He could hear the crackly noise of a two-way radio, but he could not see who answered; the second agent had tied a bandana across his eyes and bound his wrist tight with tape. He could only hear his response, “Okay... roger... yes they are tied up in the basement... they are not to leave this room... yes, understood... yes get rid of them after the ‘event’ tomorrow... roger... tie up loose ends... understood, over and out.”
Now Forrest realized the ‘they’ and ‘them’ meant there must be at least himself and one other prisoner in this basement. Two people? He was glad to have company but was afraid they might never meet, and the part about not leaving this room - that didn’t sound good either. He could hear the two agents walking away. One positioned himself next to the same door they entered. The other he could hear went up some wooden stairs, which obviously let to the floor upstairs. As soon as the upstairs door had closed, Forrest grunted once. The person on the far side of the room grunted once. He grunted twice, it returned the grunt two times. It was then he fully realized there undoubtedly was another person being held hostage in this basement along with himself.
“Shut up!” the guard at the basement door ordered. “Keep quiet or I’ll come smack you!!”
He wished he could talk to whoever was in this cellar imprisoned with him. The shooting of the President tomorrow was going to be a tremendous deal, the two of them sitting in this basement with their mouths taped shut and their wrists bound were small potatoes. He was thinking they were not going to survive their predicament. Especially after hearing the words, ‘get rid of them after the ‘event’ tomorrow’. Forrest knew the real meaning of the word ‘event’. He was scared. Throwing-up type scared. No one even knew where he and Olive Marie were. Olive Marie? He thought. What had he gotten Olive Marie into? Is she okay? He wondered if she was able to maintain her disguise?
Forrest, sitting there in the dampness figured out how the Secret Service found out about him – his announcement of driving for Captain Robert Scarburg. One of the chauffeurs obviously reported the information to the Secret Service. They may have been more muscle than brain, but it didn’t take those blue suited bozos long to figure out there wasn’t a Captain Robert Scarburg at the party.
If he could talk with the other person held prisoner with him, maybe they could come up with a plan. Darn my plans! He thought. Look where they have gotten me, these people will never allow us to leave and I will never be able to tell the world who the people are that’s attending this party. After tomorrow’s ‘event’ – we are going to die. They are going to kill us - they have nothing to lose. We are nothing but ‘loose ends’ to these people.
The time was 12:30 a.m., Friday, November 22, 1963.
Chapter Forty-Four
EIGHT AND ONE HALF HOURS EARLIER
The clock on the wall of the launch facility indicated the time was 2:30. Thirty minutes until the scheduled launch of Pegasus’s third voyage to Texas. “Is everyone all present or accounted for?” Captain Scarburg announced to the group standing around Pegasus. “If you’re not here hold up your hand,” he said trying to break the tension in the room. They were all about at their wits end, and he wanted to get them into a more relaxed mood. “Come on, pick-up those spirits... this is not a wake, it is an adventure. We’re going after some very historical information, information and data never before uncovered on the John F. Kennedy Assassination. We are all going to make history. In fact, we may, in fact, become a part of history. Besides, I am going to find Forrest and Olive Marie and get those two birds home, safe and sound. Now, let me see some smiles...” Looking around the room, “Good that’s better.”
“Does everyone have all his gear assembled? You do? Good... I see you all have changed into your ‘60s duds. What about the cash? Did you all get some good old, and I mean old, greenbacks to use in Dallas? All right, then I think all that is left is loading my equipment, saying my goodbyes and let you guys know I’ll see you all in Dallas, if not earlier, surely at the cow pasture when we leave to come back, and I want to assure the rest of you staying – we will be coming back.”
The Captain started to ascend the steps to Pegasus. Taking his first step onto the bottom rung of the loading platform, someone tugged on his arm. Turning, he was staring into the crying eyes of his wife Baba. “You old rascal, you’re getting too old for this sort of thing, but I know you have to go after Forrest and Olive Marie. I’m just going to tell you two things... find those kids and get yourself back home!! I love you!!”
“That’s three, but I love you too... don’t worry we’re all going to come back – safe and sound. I’m going to walk up these steps, and before you know it, Pegasus will return. The guys will depart and in a couple of minutes, we will all return. Please don’t cry, we’ll be back before your tears dry.” Stepping up on the steps he turned one last time, bent over and kissed her, “I love you,” and ascended the steps and shut the hatch.
Little did Baba realize the Captain was putting on a confident face? He was worried, really worried. The odds of him coming back or finding Forrest and Olive Marie was about fifty-fifty – Las Vegas would not like those odds, neither did Captain Scarburg.
The time was 2:57 p.m., Friday, December 7, 2012.
Chapter Forty-Five
HOME SWEET HOME
The last thing Captain Scarburg remembered was the immense flash of blue light. Seemingly a microsecond after seeing the burst of radiant energy Captain Scarburg opened his eyes. He could see the smoke and fog had disappeared. Was he still in the laboratory? Did the time-shift work? If so, the trip, this time was not as rough as his previous one. Was the journey smoother? Or was he just getting used to time travel? One thing remained the same and something else was different. Obviously the difference centered on his consciousness – he had not blacked out only dazed, but the same was the alien’s gift of the accompanying music – the bagpipe and drum rendition was still as beautiful as he remembered on his previous ‘jump’. Regardless, he wondered if he were in his cow pasture? The craft was sitting level. That’s good, he thought. At least I’m not hung up on that miserable stump this time, but a thought flashed through his head, I might not even be in Texas.
Extracting his pocket watch, with a solid gold cover, from his pocket he popped the ornately carved cover open and checked the time - it was 3:03 back in Washington. He remembered his previous flight and the crystal on his watch - something in the realms of time-travel cracked the face crystal of his Rolex. He had surmised a metal cover, especially one made of gold, on a watch’s face might prevent this phenomenon from occurring. He was right, but the color blindness had returned. Some unseen force reacted with his eyes. Whatever the nature of this, yet to be explained peculiarity, prevented him from seeing color. Filing this away in his mind for future study he unbuckled his seat belt. He had only been stunned for a brief period of time, but he had to get out of Pegasus. Mike had set the master computer to retrieve Pegasus five minutes after landing, and only a couple of minutes remained.
Pushing the ‘OPEN’ button on the hatch, he heard the unmistakable hiss of escaping air as the hatch door swung open. What! He thought, snow! It wasn’t snowing when I was here last. He had forgotten for a moment Forrest and Olive Marie had arrived earlier, and their mere presence changed the Parallel Universe, the Captain had landed in the same Universal dimension only one day later. On his previous trip he had been in a different Universe, now it was 12:34, Thursday, November 21, 1963 in a totally different world, and in this Parallel Universe it was snowing like the blazes in his Texas cow pasture.
Well at least this time he had brought some warm clothes and an excellent, heavy coat. Slipping on the coat, he crawled out the hatch, down the ladder onto the snow-covered ground. Now if this is not the pits, he thought. I had been planning on walking to Clem and Penelope’s house, but I can’t cover much ground in this deep snow, surely not four or five miles. Another thought, the old Ford truck in the barn! Clem said the owner would not care if I borrowed it. He lives i
n Dallas and only seldom comes up to his ranch. That’s it; I’ll walk up to the barn and use the truck to drive to the Ponderosa.
The wind and driving snow was out of the north, and knowing the Captain’s luck the barn was located five or six hundred yards directly north of his landing site. Having no other option, he walked around the silver Pegasus as it was beginning to dematerialize into a swirling, tornado like, shape of Texas snow, emitting a loud whistling wind sound. Even above that sound the bagpipe’s ‘Amazing Grace’ were still beautiful. In a second or two, Pegasus and the music had vanished. As the snow began to settle he started walking toward the old barn. A hat, he thought. Why didn’t I think of bringing a hat? Head bowed low to keep the snow and wind from stinging and biting his face he barely could see through his squinted eyes, but he trudged on through the snow and the blowing wind toward the old barn. Approaching he could see the barn door was standing wide open.
Grasping the latch he slid the door shut, but allowed just enough room to slide his six foot two inch frame inside. The hallway of the barn was empty and semi-dark. With the exception of a pile of snow and various pieces of horse or mule harness hanging from the planks on a couple of the empty stables, the hallway of the barn was almost entirely empty. A pitchfork was protruding from a bale of hay and dozens and dozens of baling twine cut from numerous bales of hay lay drooped over a plank two by four cross member supported one end of the closest stall. A huge pile of loose hay covered almost half of one side of the barn, but something was terribly wrong! He saw no truck; however, he did see one item of interest - a hat hanging on a nail. It was a straw hat, but a hat never-the-less. Other than the few miscellaneous farming implements strewn about the hallway, the barn appeared as he first thought – empty.
There was one solace, the barn walls, however weather beaten and worn at least they blocked the bitter, cold, biting north wind. On entering the barn the change in temperature from the outside to the inside made him feel like the barn was actually warmer - it wasn’t. It was just as cold inside, minus the wind and snow. By-ned, he thought, now I’m in a pickle. I can’t get to Clem and Penelope’s house in this storm; however if I stay here and try to wait out this blizzard Forrest and Olive Marie are just getting farther and farther away, and closer and closer to getting into danger.
At this point, Captain Scarburg was on the verge of hysteria, he had to have an idea, but given his options one wasn’t apparent. He walked back and forth in the hallway, wringing his hands, anguish written all over his face. What was he to do? On this trip, he had come more prepared, in his pocket he had a small flashlight, a pocketknife along with his trusty ole Zippo cigarette lighter embossed with the crossed arrows and bayonet emblem of his old Special Forces outfit. The one he had carried since ‘Nam. Oh, least he not forget the two .45 caliber 1911 automatic pistols. What about making a small fire? That might prop up his spirits a bit, and the wind and snow might subside enough to try for Clem and Penelope’s place on foot.
He walked around the barn looking for loose pieces of wood. There was plenty of hay, but hay burned too fast to make a decent fire, he needed wood. Closely following the edges of the walls and stables he ventured deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of the barns interior. Pulling the flashlight from his pocket, he shined its beam of light into the darkness.
Rounding the giant pile of hay, he was astounded!!
He could not believe his eyes, in front of him sat a... a... Jeep. Now he remembered something from his first trip - Clem had said there was a Jeep in this barn. How could he be so absent minded? Here it sat, a U.S. military 4x4 Jeep with ‘U.S. Army’ still painted in white letters on the hood. In the center of the hood was a large, white, five-pointed star. It was a magnificent sight. By its age, the Captain figured the Army had sold the Jeep as excess inventory at the end of the Korean War back in the early ‘50s. The rancher probably purchased the Jeep from some Army surplus auction back then.
One undeniable fact was paramount, Captain Scarburg knew all about Jeeps. He had ridden in them; slept under them; hauled wounded in them; shot from them; shot at them when the enemy were stealing them; repaired them and certainly he knew how to drive them.
His first thought – Jeeps have no keys – that was good. Next he wondered when was the last time this thing had been cranked. If it had been a long time, getting it started now might be difficult. Captain Scarburg recognized this particular model Jeep as a M38A1. It was four wheel drive, equipped with a four-cylinder, gasoline powered motor. One of the best Jeeps made, but it had a peculiarity - it had a twenty-four volt electrical system, wired to use not one but two twelve-volt batteries. These two batteries were located in a cavity just outside the passengers windshield secured with a metal cover fastened with two rubber straps similar to today’s bungee cords. Now the drawback – since it required twenty-four volts to crank this sucker, both batteries had to have enough charge in them to fire this old warhorse up. If one battery were insufficiently charged neither battery would work. Two batteries just doubled his chances this thing would not crank. Walking around to the passenger’s side, Grandpa unhooked the straps holding the cover over the two batteries. Looking down he was amazed, the batteries looked brand-new. Checking the battery tags he discovered they had only been installed in September 1963. That was just two months ago!! Surely, the batteries would still have enough charge to crank this OD (Olive Drab) green, sweetheart of American ingenuity.
Around to the driver’s side the Captain slowly walked. Giving the Jeep a last look he slid in under the steering wheel, reached up on the dashboard and flipped the switch to start and maneuvered his right foot until he found the floor-mounted starter pedal. Keeping his fingers crossed he pushed the foot starter, and the motor began to turn. Over once then again, it sputtered, Grandpa reached and pulled the choke out about half way and pushed on the starter pedal again. She turned again, and again, then finally the engine coughed a time or two then sputtered and began to run. It was running a little rough, so he adjusted the choke, but he figured it would smooth out as soon as the motor warmed up.
Reaching down to the floor shift, he shifted the transmission into neutral. At the same time, he adjusted the idle knob just a bit keeping the motor running at a faster idle speed. A check of the fuel gauge indicated the gas tank was empty; however, he knew from experience these old mechanical gauges seldom worked correctly. He dismounted from the Jeep and unscrewed the gas filler pipe located right beside the drivers seat. Pulling a long hay straw from the pile of hay he stuck it into the filler pipe. He withdrew the straw and checked if there was any indication of gas on the hay stem. The liquid on the straw indicated the tank was nearly full. Now he was in business.
He remained there for a couple of minutes, letting the Jeep’s motor warm up. It was time to go he decided. Turning the Jeep’s wheels hard to the right he released the clutch and the trusty old Army Jeep moved slowly into the hallway of the barn. Down the center of the barn he crept until he reached the pile of snow at the large sliding door. Shifting into neutral he got out, opened the barn door and moved the Jeep outside. As the Captain was beginning to close the barn door, a though occurred to him – back inside he ran – he had to relieve the hat from its resting place on the nail. Now he was ready.
No, he wasn’t quite ready. Leaving the Jeep again, the Captain surveyed the surrounding area. He appeared to be searching for something. What? Yes, he said to himself, there it is. Walking across the mounting depth of wind driven snow he headed to the object of his search – a tree. Not just any old tree, but this particular tree, the one with the squirrel hole. Nestled safe and sound inside the hole he was going to place one of the Colt, Model 1911 U.S. Army .45 caliber automatic pistols. Reaching inside, he put a plastic bag containing the gun and a magazine of seven rounds of bullets for this man size instrument of death. He racked the slide back to load one bullet into the chamber of the second pistol. As he dropped the Colt into the pocket of his coat, the Captain patted the weapon with his h
and and with a glazed look of stern determination said, as if someone were listening, “Now, lets go find Forrest and Olive Marie.”
Back at the Jeep he shifted into four-wheel drive and out into the snow he ventured. The five or six inches of snow were no match for this Detroit made, OD, four-wheel drive, Army Jeep.
The Captain vividly remembered the Saddlehorn Gulch trail. By-ned did he ever remember. He thought he still had a vertebra out of place, and a kidney, which seemed to be out of sorts. Oh yes he could not forget Clem’s uncanny ability to seek out every pothole. Clem also seemed to never miss the opportunity to strike the plethora of large rocks, which at times, could better be described as boulders; however, Captain Scarburg knew he would have no problem traversing the same route with his venerable M38A1. What a terrific machine, he thought as he marveled at the little Jeep.
The wipers were not doing much good with the mountain of falling snow accumulating on windshield. His inability to see the road ahead was compounded by the fact the Jeep had no heater to defrost the glass. I know dodging bullets will keep a soldier warm enough without the need of a heater, he thought as his mind recalled his Army days in Vietnam. For a brief moment, he was back in the jungles of Southeast Asia. He mentally visualized, the days when he was Little S and Papa Scarburg was Big S; however, reality was not the hot, humid climate of ‘Nam, it was a numbing cold, blizzard on a barren, cow trail somewhere northwest of Celina, Texas. Now he wished the little Jeep possessed at least a window defroster.
Justification For Killing Page 38
