Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  Iggy prompted him. “You chased Dmitriy through the parking lot behind the fence.”

  “Yes.”

  “Before that, did he get off any shots at the president?”

  “No.” The lie came easily, in Sam’s denial.

  “I see.” Iggy focused beyond him. “Dee and I both agree we heard shots coming from the direction of the schoolbook warehouse. However, watching the motorcade, it looked as if JFK’s head jerked back and to the left as it exploded. Like a sniper fired from somewhere in the front.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. Be serious. You’re a scientist. You know as well as I do you can’t tell how a body will react when hit by a projectile.” Sam felt grateful that the frozen hydrogen pellet would have evaporated, leaving no trace. “Besides, the acceleration of the vehicle could have thrown him back.” He realized his babbling rang out like excuses.

  Iggy pressed her lips into a thin line.

  Sam said no more, resolving to protect his secret until his dying day.

  2:12 PM – CST

  Quin, Sera, and Bick had restrained Hoover, Tolson, and Kon using electrical cord Jay pulled from the plane’s communications devices. Both G-men were gagged with their own narrow neckties, while Kon was muzzled with a spare tie they had found in a storage cabinet. Bick had respectfully covered Viktor’s body with a cloak.

  The team left their captives in the rear command center and retreated to the front compartment.

  Quin slammed the door between the two sections of the aircraft. “Now what?”

  “We turn them in.” Sera lifted her chin. “It’s the right thing to do. We have to make them pay for destroying our future.”

  Bick flopped onto one of the couches, sighed, and slowly summed up the suggestion. “So what you’re telling me is you want us to go to the authorities and explain that we are”—he lowered his voice—“from fifty years in the future. We came to 1963 on a mission to prevent the KGB from murdering Jackie K. We failed, they got JFK instead, and oh, by the way, J. Edgar Hoover masterminded the assassination.”

  Quin leaned back and folded his arms. “Yeah, that’ll fly.”

  “What are you saying?” Sera’s eyes roamed about the cabin. “We leave them here in charge of their federal kingdom? Let them get away with it?”

  “That’s not half bad.” Quin pointed at Sera as she gaped. “You may be onto something. We leave them here for now, then we go back and, you know, fix the damage.”

  “Maybe. We would probably wind up doing that anyway,” Jay mused. “So in the end, what’s the difference?”

  “That could be our most sensible option. But we need to do it in a way that ensures the guilty face justice. Besides”—Bick glanced at Sera—“this needs to be a team decision.”

  Sera squeezed her eyelids together, feeling the pain of her own lost childhood being magnified by the thousands that could potentially suffer the same fate. However, she nodded her head a fraction of an inch.

  “Whatever we decide, we have to hurry.” Jay trotted over to a window. “Hoover ordered the pilot to leave us, but he’ll be back anytime now. We can’t have him finding us with this, um, incriminating evidence.”

  “What about our KGB friend?” Quin cocked his thumb at the bulkhead. “If we leave him, boom! He’s a goner, just like poor Viktor.”

  “In that case”—Bick shrugged—“I guess we have a new comrade.”

  2:15 PM – CST

  After returning to Dallas Police Headquarters from the theater, Sergeant Hill helped manhandle the suspect into the third-floor interrogation room of the Homicide and Robbery Bureau. Located at 106 South Harwood, the station house straddled the block between Main and Commerce Streets, one-half mile from Dealey Plaza. Already, reporters from various city news organizations were swarming the building.

  He left an officer standing guard inside the windowed booth with the suspect. Meanwhile, the press clamored to see the murder weapon. Hill briefly displayed the pistol that had killed Officer Tippit. He then got involved in an earnest discussion with several detectives to determine who would make up the offense report and who would get all the technicalities out of the way.

  The enormity of slaughtering a fellow lawman warranted the utmost reverence and attention to detail.

  During their discussion, Captain J.W. Fritz returned from his investigation at the Texas School Book Depository. He hustled through the crowded corridor, removed his white cowboy hat, and peered at the detectives through his horn-rimmed spectacles. Fritz issued his command in a gravelly tone. “Go get a search warrant and go out to 2515 West Fifth Street in Irving. Pick up a man named Lee Oswald.”

  Wait. Hill realized that name and address sounded familiar. They matched one of several identification cards found in the suspect’s billfold. As the coincidences weaved together into a thread of continuity, Hill dragged his gaze toward Fritz. “Why do you want this Oswald?”

  “Well, he was employed down at the Book Depository, but he was not present for a roll call of employees.”

  Hill raised his eyebrows. “Captain, we will save you a trip”—he pointed through the window at the suspected cop-killer and probable assassin—“because there he sits.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  2:16 PM – CST

  Quin drove the turquoise Chevy out of Love Field, feeling deflated after the adrenaline rush.

  Jay rode shotgun, while Kon sat jammed in the back between Bick and Sera. Bick had been obliged to leave his cherished Harley behind in order to guard their captive. He covered the prisoner with his revolver, although the culprit was bound and gagged.

  Restraining him, however, didn’t satisfy Sera. “I wanna hear what this son of a bitch has to say for himself.” Shoving Kon forward, she worked at the knot in the necktie that muzzled him.

  As soon as the gag came loose, he gyrated his jaw to dislodge it. “You misfits! I had everything under control until you came along. You kept interfering!”

  “Too bad about it, pal.” Quin flicked his hand toward the backseat.

  “Shut up! I’m conducting this interview.” Sera studied Kon’s face, noting his weary, bloodshot eyes. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  “I faked it.”

  “Thanks for the clarification, Captain Obvious. Your Desoto was a blazing inferno. How? Why?”

  “Simple. I jumped out and threw in a grenade.”

  Sera wound her hand forward. “And?”

  “And I had to do something to get you people off my back”—Kon spat his words—“so I could try to prevent the assassination.”

  The entire entourage burst out laughing, with Sera hooting the loudest. “Prevent it? Prevent it? Classic.” She wiped her eyes with a sleeve. “Cut the crap, Kon. We both know I caught you in the act. You would have shot the president yourself if I hadn’t pulled you down from the Pergola.”

  “Look, I thought you had gotten rid of the other KGB. I reasoned you could achieve at least one goal, but you proved yourselves inept at every turn. I climbed on top of the Pergola for a good vantage point to keep tabs on the infield. When I saw Dmitriy materialize behind the fence, I was prepared to shoot the weapon from his grip. But you plucked me from my perch! You ruined everything.” Kon sighed plaintively. “Like I said, we are on the same side.”

  Bick stared at him, admiring his audacity. “Same side?” He jabbed his pistol into the commie’s ribs. “The other night in Dealey Plaza, you fired at us!”

  “No, I was targeting a boxcar on the train tracks to snap you out of your stupor. Viktor and Dmitriy were right on top of you. You would have been kidnapped and killed if I hadn’t had a plan.”

  “Plan?” In the front seat, Jay tilted his head. “You act as if you knew we were coming.”

  “I did.”

  The Team Orbis members gaped at him.

  “You Yankee heroes are so naive. That bipedal refuse Oswald sold you out. What did you expect?”

  “Course. That bucket of s
lop was working with you.” Quin nodded. “I knew it wasn’t Bring Your Rifle to Work Day.”

  “Rifle? What rifle?” Kon appeared bewildered. “Oswald isn’t a player. He is nothing. A tumbleweed.”

  “Don’t go actin’ coy. You’re a ruthless traitor. You tried to nail us at Trinity, man! And gun down an innocent housewife.”

  “No!” Exasperated, Kon dropped his perfect American accent. “I shot out mirror and back window. I am excellent shot.”

  “You deliberately hit my car? You red bastard!” Quin twisted around to glare at him, momentarily swerving over the yellow line. “I had to save all our asses by blowing out your tire.”

  “No. I blasted tire to let you escape. You are no marksman, my friend.”

  Despite the tension, Bick chuckled.

  “What’s so funny, Navy?” Quin’s pupils locked onto Bick’s in the rearview.

  “If I remember correctly, you said you were aiming for his radiator.”

  2:33 PM – CST

  Kon sat in the living room at 429 East Tenth Street, observing as the incompetent troop debriefed each other on the missteps and blunders that had resulted in unintended death. The crew from Hoover’s plane outlined Kon’s assertions that he, too, had tried to protect the president. Nobody believed a word. Kon kept his mouth shut, realizing they would not be swayed. It took superhuman effort to remain mute while Sera bragged that she had saved his life. She boasted about tackling him on the aircraft and helping him dodge a bullet. Self-righteous shrew.

  He’d watched them before, but now he catalogued each utterance, gesture, and expression. He needed an advantage. Information. A way out of here. Kon practically held his breath trying to get them to forget he was present. It worked. They spoke about him in the third person while showing a decided lack of respect for his talents. Feeling subjugated, he nonetheless bided his time waiting for a particular nugget of intel. They had it. They’d obviously used it. Where the hell was it?

  After they were finished with their Canterbury tales, Iggy—their purported leader—stood. “Okay, to recap our colossal failure, four men are dead. Two innocent, two guilty.” She slumped. “We have to decide what we are going to do to salvage this situation.”

  Jay perked up. “We have a technological advantage. I suggest we use it.”

  Kon snapped his attention toward Jay. Now they were getting somewhere.

  Catching the movement, Jay focused on the Russian. A single detail had nagged at his logic since the altercation at Love Field. “Kon, I mean, Comrade Davidovich, the facts don’t seem to add up. How did you . . . how could you possibly know to follow along when we ambushed Hoover?”

  Kon’s interminable patience broke. “I know Kiffin maneuver! Every Soviet operative is trained on this tactic. We have defeated it in battle many times.”

  Kiffin. The name vibrated in the air like a corporeal entity. The team riveted their gaze on the spy.

  “Um, yeah. The thing is . . .” Jay pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “. . . is that Bick won’t deploy it for another twenty-five years. There is no way you could comprehend our intent.”

  “The arrogance! You think you alone are omniscient. But I know everything. I know you and Iggy and Sera. I have known about your mission all along.”

  “What are you trying to tell us? Your espionage skills go beyond normal sensory input?”

  “No.” Kon closed his eyes. This could be his salvation or his termination. “I am also from 2013.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  2:35 PM – CST

  Kon explained to his dumbfounded companions that he was a 2013 KGB operative assigned to spy on the Secaucus Research Installation. After Iggy and Sera had escaped, he’d taken advantage of the chaos to infiltrate the facility and appropriate their AM weapons research. Knowing it was a high-level project, he pilfered the detailed schematics from the computer belonging to Colonel Zimmerman, the forced intellectual labor camp commandant.

  Iggy winced as he mentioned the warden’s name. That miserable chapter seemed a lifetime ago.

  Kon related how the Soviet scientists had promptly deduced the staggering side effect of Anti-Time. The Russian military leaders experienced an identical epiphany to the team’s: an AM device could be used to change a pivotal moment in history. They unanimously chose November 22, 1963. Although the original failed attempt to assassinate Kennedy had not been ordered by the Kremlin, they hypothesized that the death of the US warmonger would benefit the wintry superpower. The premier handpicked Kon’s elite team and sent them back to 1963 to kill JFK, without implicating the KGB.

  The secret agent paused, as if anticipating questions, but none were forthcoming from his speechless audience. “Sadly, the rest of my crew perished when we crash-landed in the Pacific. And they were good men. I knew their families.” He bowed his head. “I, myself, barely survived. Alone, I chose to end the violence and save both Kennedys. I vowed to stop the ’64 Nuke War before it started in order to guarantee a more peaceful future for my one and only son.”

  A single tear slid down Iggy’s face.

  “I journeyed to Mexico City, where I found the unwitting mission leader, Ivan Grekovich. I orchestrated events to have him arrested for counterfeiting, and I stepped into his shoes. Arriving in Dallas, I encountered your group at the Carousel and realized we had the same goals. I had a foolproof plan. Evidently, I underestimated your level of foolishness.” He gave a wry smile. “I approached you at the Paine house. But the Zeus 5 Commander here”—Kon squinted shrewdly at Quin—“who also faked his own death, shot at me. Typical Americans. Bunch of cowboys!”

  2:38 PM – CST

  Hoover’s faithful pilot had returned to the preposterous scene on the plane. A body lay in the entrance, and the director and his associate sat bound and gagged in the conference room. After freeing them and pledging undying secrecy, he was banished to the confines of the cockpit.

  Hoover fumbled with his mangled tie, shaking with fury as he tried to coerce it into a dignified knot. Failing, he glared at Tolson and pointed at the offending article.

  The underling leapt to his boss’s assistance. “What now, J. Edgar? We can’t let those hooligans run rampant.”

  “Of course not, Clyde. But first, we must lay some groundwork. You’re forgetting the details, as usual. Hand me the air phone.”

  Tolson passed the bulky device.

  “Hoover here.” He sat down at his humongous desk, grateful his position allowed him an instantaneous connection. “Patch me through to Vice President Johnson immediately.” He tapped a pen as he listened to the static-filled line. “Whatever.” He glanced at his aide-de-camp. “I’m on hold. I have to wait because the new president is taking the oath of office on Air Force One. Not even sworn in, and Johnson’s ego is already inflating. I’m surprised we can’t see his swelled head at the other end of the tarmac.”

  “What are you going to tell him, Chief?”

  “The truth, as it will be known from this day forward. Dallas police caught the culprit responsible for all the shots. Just some lone nut named Lee Harvey Oswald.”

  2:40 PM – CST

  “Well, that is quite a tale.” In the living room, Iggy stared at Kon with new perspective. He had elaborated on his adventures and then taken staccato-fire questions. “We know firsthand how difficult it is to convince people you are from the future. There is no plausible explanation for your knowledge other than the truth. Therefore, we believe you.”

  Kon triumphantly held up his bound hands.

  Iggy nodded toward Bick, who pulled a jackknife from his pocket and freed Kon.

  “So, now the eight of us”—Iggy’s gesture included Kon—“must decide on a course of action. Options?”

  Eyes still swollen from crying, Dee jutted her chin out. “It’s obvious. You guys said we can time travel only in one-year intervals. We go back twelve months to rescue J.D. and JFK.”

  Kon felt his shoulders relax. He
knew they had a ship; thank God it was still viable.

  “I think we all agree that we must fix our mistakes. I suggest we get moving.” Bick gazed at the front door, as if expecting it to burst open any minute. “Hoover’s tracking us now. Remember, he has the entire FBI at his disposal.”

  “I concur.” Kon flexed his fingers to regain circulation.

  Everyone murmured their agreement except Sam, who sat on the side, brooding. He hadn’t uttered a single word.

  “But if we jump back to ’62, and begin again”—Quin scratched his noggin—“wouldn’t we end up bumping into ourselves? Doesn’t some science-y mumbo jumbo nix that?”

  The question startled Jay. Of the many conundrums associated with time travel, meeting oneself would be a minor problem. They were experiencing a major problem: the grandfather paradox. Or at least Dee was. The conjecture was initially posited by science fiction writer René Barjavel in his 1943 novel, Le Voyageur Imprudent. He explored the possibility of voyaging back in time to kill your own grandfather, which by definition meant you would never have been born to travel back in the first place. Each outcome negated the other. In deference to Dee’s current predicament, Jay didn’t dare mention the speculation. He noticed that the room had gotten unnaturally quiet, and looked up to see everyone gawking at him. “What?”

  “Come on, Jay.” Sera spread her arms. “You must have a theory.”

  “Gimme a break! I don’t know. We’re in uncharted territory.” Jay desperately searched for a way to change the topic. “What I do know is this. If we go back one year, we’ll have to kill time until November rolls around again. With the Gadolinium-146 half-life of forty-eight days, we wouldn’t have enough to make any more time-jumps. We’d be stuck in the past.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  10:50 PM – CST

  Team Orbis, plus one Soviet operative, had made their decision in democratic fashion—through a majority vote. The ensuing eight-hour drive seemed to last twice that long, with the turquoise Chevy Impala and the two-tone Ford Coupe caravanning the distance as fast as local speed limits allowed.