Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  “Anyhow, Anti-Matter is way more dangerous than a midnight scuba. You should concern yourself with that. I’ll make you a bargain. How about I take care of the underwater stuff and you take care of the physics stuff?”

  “Deal.” Jay settled into comfortable terrain. “The portable AM device on the Tempus is completely secure. Iggy herself created it, and I installed numerous backup systems and contingencies. In fact,” he continued sardonically, “transporting our AM is safer than riding in this car.”

  “Hm.” Dee missed the dig, pondering. “Don’t we need a lot of brass as a containment field for our extracurricular use of Anti-Time?”

  “Already done. I packed plenty of extra brass strips in the event we needed to make repairs to the hull of the ship. We have more than . . . AARRGH!” Jay threw both forearms up to protect himself as Dee swerved into oncoming traffic. “Watch it!”

  “Chill out, Jay. You wouldn’t want me to run over an innocent armadillo would you?”

  Jay peered out the windshield as she maneuvered the car back into their lane. Breathing heavily, he twisted in his seat to gaze at Dee rather than the road. Anything to keep his mind off the white-knuckle drive. “So, Ms. Doherty. Hypothetical question. What do you think you would do if you lived here? That is to say, now, in this decade. Nineteen hundred and sixty-three.”

  “Oh my gosh.” Dee slapped both hands over her face, as Jay watched in terror. “I don’t know.” She clutched the wheel again to his relief. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I guess I’d still be a reporter.”

  “You wouldn’t want to be a typical sixties housewife, taking care of her husband and children?”

  “Sure I’d like to have a family someday, but I wouldn’t abandon my career.” Dee paused, mulling it over. “I’d love to be a White House correspondent. Can you imagine me reporting from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? Better yet, interviewing the First Lady? It would be a dream come true.” Her eyes shone. “I would die for the chance to meet Jackie K.”

  11:50 PM – CST

  Dmitriy cradled the strange weapon, admiring the lustrous metal. Smooth and cold, the object resembled no firearm he’d ever seen. Incredible. He couldn’t locate a single screw, rivet or joint that would give a clue as to how it was manufactured. The entire surface was pristine, as if poured whole from a molten alloy.

  Sitting behind the desk, he aimed the gun at a picture of Ruby’s decadent strippers on the back of the office door. Four girls had been photographed in the midst of performing the popular Monkey dance—three nearly naked following a taller woman in a skirted suit. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Dmitriy envisioned picking them off one at a time.

  The door flew open and Kon appeared, framed by the bright fluorescents from the hallway. “What the hell are you doing? Put that down!” He crossed in front of his underling and reached out.

  Dmitriy froze, and was astounded to feel the barrel automatically track Kon’s progress.

  The KGB cell leader snatched the contraband item. “I told you to get the shortwave radio out of the safe for later. I didn’t say you could rummage through my stuff.”

  “Did you see that? It followed you.” Dmitriy stared at the device with envy. “This thing is straight out of Buck Rogers. Where the devil did you find such a beauty?”

  “I lifted it from our adversaries. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Them? I thought they were just a bunch of do-gooders. But this looks like a top-secret military invention. What are they? CIA?”

  Kon tucked the weapon into his belt. “That won’t matter after tonight.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1963

  1:20 AM – CST

  On top of the Triple Underpass—the railroad bridge crossing over Elm, Main, and Commerce Streets—Kon aimed a pair of binoculars east into the landscape of Dealey Plaza.

  Elm Street divided the key section of the park with the infield on the right and the Grassy Knoll on the left. At the top of the knoll stood the white concrete Pergola backed by a five-foot stockade fence. The fence formed a right-angle perimeter to the side of the rail-yard parking lot. The train tracks originated from around the seven-story Texas School Book Depository at the far left and continued through the lot in a graceful arc until merging with Kon’s position on the bridge. A stationary freight train occupied most of the tracks, partly obscuring the Union Terminal North Tower, an operator-switching house in the parking lot.

  By the dim light of the crescent moon, the cell leader was observing the scurrying antics of the Americans. He tsk-tsked in mock disillusionment at their ineptitude. How could these amateurs expect to outfox the cunning maneuvers of an advanced operative?

  The downtown district was utterly deserted, except for an infrequent car whooshing down the street.

  1:25 AM – CST

  Wedged low under the steps to the empty loading dock behind the Texas School Book Depository, Sam couldn’t believe he’d drawn the figurative short straw in this assignment. Everyone else had secured prominent locations for battle. J.D. had insisted on orchestrating their positions, but the police officer wasn’t taking advantage of Sam’s superior intellect.

  Certain he was wasting his talents, Sam sneaked around to the front of the building to argue his point with Iggy. He found her huddled at the top of the front entrance stairs, surveying Elm and Houston Streets. Iggy would not listen. She scolded him for abandoning his post and shoved him away.

  Sam stormed around the corner, returning to the loading dock. He was startled to see a man skulking about, heading toward the rail-yard lot. The man was carrying a weapon that gleamed despite the dark.

  Why did that gun look so familiar? Sam crept forward as the stranger targeted his firearm. With a spark of recognition, he realized what was wrong. One of the Russians was toting a Locklier H2 2011. Sam’s Locklier 2011. With a burst of fury, he charged the KGB man.

  1:29 AM – CST

  Bang! In the crook of the stockade fence, Quin snapped his head as a projectile ripped a hole in the side of a boxcar across the lot. The noise jolted his attention to the appalling specter of Dmitriy and Viktor wrestling with Sera between two parked cars. Viktor clamped a hand over her mouth while Dmitriy pinned her arms behind her back. Crud! These guys were early. Volcanic rage erupted within Quin as he sprinted toward them, shrieking like a madman.

  Trying to escape, Sera chomped on Viktor’s forefinger while simultaneously kicking backward into Dmitriy’s groin. Dmitriy buckled in anguish.

  Joining the melee, Quin slugged Victor in the jaw and yanked Sera away with superhuman strength. They both tumbled to the ground.

  A second later, J.D. and Bick arrived from their respective hiding spots, brandishing revolvers. Viktor and Dmitriy ceased struggling, knowing they were defeated.

  Iggy ran over from the textbook building and helped to restrain the KGB. “Where’s the other one?”

  Bick looked at J.D. in surprise. They shrugged in bewilderment. It had happened so fast.

  Sera heaved Quin off of her. “What the hell were you thinking back there?”

  “I was thinking that, uh, they were going to kill you.”

  “Oh, please. I had everything under control.”

  Quin bowed his head sheepishly. “Sorry. I didn’t . . . I didn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Sera opened her mouth to offer a caustic retort and was surprised when she found nothing to say.

  1:31 AM – CST

  Ecstatic at reclaiming his 2011, Sam wielded his prize as he chased Kon east along the train tracks, away from the shenanigans at Dealey. After a couple of blocks, the KGB leader swerved left onto Market Street with Sam lagging by a dozen yards.

  As Sam turned the corner in pursuit, he was obliged to duck as Kon stopped to fire a few rounds in his direction. While Sam was distracted, Kon jumped into the waiting DeSoto and peeled away. Bastard! Sam resumed running, pelting the pavement with swift, hard strokes. He shot wildly at the departing car, ho
ping to disable it.

  Suddenly, a wall of sound and heat accosted Sam, catapulting him into a backward tumble. He bounced painfully on the blacktop. Bruised and battered, he came to rest at the side of the curb. In a split second, he envisioned the outcome of the frozen hydrogen projectile making contact with Kon’s gas tank. Sam glanced up fearfully for confirmation.

  The DeSoto was engulfed in flames.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1963

  5:00 AM – CST

  The man filling Leonid’s shoes entered the encryption codes on his shortwave radio and began the standard greeting. The seconds ticked by, but instead of proper acknowledgment, static hissed over the airwaves. Frustrated, the imposter reentered the numeric sequence. Again, no response.

  After the third unsuccessful try, he slammed down the receiver. They were supposed to answer at five o’clock Central Time. Where the hell were they? It was utterly unforgivable that a KGB cell would miss a scheduled call. Only one explanation seemed likely: something catastrophic had happened and they’d been deactivated. Inconceivable! They were purported to be the world’s best-trained espionage experts.

  Without them, the entire scheme would unravel. Months of covert planning and painstaking preparations would vaporize. He squelched an overwhelming urge to dash the radio to smithereens.

  Someone would pay for this travesty.

  6:30 AM – CST

  In the early morning twilight, Jay addressed the team in a fake announcer-type voice. “Okay, sports fans. We’re pleased to bring you live coverage of the inaugural KGB Olympics. Our athletes have been training for this event for . . . well, not at all. However, they are fit specimens, so the competition should be exciting.” Although he hadn’t slept, Jay felt exhilarated to be reunited with the team for this historic occasion.

  “The race is about to begin. Iggy Mikos will be officiating. Are you ready? Yes, Iggy nods her assent. On your mark, get set, and go! She has punched the converter.” Jay lifted binoculars to his eyes. “And there they go, exploding out of the racing blocks, already two miles east of our position at an altitude of thirty-thousand feet. Paradoxically, due to the time-jump to the past, they existed simultaneously in the brass-lined trunk of the Ford and in the air for a fraction of a second. In the spirit of sportsmanship, we won’t take marks off for a false start.”

  Sera anxiously scanned the sky for the tiny specks. “Jay, are you certain you rigged the parachutes to deploy? The Russians are probably unconscious.”

  “Absolutely positive. I tested the auto-release myself.”

  “Like we should care.” Quin hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “No loss if they hit the ground. Splat!”

  Sera glared at him. “Don’t be so flip. We don’t want any more blood on our hands. The KGB may be heartless killers, but we’re not. Remember, I’ve been up there.” She pointed at the sky. “When we broke out of Secaucus, I went into a spin and almost didn’t pull my cord in time. You can’t imagine the terror.”

  “It’s okay. Nobody else is going to die. They’re just about to . . . there goes one!” Jay gestured toward the white canopy billowing in the distance. “A-a-and the other! Told you my contraption would work.” He smiled like a loon.

  “Frankly, I’m bothered that our actions caused the death of the third cell member.” Bick attempted to sound matter-of-fact, rather than accusing. “Sam, you say Kon shot at you, you returned fire, and his car spontaneously exploded?”

  “Correct.” Perspiring despite the chilly temperature, Sam loosened his jacket collar. “You saw the inferno. I couldn’t have helped him if I’d tried.”

  “I’ve never heard any news reports where a bullet caused a car to blow up. Except in the movies, of course.” Dee chuckled, although it seemed forced.

  Sam had resolved to take his secret of the Locklier 2011 to his grave. “I’ve given it considerable thought. Fortunately, science can explain. I simply hit the gas tank at an angle that split it open. Then a loose wire likely created a spark that ignited. End of story. I didn’t intend to kill him.”

  “It’s a horrific tragedy that a man has died.” Iggy noted the sour expression on Sam’s face, so she continued hastily, “Accidents happen. No one is blaming you.”

  Sam grunted.

  Everyone’s eyes were drawn to him.

  “Well, that’s that, then.” Dee projected false brightness and turned it back to Jay. “What’s the progress?”

  “We’re coming into the home stretch with Dmitriy Sokolov leading by a nose, or a foot, perhaps is more accurate, followed by Viktor Vladimirsky bringing up the rear. Or maybe it’s the other way around, I really wouldn’t know. Their present trajectory will take them directly to the finish line right inside the gates of the Manned Spacecraft Center, which had a grand opening here in Houston two short months ago.”

  Jay lowered his binoculars and tilted his head. “Interestingly, in our time this Mission Control hub will be named after General Westmoreland. He’s the commander who conquered Cuba at the start of the ’64 Nuke War, and went on to become a vicious, militaristic US president. As an aside, the complex was originally slated to be christened after current Vice President Johnson—who as a senator from Texas helped shepherd legislation to approve funding for the facility—but that’s an issue for another day.”

  Jay raised his voice in a final crescendo. “Almost a photo finish, folks. Dmitriy wins! Followed in second place by a victorious Viktor! Our brave soldiers in the Military Police are swarming the compound, vying for the chance to congratulate our winners. Hopefully, the grand prize will be a protracted prison sentence for our intrepid foreign contestants.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1963

  5:00 PM – CST

  Hours later, after catching up on sleep, Jay held a pencil and a notepad, sketching. He drew a box around the letters KGB, and connected it to a circle containing the letters MP. “Now what happens?”

  Bick was hunched over the coffee table at home base. “Following procedure, the MPs will transfer the detainees to the Bureau of Prisons, where the Feds will no doubt uncover their fraudulent American identities.”

  On the paper, Jay linked MPs to a box saying FEDS.

  “Evidence of the plot in the form of the stolen motorcade route, maps, and weapons will be found and the conspiracy will be blown wide open. The cell will remain in jail for the rest of their natural lives.”

  Jay blithely slashed vertical lines across the KGB box to indicate prison bars. “You’re certain, completely sure, they would be incarcerated for life?”

  “Absolutely, son. The US government is dead serious when it comes to foreign agents who target the Commander in Chief. Good old Viktor and Dmitriy will never see the light of day.”

  “What if—now hear me out because I hate to say this—but what if the Soviets send another unit?”

  “Eventually our commie friends will be traced back to Russia. Their government will have to answer for placing assassins in our midst. Once they’ve been caught red-handed, they’ll think twice about provoking our wrath.”

  Jay penciled another line leading to a box with USSR.

  “As a result, the US will never again be complacent about presidential safety.”

  Sam snorted.

  Jay ignored him as he drafted a rudimentary American flag on the bottom of the sheet, billowing in a hash-mark breeze. He glanced up from the page; however, nobody was paying attention to his artistry.

  Bick uncharacteristically reclined and propped his feet up on the table. “It’s not exactly the scenario we envisioned, but the outcome is the same, so who cares?”

  “You betcha.” In a tattered armchair, Quin clasped both hands behind his neck.

  “I, for one, can’t wait to see Jackie K.” Dee hopped off the couch and danced a happy jig. “And JFK, of course. It’ll be our reward.”

  Jay stared up at the ceiling. “You know, this whole bizarre episode reminds me of
a French story I once read titled Le Voyageur Imprudent. It involves a man who travels back in time and . . .”

  Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The doorbell chimed repeatedly, interrupting the reverie.

  “Saved by the bell.” Quin languidly called out over his shoulder, “Come on in, it’s open!”

  J.D. Tippit strode into the sitting room, in full uniform after his shift. “Houston.” He unbuttoned his jacket. “We have a problem.”

  Quin arched his head back, looking at the officer upside down. “Problem? Nah. We nailed the KGB; Jackie K. is safe and sound.”

  “I contacted a colleague of mine who’s on the job in Houston.”

  “What the heck does the Houston PD have to do with anything?” Sera was flipping through an issue of Time magazine.

  J.D. removed his patrolman’s cap and tossed it down. “I asked him to discreetly get in touch with the Air Force officials at the Manned Spacecraft Center. He had to pull strings and promise favors. It took all day for him to find information.”

  Iggy bolted upright. “What kind of information?”

  “Those bureaucratic dunderheads have already started the paperwork.”

  “What sort of, I mean, what kind of paperwork?” Jay stammered. “You can’t possibly be saying what I think you’re saying.”

  J.D. slumped into an easy chair. “The KGB are going to be released.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1963

  12:00 PM – CST

  1:00 PM – EST

  “Oh my gosh! What an incredibly beautiful city. So clean and bright, like brand new.” Dee leaned over Jay’s lap to gaze out the window as the commercial airplane—a propeller-driven DC-3—began to descend. “Look! That huge obelisk must be the Washington Monument. I can even see the rectangular reflecting pool jutting out in front.” She twisted her head as they cruised past, admiring the midday sunlight sparkling on its surface. “But there’s no image reflected in the water. Maybe Sam was right.”