“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a visit. But he might be a bit shocked to see you, Quin.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2013
8:26 AM – EDT
“What did you call him?” Sera watched as Flynn snapped his neck toward Frank.
“That’s who you are.” Iggy jolted upright. “Quin Dylan, Commander of the Zeus 5 mission. I knew I recognized you. But aren’t you supposed to be, that is . . .” she finished awkwardly, “dead?”
Flynn shook his head. “Nope. Wrong guy. Flynn. Just Flynn.”
“No, it’s definitely you. How could I forget?” Dee smacked her brow, nausea forgotten. “Zeus 5 was banner news for weeks. Your face was splashed all across the media.”
Frank sighed. “You’re getting worked up over nothing. It was a slip of the tongue. Mea culpa.”
Bick bawled, “Come on, Frank. Air Force? Astronaut? Media hound? It all fits.”
“I agree there is a superficial resemblance. But I know Quin, and he”—Frank gestured—“is no Commander Dylan.”
“Give us some credit.” Jay observed Frank in the front, tilting from side to side. “You worked at NASA, Quin worked at NASA. If he’s not Commander Dylan, then who the hell is he?”
Frank earnestly turned to the others. “Flynn was an engineering student of mine at Lehigh.”
They all burst out laughing, including Flynn.
“Cut the crap, Frank.” Iggy’s tone brooked no argument.
Frank’s eyes appealed to the pilot. Flynn nodded. The jig was up.
“I knew it!” Jay’s fist shot up.
“All right.” Frank looked down. “I explained earlier that the brass wanted Quin to sacrifice the Sentinel crew in order to blow up the Gagarin.” He noted the gasps from Bick and Dee, who hadn’t heard the story. “I know. Heinous. But by defying orders and ejecting a two-million-dollar bomb, Quin ticked off some powerful people. We knew he would undoubtedly be eliminated in an unfortunate”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“accident in the near future. So, we decided to stage a preemptive maneuver.”
“They claimed his plane crashed in the North Atlantic.” Dee recited the coverage from memory.
“It did. Except Quin wasn’t on it. He was flying north along the coast from Cape Canaveral on his way to Otis Air Force Base in Cape Cod. He’d been chosen to test an experimental aircraft waiting at the base. On the way, he radioed a Mayday, bailed out, and parachuted down off the shores of South Carolina. The plane nosedived into the ocean, and I picked him up in a rented boat. They mounted a rescue effort, but neither the aircraft nor the pilot was ever found.”
“NASA didn’t search too hard,” Quin added wryly. “And I became Flynn. Just Flynn.”
9:00 AM – EDT
In the WBW control tower, Sutherland witnessed Zimmerman venting his wrath on a Federal Aviation Administration official who had recently come on duty. Cranky from having his car demolished and nearly getting killed, the colonel demanded they be allowed to cull radar logs to track the rogue plane and find that homicidal pilot. The official would not budge. After pausing to lambaste the supervisor who had authorized the flight groundings earlier, the FAA man blasted back at Zimmerman, declaring that the military had no airport jurisdiction in the nation’s capital. The colonel would need clearance before accessing any records.
Sutherland saw Zimmerman’s hands clenching and unclenching, implying that he was contemplating a bodily assault on the man. The captain felt perversely hopeful that the colonel would take out his aggression on someone else. But it was not to be. Sutherland trailed behind as Zimmerman stormed off, casting threats over his shoulder as if they were hexes.
3:30 PM – PDT
Dee returned with Jay to Quin’s Fly with Flynn hangar on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Despite the plane’s flashy decorations, the building itself looked nondescript—a battered wooden warehouse at a desert airport used mainly for sightseeing flights. After landing several hours ago and taking advantage of the three time-zone gain on Pennsylvania, the team had buckled down and divided up assignments with minimal squabbling.
Having been tasked with purchasing clothes, toiletries, and food, Dee and Jay entered the hangar laden with packages. Dee plunked down her parcels in surprise, sniffing the strong odor of paint fumes. The wet aircraft glistened under the fluorescent lights, already camouflaged generic white. Iggy was currently stenciling a false alphanumeric identification or N-number on the tail. The others were stowing supplies in cabinets and stacking up empty cans and sprayers. It occurred to Dee that Quin had probably conducted this deception in the past.
When they finished straightening up, the pilot himself grabbed an envelope containing the lion’s share of their combined capital and sauntered over to Bick. “Hey, Navy. I gotta go file a bogus flight plan and buy you folks papers so we can scram. Want to come along? See how it’s done?”
Bick lit up with an intrigued expression. “Fine by me.”
As soon as the pair had left, Jay herded everyone together. “So, what do you think about Quin?”
“He’s a hotshot.” Sera wasted no time. “And cocky.”
“No, no, no. I mean, of course he is; that’s obvious. But that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, he’s a skilled aviator. Shouldn’t we bring him with us to 1963?”
“Absolutely not. He’s reckless.” The mere suggestion appeared to offend Sera.
Dee countered with her most logical argument. “He got us away from the warden. Safely.”
“He could have as easily gotten us killed.” Sera folded her arms.
“To increase our chances of success, we need every advantage available to us. Quin’s an astronaut.” Jay was attempting the same reasonable tack. “He forfeited his career to save the Sentinel crew, knowing he would have to live on the fringes of society. He’s a hero.”
“I agree.” Iggy sounded resolute. “Sorry you don’t like him, Sera, but his experience in space would be invaluable.”
Instead of the murderous glare Dee expected, Sera’s face registered stunned betrayal.
Standing at arm’s length from the group circle, Frank lobbed another grenade into the mix. “We’re going to need Sam, too.”
“Here we go again,” muttered Sera.
“Hold on a second.” Jay held his palm forward. “We haven’t even met Sam. We don’t know a thing about him.”
“I can tell you everything you need to know. To understand him, you have to reach back to his childhood.” Frank proceeded to tell them that Sam Morales’s boyhood dream had been to become an astronaut and explore the stars. Although he understood that the government required NASA to meet military and espionage objectives for the war effort, he thought he could be a catalyst for change. A person of strong moral conviction, Sam knew right from wrong. He had planned to lead and educate, turning the space program into a peaceful entity for probing the heavens rather than a war machine for destroying the earth. Fanatical, he focused his schooling and hobbies around achieving his goal, using a sizable trust fund to finance his endeavors. However, when it came time to apply to the Air Force Academy, fate handed Sam a devastating card.
The institution denied him admittance when a physical exam revealed a medical abnormality—a hole in his heart. The rejection shattered him. After a considerable mourning period, Sam’s steadfast principles returned. If he couldn’t be the pioneer in the skies who revamped the system, he would be the architect on the ground who did. He studied aerospace engineering in college and joined NASA. Despite a successful career, he never reached the heights of influence he felt he’d earned. “Disillusioned”—Frank frowned ruefully—“like the rest of us, he left the program following Zeus 5. Prevented from realizing his aspiration of spaceflight, Sam now explores the sea.”
“No offense, Frank, but how is he an asset to us?” Iggy arched her eyebrows.
“Sam is an exceptional scientist. He invented revolutionary stabilization systems for both spaceships and spacesu
its. And, his designs for hull construction have provided the safest, sturdiest spacecraft in history. If we are using his vehicle, which I highly recommend, we’d be crazy not to bring him along. What if there is an unexpected malfunction? We need Sam.”
Sera bristled. “Not at the risk of roping in any more loose cannons.”
“As Jay said,” Dee interrupted, “we still don’t know him. What’s he like to deal with? As a person?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mention his heart problem. It’s not serious, but he’s kind of touchy about it.” Frank gazed up as if seeking the correct words. “Sam is smart, well-groomed, and motivated for the greater good.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 2013
5:00 AM – PDT
9:00 AM –ADT
The Russian operative was enjoying the morning breeze on the deck of a Soviet aircraft carrier in the international waters of the Atlantic. He preferred these conditions immeasurably to the previous day’s internment in the submarine’s cramped quarters. Contentedly breathing in the briny atmosphere, he scanned the eastern skies searching for his next transport. There. A MiG fighter approaching at maximum velocity. The engines screamed as it started its steep descent. He marveled at the pilot’s skill. Aiming a dangling tail hook, he caught it squarely on the arresting wire to prevent the plane from careening off the ship. Slamming to a stop, the plane sat on the edge of the miniature runway between rows of parked aircraft. The spy inhaled the jet fuel, happy that his voyage would continue with him liberated in a flying machine rather than entombed in an underwater vessel.
Fifteen minutes later, the MiG stood ready for departure, refueled and inspected by a veritable pit crew of Soviet Armed Forces personnel. As they strapped him in, the operative reveled in the thought of returning home to reunite with his family, perhaps to extended leave. He had successfully accomplished his mission. He possessed the secret US weapons schematics and was prepared to deliver them to his superiors. Maybe his score would gratify his leaders enough that he could retire into anonymity and end this pointless game.
Or at least his role in it.
12:30 PM – PDT
The team rode in a couple of taxis from Arcata airport to Sam’s place in Eureka, California. Dee watched with interest as they cruised south down Highway 101—Redwood Highway—around the sweeping curve of Arcata Bay. She admired the beautiful scenery, with lush green forests and gently sloping hills, but unfortunately, no ancient trees. According to Jay, they grew farther south. Eventually, they rolled up in front of the entrance, which boasted a rectangular wooden archway over the driveway like an image from the old West. The words Eureka Ranch were burned into the crossbeam.
Sam Morales leaned his five-foot, eight-inch frame nonchalantly against the right-side post, waiting for them. Although he struck a casual pose, Dee realized that it was indeed a pose. Nothing about his appearance suggested random relaxation. The careful arrangement of his limbs allowed her to note his pressed white shirt, creased dark slacks and shiny leather shoes. Although graying at the temples, the Latino man in his late forties maintained a compact, muscular physique.
Sam strode forward as they began climbing out of the vehicles, but when he saw Quin emerge, he stumbled on the grass. “Santa Maria! You’re alive.” Embarrassed at his emotional spasm, he recovered his composure and continued strutting toward them.
Quin splayed his palms upward in a what-can-I-say gesture. “I’m ba-ack!” He strung out the word in two long syllables.
Sam greeted him, but instead of the embrace Dee expected, he offered a stiff arm and gave Quin a firm handshake. “Great to see you. Truthfully, I was always suspicious about your alleged plane crash. Unthinkable that pilot error would be the demise of the Mighty Quin.”
Dee chuckled inwardly at his obvious shock and formal speech. She heard a muffled snort beside her and followed Sera’s line of sight to Sam’s feet. Nosy about her interest as well as his misstep on the lawn, she studied his shoes. They looked funny. Too big, but not in the sense of width, in the sense of height—several inches from sole to top. Then she got it. This short caballero wore lifts! She gave Sera a conspiratorial glance.
Quin briefly explained how Frank had helped him fake his own death. Sam wanted to understand how he could live beneath the radar, avoiding government checkpoints and citizen monitoring.
“I operate a flightseeing gig out of Vegas. Fly with Flynn. A cover, really. I’ll take anybody, anyplace, anytime, for a fee. Cash only. Bribes do the rest.”
Without thinking, Bick nodded in agreement. Their previous afternoon spent purchasing false authorizations and permits had given him a new appreciation of life on the run.
“What’s your deal?” Quin asked.
“I intend to go into the tourism industry as well. My submersibles will be the most reliable and comfortable in the world. I know the country’s elite will pay top dollar to view the wartime shipwrecks off the coast.”
“So, it’ll be Sink with Sam, then?” Quin gave him his trademark sideways grin.
Affronted, Sam turned to Frank and clasped his hand. “Welcome. Please, introduce me to your friends.”
As they made the rounds, Dee couldn’t help but be astonished that this unlikely trio were friends. Professor Drama, Maverick Pilot, and Pompous Shipwright? Working for NASA bonded strange bedfellows.
Sam showed them around his ranch, an area resembling a junkyard more than a cattle farm from the Wild West. Car parts, boat bows, scrap metal, and rubber tires littered the grounds. However, it constituted the most orderly collection of detritus imaginable, with each pile organized by size and type. He clarified that these cast-offs provided the raw materials for his constructions.
Not far from Arcata Bay, they entered an old boathouse serving as Sam’s workshop. A tinny, oily smell inside reminded Dee of Bick’s Bikes. Skylights in the cavernous barn illuminated a partly built aluminum alloy sub, and packing crates containing supplies lined the walls. The fifteen-foot diameter spherical vessel had a hole in the top where the hatch would go. Sam extolled the virtues of the ship: meticulous fabrication, hull strength, and watertight airlocks.
Jay nudged Dee and whispered, “He sounds like he swallowed a sales brochure.”
They climbed up to a plywood platform to peer into the round viewports surrounding its exterior. A floor bisected the orb about four feet from the bottom. Sam was banking on using this vehicle to make a viable enterprise of underwater tourism.
Iggy raised her eyebrows. The ship would be perfect for their needs.
They emerged from the rear of the boathouse and headed toward Sam’s home. Resting in a small hollow, the residence had previously gone unnoticed. Astounded, Dee beheld a single-story, flat-roofed hacienda next to an attached structure with a domed top. An observatory. A large satellite dish blossomed beside it. Sam’s fascination with the ocean evidently hadn’t quashed his desire to explore the cosmos.
He led them into a capacious living room, sparsely furnished with robust wooden furniture of clean lines and visible joints. The area contained cushioned chairs and polished tables, clearly hand-tooled, antique, and expensive, with every piece combining form and function. No spurious knickknacks or clutter dared enter.
Sera fell in love with the elegant simplicity, and uncharacteristically blurted out her enthusiasm. “Wow. Fantastic interior décor. Mission, right?”
“No.” Sam paused emphatically. “A common misconception, however. Although the style resembles the Spanish missions of the Southwest, it actually migrated from Europe in the early twentieth century. English designers were dismayed by the soulless machine-produced products of the Industrial Revolution and developed the Arts and Crafts Movement as a counter-reaction. American craft workers joined in and created ageless pieces as seen here. The Movement ultimately led to classic Art Deco architecture, such as that of the famous Frank Lloyd Wright. This floor lamp is a 1920s example. It’s called a bridge lamp because of the way the cast iron stand has an ar
m extending out to hang the shade.”
“Of course.” Sera’s passion waned.
Sam spent a few minutes serving beverages, while the entire team settled into the comfy accommodations. “Frank tells me that you want me to build you a submersible. But before I can discuss the parameters, I need a detailed description of how you are going to use it. Which ocean, what depths, dive lengths, number of passengers . . . this information will be crucial in determining the proper specifications.” He eagerly awaited making his pitch.
Quin perked up. He wanted to know what the hell they were planning also.
Frank abdicated responsibility with a wave. “Iggy, why don’t you take the lead?”
Having been through this scenario several times in a two-steps-forward, one-step-back dance, Iggy decided on a new tack. She put down her tea and gazed directly at Sam, and then at Quin. “It’s a story of mind-boggling scientific discovery, a dramatic prison-break, and our embarkation on a journey with the unprecedented power to alter the fabric of history. But let me start at the very beginning.”
2:00 PM – PDT
Colonel Zimmerman cursed. He was standing at the proverbial scene of the crime with nothing to show for it. He kicked used paint cans around the empty interior of the Fly with Flynn hangar, as Sutherland cowered in the corner. The fugitives had apparently disguised the circus-colored plane with nondescript white, and departed. The colonel threw in more expletives aimed at the FAA official who had stonewalled him the day before. This was entirely his fault. If they’d had the intel when needed, they could have flown to Las Vegas yesterday and caught the traitors in the act. Currently, he had no means by which to identify their aircraft. Hundreds of flightseeing planes took off from this airport on a daily basis to soar over nearby landmarks like the Vegas Strip, Hoover Dam, and the Grand Canyon.
Now, the trail was cold.
Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy Page 9
