“Now, the KGB. There are three operatives: Ivan Grekovich, Dmitriy Sokolov, and Viktor Vladimirsky. They used American aliases for documents, of course, but we will use their proper Russian names for simplicity. I’ll provide you with their photos and dossiers later. Ivan is prowling in front of the Pergola to the right of Zapruder. Dmitriy and Viktor are skulking on the other side of Elm Street in the infield. They are spread out so Viktor will be the first that JFK will pass.” Dee put red soldiers on the board indicating their positions. “We used toy militia to differentiate them from ordinary citizens.” She blushed at the odd method of demarcation.
Frank hefted up the Dmitriy figure in his palm. “You mean they were standing out in the open in the middle of all those people? I thought KGB spies were supposed to be the best-trained covert assassins in the world. But these guys don’t sound too bright to me.”
“Frank, you make an excellent point.” Iggy held out her hand for Dmitriy. “From what I recall there was a lot of speculation as to why they blatantly tried to gun down the president in public. Many concluded the three spies were patsies who were meant to be caught. That way, the US would strike first in the war and the USSR could claim it responded in defense. But nobody will ever know the true story. It’s just a conspiracy theory.” She placed the character back in position.
“Let’s concentrate on the key cars involved.” Dee pushed the other vehicles aside. “It’s 12:29 in the afternoon when the entourage heads north on Houston and makes a sharp left onto Elm, passing the gathering crowds on both sides.” She started rolling the matchbox presidential limo on the diorama and butted the motorcycles up behind it. “Fewer onlookers show up in Dealey than elsewhere; they line the curb only one person deep. Perhaps that helps explain the KGB’s brazenness.” She glanced up, astonished to see the whole crew riveted to her narrative.
“At 12:30 pm, the open-top black sedan nears Viktor on the infield. He is supposed to shoot the driver to slow the vehicle. But he draws early and misses, the bullet lodging in Agent Greer’s door. Governor Connally hears the deafening crack, sees the shiny weapon, and cries, ‘My God, they’re gonna kill us all!’ In heroic fashion, this former Navy lieutenant commander—who won a Bronze Star for bravery in World War II—turns to the president, tackles him, and tries to wrestle him to the floor. Obviously, he assumes JFK is in danger. By the Pergola, Ivan concurrently aims at Kennedy, but by now Connally is in the direct line of fire. His shot goes through the governor’s neck and lodges in the president’s shoulder. Neither wound is fatal. The noise and chaos cause driver Greer to brake in confusion, giving the KGB more opportunity. Witnessing Connally’s actions, a terrified Jackie turns toward her husband as Dmitriy pulls the trigger from further down the infield. The bullet rips into Mrs. Kennedy’s back, shattering a lung.” Swallowing with a gulp, Dee paused.
Sam took advantage of the hesitation. “What a colossal screw-up. I can’t believe the ineptitude of the KGB. A single target and they missed? I’ll wager it shouldn’t be too hard to stop these clowns.”
“One step at a time, Sam.” Dee turned back to the model. “Secret Service members in the follow-up car react immediately. Clinton J. Hill races toward the Lincoln convertible and mounts the bumper footstep. George W. Hickey Jr. cocks his rifle from the rear seat, while the other agents simultaneously draw their weapons. Right after the third shot, Special Agent John D. Ready leaps off the passenger side running board, and gallops up to the Pergola, where Ivan aims back at him. Ready shoots the commie in the head, killing him instantly. Meanwhile, Greer accelerates out of Dealey through the Triple Underpass with Agent Hill lying across the top of the back seat as a shield. Bobby Hargis, a motorcycle cop who flanked the driver’s side of the president’s car, guns his bike and jumps the curb onto the infield, chasing Viktor as he sprints after Dmitriy. While steering one-handed, Hargis manages to pull his gun with his free hand and nails Viktor in the behind as he tries to escape.”
Quin exclaimed, “He shot him in the ass?”
“Yes.” Dee smiled shyly. “Although wounded, Viktor continues to lope ahead, so Hargis hops off the bike to give chase. He catches up and body slams Viktor. Dmitriy bolts to the getaway car they left on Main Street and peels away. As you can predict, pandemonium reigns in the plaza as citizens duck and cover or flee for their lives.” She pantomimed her fingers running up the staircase next to the Pergola toward the railway parking lot.
“With sirens wailing, the motorcade races to Parkland Memorial Hospital, where JFK and Connally are treated. With severe injuries, the governor needs six hours of surgery to repair the damage, while the president is patched up with minimal intervention. Sadly, the First Lady is pronounced dead on arrival.” Dee sniffed.
“A Roman Catholic, the slain mother is given a public viewing in the rotunda of the Capitol Building in DC on Sunday. On Monday, she is laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery. I’m sure you remember the disturbing photo of daughter Caroline placing her teddy bear on the casket at the gravesite.” Dee dabbed the corner of her eyes with a tissue.
Iggy patted her shoulder. “I watched the coverage live. Seven years old, I sat in front of the TV playing with my dolls, mesmerized and frightened. Every station broadcast the footage; you couldn’t escape it. I identified with Caroline, who was just shy of her sixth birthday. I worried that someone would hurt my mommy as well.”
Dee cleared her throat. “Afterwards, captive Viktor remains loyal to the homeland and never talks. It isn’t until his comrade Dmitriy is caught at the Russian embassy in Mexico City that we uncover the truth. Under duress, he sells out his superior, Leonid Novikov, who was the mastermind of the operation.”
Sam interjected, “And that’s when Kennedy makes his notorious speech threatening the Soviets with retaliation. He unashamedly cries for his loss and parades his motherless children before the media.”
Dee furrowed her forehead. “I guess you could look at it that way.” She switched on the old-fashioned projector they had purchased at the Hobby Hut. “Now, let me show you the Zapruder film.” She turned off the lights and the grainy, hand-held movie flickered on the wall. The reel thrummed its spinning cadence as they watched in silence.
No one spoke for a few moments.
Bick finally stated the obvious. “Okay. We know what happened. How do we prevent it?”
Dee sighed. “I’m working on it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2013
1:30 PM – PDT
Sam grunted as he and Quin lugged a cumbersome car seat into the boathouse. In need of furnishings for their spaceship, they’d visited a nearby junkyard and hauled away eight mismatched bucket seats from various makes and models.
As they plunked down the captain’s chair wrested from a van, Quin fondled its supple Corinthian leather. “Ah, yes, the pilot’s seat. Just what the doctor ordered.”
Sera glared at him. “Who says you get dibs?”
“Babe, I gotta be comfy. I’m the one flyin’ this crate.” Quin twinkled.
Sam stifled a snicker as Sera turned in a huff.
Quin wriggled into the seat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You know, it takes a lot of elbow grease to save one 1960s broad.”
Jay was staggering under the weight of a beat-up corvette seat. “Don’t forget the countless millions who will be spared by avoiding the strife following the assassination, in addition to saving, ah”—he widened his eyes—“one broad. Not to mention that by eliminating the KGB from the equation, we’ll protect both Jackie K. and JFK.”
Sam pondered the implications. “Did you ever wonder what would have happened if the KGB had succeeded in blowing away Kennedy? Frankly, I think the world would have been better off.”
The crew stared at him, stricken.
“What? Let’s go over the facts. He was the monster who initiated the nuke wars with the USSR. He had one hand pressing the button while the other hand stripped away our personal freedoms. And for decades a
fter he died in ’67, the paranoid masses kept voting in the warmongers. No one wanted an administration that would back down to Russian aggression. As a result, look where we are today.”
“You bring up a fascinating point.” Bick shifted the bulk of a Mustang seat he was carrying. “But you have to admit Kennedy wasn’t the worst tyrant of all time. What about Hitler, Stalin, or Genghis Khan for that matter?”
“Are you people insane?” Frank exploded from where he was tinkering with the environmental systems. “Are you suggesting we go back through history and slaughter every bloodthirsty despot that ever existed? That is not the job I signed up for.” He muttered, “Not that I had much choice.”
“No, absolutely not!” Bick appeared aghast. “It was conjecture, a hypothetical concept.”
Their attitude stymied Sam. “Knowing the horrors he would commit, you would be totally justified in killing Hitler before he became a threat, even when he was a boy.”
“Murder a child?” Dee clutched her abdomen. “That’s a heinous crime, regardless of what he might become. It would be preferable to change his environment to convert him from evil to good.”
“But to quote Machiavelli, the ends justify the means.”
“He didn’t mean that per se.”
Sam slumped as Jay launched into another soliloquy.
“A casual reading of The Prince might lead one to believe its central message conveys that evil acts can be defensible if committed to serve the greater good. This is an insular interpretation, however, because Machiavelli actually placed restrictions on evil actions. For example—”
“Enough!” Iggy’s fierce voice interjected. “This entire conversation is academic. We are not murderers. We are going back in time to save one woman’s life and prevent the subsequent fifty years of bloodshed. This is the mission we have agreed upon and it is the one we are going to complete. No one is going to kill anyone.”
1:45 PM – PDT
11:45 PM – EEDT
The Soviet operative lay on his bunk at the Minsk officers’ quarters, tossing and turning. He couldn’t stop replaying the day’s events in his mind, barely comprehending the unexpected twist. When the premier himself had called for a personal meeting, he’d felt elated. No one ever met one-on-one with the Russian leader. The spy ardently believed this to be a sign of imminent reprieve from the mania. He anticipated that his brave service would be rewarded with the retirement he desperately desired. But the outcome could not have been less welcome.
The operative had been chosen for a Mission of Honor. It was common knowledge those were the missions from which you never returned. Your honor would be bestowed upon you posthumously. How could it have come to this? Of course his family would be taken care of, but what about him? How was this a repayment for his loyalty and perseverance through the years? Fortunately, it would be a while before the assignment commenced. The premier made it clear that they needed to assemble an appropriate team and develop the technology gleaned from the stolen weapons plans. Perhaps he could determine a way out.
Now, all he could think about was how he would tell his wife and child about this latest, ill-fated turn of events.
1963 AND 2013
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1963 AND 2013
3:00 AM – PDT
5:00 AM – CDT
Well before sunrise, the ruthless man returned to his motor lodge after committing his mortal sins. He coasted the brand-new 1963 Ford Falcon rental car to a halt in front of his door, satisfied with the inception of his plan. KGB Section Chief Leonid Novikov lay dead in a remote grave, never to be heard from again. Contented, the man entered the shabby room and washed his hands, scrubbing the grit and filth from his fingernails. Getting dirty was the loathsome aspect. He glanced at his watch. At five o’clock in the morning, plenty of time remained before his departure to the airport. Sitting on the twin bed’s tattered coverlet, he reviewed the information and materials he’d extracted from the Russian. The shortwave radio and codebook were easy victories; a surprise attack and a superior weapon had won those items. The verbal codes had required more persuasion. But effective torture methods numbered among the man’s many talents.
No one would stop his ambition. It would be child’s play to impersonate Leonid now.
2:00 PM – PDT
Without warning, Dee leapt up from her workbench and shrieked, “Eureka! I’ve found it.”
Quin’s torso popped up from inside the Tempus Orbis. “Found what?”
“The plan. I figured out how to save Jackie K.” She gazed excitedly at the others.
Intrigued, everyone ceased their shipbuilding tasks and huddled around Dee.
She smiled, enjoying the attention. “It’s pretty straightforward, really. The goal is to take the KGB out of the picture before the President and First Lady ever step foot in Texas. So, we enlist the help of my granddad and have him arrest the KGB prior to November 22. We know what they’ll be doing, where they’ll be, and when they’ll be there.”
“How could we possibly know that?” Bick raised his brows.
Dee picked up a battered copy of a hefty hardbound volume and thumped it down on the table. “This is how. The Warren Commission. A Report of the President’s Commission on the Assassination of First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy.”
“What the heck is that?” Sam wiped his hands with a clean rag and grasped the red tome.
“It’s a book I’ve paged through a thousand times, but never with the same intent. The answer has been staring me in the face.”
“And?” Sam held his palms up.
“Right, sorry. The Warren Commission Report was an uncelebrated government publication on the investigation into the murder of Jackie K. Few people know about it because the case was cut and dried. However, JFK ordered a thorough inquiry into the events surrounding the incident. He wanted anyone even remotely connected to his wife’s assassination to pay for the atrocity. Of course, behind the scenes some accused the president of acting on more selfish motives. After all, he was the primary target.” Dee shrugged. “Either way, Kennedy appointed the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Earl Warren, to chair the examination of the evidence and testimony provided by a myriad of witnesses. The bipartisan delegation of senators, representatives, attorneys, and a former CIA director spent months chronicling the KGB’s movements, financial records, known associates, and personal biographies. We know every significant activity executed up until November 22. So . . .” she paused for dramatic effect “. . . we will catch them in the act of breaking and entering the Federal Building in the early morning of October 13, 1963.”
“Uh huh.” Bick registered the dazed expressions of his companions. “Seems almost too simple.”
“Simple would be welcome.” Iggy’s strained voice betrayed her trepidation. “But if that’s our best option, we’d better hurry up and get this ship finished. We have less than three weeks to get back to 1963 to stop them.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Bick looked at Iggy in bafflement. “It’s a time machine. Surely we can go back to any time we choose. Why the urgency?”
Iggy pressed a hand to her forehead and nodded to Sera.
“To understand, you have to remember that when we time-jump, we travel in time but not space. Our position remains constant. For instance, it wouldn’t work if we jumped six months, because the planet would be millions of miles away on the opposite side of the sun. Therefore, we will leave and arrive on the same day of the year. The only way to do it is to jump in increments of twelve months.”
Bick rubbed the inner corner of his eyes in consternation.
“Not to worry,” Sam reassured him. “Sera’s right. We will traverse fifty years, plus or minus about ten seconds, depending on whether we leave at dawn or dusk. I will supervise the calculations and guarantee their accuracy.”
Jay was unperturbed by Sam’s condescension. “You know, the really interesting fact is that the days of the week are exactl
y the same in 2013 and 1963. For example, today is Tuesday, September 24, 2013, and half a century ago in 1963, it was also Tuesday, September 24.”
“Helluva coincidence there, pal.” Quin tilted his head to one side. “That happen every fifty years?”
“Actually no, it depends. There are fourteen different calendar-year patterns because first, a year can start on any one of the seven days of the week. Then, every fourth year is a leap year, which changes the pattern after February 28. Thus, the fourteen combinations. Seven of the combinations repeat at uneven intervals of eleven years, eleven years, and then six years, while the other seven repeat only once every twenty-eight years. This was true for recent history. But there was a period in 1582 when Pope Gregory XIII shortened the month of October by ten days to compensate for—”
“Will you shut up already?” Frank could take it no longer. “If we have less than three weeks, then we have to get back to work. As they say, procrastination is the thief of time.”
3:00 PM – PDT
6:00 PM – EDT
At a tavern several of blocks from his New York City law firm of Nixon, Mudge, Rose, Guthrie & Alexander, former Republican Vice President Richard Milhous Nixon knocked back a Johnny Walker Blue Label while he waited for a colleague. His right hand held the drink while his left gripped the evening edition of today’s September 24, 1963 newspaper. Despite the dimly lit interior, the headline blazed at him from the front page as if blinking in neon—Senate Ratifies Nuclear Test Ban Treaty with Great Britain and Russia. Although familiar with the deal signed by the three countries in August, Nixon scanned the article for validation. The accord would prohibit experimental detonations of atomic weapons in the atmosphere, outer space, and under water, effectively allowing only underground explosions. The purported rationale was to slow the arms race and prevent excessive fallout. What a joke. This maneuver qualified as pure propaganda from a Kennedy administration hell-bent on making citizens feel safer, thus earning credit for the false sense of security. In fact, officials expected JFK to ratify the treaty himself within a couple of weeks. It would never work. You couldn’t trust the Russians and you certainly couldn’t trust Premier Nikita Khrushchev. Clearly, Kennedy was in way over his head.
Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy Page 12
