by W. Green
Time Travel Twins
SAVING JFK
by
W. Green
ZippyBooks.com
savingJFK.com
Time Travel Twins: SAVING JFK by W. Green
Copyright © 2010 by William R. Green.
All rights reserved.
Published by Zippy Books 311-029-508- ZippyBooks.com
Cover JFK Illustration by Erin Green
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction based on historical fact: specifically what is known as the “JFK Chicago Attempt”. The resemblance of any fictional character to any person or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The activities, incidents, intentions, motivations and locales related to the historical people and fictional characters described herein are entirely fictional representations. The facts presented are subject to the usual interpretations, denials, and obfuscations.
This book is dedicated to:
Abraham Bolden
U.S. Secret Service
In Memoriam
John Fitzgerald Kennedy
1917-1963
and
The United States of America
1776-1963
“The first step in liquidating a people is to erase its memory. Destroy its books, its culture, its history, Then have somebody write new books, manufacture a new culture, invent a new history. Before long the nation will begin to forget what it is and what it was. The world around it will forget even faster……The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.”
-Milan Kundera-
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1 --- The Time Machine
Chapter 2 --- Creating a Legend
Chapter 3 --- Field Trip to the Windy City
Chapter 4 -- -Secret Agendas
Chapter 5 --- Cub Reporters
Chapter 6 --- Meeting the Assassin
Chapter 7 -- -Friend or Foe
Chapter 8 -- -The Brothers
Chapter 9 -- -A Crowded Rendezvous
Chapter 10 --The Reporter Reports
Chapter 11 -- Technological Trouble
Chapter 12 -- Is Cain Able?
Chapter 13 -- Long Live the King
Chapter 14 -- There’s No Place Like Home
Chapter 15 -- Cite’ Masque
Chapter 16 -- Boys Night Out
Chapter 17 -- The Other Brothers
Chapter 18 -- Saving PMB
Chapter 19 -- A Rose by Any Other Name
Chapter 20 -- Shooting Fish in a Barrel
Chapter 21 -- Lone Nuts in a Lone Star State of Mind
Chapter 22 -- Matryoshki
Chapter 23 -- Ruby—Don’t Take Your Love to Town
Chapter 24 -- Return to the Rabbit Hole
Chapter 25 -- 2028 Redux
About the Author and Commentary by the Author
-Chapter 1-
The Time Machine
Zak Newman reached ground zero. His pulse raced. Nervous, excited, surfing a wave of anticipation—alive in the moment—he loved the feeling. He looked down. His right foot rested on a mottled bronze plaque embedded in the concrete. Gingerly, he used his boot to clear away sticky spider webs laced with dead leaves and bugs: The Chess Corner. Donated by the University Club of Mystic Heights. 1976. Celebrating America’s Bicentennial. The “good old days,” he thought, as he read the engraving. Knee-high weeds overran the people-sized game board, raggedly defining the edges of its paint-peeled, cracked concrete squares. Massive columns of the World War II memorial supported a classical stone entablature that ringed the game-grid. It was an imposing, almost foreboding enclosure. Standing in the middle of the chessboard, Zak looked about warily and then fixed his gaze downward imagining his destination directly below—Dr. Currant’s secret underground bunker. Was he ready to travel time? Too late now to debate that, he thought.
A hot summer breeze brushed his face, whistled through the memorial colonnade, and slid down the cliff edge stirring the waters below. In the distance, a couple of small sailboats bobbed about in the blue of Smuggler’s Cove. His mind drifted. It was a scene from one of the photos in the Mystic Heights Historical Museum. A half-century ago, this place, known then as Mystic Memorial Park, with its scenic view and surrounding woods, was a favorite camping spot for the local residents. But no one camped out any more and few people ever ventured up into this now desolate, weather-beaten forest. Across the protective waters rested the quiet town of Mystic Heights. A low, early evening sun raked across the colorful roofs in a shadowy play of light and dark. The gold-capped, faceted cupola roof of Randall Tower, the main science building of Cordwell University and the tallest structure in the town, reflected sunlight into his eyes. He gave up his squinted gaze and checked his watch: 19:11. There was no time for second thoughts. He had four minutes to get in position.
Although he not seen either Emma or Ethan, he knew that each had stood on this same chessboard the previous two half-hours. His thoughts focused on finding his place. “F3—white horse,” he muttered to himself. He wished he had arrived a few minutes earlier. He knew he didn’t have much time. 19:12. He had to be on that square in three minutes. He focused on the chessboard. It was difficult to know one side from the other. Decades ago white and black chess pieces had identified the two sides, but over time hungry people stole them for the scrap metal. With thirty seconds to go, Zak took his position on what he hoped was the G1 square. He jumped two squares up and then hopped one square left, positioning his feet to make sure he was in the exact middle of the square as Dr. Currant had stipulated. He checked his watch: twelve seconds to spare. He waited. The TimeTravelle was about to transport him to its secret location below— thirty feet straight down into A.C. Currant’s laboratory. Zak knew that using the time machine was the only way to enter the bunker, but he would have preferred the old-fashioned way—a few of flights of stairs and a door. No such luck, he thought. Sweat rolled out of his pits and down his sides. He glanced at the bay again. The little boats skimmed the water. Except for the screaming of a gull circling above, all was quiet.
Then he felt movement. He couldn’t tell if he was moving. Or maybe the world was moving—it was like riding in a subway tunnel. Images flashed along on either side. A persistent hum coursed through his ears. No panic—no pain—but nausea was crawling up from his gut. His knees knocked with the rush of fear-released adrenalin. Seconds, minutes, hours may have passed. He had no real idea. He was lost in time and space. Then the floor came up abruptly and whacked his feet. The impact shook his body. Everything stopped. He ran his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. He was breathing rapidly. His heart beat in his ears. Then, faintly, as if in the distance, he heard laughter that grew louder with each new breath. Bright lights clouded his vision. He fought to activate his senses.
“Welcome, time traveler Zak. You have arrived. You look pretty good considering that you just dove through thirty feet of solid granite.”
Zak recognized the rich baritone voice of his friend Ethan. He looked about and smiled sheepishly. “Echale ganas!. I made it.” He gazed about and found the twins, Ethan and his sister Emma, along with Jacques Dufour and A.C. Currant, standing in a semi-circle in front of him.
“Have a seat, Zak. Something to drink? I’ll bet you need it,” said Dufour as he handed him a glass of ice water. Zak sipped. Still frazzled from his recent strange transport, he gazed blankly at his beverage benefactor. Dufour was wisp of a man who spoke each word clearly, cleanly, and with only a slight hint of an accent. But Zak remembered it had taken the better part of his senior ye
ar at Mystic Heights High School for him to feel comfortable listening to the French-born American history teacher attempting to explain the intricacies of The History to a class full of semi-comatose, hormone-filled teenagers hell-bent on forgetting every word of the lecture. “Face it,” Zak had spouted off one day in class, “The History is boring—it’s a religion. All doctrine—no fun, no controversy, no anything. It’s like when everyone’s parents went to church back at the turn of the century—boring.” He held that opinion until about six weeks ago, when Dufour posed the question: “What if we had a time machine and we could travel back into history to witness it?” This one question seemed to ignite the sleeping students in robust discussion, contemplation, and second-guessing of The History. Zak and “the Twins,” as everyone called them, pushed the topic in and after school, resulting in a series of events leading to their meeting today in Currant’s underground lair.
“All right. Everyone’s here. Let’s move along.” Zak slid aside as Dr. A.C. Currant took control—as usual. He was a tall, straight-backed, thin man with salt and pepper hair. His face was delicate yet handsome—deceptively placid. He wore a wide, white smile that captivated those around him and relaxed their defenses. For more than seven decades, he was accustomed to having things his way. Friendly and personable, thought Zak, but always in charge. “Back to the past. Everyone knows that Thomas Arthur Vallee killed the president in Chicago on November 2, 1963.” A.C. Currant punched out the words staccato. “Three quick rifle shots—one to the lung, one to the heart, and one to the head, and John F. Kennedy was dead.” He placed his gun-barrel-simulating finger to his chest and his temple as he itemized the former president’s wounds. “The question is what do we do in 1963? We will only have a maximum of 28 days to complete our mission. After that, the TimeTravelle turns into a pumpkin. And when that happens, we will be roadkill on the highway of time—ready to be scooped up by the time cops. I say we take a quick look at this JFK thing. Have a little fun. Maybe do a little sightseeing. And return home.”
As Currant paused to catch his breath, Zak looked at his long-time friend who had remained, throughout Currant’s monologue, seated serenely in a lab chair like a leopard in a tree. But even when still, Ethan Callan-Wright’s body language spoke of action. His solid face and wavy, sun-streaked hair gave him the look of a well-traveled mariner older than his seventeen years. Zak sensed he was about to pounce. Ethan jumped out of his chair. Expanding to his full commanding height, he glanced at his sister Emma, then at Zak and Jacques Dufour, before returning his eyes to Currant, waiting a moment before speaking. “No disrespect, Doctor, but we’ve beaten this one into the ground. Emma and I have talked to our father. He says there will be enough time to get settled into the time zone and figure out what really happened to JFK—at length. He says we should do an extensive investigation of the crime. And I think the opinion of Warren Wright trumps your opinion when it comes to the feasibility of this whole operation.”
“Warren Wright—the great detective.” Currant laughed lightly. “I know he’s your father, but he works for the government. He’s a crippled government hack now. How valuable can his opinion be?”
In a corner of the gray, concrete-walled laboratory bunker, Emma Callan-Wright squirmed in her chair. Unlike her twin, she had straight, raven-black hair, pale skin, delicate features, and an elegant, calming presence. Her green eyes narrowed as she cleared her throat. “That’s not a fair assessment of our father and you know it. He worked for the FBI for eight years and for fourteen years as private investigator—when that kind of position existed. He was the best. He has a wall full of awards and commendations.”
A.C. Currant circled the lab. His ever-present crisp, starched, white jacket rustled as he walked about. He looked up at the ceiling as if he was acquiring direction from a higher being. Then he shook his head gently side to side as he walked up to Emma. She sat poised, waiting for a response. Looking down at her, he maintained a smile as he spoke. “OK. My apologies, Miss Callan-Wright. You are correct. Your father’s current bureaucratic berth is not a true reflection of his former skills. The world is changing—generally not for the better—and it isn’t easy to retain one’s greatness.”
“Like you, Professor?” Jacques Dufour stroked his koala bear beard and smiled.
“Touché,” Currant muttered, then said something unintelligible under his breath before continuing. He walked into the TimeTravelle—the intersecting double-arched metal structure that dominated the room. Currant stood under the bridgework and spread out his arms Christ-like. His outreaching fingers waved in the air between him and the downward legs of the metal arches. He stood on one of the jump blocks, a rubberized, textured platform directly below the center of the arch, and looked at the four people seated before him. In the rainbow-like sparkle-light that beamed off the highly polished surfaces of the massive device’s arms his face appeared radiant, almost demonic. “I invented the TimeTravelle.” He stretched out the last syllable with great emphasis, lacing the name with a Francophilian tinge, adding unnecessary gravitas. “My humble import may be questioned, but the TimeTravelle is the greatest invention in the history of the world.” Like words from an old pulpit preacher, his bold proclamation echoed off the concrete walls.
Emma glanced at Ethan and smirked every time Currant squeezed out the words “TimeTravelle.”
Simultaneous with Currant’s pronouncement, Zak Newman spun around on his lab stool. “Hey, Professor, aren’t you afraid your shouting will be heard by MOM?”
Currant starred at him, his face offering pity to the cognitive limitations of Zak’s cranial capacity. “Aren’t you afraid your pretty-boy body is going to fly off that spinning stool? Think about it—eighty inches of steel-reinforced concrete walls, floor, and ceiling. Electronically swept every five minutes. Physically accessible only to those who can operate the TimeTravelle. Your MOM is out there scraping information off the toilet room walls. She’s digging around in your neighbor’s garbage. She’s interviewing children on the playground, plying them with candy to get them to reveal their parents’ every indiscretion, every wayward thought, every deviant delusion. But she cannot penetrate my dreams, my world, my greatness.” He leaped off the platform into their circle of conversation with surprising grace for a seventy-three-year-old. “We are isolated here. We are, in this place only—well, in this place and in the distant past when we use the TimeTravelle to go to such a place—we are free from the ever-present, super-nosy, busybody, nauseous nanny-state. Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels like 1955 again. Sunlight and fresh breezes flapping crisp white linens hung out to dry.” He paused for a moment, his eyes rising toward the ceiling, as he seemingly connected to a lost moment of his youth. “Screw MOM! Let’s get on with it.”
“So let’s take a vote. Who’s for going back to 1963?” asked Dufour. “Before you raise your hands… I know this was my idea originally. But remember, I brought it up as a thought-problem in history class. At that time it was just an idea—a way to explore history—a way to gain a different view of the JFK assassination. Now, thanks to Professor Currant and his remarkable device, we can turn this thought-problem into reality. We can go back and witness history. As you know, these are dangerous waters. Any challenge to The History is heresy. It is…”
“We know that, Mr. Dufour,” interrupted Ethan. “That’s why we need to do it. You’re the history man. You know things took a wrong turn beginning with JFK’s death. Something happened.” Ethan looked out across the room before resuming. “Something changed the world when they blew his head off. And I don’t care what’s found in The History: Our Past—which I know is a sacred text.” He rolled his eyes. “We’ve got a chance to see what really happened. I’m not convinced that this one guy, Thomas Arthur Vallee, just happened to get a job in that warehouse at just the right time. And in just the right place so he could do the nasty. I know about opportunity knocking. I know he was the lone gunman. But let’s just assume for a moment that he had help. Maybe th
e how and when of his quick execution by the cops was just lucky. Maybe, but…”
Zak set his water glass down on a nearby table. “Don’t forget all the changes that happened because JFK died. History changed. The Cuban Invasion. The death of Castro. Twenty years of war in Vietnam. The Johnson impeachment, and everything else. We have to go. We owe it to ourselves. Maybe if we find out the truth, the truth will set us free.”
Emma Callan-Wright got out of her chair. At five foot nine, she was a full head shorter than her twin brother, but physically imposing nevertheless. Zak always said she got the looks and the brains. At this moment, she gave Zak a look of disgust. “I’m surprised at you, Zak. Think about it. We’re talking about possibly changing the course of history. If there is a real mystery, maybe it’s one we don’t want to solve. Changing history is dangerous business. You might not even be around if we tweak it too much, Mr. Artificial Womb Baby #6297. How do you know what will happen if we go back and snoop around and make changes?”
“I thought you were an adventurer, my lady. Maybe you should get into a wheelchair like your father,” said Currant with a smile.
“Don’t be obnoxious,” she said as she glared back at him.
“Zee vote…” suggested Dufour, in tension, his voice regressing to a real French accent. “Who ‘ez for going?”
The four males raised their hands quickly. Emma looked at each, squishing her lips, and then she slowly raised her hand and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m in. 1963, here we come. But let’s be very careful not to squeeze the goose of time too hard. He might just bite our hand and change everything.”
