Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  Sam rolled his head from side to side and shoved up the sleeve of his flightsuit. They had hastily donned the outfits while Sera and Quin retrieved the scuba tanks in 2013. He squinted at his watch. “We left at 7:45 am California time and it’s now 8:15. Unless we were unconscious for over twelve hours, I’d wager about thirty minutes.”

  “Excellent calculations, Einstein.” Suffering the aftereffects of time travel was making Jay unusually snippy. Working through his discomfort, he busied himself by powering up the heart-rate monitoring systems attached to the suits, which now had professional-grade mission patches on the left shoulder, courtesy of Dee.

  Dee ignored the chatter, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. She watched her arms drift out in front of her as her red curls framed her face. Fantastic! But what about the view? She unlocked her chair and turned it outward toward the porthole, securing the mechanism with a resounding clank. Stars streamed past through the golden hue of the brass-coated window. She caught a glimpse of the earth, only to have it disappear in seconds, while the sun flashed in and out like a strobe light. The Tempus Orbis was twirling like a gyroscope.

  Jay observed her pulse increasing. “Uh, Dee, you okay?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to look at the um, the um . . . uh, no, not really.” She felt woozy from vertigo.

  “Turn back to center till I have a chance to stabilize the Tempus.” Quin adjusted the pitch and yaw. Shoot. He’d forgotten they were novices. “Give me a sec.”

  Bick unbuckled himself, awkwardly pushed over to Dee, and spun her back around. “Okay now?”

  Dee gulped. “Yes. Better, thanks.”

  With monumental effort, Sera finally found her seat. “Well, I suppose it was sheer luck we packed the ship in advance and we were ready to bolt when that two-faced traitor Sutherland showed up with the warden.”

  “Not luck. Good project management.” Although the others had teased Jay, and indeed occasionally hid his trusty clipboard, the project manager was proud of his preparedness. “You’ve got to plan for every contingency.”

  Sam leaned forward and cocked his finger at the empty seat beside him. “What about Frank? Was he a contingency? Did we plan to leave him behind?”

  Jay scowled, knowing Sam was still smarting from the ill-placed Einstein comment.

  “Frank chose his own path. I mean, I miss his whining as much as y’all do.” Quin’s tone abruptly turned somber. “But let’s face it. He stopped the warden to save our skins. He’s a hero in my book.”

  Sera nodded. “But Frank could be dead for all we know.”

  “I’m afraid there is nothing we can do for him now.” Bick sucked in a lungful of air and blew it out, puffing his cheeks. “Quin is right. Frank surrendered himself so we could proceed with the mission. Besides, if we are where we think we are”—he shook his head in exasperation—“I mean, when, Frank’s encounter with Zimmerman and Sutherland won’t happen for another five decades.”

  “Good thinking, Bick.” Iggy imbued her voice with an authoritative note. “First order of business is to determine when and where we are. Quin, please put us in geosynchronous orbit.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.” He eagerly turned to the pilot controls and started muttering side instructions to copilot Bick.

  Jay floated to the porthole facing the planet and slid his feet into restraints on the floor. From his pocket, he pulled out a metal device similar to a drawing compass, like the kind kids stab onto their pink erasers in grammar school. He held one point of it on the glass, aligned to the top of earth, and positioned the other at the bottom. Thus, the contraption created an isosceles triangle with a narrow angle on the compass and two sides of equal length, which would reach all the way to the earth if one extended the arms. The angle coupled with the length of the base—namely the planet’s diameter—would allow basic trigonometry to determine the distance from the point of the triangle to the base, technically the center of the earth.

  After a few minutes hunched over a calculator and the clipboard that kept trying to drift away, Jay had his answer. “We are at an altitude of slightly over two hundred miles. Right on target.” He looked up at the group and smiled broadly. “I have the exact figures here.”

  “Great! But even more important, when are we? Are we truly in 1963?” As her seasickness abated, Dee’s excitement swelled.

  At a different porthole, Sam paused from examining the solar system with a telescope. “I’ll have that information shortly. I’m determining the order of Jupiter’s moons.”

  “How could that possibly tell us the date?” Dee reached into a storage bin beneath her, drew out her camera, and began clicking photos of both guys at work.

  “It does seem improbable to the layperson, doesn’t it?” Sam scribbled a diagram on his graph paper, holding the edges down so they wouldn’t stray. “Jupiter has four major moons, which were discovered by Galileo in 1610. He called them Callisto, Ganymede, Europa, and Io, as shown here.” He held up the pad. “They each orbit the gas giant in the same direction on the same plane, but going at varying speeds. For every four orbits of Io, Europa completes two, and Ganymede one. During the same period, Callisto makes less than one-half orbit. Meanwhile, Jupiter circles the sun about once for every dozen of our years. Taking it together, they’re a lot like a moving watch with four hands. The moons and planet are always in a different pattern, with no repetition. And if you know where each satellite is, you can compute exactly what time it is, down to the hour. It’s a cosmic clock.”

  Quin whipped off his headset. “Enough with the science-y mumbo jumbo. It’s Tuesday, November 12, 1963. Bzzzt. End of story.”

  “Quiet. This involves complicated mathematics. Just a moment.” Sam punched buttons on the calculator, working the equations for a full minute. “Yes. I can one hundred percent verify that today is indeed . . .” he paused to create a flourish “. . . November 12, 1963.”

  “Told ya.”

  “Humph. You were guessing.”

  “Guessing, my ass.”

  Jay gazed at Quin. “What makes you so sure you know what day it is?”

  “Turned on the AM radio. DJ said it was Tuesday, November 12. And you yourself told us the days of the week don’t repeat that often. Ipso facto, 1963.”

  “Radio? What radio?” Jay stared pointedly at Sam. He knew his project plan didn’t include any audio equipment.

  “I completely forgot. I installed a car stereo in the submersible so I could play the tape deck. But of course it makes sense.” Hiding his embarrassment at being upstaged, Sam attempted to stand still, failing miserably in the weightless environment. He settled for crossing his arms. “Amplitude modulation signals will go on forever with nothing to impede them in the vacuum of space.”

  9:30 AM – CST

  “Sir, I have something!” The zealous new recruit stood up and squeaked, thrilled. He had been concentrating on his computer screen when he’d caught it in his peripheral vision—an unexplained radar blip two hundred miles up in space.

  It was business as usual at the Manned Space Center in Houston, Texas. Supervisors walked the Orbital Control room, while their charges monitored the heavens, bored beyond belief.

  The commanding officer sighed and ambled over to the tech’s monitor. “Yes, yes, I see that.” The tiny node on the screen was so small it could be interference.

  The underling continued enthusiastically, “It’s a radar contact orbiting in otherwise empty space. What do you think? Could it be the Russians?”

  “Could be, could be.” The general masked his scorn for the young man. No way was it the Russians. There were only two known Soviet satellites, and at a much lower altitude. “Please record the incident in the log, same as before. We’ll get the experts on it right away.” He knew full well it would die buried in a pile of bureaucracy.

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I will issue a full report.”

  “You do that, son, you do that.”

  9:45 AM – CST

  Sam drifted abov
e Jay, reading over his shoulder. “We need to land under the surface so we can bob up to release the inflatable boat.”

  Jay grumbled under his breath as Sam continued to interfere. Of course he knew the plan. He’d been the one to suggest it in the first place. Together with Dee, he would stay on board after the rest of the team disembarked. They would fill the ballast tanks with water, sink the Tempus, and then scuba up to meet the others in the boat. Jay entered the precise length of the time-jump into the console. “Done.”

  Quin cleared his throat and announced in a formal voice, “This is your pilot speaking. We are about to make our descent onto the planet earth. Please fasten your seatbelts, as we will be landing momentarily. We hope you enjoy your stay in 1963. And thank you for flying Tempus Airlines.”

  “Wait a moment. I want to set my watch to central time.” Jay fiddled with the knob, and then noticed the crew looking at him in amusement. “What? Don’t you set your watch before you get off a plane?”

  “Here we go.” Iggy grinned as she punched the jumper button. A blinding flash of light and a deafening roar consumed the ship. The team shrieked in agony before passing out.

  As they woke up, hurtling through the air, Sam screamed in terror. They hit the Gulf of Mexico with a seismic splash and submerged for a few seconds. The ship popped up like a cork, one mile out from Padre Island—the world’s longest barrier isle—off the coast of Texas.

  Sam bolstered his dignity with a scathing remark to Jay. “Excellent calculations, Einstein.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1963

  7:00 AM – CST

  Sera hurried back to the team, nearly twisting her ankle in her high heels. Curse Dee for saddling her with dresses and pumps. What was wrong with jeans? Glancing around, she had to admit, however, that her clothes blended in with the spiffy ensembles on the travelers at the Corpus Christi bus terminal. Women wore skirts and men wore suits. And practically everyone topped their outfits off with hats. But despite their stuffy attire, the populace radiated goodwill and optimism. Truly an alien culture.

  “I got ‘em. It worked.” Sera held out seven tickets purchased with Iggy’s counterfeit cash. “But we have to go via Houston. No direct route to Dallas, y’all.”

  “Dang.” Quin nudged up the brim of his Stetson, looking and sounding right at home as a Texan. He groaned at the thought of spending the day crammed into a bus after hunkering down on a deformed mattress at a fleabag motel the previous night. “I still got a crick in my back.”

  Sam wiped his forehead with a cotton handkerchief. Early morning and already seventy degrees. “I cannot believe we are relegated to taking the bus with these dregs. Public transportation is reserved for the lowest common denominator of society.” He waved his arm to indicate the masses.

  “Cut it out, Sam.” Jay peeked at the other passengers as a motor coach rumbled past outside. “They’ll hear you.”

  “Just look at these people. Most of them are carrying weapons. That fellow has a six-shooter on his hip.” Sam pointed. “What is it about 1963 that makes the populace want to tote firearms?”

  Dee hissed, “Stop announcing what year it is. You’re drawing attention to us.”

  Sam abruptly turned and started examining a Greyhound schedule on the wall.

  Bick returned to the group, brandishing a glossy magazine. “Hey, check it out. I bought an issue of Life for a quarter. Can you believe it? This’ll be some keepsake from our adventure.”

  As Bick eagerly paged through the periodical, Jay tilted his head and body to the side, trying to get a glimpse of the front of it. “What . . . what is that on the cover? Are those soldiers? Has the war started?”

  “At ease, Jay. They’re not US soldiers; they’re South Vietnamese. Here, let me find the article.” Bick consulted the table of contents and skimmed the report. “Generals ordered their loyal troops to overthrow the government, killing South Vietnamese President Diem. Bloody dealings.” He lowered his voice. “This happens in history regardless of our arrival in 1963. But I’ll wager ten to one the US was involved and the CIA backed the uprising. It was hypothesized that a new leadership in South Vietnam would stand a better chance against the North Vietnamese commies.”

  Sam quit feigning interest in the departure board. “No doubt Kennedy was behind it. The CIA couldn’t move in without approval from the White House.”

  “Well, he has already begun sending military personnel to the region to reinforce the South.” Dee demonstrated her encyclopedic knowledge of the thirty-fifth president. “And he sanctioned”—she gave the word air quotes—“the coup. By which I mean, the CIA was ordered not to interfere. JFK subscribed to the Domino Theory, which argued that if a country fell to communism, its neighbors would follow.”

  “I read about that.” Jay nodded. “The theory was first postulated during the Eisenhower administration. Even as a senator, Kennedy worried that ‘if the Red Tide of Communism overflowed into Vietnam,’ the security of countries like Burma, Thailand, India, Japan, the Philippines, Laos, and Cambodia would be threatened.”

  “The US probably would have focused more on Southeast Asia had it not been for the ’64 Nuke War.” Fear gripped Iggy. “What if by preventing one conflict, we fuel another?”

  “We can’t start speculating on every possible tangent that might occur as a result of our mission.” Bick squeezed her shoulder. “It’s not constructive.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Say, where did you get that magazine?” Dee scanned the hub. “I’m going to see if I can scare up a Diet Coke.”

  The others chuckled.

  “Wha-at?”

  “Dee, your favorite beverage won’t be invented for a couple of decades,” Bick kindly reminded her.

  She slumped. “With all the planning and research on ’63, the thought never even occurred to me.”

  “This”—Quin jerked his thumb in her direction—“is our historical expert?”

  Dee glared. It was going to be a long trip.

  9:40 PM – CST

  In the back meeting room of the Carousel Club in Dallas, Dmitriy Sokolov greeted his new comrade in Russian. The third and final member of the KGB cell had shown up in the right place, at the right time, armed with a complicated set of passcodes. While underling Viktor Vladimirsky authenticated their veracity, Dmitriy jealously regarded the newcomer’s nondescript appearance. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, tan complexion and non-ethnic features. The spy could easily assimilate and few would be able to accurately describe him. For that reason alone, he would be given plum assignments.

  The operative introduced himself as Kon—no last name—and proceeded to show official paperwork indicating his superior rank.

  Dmitriy’s smile receded as he realized this Young Turk would now be in charge of the operation. Nevertheless, he formally welcomed his boss.

  Kon invoked his first regulation in unaccented English. “From this point forward, we will not speak our native tongue in the US. It is too suspicious. Remember, we are to act like ordinary American citizens at all times. No exceptions.”

  Dmitriy loathed the leader already; he was a stickler for the rules. At least, according to protocol, nervous Viktor would remain under his control. Ultimately, Dmitriy would have to find a way to regain the upper hand.

  With that goal in mind, he began to apprise Kon of the mission details.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1963

  8:00 AM – CST

  “Come on everyone, keep up.” Dee paused on Main Street in Dallas, waiting for the others.

  Jay hustled along the sidewalk, coming abreast of her. “What’s the rush? I mean, we barely finished breakfast at the hotel before you corralled us together for this trek.”

  “Yeah, where’s the fire, kiddo?” Quin sauntered over to join them. “This decade ain’t half as bad as I imagined. Look at the sky, dammit.”

  All seven stopped and gazed
up at the azure sky dotted with puffy clouds drifting past. They were used to seeing the atmosphere through a haze of filthy smog.

  “It’s breathtaking.” Iggy relaxed her body and inhaled. “I’d forgotten what the world was like before the pollution and decay.”

  Although it was chilly, the sun beamed in from the east, illuminating the clean kempt buildings, causing slanted shadows behind them. Sera closed her eyes and faced the sunlight. Finally someone had noticed the striking beauty. Surprising it was Quin.

  “Okay, people. We’re on a mission here, are we not?” Sam motioned them forward.

  Dee hesitated.

  “Let’s continue our pilgrimage,” Bick intervened. “We have plenty of time to revel in God’s creation. Or those of us so inclined.” He frowned at Sam.

  Dee nodded happily and led them west down Main Street, across Houston Street, and toward the entrance of the park. “We’re following the presidential motorcade route through Dealey Plaza.”

  As she turned right onto Houston, heading for Elm, Quin moseyed in the opposite direction. “Hey, who’s this dude?” He pointed at a larger-than-life statue of a man in a suit standing atop a ten-foot pedestal. The mottled brown figure held his right palm out in supplication. A white, half-moon colonnade skirted the terrace perimeter behind him.

  Dee doubled back. “That’s George Bannerman Dealey, a longtime publisher of the Dallas Morning News. A powerful business mogul, he used his influence to campaign for redevelopment of this area, which had become neglected and run-down in the 1930s. His efforts inspired revitalization of the park to its present state. As a result, it bears his name. The bas-relief images depicted in bronze on the low wall behind the statue illustrate his accomplishments.”

  “Cool. How’s about a picture?” Quin posed in front of the statue, holding out his palm in imitation of George Dealey.

  Dee herded everyone together and snapped a few photos. “Shall we?”