Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  “What a putz.” Jay shook his head. “He’s correct about one thing, though. It’s only going to get worse.”

  “That’s why we gotta get our butts back to ’63, right? Fix all this.” Quin’s muffled voice came from under the helmet.

  “Yes, as you say, fix all this.” Sam stopped fiddling with the controls on the spacesuit and stood. “And to do that we need every advantage at our disposal. We have fifty years of knowledge on the KGB, and I suggest we use it. That means employing our superior weapons and technology. Who knows? Perhaps 2013 listening devices or video monitors will be the very tools that ensure our success. We would be fools not to benefit from five decades of advancement.”

  “No, no, no, that’s exactly what we can’t do.” Jay swished his arms back and forth. “What if we’re found with modern technology? How do we explain we’re not Soviet spies ourselves? It’s simply too dangerous.”

  Frank glanced up thoughtfully. “I suppose an argument could be made either way. We need every asset available to us, but we must be cautious.”

  “I disagree. I don’t think there is any justification for the risks.” Iggy hoisted herself up to sit on top of the workbench. “To be fair, let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of using 2013 technology?”

  Sam’s hand shot up.

  “All those opposed?”

  Dee joined the others as they raised hands tentatively, as if not to upset Sam.

  “Have it your way.” Sam wagged a finger at Iggy. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  4:00 PM – PDT

  7:00 PM – EDT

  Associate FBI Director Clyde Tolson was riding home in the back of a bulletproof Cadillac limousine next to his boss, Director J. Edgar Hoover. Although they maintained separate residences on the outskirts of Washington DC, the two men were driven to work together each day, with Tolson picked up first in the morning and dropped off last in the evening. Longtime companions, they frequently dined and vacationed with each other. Both meticulously groomed, with starched white shirts, somber tailored suits, and narrow silk ties, the pair differed in that Hoover was slightly shorter and stockier, with a receding hairline. However, their contrasts and similarities didn’t warrant snide talk. Before leaving the office, Tolson had overheard a colleague comment that while the G-men might not pass for brothers, they may have been guys who shopped together.

  Hoover tossed his fedora onto the seat and stabbed the button to close the soundproof window between the driver and passenger compartments. “We have a problem, Clyde.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper and waved it back and forth. “I got a memo from the president’s kid brother. He sent this little gem with instructions to investigate Union leaders. He had an epiphany that they’re connected to organized crime—as if we didn’t know. He’s ordering me to wiretap and surveil the bosses, including Jimmy Hoffa himself. Ordering me. Like I rose to my position to do his bidding.” He dropped the page onto Tolson’s lap.

  The deputy scanned the Department of Justice memo signed by Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy. He passed it back in silence.

  “Who in blue blazes does Bobby think he is, telling me how to do my job? That idiot is half my age. We won the gangster wars thirty years ago while he was still playing with his dollies. He can shove his memo where the sun don’t shine.”

  Tolson’s voice channeled through his nose. “That’s right, J. Edgar, we got the big guys. And we did it your way, from the ground up.” Images of Wanted posters flashed through his mind: Capone, Dillinger, Machine Gun Kelly.

  “It’s like I always say. The bosses never actually do anything.” Hoover shook his head, causing his cheek jowls to wobble.

  Tolson nodded in agreement. The head honchos insulated themselves from being implicated. They sent their goons to do all the dirty work and never gave direct orders, particularly over the phone. Wiretapping at their level was pointless.

  “Clyde, remember how it went down with Capone?”

  In a brilliant maneuver, the Bureau of Prohibition had nailed Al Capone on tax evasion based on his illegal earnings. Although the TV show The Untouchables granted Agent Eliot Ness immortality for the conviction, his department had operated under supervision of the FBI.

  “That’s being smart.” Hoover smacked his right fist into his left hand. “That’s being methodical.” Smack! “That’s how we get our job done.” Smack!

  “J. Edgar, you know where this is coming from. It’s JFK, pulling Bobby’s strings.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Clyde, of course I know. Kennedy thinks a big mob bust will grab headlines and he’ll get credit for being tough on crime, after we do all the work. He’s only trying to score points for reelection. But the president and attorney general can go straight to hell. We’re doing this my way.” Hoover ripped the memo into tiny shreds and threw them out the window in a stream of confetti.

  “And if the Mafia gets wind that the president is gunning for them, he’d better expect retaliation. You screw with the mob and you’re a dead man. JFK has no idea who he is messing with.” Hoover’s eyes bugged out in fury.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1963 AND 2013

  9:00 AM – PDT

  Two weeks later—a couple of miles from Arcata Bay in the Pacific Ocean, the morning rain battered down on the hood of Quin’s slicker. As he steadied himself on the bow of Sam’s twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser, he was unsurprised that the wealthy shipbuilder owned a posh boat for towing submersibles.

  Quin had deliberately staked out his position in the chilly downpour to avoid the rest of the crew. Working on the same project in the same boathouse for the last several weeks had engendered short tempers, and the weather seemed to add to the crankiness factor. Unfortunately, the others were gathering around him as they neared their destination.

  Bick pulled his sopping wet baseball cap low over his face in a vain attempt to keep dry. “Look, I still question the wisdom of spending valuable time on this prototype.” He gestured to the half-scale replica of the Tempus Orbis being dragged behind them in the sea. “I thought time was the one commodity we lacked.”

  “We’ve gone over this.” Iggy sighed as she maneuvered the winches holding the seven-foot-diameter mini-ship, guiding it toward them. “We need to ensure that a larger time bubble will maintain integrity through a fifty-year jump to the past.”

  Reaching the predetermined coordinates, Sam cut the engines, and the boat slowed to a drift. “I agree with Bick. My mathematical modeling and virtual simulations have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt the jump will be successful. This exercise is a waste of time and resources.”

  “Simulations?” Frank hooted. “You’re dealing with hyper-theory that’s way beyond any of us. Even the great brain of Sam Morales. Sending a small object back three months is one thing, sending eight human beings back half a century is another. The laws of the universe don’t care about your models and will find a way to send us that message. And I for one am not subjecting myself to this lunacy until it’s been tested.”

  “We have to follow proper scientific protocol.” Jay nodded at Frank. “The sphere should land precisely where we are now, sink to the bottom and hopefully remain undetected for the next . . . I mean the last . . . whatever, for fifty years. Dee and I will scuba down and retrieve it. Then we’ll verify the age of the radioactive isotope placed on board and see if we’re ready to send ourselves back in the full-size ship.”

  Bick untied the tethers, detaching the prototype from their vessel. “But even if we left for 1963 today, we would only have three days to get ourselves to Dallas, find Dee’s grandfather, and convince him to help us—a bunch of strangers, I might add—that a crime is going to be committed.”

  “All we have to do is persuade my granddad to come with us to the scene of the crime. He’ll see it happen and arrest the KGB. No problem.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Frank raised his eyebrows. “We’ll just tell him we’re from the future.�
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  “Let’s get the show on the road, people.” Quin leaned on the railings, watching the sphere bob up and down.

  Iggy handed the converter to Sera. “The precise sequence has been set. Please initiate the time-jump.”

  “Wait a minute. I need to capture this for posterity.” Proceedings came to a halt as Dee ducked inside to retrieve her antique camera and an umbrella. “Okay, ready.” She balanced the umbrella over her shoulder and began snapping photos of Sera and of the floating orb.

  Sera gripped the barbell device as the pouring rain sluiced down. She clicked several buttons.

  They collectively held their breath and stared at the brass sphere rolling in the ocean. Suddenly the water around the replica started to froth, bubbling and hissing as if it were boiling. They heard the thunderous sound of metal being bent back and forth upon itself. Bwang! Bwong! The exterior became distorted, with bulges appearing in some areas and hollows in others.

  “Shut it off!” Iggy shouted.

  Sera frantically punched buttons. “I am. It’s not working!”

  “Do something! If the AM gets out, we’re history and so is Northern California.” Frank retreated to the far side of the boat.

  Frozen in place and waiting to be vaporized, Bick idly wondered if Frank thought he could escape the blast.

  “It’s no use.” Sam wrung his hands. “The sequence has gone too far to stop with the remote.”

  Splash! Quin dove in next to the ship. He straddled the top, opened the misshapen hatch and crammed his body through the narrow hole.

  Iggy cupped her hands into a megaphone. “Cut the power manually!”

  Inside the prototype a searing light disoriented Quin. He bumped around the tight quarters until he found the manual override switch and shut it to the off position. But the intense light remained and the walls of the sphere continued to morph in and out, forming a lumpy shape. Dammit! He toggled the lever back and forth, but it had no impact.

  9:30 AM – PDT

  12:30 PM – EDT

  His heart thudding, Captain Sutherland arrived at the doorway and saluted. “Sir, you wanted to see me?”

  Colonel Zimmerman quivered in fury as he pointed at his computer screen. “The Pentagon wants an update on Project Vindictus. And I have nothing to report since the escape of our key scientists three weeks ago.” He enunciated his words with menace. “What is your progress on locating the fugitives?”

  The captain could sense a volcano about to erupt, but had no option other than to give an update. “In addition to monitoring checkpoints and credit card transactions, I have investigated acquaintances of the traitors Sera Banks, Iggy Mikos, and Jay Harding. I indentified citizens engaged in subversive activities as well as those who exhibited changes in purchasing habits. After personally visiting said suspects, I have found no evidence they aided or abetted the renegades, nor are they harboring them at present.” Sutherland’s mind whirled in a tumult of the grungy airports and seedy motels he’d recently endured.

  “You mean to tell me you don’t have one single lead?” Zimmerman pounded his fist on the desk. “It’s imperative we find them. Are you completely incompetent?”

  Sutherland flinched. “No, sir. The pursuit continues. I will begin immediately with associates of the next turncoat, Professor Frank Thomas.”

  10:00 AM – PDT

  The members of Team Orbis collapsed into couches and chairs in Sam’s living room, dripping wet, their faces ashen. Iggy rested her elbows on her thighs and covered her eyes. Frank moodily fiddled with his glasses, cleaning them with a handkerchief. Sera stared straight ahead, while Jay seemed to be having a mute conversation with himself.

  Trembling, Sam returned from the kitchen with a pitcher of ice water and began passing out tumblers. Dee shook her head, refusing.

  Bick rose. “Perhaps a Diet Coke then?”

  Dee nodded gratefully.

  Quin piped up, “Appreciate a Coke too there, Bick.”

  After Bick had returned with the beverages, Quin took a deep swallow. The worst was over.

  Sam sat down and spoke with forced cheerfulness. “Quick thinking, Quin, to cut the power lines to the Beryllium lasers. Excellent deduction, because if you’d clipped the wires feeding the magnets, we’d all be just a memory.”

  “Instinct.” Quin smiled broadly. “We astronauts are trained to make instantaneous life or death decisions.” In truth, he’d made a wild guess on a heads-or-tails wager, but since they were all alive, no harm done.

  “Well, thank goodness for Quin’s judgment call and that we didn’t blow up the entire western seaboard, but what the hell happened?” Bick looked pointedly at Sam. “I thought you scientist types assured us the test would be successful.”

  Sam avoided eye contact. He’d been so cocksure it would work.

  Iggy removed her elbows from her knees and sat up straight. “This is why we do the test. We discovered the ship’s hull is not robust enough to contain the Anti-Time bubble required for a fifty-year leap. Without stable containment, the object could not transfer through time.”

  “Correct.” Jay was already scratching notes on his clipboard. “The good news is we know what we’re dealing with now. We’ll run a slew of simulations to determine how to fortify the exterior of the real Tempus. But the bad news is it’s going to take a while.”

  “How long?” Dee tried to read his clipboard from the side. “We need to be in ’63 in three days, on October 13, so we can arrest the KGB for breaking and entering.”

  “It’ll never happen.” Frank started pacing. “It could take weeks or even months to complete the scenarios and rebuild the hull. I’d say this is a definite sign a fifty-year time-jump is unattainable. Haven’t I said that since day one?” Nobody responded to his rhetorical question. “We should cut our losses and try to figure out how we are going to survive on the run right here, right now, in the present.”

  “Before we run away and live in the woods,” Iggy countered dryly, “let’s examine our options and establish a viable course of action.”

  “I agree.” Sera glanced at her companions with a measure of optimism. “Jay can create a project plan to determine the expected schedule for reengineering the ship. Then we’ll need an alternate strategy to stop the KGB. Dee?”

  She bowed her head in thought. “Well, there was another incident, but I discounted it for reasons that will be all too obvious. On November 18, four days before the Jackie K. assassination, the KGB killed an innocent civilian.”

  “This is crazy. Let’s face reality, shall we?” Frank couldn’t believe they were being so obtuse. “To recap: Our time machine is a death trap. We’ve missed our deadline. And even if we could go back, how could we possibly prevent a murder and then arrest the KGB if no crime was committed?”

  Disregarding Frank’s negativity, Bick considered the dilemma. “You would have to let it almost happen so you could arrest them for attempted murder. It would be incredibly dangerous both for the victim and for us, but not unachievable.”

  “Wait a minute!” Dee slapped her hands together. “Aren’t we forgetting something? We can travel in twelve-month intervals. Why don’t we go back fifty-one years and wait until October of 1963?”

  “Absolutely brilliant, Dee.” Bick squeezed her shoulder. “I can’t believe we hadn’t thought of it before. We’d have tons of time to plan and prepare.”

  Quin drained the remainder of his cola. “No way am I going to hang around some backwater decade like the sixties. What a bore-fest! Let’s go back, do our job”—he interrupted his statement with a loud belch—“and get home.”

  Sam looked at Quin with disgust. “If that’s the case, why not remain in 2013 until the appropriate time?”

  “No, unfortunately, we can’t.” Jay frowned. “Gadolinium-146.”

  “He’s right.” Sera gestured toward him. “I forgot. The radioactive material we use to make Anti-Matter has a half-life of forty-eight days. And we’re running low as is. There is no way we c
an hold off for one year, either in 2013 or in 1963. It will be difficult enough to get here, but nearly impossible five decades ago. We should go back as soon as time permits.”

  “It’s decided then. We’ll go back as soon as we are able.” Iggy stood up, signaling an end to the debate.

  Quin couldn’t help but add more justification. “Besides, your Colonel Runway-Blocker is still after us. Probably best to get out of Dodge.”

  “If those idiots haven’t found us by now, they never will.” Sera dismissed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1963 AND 2013

  1:00 AM – PDT

  3:00 AM – CDT

  Under cover of the moonless night, KGB operative Viktor Vladimirsky wielded a crowbar at the corner of Young and Field Streets in downtown Dallas. Receiving a nod of approval from his superior, Dmitriy Sokolov, he wedged the bar between the doors of the defunct train tunnels and began to wrench them apart. Few people realized this complex had been a bustling freight depot until the 1940s, when it became a major hub for the armed forces. Thousands of World War II troops had traveled through this station on the way to boot camps across the country. Now, it was obsolete.

  Fortified with flashlights, the spies cantered down the pitch-black stairs and followed the underground passage two blocks north toward the Santa Fe Building at 1114 Commerce Street. A striking example of Art Deco-style architecture, the twenty-story, buff brick structure with cast-stone trim boasted five dramatic archways surrounding the windows on the first four floors. Constructed by the Santa Fe Railroad, it had functioned concurrently as office space and a warehouse, with train tracks leading underneath so workers could offload freight indoors. But two decades ago in 1942, the US government had acquired the building and condemned it. Scheduled for demolition, the edifice was resurrected by its registry as a significant historic landmark. The exterior remained intact, but the inside was gutted and remodeled into a new Federal Building. No longer in service, the train tunnels were boarded up and forgotten.