Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  “Therefore,” Frank continued, “it remains vacant. We can hide here until our ride comes.”

  Iggy patted his shoulder in a gesture of support. “Good. We should be safe for now. It’ll take them a while to turn off the steam pipes and determine where we went.”

  Frank led them up to the second level to room number 229 in the back left corner of the forward-facing U structure. The tiny cubicle could have been mistaken for a janitor’s closet, if not for the loft bed wreckage scattered about. Moisture stains spotted the ceiling, and crumbled plaster littered the floor.

  Sera shivered in the damp air as she stamped on a bug skittering across the floor. “I hate to bring this up, but I kind of have to pee.”

  Frank directed her down the corridor to the women’s rest room. As an afterthought he called out, “Don’t be surprised if there’s no water in the bowl.”

  1:10 PM – EDT

  Having frightened guileless Danny into compliance, Zimmerman held court with the full complement of Lehigh guards and local police outside the power plant. The colonel had toyed with the idea of a complete lockdown of buildings, but rejected it as too overt. When curious students began to congregate, he had dispersed them with random threats and vague comments about a mock drill.

  He grouped the patrols according to a map of the Catacombs, dorms, and classrooms. Every single exit point would be monitored. Instead of a laborious and possibly futile search of thousands of interior locations, he would wait them out. “People, we have two escaped convicts running loose. They are being aided by a government worker and your own Professor Frank Thomas, as per the photos we issued. All four are wanted for crimes of treason against our beloved United States of America. From this moment forward, I am in charge. All orders will come directly from me and only from me. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

  “All vehicles must leave through the main gate and will be personally inspected by me and my assistant here, Sutherland.”

  The captain bristled. Assistant, indeed.

  “Remember, you must use the utmost caution. These fugitives are assumed to be armed and dangerous. You are hereby permitted to use any means to apprehend them, but I want the women alive. Dismissed.”

  1:45 PM – EDT

  Frank removed his bifocals and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief from his pocket. Thoroughly soiled from the Catacombs, he had repeatedly performed this action. Realizing the transparency of his behavior, he shoved the cloth back into his trousers.

  Sera decided he needed a distraction. “Frank, now that we’ve been honest with you”—she caught his angry glare—“we’d like to know the real reason you left NASA. You loved that job.”

  He hesitated. “Remember last year when the auxiliary oxygen tank on the Sentinel Space Fort blew?”

  “Yes.”

  Iggy turned to them with interest. “It could have ended in a devastating tragedy if not for that Zeus 5 astronaut. He was a hero.”

  “Right. But the general public doesn’t know all the facts. The NASA press secretary told the media that Zeus 5 was simply a reconnaissance expedition to study construction of the Russian space fort.”

  “Gagarin.” Jay whispered the word with reverence. “The Soviets named it after Yuri Gagarin, the first human in space and the first to orbit the earth in 1961.”

  “Correct. But Zeus 5 wasn’t directed to spy on the Gagarin Fort. Their mission was to blow it to smithereens.”

  Sera raised her eyebrows.

  “I know what I’m talking about because I was CAPCOM.” Frank’s gaze flitted over Iggy and Jay. “I mean capsule communicator, from Houston. Shortly after we launched Zeus 5, the accident occurred on Sentinel in a completely separate incident. When their tank exploded, not only did they lose reserve O2, but the blast punched a gaping hole in the hull. The crew sealed off that compartment; however, their breathable air diminished to a two-hour supply.”

  Frank rubbed his beard. “We were ecstatic we’d just sent off another spacecraft that could effect a rescue. We couldn’t believe our luck. But then NASA ordered the commander of Zeus 5 to continue with the Gagarin destruction first. Their ship couldn’t handle the additional passengers along with the immense weight of the bomb.”

  Iggy wrinkled her forehead. “That must have been one heck of a weapon.”

  “It would have to be, wouldn’t it?” Jay stepped away from the window where he’d been scanning for activity. “You see, bombs within the earth’s atmosphere work mostly on overpressure. The explosion pushes air away at a high velocity. In the vacuum of space, of course, you need a much larger reaction to cause comparable damage.”

  Frank stared at him. “Anyway, Commander Dylan was no fool. He knew that by the time he deployed his weapon, the Sentinel crew would be dead. So Dylan defied orders. He deactivated the bomb, released it into space and courageously went on to save eight brave men and women. The newswires picked up the story and hailed him as an American hero. And it suited him. You probably saw the coverage. A handsome rogue, he had a veritable love affair with the cameras. Naturally, NASA officials weren’t too pleased that he’d ejected a two million dollar piece of ordnance. But they could hardly discipline a national icon.”

  Sera sat down on the grimy floor. “That’s why it’s so tragic he died only a few weeks later.”

  “Yup.” Frank’s expression became distant. “Quin Dylan expired in a solo plane crash. The cause was determined to be pilot error.”

  “That’s hard to digest.” Iggy frowned. “Compared to his exploits as an astronaut, a private plane would be nothing for him to fly. Are you sure NASA didn’t have a hand in his premature demise?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But after that whole disgusting episode, several of us left the space program forever. We didn’t want to be part of a government organization that put its war objectives ahead of crewmembers. We worked too hard to ensure their safety to have it become ancillary.” Frank shook himself out of his reverie. “Enough about me. Why did you really come to see me?”

  Sera sighed. “Your NASA expertise is exactly what we need for our mission. We have to put environmental systems in our time-travel ship.”

  “Baloney.”

  “Frank, I wouldn’t lie to you. Help us! At least do it to save humanity.”

  “The truth is I’m stuck with you. Your warden knows I led you to the tunnels. And he fired that gun at all of us. Now I’m a wanted criminal, thank you very much.”

  “Frank, you won’t regret this.”

  Ironically, he already did.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

  4:10 PM – EDT

  At the gatehouse, Sutherland wearily watched the colonel interrogate another surprised professor who had been departing the school. As the afternoon wore on, the suspects continued to elude capture, while Zimmerman’s energy increased coincident with his rage. After a thorough search of the trunk, he told the guy to beat it.

  A couple of minutes later, a small box truck lumbered up to the exit. Zimmerman leapt out and stood in front of the grille with his hands placed in the classic halt gesture. He approached the cab. “Where have you been? What is your purpose here? What’s inside your vehicle?”

  Appearing bewildered, the driver shifted into park. “Uh, beer delivery? Standard Thursday supply for the weekend.”

  Zimmerman stepped back and examined the side of the transport. Emerging from the hazy soot he could make out the form of a stylized hippopotamus. Underneath were the words River Horse Brewery.

  Sutherland saw a fool’s look flicker across the colonel’s face. Naturally, college equals beer.

  Zimmerman recovered. “Get out! Open the cargo area for inspection.”

  The driver complied, showing him a solid wall of floor-to-ceiling cases starting midway inside.

  “Making a delivery, were you?” Zimmerman sneered. “Then why is your payload full of beer?”

  “Sir.” He adopted a respect
ful manner. “As you can see, it’s only half full. I still have more campuses to visit.”

  The colonel’s nostrils flared. He stared at his flunky and pointed to the truck. Then he held up two fingers.

  Sutherland understood perfectly. He hoisted himself into the bay and jimmied down a couple of cases of Hop Hazard Pale Ale. He pulled them out and deposited them in his commanding officer’s nearby car.

  The River Horse driver feigned oblivion. He got in the cab and smirked as he motored away.

  4:20 PM – EDT

  In the back of the truck, Sera sat wedged among her cohorts in the confines between the outer walls and the cases, stewing in the stench of stale beer. She tried to brace herself as they bounced along, grimacing at a particularly hard jolt. Although she couldn’t see Frank in the dark, she imagined him wearing the same sulky expression he’d had since their Zeus 5 discussion. He hadn’t uttered a word to anyone, except to give instructions to climb out the dorm window when their getaway vehicle arrived. She felt responsible for roping him into their mess. “Frank, thanks for saving us. We owe you our lives.”

  He grunted in response.

  “It’s a good thing you know the River Horse owner from the Student-Alumni Entrepreneur Club.”

  “Yeah, lucky me.” Frank snapped his fingers. “Which reminds me, once we clear the Lehigh neighborhood, he’s gonna stop and want to know where to take us. Where exactly are we headed?”

  “The capital. Wilkes-Barre.”

  “WB? Are you insane? Well, I already know the answer to that.” Frank mumbled, “Time machine.”

  “Oh, come on, Frank.”

  “No, really. Do you think it’s a stellar idea for a bunch of outlaws to roam around the most heavily guarded city in the world?”

  “The fact is, we don’t have a choice.” Jay cocked his head. “We need to meet with an expert on the Jackie K. assassination.”

  Iggy’s concerned voice floated over them. “Frank, isn’t this hiding spot sufficient to get us past the checkpoints?”

  “Course it is. That’s why I picked these guys.” He continued in a wicked tone, “Trust me.”

  5:00 PM – EDT

  Several miles off the coast of Manhattan, the Soviet operative waited in his inflatable boat. At the pre-arranged hour, a Russian submarine entered the vicinity and raised its antenna. Homing in on the spy’s radio signal, the vessel swam to within a fifty-yard range and ascended until the conning tower splashed above the surface of the breaking water. Underneath the red star symbol painted on each side, the jet-black cylinder had been slathered with a viscous tar-like substance resembling tire rubber—a new sonar and radar absorbing technology that guaranteed invisibility to American military observation. The secret agent paddled over to the sub and gathered his knapsack. The hatch opened and his comrades welcomed him back to familiar surroundings.

  The tiny dinghy was left to drift in the Atlantic, slowly rolling with the waves.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

  6:30 PM – EDT

  Dee Doherty sat in an oversized booth at a WB tavern on East Northampton Street. Only the locals frequented the noisy establishment—whimsically named Elmer Sudds—as a place to unwind. Bureaucrats and politicians wouldn’t be caught dead in the kitschy sports bar; they preferred to be seen at the trendy club du jour. The décor consisted of wooden tables and vinyl booths, while framed stills of cartoon characters festooned the walls. She nodded to herself. Real people congregated here, not the self-appointed government royals. She idly watched one of the half-dozen televisions over the bar where the Boston Red Sox were trouncing the WB Capitals.

  Dee felt a rush of anticipation at meeting with her childhood friend, Jay. She conjured up fond memories of the boy who loved science more than athletics and knowledge more than power. Such a sweetie. Willing to befriend anyone, no matter how lowly his or her playground status. Always a champion of the underdog, he’d root for the Capitals right now. She grinned. When he’d called, he’d said he had an urgent matter to discuss, but she couldn’t imagine what. She hadn’t seen him since high school. Last she heard, his parents had gotten him a job working as some sort of project facilitator for the military. At a forced-labor research camp, no less. She shuddered at the thought.

  A Breaking News sound-effect roused her out of her reverie. The bartender turned up the TV as the ballgame evaporated into a newsroom. A handsome Ken-doll anchor with plastic polyurethane snap-on hair shuffled papers in a self-important manner. Dee knew this man. She recalled him from her internship at the Federal News Bureau, before she became a member of the press in her own right. Ironically, his name was Ken. A pig and a bootlicker, he had achieved his minor stardom on the merits of his pretty-boy looks rather than his talent.

  Ken read from his teleprompter, “The Soviet Union has announced their new premier. Aleksander Markov assumed the office left vacant when the former leader perished earlier today in a fiery helicopter explosion. In spite of the late hour in Minsk, Markov has replaced the old regime with an entourage of handpicked comrades. According to our files, he started his career in the Red Army and eventually became an operative in the Committee for State Security, commonly known in the West as the KGB. Of course, little information is available about his activities within the organization, but he ultimately achieved the post of bureau chief. The ascension of Markov to the highest office in Russia comes as no surprise to Kremlin-watchers. They have commented that those opposing him have a habit of disappearing or dying young, thus positioning the ambitious Russian to take over as soon as there was a leadership vacuum.” Ken tilted his head to one side and furrowed his brow, acting concerned.

  Dee laughed outright at his staged maneuver. What a loser.

  Ken glowed as he continued. “Policy makers in WB are genuinely alarmed. For years, Markov has advocated stronger military action against the US.”

  Dee sobered. More violence to come. She shook her head and lamented that today’s newscasters lacked substance and skill. They simply showed off their mannequin faces and spoke their lines verbatim—if they could pronounce the words, anyway. This contrasted vividly to the Golden Age—the decade preceding the ’64 Nuke War—when television and journalism peaked. Reporters wrote their own copy and read it live. Like legend Walter Cronkite, who was known as the most trusted man in America. His knowledge and experience shone through as he delivered the broadcast. At twenty-five, Dee already felt jaded by her chosen profession. She tried to circumvent the system by working freelance, but editors and censors routinely hacked apart her articles. Sensationalism and fear ruled the media. Cronkite’s trademark sign-off came to mind.

  And that’s the way it is.

  6:40 PM – EDT

  “There she is.” Jay discreetly indicated a young woman with volumes of curly red hair and an ivory complexion bursting with freckles. Her petite frame and wholesome looks gave the impression that Dee could pass for a naive college student, rather than a correspondent. The picture of innocence.

  Jay approached Dee with outstretched arms, and they embraced in a warm hug. He introduced Iggy, Sera, and Frank and gave her a short narrative of each person’s area of expertise.

  Dee politely shook hands all around, still perplexed as to the group’s purpose. She listened to Jay’s descriptions as she committed names, faces, and bios to memory. She had learned this useful habit while interviewing subjects for her stories. It paid to understand people’s psyches and motives; they did not always state their true intentions.

  She made some initial judgments. All four of them seemed disheveled, with a filmy gray cast to their clothes and skin, as if they’d been dipped in dust. Iggy had kind eyes with a sad turn to the corners that spoke of loss. However, she set her mouth in a grim line of determination. Sera pasted a smile on her face, while her gaze darted around in impatience. She was practically tapping her foot. Frank had the mannerisms and garb of a quintessential professor, but his forehead was creased in an angry fro
wn. He would obviously rather be anywhere else.

  Clearly, this was not a social visit.

  When Jay finished the introductions, they sat down.

  Dee pretended not to notice the strange vibes as she turned brightly to Jay. “So, are you still selling your soul to work for Uncle Sam and his evil defense contractor overlords?”

  “Guilty.” He laughed. “But I may be undergoing a career change in the not-too-distant future.”

  “Interesting.” Dee took his statement as a clue.

  “How about you? Still playing the rogue reporter bent on taking down the corrupt hive of power mongers in WB?”

  “At least I have a soul.” She chuckled good-naturedly.

  A server came by to take their drink orders, and Frank perked up. “Drafts all around, okay, everyone?” He waited for them to nod. “And we’ll need menus. We haven’t eaten since this morning.”

  Dee made a mental note of this unusual fact. “So, Jay, what drags you to the capital of corruption?”

  “I’ve told the crew here that you are the world’s foremost expert on everything to do with Jackie K. And we are very eager, quite eager, to learn more about her.”

  “Well, I know some.” She bowed her head.

  “Don’t be so modest!”

  “Okay, okay. A First Lady of class and grace, Jacqueline Kennedy was beautiful, refined, and highly regarded as a fashion icon. She enchanted the public. Many American women tried to emulate her style—slender A-line skirts, matching hats, and classic jewelry. But famous fashion designers custom-made most of Jackie’s clothes to her exact measurements. Ordinary ladies could never afford to do the same.”

  Jay saw the faraway gleam in her eyes. He had forgotten how romantic Dee could be about the era. She referred to it as the Golden Age. As a kid, she used to play make-believe and dress up like Jackie K. She even had the aristocratic accent down pat.