knew the truth of what was coming, but that didn’t mean the truth didn’t hurt badly. He knew what he did would slow the tide… and hopefully keep Israel safer for a bit longer. Before all-out war.

He made it to the staff car without incident and got in the passenger seat, passing the computer over his shoulder. The other two in the vehicle took a brief look to make sure no obvious mess was present on Avi; then Charley calmly pulled away from the curb.

"You would think they would at least give us something with tinted windows, oi, said Charley. Sometimes these projects don’t clean up well. Goodness! he exclaimed, noting his partner’s damp clothes. And what about a better car? They were driving a 1998 Honda Accord with a stick shift. No cop would think twice about pulling this thing over," he complained. Moaning they’d both heard before, but Annie was in the mood for some conversation, so she goaded him a little.

Ya, like Benzes don’t get pulled over, either, Charley, she mused. Annie had joined Avi and Charley a little over a year ago, and she was fully competent. A graduate of the world-renowned Technion, Charley and Avi were convinced that she could do anything with a computer, which the two weren’t so adept with. She often had to remind them how to work the special features on their Institute-supplied smartphones. Approaching her twenty-eighth birthday, Annie had been shepherded into the Technion after her mandatory two years in the military. She’d completed her degree, then followed her heart into the Mossad. Actually, she was recruited while still on active duty, as they all were.

Strawberry blond with freckles. Not many red-headed Jews running around, thought Avi when they’d first met. She was innocently pretty, though, with poufy cheeks that were incongruent with her lithe figure – a figure she kept hard through regular strenuous exercise and Krav Maga. Due to their professional relationship, Charley and Avi had to keep each other honest with her, though both thought her quite attractive. In fact, the exercise was the only thing the boys didn’t like about Annie – she made them stay serious about keeping their bodies at peak condition, too. And being able to run flat out for long distances had helped her partners on more than one occasion.

Annie was steered towards the Technion because she displayed an uncanny affinity for electronics, be it hardware or software. In testing, her mathematical mind approached the autistic spectrum. The higher-ups had her pegged for a career in one of the Intelligence Corps units, 9900 perhaps.

But Israel being Israel, before she would take her seat in a computer lab, they wanted to supplement her limited field experience. She had performed well during the Golan clashes; one manifestation of her quirky mind was that she was abler than most to leave feelings behind on the battlefield. She could almost literally stop and smell the roses amidst the shelling and stray bullets flying around, earning her a reputation of being extremely cool under pressure. This trait had endeared her to her fellow male soldiers. Among her various commanders, however, this perceived aloofness caused some debate as to whether she was totally courageous, or just a little meshuga.

The Israeli government expected this assignment to be about an eighteen month stop for her, to give her a little more gun-in-hand experience. After she moved to the relative safety of a computer screen, they wanted her – as all members of Israeli Defense Forces are expected – to understand the day-to-day realities of what it takes to keep their beleaguered country protected.

All three were recognized as having unique personality and skill-set profiles that the Israeli government coveted. Among those were selflessness. They had a love of their country, and all shared a belief that they were living for something bigger than themselves. This was key. They would fight despite the odds, up to and including giving their own lives if necessary. All three had in past tests displayed an inability to quit an assignment, be it on the battlefield, in the classroom, and even in the fulfillment of mundane military management projects. On the practical side, all three were adept with languages and could speak American English with no foreign accent.

Charley Levin was the impetuous one of the group. He gave no thought to the past, much to the present, and little to the future. Charley had been with Avi from the beginning of this assignment. The son of a career military man, Charley never considered any occupation for himself other than soldier. He’d started his regular military duty on his first eligible day and never looked back.

Once unleashed in the Army, some obvious traits emerged, which had earned him a bit of notoriety. He quickly became known as a man who could shoot straight. Well, most Israelis shoot straight. That description would be selling Charley short – he was world class, his father allowing him from a young age to handle the latest American and Israeli rifle innovations, items gun-nuts the world over would give blood for, from classic Uzi’s to the excellent modern Tavors. Not having to pay for bullets helped as well. Sniper school honed his abilities later on. He was as comfortable with a firearm as most people are with steering wheels.

Another trait that was useful for military action was Charley’s ungodly physical strength. Large for an Israeli, Charley stood 6’2 and weighed 220 pounds. But he was stronger than even his large size could account for. He had that something extra that differentiates the big guys in your local gym from the professional athlete. Growing up as a teen, he’d taken to swimming long distances along the Mediterranean coast to work out his angst. Shy most of the time, he stayed out of public weight rooms because he was embarrassed at the attention he received. Once in the military, though, he hadn’t been able to hide it. Charley was constantly called upon if a piece of equipment was jammed and needed muscling. Or a Jeep engine block needed moving. A support beam put in place? Charley, get over here!" Even these days he tended towards baggy clothing because he didn’t like the attention that his Adonis-like body garnered. When he wore short sleeves, his thick forearms earned stares from passersby. But he couldn’t hide his blocky face, and he’d kept his military flattop, which irked Avi, because he wanted Charley to blend in at least a little. But that wasn’t to be. Anyone, from any culture, who gazed upon Charley, immediately thought cop or, military.

And as a soldier, Charley acted exactly like his physical appearance. He was always gung-ho, always ready for a fight. Truly these days many counterterrorism missions are fought at a distance from the barrel of a rifle or the payload bay of a bomber. Yet Charley was more interested in meeting his enemy up close, seeing the whites of his eyes. He was a simple adrenaline junky. It was like he needed the high from a close combat situation the way an addict needs a fix. His father had recognized this early on and compelled his son into university for four years after his compulsory service, hoping he’d forget the military. But the years had only been a delay. Once degreed, Charley went straight back to the army, where his skills soon landed him an invitation to the Special Forces.

Charley’s size and pale skin made him unsuitable for any surveillance or undercover roles in the Middle East, so a reconnaissance unit was out for him. But Sayaret Maglan, a secretive and elite group that specializes in hostage rescue and commando work, fit his attributes perfectly. For the next few years, Charley participated in mostly secret missions in Africa, Iraq, and Lebanon, in addition to his home state. But his lack of fear and his boldness had become a cause of concern. He never shied away from being first through the door. When fellow high-level operators wanted to take that extra tenth for planning, Charley was ready to go. Those who’d commanded him had seen Charley’s impetuousness as an impending death warrant. Too much guts for his own good. The consensus had been that he would be KIA sooner or later.

His father, now a colonel and commander of base Michve Alon near Safed, shared these concerns. And Colonel Levin had enough clout to do something about it. He had put feelers out and was quietly put in touch with another colonel whom he would have thought long retired. Colonel Levin was not allowed the specifics of the assignment, only that his son would no longer be participating in the most dangerous frontal assault work on entrenched enemies. The targets on this assignment, if all worked out according to plan, would not be expecting an assault. Plus, another agent would generally be the trigger man; Charley would exist in a backup role. But he would still be near the action. Also, the elder Levin was pleased to learn that Charley would be working with a young man that both father and son were acquainted with from the old days.

From the point of view of those recruiting for this project, Charley made a great fit. The Special Forces background was a minimum requirement. His superior small arms skills were a plus. His physical prowess was also thought to be a good complement to Avi’s wiry frame. With this being a very small group, his intimidation factor and great strength might come in handy when plans went awry. Importantly for Charley’s future, it was thought that Avi’s calm demeanor would rub off on his younger partner.

The ranking member of the group, Avi Dayan, was a more standard-sized Israeli at 5’9" and 165 pounds. At thirty-three, he was three years Charley’s senior. They happened to know each other as children because both grew up in Haifa, but had not been close friends due to their age difference. He, unlike Charley, had an unremarkable military history on paper. If someone, even most in his own military, were to check on Captain Avi Dayan’s background, he would look like an average Israeli soldier. Followed the standard path from tiron, or recruit. Went back into the Army after college like the others, earning a communications degree. Some front line experience. A couple commendations over his decade or so of service. Absolutely average. Also absolutely bogus.

The reason he rarely ran into any of his old army acquaintances, as is common in the small country, was because he was rarely in Israel, and rarely in an army unit. He was usually entrenched with a small group whose uniform was not green battle fatigues, but sandals, a beard, and kufi. He operated mostly in Iran and Syria. His average size and olive skin made him more suitable to blend in in those countries. He had gone to university, where he’d actually studied languages, as his military superiors had suggested. He’d become fluent in Arabic and Farsi. During his college time, he received additional training on the side from secret units, which taught him in more detail the culture, customs, and speech of their enemies. His training in the beginning had been painstaking, learning local dialects and history – all to help him gain access to areas where Israeli intelligence believed that radicals were devising plots. Avi was Mista’arvim, an IDF Special Forces operator who just happened to specialize in assassinations and kidnapping behind enemy lines. And he was very good.

He’d served faithfully for many years, but all things come to an end. The intensity of the undercover work, where one wrong remark can get one killed – and had for some of his associates – wears on a man. Plus, after a sloppy assassination of a money launderer in Syria, which resulted in his being chased by dozens of enraged Shiites through the dusty back streets of Ar-Raqqah and having to jump into the bed of a moving Toyota Hilux driven by his watchers, Avi and his superiors had both realized that his time in the Muslim Middle East was up. His face had been seen among too many people who’d met untimely deaths. Another thirty had gotten a decent look at him during this last fiasco. Continuing longer was tempting fate. And Muslims who catch a Jewish assassin in their back yards are not known to be merciful in their retribution. If captured, his death would be a long-term, carefully orchestrated symphony of pain. The many secrets he carried in his head, if uncovered, would undermine much of the clandestine work that Mossad had painstakingly accomplished over the years.

But Avi was not ready to be put out to pasture, either. The government had invested much into this soldier. Plus, a man with the temperament and fortitude to do what he did and maintain his sanity was rare. A job in the Western world was presented and accepted. After a couple months of downtime and back story planning, Israeli nationals Avi Dayan and Charley Levin boarded an El Al flight, with a vector to Los Angeles International Airport and an unlikely new chapter in their careers.

Chapter 4

The three arrived back at their Costa Mesa rental house. This was the regular domicile for the team, self-dubbed Pilotfish. A pilot fish is a small oceanic fish that follows sharks around, cleaning parasites off their larger cousins. The word was humorously thought of by Annie when they realized what they were doing – cleaning ticks off of their greatest ally, the United States.

It was a modest house in an average neighborhood built in the 1960s, close to the 405 and 55 freeway intersection, with three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a two car garage. It was carefully chosen to help the team blend into the area while keeping separated from their neighbors. It was a very quiet area at the end of a cul-de-sac. Most of the neighbors were elderly and kept to themselves. Even the landscaping was designed for privacy, with the side nearest one neighbor having a high row of shrubbery separating the properties. The lawn on the other side was a long, narrowing strip along the curve of the dead end, where some large boulders and a lemon tree were placed, effectively blocking that neighbor’s view of most of their windows and front door.

Special modifications to the home were few, considering the team was not expected to bring work home with them. But just in case, the garage was thoroughly soundproofed, and a thick and insulated automatic garage door had been installed. With the automatic opener, it was easier to avoid small talk with the neighbors if one was bleeding or trying to sneak a bound and gagged subject into the place. Also, numerous tiny, quarter-inch diameter video cameras were mounted in the eaves all around, recording all vehicles and people walking by, just in case they became compromised at some point.

Avi, Annie, and Charley were the only people regularly going in and out of the house. To the neighbors, they merely looked like perhaps one couple and a third wheel sharing on bills. The only oddity being none of the three had the average extra ten or twenty pounds hanging in their middles. Nothing to arouse suspicion. And after a month of them living there and making little noise and having no loud parties, the retirees were satisfied enough to leave them alone, with only an occasional wave as they passed by in the car or while walking the dog.

Avi showered and threw his clothes into the washroom. He was too tired for small talk, being an early riser naturally. He bid goodnight to his partners, then retired to his room. He fell on the bed and slept dreamlessly through the night.

Chapter 5

For by wise counsel you will wage your own war… The Holy Bible, Proverbs 24:6a

Also the former motto of Mossad.

Israel has long felt that the United States presents a sort of schizophrenic attitude in regards to its support of the small country. The U.S. calls Israel its friend and, indeed, has been over the years, supplying economic aide, military equipment, and the ultimate aide, nuclear weapons. Yet the U.S. never seems to fully have Israel’s back. It took President Nixon until the final hour, when it looked like Israel would be overrun by the Syrian and Egyptian armies during the October 1973 surprise attack on Yom Kippur, to overrule his Secretary of State Henry Kissinger and provide Israeli leader Golda Meir with the jets and munitions they needed to fend off their attackers. Recent years have seen our leaders call for Israel to voluntarily give up land for a Palestinian state, while at the same time providing jumbo jets to Israel’s military, further confounding the two countries’ relationship.

These signs have forced Israel to continue to do what she has done since her rebirth in 1948, and that is to fend for herself. Reports of Israel conducting counterterrorism operations in the Muslim Middle Eastern countries and all over Europe are common. Some are military strikes; some are up close and personal assassinations. Israeli intelligence has a full-time job combating those that wish to destroy her, so from Mossad facilities in Tel Aviv, Netanya, and elsewhere, technicians are constantly hacking accounts, electronically eavesdropping on conversations, and perusing travel records of their enemies in order to keep ahead of the deadly game. Information gleaned from captured terror suspects always plays a critical role in combating terror. Sayanim are indispensable as well, much as an anonymous phone call is vital to many police investigations.

Occasionally some of this intelligence leads to suspects residing in the United States. In the past, Israel has passed this information along to law enforcement agencies here, resulting in the appropriate arrests or other actions. Thousands of excellent men and women of the FBI and Homeland Security