Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy
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12:30:08 PM – CST
12:30:08 PM – CST
Secret Service reflexes instinctively took over. Clinton J. Hill had leapt off the driver’s-side running board of the follow-up car and was already sprinting toward the presidential limousine. From the passenger side, John D. Ready also jumped, but quickly returned to his post when he determined he couldn’t cover sufficient ground to reach the preyed-upon convertible. From the rear seat, George W. Hickey Jr. snatched up his automatic rifle and cocked it, while the other agents in the entourage simultaneously drew their firearms. Too little, too late.
Behind the Pergola, venom surged through Sera. “You have no idea what kind of hell you’ve unleashed, you son of a bitch!” From her supine position she squinted up at Kon through the dappled sunlight, watching him stand and tighten the grip on his pistol. What was he planning? Was he going to shoot? A twinge of fear punctured her bravado.
“You foolish amateurs shouldn’t have come.” Kon’s fury pulsated in each word. He shoved his gun into its holster and darted into the rail yard.
12:30:30 PM – CST
Sera swiftly got to her feet; she had to capture Kon. But how was he alive? She charged after him, contemplating the anomaly. They had all witnessed the DeSoto engulfed in flames. No one could have survived that inferno. This subterfuge expanded far beyond the assassination. Before she could formulate a theory, Sera, aghast, saw Kon hop into the driver’s seat of a beat-up green Rambler parked beside the Texas School Book Depository.
12:31:00 PM – CST
Dammit! No way to catch up on foot. Sera altered course toward the Union Terminal North Tower, the rail-switching building where they had left the Chevy. She dodged a man in a 1930s gangster suit who was fleeing through the lot.
Kon gave a mocking wave as he revved the Rambler’s engine and peeled out behind the warehouse in the direction of Houston Street.
Sera wrenched the Chevy door open and hurled herself inside. She jabbed the key into the starter and cranked it hard. That commie would pay for his insolence.
12:30:08 PM – CST
12:30:08 PM – CST
Secret Service reflexes instinctively took over. Clinton J. Hill had leapt off the driver’s-side running board of the follow-up car and was already sprinting toward the presidential limousine. From the passenger side, John D. Ready also jumped, but quickly returned to his post when he determined he couldn’t cover sufficient ground to reach the preyed-upon convertible. From the rear seat, George W. Hickey Jr. snatched up his automatic rifle and cocked it, while the other agents in the entourage simultaneously drew their firearms. Too little, too late.
From his landing zone on the sixth floor, Quin swore as he observed the spineless Oswald race away from his sniper’s perch, carrying a rifle. Bick was continuing his scuffle with Viktor when the KGB man gained the superior position and aimed his revolver. Facing the barrel, Bick clutched the gun’s cylinder, holding fast to prevent it from rotating enough to fire. Viktor simply released the weapon and rolled off a surprised Bick.
Viktor pelted after Oswald, who ditched his Mannlicher-Carcano behind some boxes and disappeared down the stairs. Bick followed on Quin’s heels as they gave chase, hell-bent on catching these mongrel bastards.
12:30:30 PM – CST
A couple of flights ahead of Viktor, Lee Harvey Oswald cantered down the L-shaped stairs, exited through the door to the second-story lunchroom, and headed toward the soda machine. A moment later, Dallas Motorcycle Patrolman Marrion L. Baker and Warehouse Manager Roy S. Truly bounded up the stairs to the same level. Baker noticed Oswald walking away and called him over. Poking his gun into Oswald’s abdomen, he turned and questioned Truly. “Do you know this man? Does he work here?” Truly licked his thin lips and responded in the affirmative. Oswald’s face remained impassive.
12:31:00 PM – CST
Bick and Quin tailed Viktor to the first floor, neither one realizing that Oswald had stopped on the second. The large overhead doors for the loading dock were open, and they exploded out onto the sunlit platform.
They arrived just in time to see Viktor sail off the dock into the path of a decrepit green Rambler. The driver screeched to a halt to avoid mowing him down. Stunned and shaken, Viktor circled to the passenger side and opened the door as the station wagon lunged ahead. He scarcely managed to get in before the driver zoomed away.
Bick and Quin gaped at each other, dumfounded. Was that Kon?
12:30:08 PM – CST
12:30:08 PM – CST
Secret Service reflexes instinctively took over. Clinton J. Hill had leapt off the driver’s-side running board of the follow-up car and was already sprinting toward the presidential limousine. From the passenger side, John D. Ready also jumped, but quickly returned to his post when he determined he couldn’t cover sufficient ground to reach the preyed-upon convertible. From the rear seat, George W. Hickey Jr. snatched up his automatic rifle and cocked it, while the other agents in the entourage simultaneously drew their firearms. Too little, too late.
His Samaritan helper gone, Sam roused himself out of his stupor to belatedly contend with Dmitriy. From behind, he kicked the assassin’s right elbow, compelling him to drop the Locklier 2011. Finished with his task, Dmitriy ignored the weapon and bolted away from the corner of the stockade fence.
Sam scrabbled in the dirt to retrieve his gun and took off in pursuit of his quarry.
12:30:30 PM – CST
Sam saw Dmitriy tearing toward the railroad tracks as a freight train clamored in from behind the Texas School Book Depository. His motive was clear. The Russian was trying to beat the locomotive and use it as a barrier. Sam put on an extra burst of speed; he could not permit him to go free. But he needn’t have worried. The KGB’s getaway plan failed as the train rumbled in front of him, making a wide arc on its way to the bridge over the Triple Underpass.
12:31:00 PM – CST
Dmitriy trotted alongside in the direction of the train’s motion, although its velocity surpassed his own. At the first open boxcar, he catapulted himself inside.
Sam continued to run at the same spot, even as his adversary outpaced him in the moving train. He targeted the next available car, which had a ladder on the side. Garnering his courage, Sam vaulted up, latching both hands onto a rung. Madre de Dios! His torso smashed against the train, legs swaying dangerously close to the wheels clacking beneath.
Sam looked down at the tracks rushing by and squeezed his eyes shut. Fearing for his life, he summoned all his strength to heave himself up until his feet reached the bottom rung. He felt a cold surge of adrenaline from head to toe as he white-knuckled the bar.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
12:32 PM – CST
Mrs. Robert A. Reid, a grandmother employed as a clerical supervisor for the Texas School Book Depository, arrived at her desk breathless. She had run inside to her second-floor workplace after watching the parade in the street near the front entrance. She had been very anxious to see the First Lady. When the car had come by, Mrs. Kennedy was dressed very attractive as she held her hat in the wind that was blowing a little bit.
But then, Mrs. Reid had heard three shots.
My goodness, she had been afraid those shots had come from the book building, because it seemed like they came just so directly over her head. She had run inside to get out of the line of shots in case they fired some more.
Now at her desk, Mrs. Reid looked up and saw Lee Harvey Oswald in shirtsleeves, calmly holding a full bottle of Coke in his right hand. Perhaps he didn’t know what had happened. “Oh, the president has been shot, but maybe they didn’t hit him!” Strange that one of the warehouse boys would be up in the office at that time.
Without breaking stride, Oswald mumbled something and walked straight to the stairway leading down to the front door.
My goodness. Mrs. Reid wrinkled her brow. She dismissed him and paid no more attention to her coworker.
12:33 PM – CST<
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Frequency tuned to panic mode, Quin had jerked forward after the disappearing Rambler to follow on foot, but Bick had reined him in.
Searching madly for a means of pursuit, Bick spotted the Holy Grail. “Look! It’s Sera. Let’s go.” He pointed to the unmistakable turquoise Chevy, approaching with an impatient driver blaring the horn. The conspicuous vehicle weaved through the traffic of pedestrians fleeing the killing zone.
As soon as the car came parallel to their position, Quin hurdled over the edge of the loading dock. His feet clocked the pavement while momentum propelled his body onward. He broke his fall by ramming his palms into the front quarter panel.
Alarmed, Sera stomped the brake, thinking she had clipped a bystander.
Quin pushed himself off and raced around to the driver’s side. He yelled over the car, “Come on, Bick!”
In the split second before Bick sprang off the platform, he noticed a man in a double-breasted suit scurrying past the Impala. From midair, he bellowed, “Tolson, you coward!” He landed with a thud, bending his legs to cushion the impact as he observed the G-man break into a run. “Get back here!” Bick sprinted after him while shouting instructions at Quin. “Go! Get those KGB bastards!”
Quin spared no thought on his friend’s bizarre behavior as he wrenched the car door open. “Shove over. I’m driving.”
“Not a chance.” Sera pumped the gas pedal and the Chevy pitched ahead, knocking Quin off balance.
He stumbled and recovered. It was like a reenactment of the scene with Kon moments ago. Was she going to leave him behind?
Sera promptly leaned into the steering wheel and pulled the seatback toward her. “In the back or you walk.”
With no other option, Quin dove in behind her, muttering expletives. Sera gunned the engine. Squealing tires, she made a hard left onto Houston Street, now trailing the Russians by two minutes. Keeping a vigilant watch for the Rambler, she drove as fast as she dared without calling attention to their chase.
Quin began monkeying his way over the seatback to sit in front. “Some mission, huh? I guess we really screwed the pooch on this one.”
12:35 PM – CST
Sam lay facedown, splayed out across the top of the boxcar in a narrow gangway running down the middle. He hadn’t realized walkways existed on top of trains. After all, who would be crazy enough to venture up here? He laughed at the absurdity of his thoughts.
The breeze felt cool against his skin as he rested from the exertion of climbing. But there was no time to waste. He raised himself to hands and knees and crawled toward Dmitriy’s train car. Reaching the edge, he gingerly crouched.
In order to continue, Sam had to make it to the next carriage. His gut told him the falsehood that it was harder to jump in the direction of the train’s motion. However, logic dictated that his body would sustain the speed of the locomotive. The gap measured four feet, but seemed as daunting as a wide canyon. He steeled his nerves and leapt, crashing to all fours again. Wonderful. Dmitriy had probably heard him over the clattering of the train.
Brilliant idea. Now what? He inched over to the side and peered down to weigh his alternatives. The sliding door was mounted on a railing, which could provide a handhold. He positioned his body along the rim, aligned with the tracks. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his legs over the side, simultaneously trying to swing them forward like a pendulum. But he wildly miscalculated and instead hung like a target. Inside, a surprised Dmitriy reached for his revolver.
Sam clutched the railing and rocked back and forth. He released and crashed onto the floor of the boxcar as a bullet screamed past his left ear. Coming to rest on his behind, Sam knew he had to act.
In one fluid movement, he yanked the Locklier out of his jeans and pulled the trigger. The frozen hydrogen projectile blew a deadly hole in Dmitriy’s chest.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963
12:39 PM – CST
Several blocks from his burlesque club, Jack Ruby sat in John Newnam’s office in the second-floor advertising department of the Dallas Morning News. He had grudgingly decided to heed Bick and Dee’s advice to resume his ordinary business and not get involved. While chatting with a couple of employees to establish his whereabouts, he hinted that he’d been at the newspaper headquarters longer than he’d been there in reality.
The Carousel proprietor had scarcely finished drafting the copy for his regular weekend ad—ostensibly the purpose for his visit—when a worker charged past hollering that a sniper had struck JFK. Ruby felt the blood drain from his face. How could this happen? Confusion reigned as citizens called the paper seeking information, while nervous advertisers phoned to cancel or change ads.
Without speaking, Newnam got up and rushed toward a corner area where people were congregating around a small television set. Groaning, Ruby followed; his entire frame ached from being dumped on the floor by that scumbag, Oswald.
Ruby jolted with recognition as he saw his favorite daytime programming flickering across the TV. Apparently ignorant of the newsflash, the network was continuing its live broadcast of As the World Turns, a modern-day soap opera with doctors and lawyers featured as the protagonists. If today had been a run-of-the-mill Friday, Ruby could have spent it sprawled across the couch in his darkened Oak Cliff apartment, enjoying the shows with a hot-water bottle to nurse his pain. He perched on the edge of a nearby desk.
On the screen, character Bob Hughes informed his mother Nancy that he was inviting his ex-wife Lisa and son Tom to their home for Thanksgiving dinner. Ruby tilted forward in outrage. How could they continue this while all hell was breaking loose? The actress playing Nancy sat down with her father-in-law to discuss the potentially volatile reunion. Then the melodrama suddenly disappeared.
A CBS News Bulletin logo appeared on a grainy gray background to introduce an audio-only transmission. The instantly recognizable voice of veteran journalist Walter Cronkite emanated from the box. “Here is a bulletin from CBS News. In Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy’s motorcade in downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting. More details just arrived.” The anchorman paused. “These details about the same as previously. President Kennedy shot today just as his motorcade left downtown Dallas. Mrs. Kennedy jumped up and grabbed Mr. Kennedy. She called, ‘Oh no!’ The motorcade sped on. United Press says that the wounds for President Kennedy perhaps could be fatal. Repeating, a bulletin from CBS News, President Kennedy has been shot by a would-be assassin in Dallas, Texas. Stay tuned to CBS News for further details.”
Ruby almost fell off the desk as his numb body quivered in shock. His back contracted in a spasm. As the World Turns recommenced its episode, still in progress. The actors clearly had no clue about the tragedy unfolding in America.
Son of a bitch! Oblivious to the noise and turmoil, Ruby set his features in an unfocused stare.
They had killed his president. They would pay.
12:40 PM – CST
Elderly passenger Mrs. Mary Bledsoe was riding on a Dallas Transit Company Bus on Elm Street, traveling toward her residence in Oak Cliff. She had watched the parade from the corner of St. Paul and Main Streets, well east of Dealey Plaza. Unaware of the violence, she remained in high spirits, happy to have had the opportunity to witness JFK in person.
After the motorcoach lumbered across Field Street, a passerby beat on the door until the driver opened it. As the rude individual paid his fare, Mrs. Bledsoe realized he was familiar to her. Lee Harvey Oswald. Lord have mercy! She had rented him a room for a dollar a night, oh, about a month and a half ago. The boarding house at 621 North Marsalis Avenue doubled as her home. Well, if this wasn’t the big shot now. He still sported a bad attitude, even though he was a nobody. It hadn’t taken the landlady long to decide she didn’t like him and didn’t want him around. She had kicked his hide out of her house before the end of a week. She simply refused to rent to him a minute longer.
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br /> This afternoon, her former tenant seemed like a maniac, with his brown-collared shirt unbuttoned and hanging out of his trousers. He was dirty, and there was a hole in his right sleeve. She stole a sneaky glance at him and pursed her lips. He looked so bad in his face, and his face was so distorted. She averted her eyes as he went by her and plunked down halfway to the rear of the bus. Mrs. Bledsoe muttered to herself, “I don’t want to know I even seen him.”
The ride continued in jerky starts and stops as the traffic became snarled near Dealey Plaza. Mrs. Bledsoe overheard a passing motorist explain the delay to the transit driver through the open window. Lord have mercy! The president had been shot. People surrounding her began buzzing about the dreadful revelation.
Meanwhile, the bus approached Lamar Street. Oswald abruptly got up and exited, four minutes after his grand entrance. Mrs. B. sighed. That’s good riddance. She turned to her fellow commuters and joined in their excited babble.
12:46 PM – CST
Bick throttled the engine of the black and chrome Harley DuoGlide as he cruised along Stemmons Freeway tailing Tolson. He had almost lost him near Dealey Plaza when the G-man hopped into his dark sedan. Bick had recalibrated his strategy and raced back to the bike, his intuition telling him Tolson’s probable destination. His only lament was that Dee was nowhere to be found, despite his strident admonitions that she return to the motorcycle. His stomach twisted with worry, but he had little recourse at the moment. He grimly rode on, noticing with frustration that major congestion loomed ahead.
Dammit. Tolson gained ground as the officials granted his government auto preference over the myriad of vehicles swarming near Parkland Hospital. Bick reduced speed as he observed the scene with trepidation. Cops, ambulances, reporters, and spectators converged on the medical compound. Someone important in the entourage must have been hit. He hoped to God it wasn’t Jackie. Whoever it was, he couldn’t help them now.
Bick leaned out, swerved the bike, and began splitting lanes.