Table of Contents

Destination Dealey

Copyright

2013

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

1963 and 2013

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

1963

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

November 22, 1963 Daybreak

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

2013 Again

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

DESTINATION DEALEY

COUNTDOWN TO THE KENNEDY CONSPIRACY

A NOVEL BY

L.D.C. FITZGERALD

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2011 by Ursa Minor Publishing, LLC

All Rights Reserved

www.destinationdealey.com

First Edition

Published in the United States of America

By Ursa Minor Publishing, LLC, Pompton Plains, New Jersey

www.ursaminorpublishing.com

ISBN: 978-0-9837473-2-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011932323

This is a work of fiction. All events and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination. The appearance, actions and statements of or attributed to such real-life historical or public figures in the work are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including electronic or mechanical information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the publisher.

Cover Photo: © by James G. Howes, 1969

2013

CHAPTER ONE

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 2013

5:59 PM – EDT

Sera Banks clambered up the rungs on the side of the Chamber, a six-foot diameter aluminum-coated sphere resembling an enormous fishbowl. Dropping into its hollow core, she crammed herself and the bulky parcel on her back next to the petite frame of her mentor, once renowned physicist Dr. Iggy Mikos. She grasped the handle on the hatch and creaked it closed, enveloping them in darkness. “He’s coming. Punch it!”

Iggy stabbed at backlit buttons on each end of the Converter, a twelve-inch-long barbell-like device with a handhold in the middle. Her finger slipped. Patience. Feeding on Sera’s impetuousness could get them both killed. She steeled herself and counted off the memorized sequence. “Here we go!” They strapped on oxygen masks, and she entered the final keystroke.

A blinding flash of light and a deafening roar consumed the Chamber. The two scientists shrieked in agony before passing out.

6:00 PM – EDT

Captain Drew Sutherland sliced his access card through the magnetic reader to unlock the door and rushed into the lab, mouth agape. He circled inside the customary shabbiness of the blistered ocher walls, observing cracked lab benches cluttered with wires, circuits, and tools. Equipment hummed, while a familiar ionized smell permeated the air. All the apparatus for the project were present, but the researchers were absent. His decreasing spirals propelled him to the obvious destination, the shiny orb dead center of the warped linoleum floor. Cupping his palm on the convex surface, Sutherland flinched. The alloy blazed with heat. He stepped up on the ladder and heaved the hatch open with a massive forearm. The empty brass interior gleamed back at him in the fluorescent glare. He rubbed the back of his military buzz cut. Where could they be?

6:01 PM – EDT

Hurtling through the sky two miles west of the lab at thirty thousand feet, Iggy woke with a start, the Converter lashed to her left hand. Freezing wind roared in her face, numbing her as she gasped into the mask. Of all the luck—displacement must have triggered a blackout. Struggling to orient herself with respect to gravity, she waited the requisite number of seconds and then pulled the ripcord. The parachute billowed out. Snap! She felt the sensation of being jerked upward by an unseen entity.

Temporarily safe, Iggy scanned the atmosphere. No! Her cohort was tumbling in freefall, still unconscious. “Sera! Pull the cord!” she shouted into the mouthpiece installed in her mask, grateful that Jay had insisted on the communications gadgets. She continued calling over and over, her voice rasping with fear. Finally, the white disk of Sera’s chute materialized, impossibly far below.

Iggy closed her eyes and exhaled. How did she end up here? A fifty-seven-year-old widow and mother—a fugitive. She and Sera would survive, for now. But what about those in peril and those who had perished? What about Nick?

Iggy’s mind traveled through time and space to the day her world ended. She had briefly stepped out of the university lab when a powerful blast catapulted her off her feet and slammed her to the floor. Dragging a broken leg, she’d crawled back through the opening where the door had been blown from its hinges, but nothing could be done. Nick was dead. Her partner and best friend, gone. Her soul ached every waking hour since history was rewritten. The official report blamed her husband for his own negligence, but it was a lie. Nick never took chances. The government had executed him and tried to kill Iggy as well. The retribution had been enacted for the couple’s refusal to develop weapons of mass annihilation. In an attempt to further the psychological damage, the administration had exiled her now fatherless son to a state-sponsored military academy. Iggy got to see Andreas only twice a year. Bastards.

The physicist herself was remanded to the Secaucus Research Installation—a guarded facility in New Jersey derisively nicknamed the Gulag by inmates and jailers alike. Current law sanctioned her detainment under the auspices of The Traitor Act, which required uncooperative citizens to perform compulsory work for the benefit of national security. Other notable provisions included congressional review of the press, border control between states, and elimination of search warrants.

It had to stop.

6:02 PM – EDT

Captain Sutherland plodded toward the colonel’s office, contemplating his options. Two prisoners—correction, two resident scientists—had vanished from the premises. The captain bore no blame. He had been punctual, made his rounds, and followed orders. But by delivering this particular nugget of bad news, he would be in prime position to receive his superior’s full fury. A methodical man intent on his purpose, Colonel Zimmerman did not tolerate failure from his staff. Avoiding the disclosure seemed like the better alternative in the near term. However, delaying would aggravate the inevitable abuse.

Sutherland straightened his uniform as he edged into the office. The cramped, dingy quarters amazed him anew each visit. “Sir? We have a problem. The inmates assigned to Project Vindictus are missing.”

Studying a printed report perched atop a calamity of open files, William Zimmerman shifted his ballpoint and clenched it in a death grip. “What? Who?”

“Iggy and Sera. Their designated cell is unoccupied.”

The commanding officer angled his bulbous head as his bald scalp flushed. “Impossible. No one leaves my base without my permission.”

“With all due respect, sir, they’re gone and no egress points have registered card access.”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense. Do you hear an alarm?” Zimmerman threw the pen down and got to his feet. “If they had tried to escape, I would know, dammit!” He pounded his fists on the desk, and a pile of paper clips scattered.

“Colonel, if you would just indulge me by reviewing the surveillance logs, I’ll show you.” The underling sat down at a terminal in the corner and began clacking at the keyboard. His boss strode behind him and hovered, snorting like a bull, but said nothing.

The captain rewound the recording and hit play. In the foreground, he saw Iggy attired in her typical ensemble of tidy cardigan and pressed khakis. Her spiky wheat-colored hair skirted her ears. Leaning over the workbench, the doctor scribbled on a pad, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She checked her watch with cool deliberation and called to Sera. Unfortunately, the reel captured images only; the conversation was mute.

Sutherland turned his attention to Sera. Her lithe form in the background reached up to high shelving, revealing a gap of flat midriff between her T-shirt and jeans. She pulled down a couple of parcels that appeared to be backpacks. His face spread into a grin as she approached the camera, scowling. Her features were strong, severe even, with a pointed nose, short black hair, and straight bangs, but she carried herself with a confident defiance that he found irresistible.

The pair donned the backpacks and grabbed masks. Iggy seized the remote control barbell device before they inexplicably climbed into the Vindictus structure. After a brief pause, the fishbowl shuddered and the scene phased into white static. Seconds later, Sutherland’s own unmistakable brawn entered, explored the room, and inspected the metallic globe.

“Colonel, that Chamber is empty.”

“Absolutely not possible. Two explanations exist. Either they’ve gone and vaporized themselves by screwing up the Anti-Matter test, or they’ve altered this video and they’re hiding.”

The captain stifled a comment. Even with his rudimentary understanding of the experiment, he recognized that if it had failed, no one would remain.

“Knowing this duo, I’m betting on the latter.” Zimmerman thrust his chin out. “They won’t get away. Initiate a general alert.”

“Yes, sir!” Sutherland smacked a prominent red knob on the wall. Lights flashed as a klaxon sounded. Ahooga! Ahooga! He snatched the intercom microphone. “Attention all personnel. We have a code red situation. Two residents are currently unaccounted for. This is not a drill. All units report to your stations to conduct a section-by-section sweep of the facility and grounds. I repeat: We are in a code red situation. This is not a drill.”

CHAPTER TWO

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 2013

6:03 PM – EDT

With sufficient height to land safely, Sera permitted herself to spread her arms and indulge in the thrill of soaring like an eagle. After the panic of being jolted awake while somersaulting through the air, she deserved a brief respite. Close call.

She sucked in a lungful of clean atmosphere, drinking it in while resenting the foul stuff they inhaled on the ground. Looking down, she saw the tidal mud flat the locals euphemistically called the Meadowlands. What a joke. A field of rotting vegetation doubling as a garbage dump, the area generated a stench that penetrated their clothing as well as their nostrils. Coupled with the persistent pollution, she could practically taste it.

Toward the east, Sera glared at the barbed wire surrounding the squat concrete blocks that composed the Research Installation. She pictured the tiny figures of Military Police swarming the compound, searching for her and Iggy. With a shoot to kill order, no doubt. But the scientists had outfoxed them.

Fierce joy detonated within the thirty-two-year-old. She would never, ever regret the decision to escape confinement in the Gulag that robbed her of her free will and individuality, no matter what the cost. Prison life was tough, but life as an outlaw would be hazardous. Now, she commandeered her own destiny. There was nothing left to lose.

In 1989, Sera’s California home had engaged in a landmark event that became known as the Reagan Revolution. For a quarter of a century, basic human rights of Americans had been systematically trampled and eradicated. While the majority of voters seethed over the barrage of injustices, the bureaucracy used its sovereignty to manipulate outcomes at the polls.

Fueled by indignation, inhabitants of the Golden State managed to nominate and elect a forward-thinking governor who, as a Republican, slipped beneath the watchful eye of Uncle Sam. Californians loved Ronald Reagan, especially Sera’s parents. He would change the future, they said, and she believed them. A former B-movie star with little political experience, the actor’s charisma rallied residents and galvanized them to secede from the nation.

They almost succeeded.

Aided by covert supporters in the military, the rebel leader organized mutinies at armed forces bases along the coast. He coordinated simultaneous demonstrations in the major cities—San Diego, Los Angeles, San Jose, Sacramento, and San Francisco. On July Fourth of ’89, the governor shut down state borders in preparation for the Independence Day uprising. Sera’s mom and dad, both professors at Berkeley, gently explained their desire to fight for reforms to ensure a better tomorrow for their only child. Sera begged them to let her come, knowing they would not take risks if she were present. And, she wanted to help. They would not be swayed.

Together with like-minded neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Banks locked arms and marched through Alamo Square Park on a hilltop in the City by the Bay. The Painted Ladies, colorful Victorian row houses, observed from across the street. At the same time, citizens stormed the Presidio, the fort at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Infuriated by the betrayal, President Oliver North ordered US troops airlifted into each of the traitorous cities to force the dissidents into submission. When marines began to beat back the protesters in San Francisco, the crowd surged. Sera’s parents were among eighteen shot and killed.

The men and women in uniform conquered California and oppressed its populace into compliance. An anonymous sniper assassinated Governor Reagan, although everyone recognized the administration’s handiwork.

Despite their devotion to their daughter and conviction for their cause, her mother and father’s sacrifice failed to achieve liberty for their eight-year-old orphan. Sera gritted her teeth.

If only she had been able to make a difference.

6:04 PM – EDT

Sutherland leaned his back against the wall with arms folded as his superior finished scouring the lab in a futile hunt for clues. He had offered his assistance, only to be rebuffed. “I always knew Sera would find a way out of here one day. I mean, look at her, she’s brilliant, resourceful . . .”

Zimmerman whipped his head around. “Are you in any way implying she’s smarter than me?”

“No, sir!” The captain snapped to attention.

Zimmerman frowned at him, as if sizing him up. “Nothing useful in here. Let’s go.”

Sutherland followed him through the hallway. Of course the runaways had left no evidence as to their whereabouts; that had been his point. The men headed back to the colonel’s office. The commanding officer started shoving papers across his desk, sending a half-drunk Styrofoam cup of coffee careening to the floor. The subordinate winced at the rank smell.

Picking up a red folder marked Top Secret: Authorized Personnel Only, Zimmerman brandished it in Sutherland’s face. “Project Vindictus is our single most crucial assignment. But I received a report today from the NASA review team that outlines how our physicists’ progress has been less than satisfactory.” His left eyelid twitched. “We have orders to produce a viable Anti-Matter warhead within two months. The government is counting on this weapon to turn the tide of the Stale War against the Russians. You know what’s at stake. Iggy and Sera are the best Anti-Matter experts we’ve got, and their knowledge of the program alone makes them a high security threat. Since they reside in your section, I am holding you personally responsible for locating them and getting them back on the job.”

“Yes, sir. If they are hiding in this facility, they will be captured.” Sutherland doubted it, but wanted to placate the man in charge. “Perhaps one of our civilian workers helped them to flee. I will conduct a full investigation of the surveillance tapes and interrogate the employees.” He saluted and turned to the door.

“Find them, Captain, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

As Sutherland exited, his broad shoulders sagged.

CHAPTER THREE

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 2013

6:05 PM – EDT

Jay Harding paced beside his blue Subaru station wagon on Paterson Plank Road in East Rutherford, New Jersey. Again he squinted at his watch through his round wireframes, and gazed skyward as the western sun descended toward twilight. He knew he stood at the correct coordinates, across the waterway separating Hudson County from Bergen.

Hearing a rustle behind him, Jay jumped and turned. Ah. No need to be so high-strung. Stray trash skittered across the street in the cool, gusty breeze. He wiped his damp palms on his Levi’s and ran his fingers through his unkempt brown hair. By acting as an accomplice to the convicts, he was literally risking his neck. If discovered, a lifetime sentence would be the minimum punishment, the death penalty more likely.

After resisting the urge to check once more, Jay succumbed to temptation and glanced up. He was rewarded by the sight of two figures under white parachutes floating down over the fetid swamp. Finally. Relief flowed through the twenty-six-year-old industrial engineer.

Employment as a project manager at the Secaucus Research Installation had allowed Jay to witness Sera and Iggy’s imposed labor for the past twelve months. He shook his head. How naive he’d been in the beginning—spouting rhetoric and prattling on about patriotism while barely listening to the scientists. But over time, the job had proven to be a catalyst for change to his entire belief system. He learned first-hand how the government had betrayed his charges and manipulated their lives. Iggy’s colorful stories about an early childhood spent in a free nation inspired him to think about the kind of existence citizens deserved. A life of choices and fair treatment. The way it was before the war.

Fifty yards distant, Sera tumbled to the marshy ground, followed a minute later by Iggy. They ditched their parachutes in the tall weeds and labored to the station wagon, feet suctioning soggy earth with every step.

“Did you, you know . . .” Jay hesitated “. . . purge the data files we talked about?”

“Yes.” Sera sighed. She grabbed the rear passenger door handle. “Come on. Let’s go!”

Iggy’s eyes widened, and she lifted her fingers toward Sera in a concealed gesture. “Jay, we couldn’t have done this without you. Please accept our deepest gratitude.”

“I wanted to help. The world, well, the world isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.” He straightened his spine. “Both of you were wrongfully imprisoned in that lab. The hearings for your alleged crimes were crooked and the juries rigged. No one deserves to be locked up for advocating what is right.”

Sera nodded and opened the car door.

“I mean, the military runs the Oval Office and Congress is for sale to defense contractors like Locklier and MacDowell-Douggan. My parents raised me to believe that this society is equitable and honorable, but that’s a lie. They work at Locklier for crying out loud, one of the biggest weapons manufacturers in the US. I believed them when they said that nothing matters in this country but a strong offense to intimidate the enemy into surrender. They swore their efforts would bring peace.”

“Understandable.” Iggy yanked open the front passenger door and climbed in.

Jay observed them. “Oh, right, yes.” He got in and started the ignition, then rested his forehead against the steering wheel. “I know what the consequences would be if we were captured. But this could be the most significant endeavor in the history of humankind.”

Sera rolled her eyes. “Since it’s that important, maybe we should leave the scene of the crime.”

“Um, of course. I was just saying.” Jay pressed the accelerator and they sped away.

CHAPTER FOUR

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 2013

8:00 PM – EDT

The Soviet operative aimed his binoculars at the Secaucus Research Installation. Chaos reigned over the compound as Military Police combed the grounds with firearms drawn. Powerful searchlights swept through the dark night over the lawn, while guards shouted and rushed about. He chuckled. Typical American ineptitude. The scene hadn’t changed for the past couple of hours, except that the sirens had ceased—a welcome reprieve. Evidently, an inmate had broken out of their allegedly secure empire.

The spy had planned to wait until the evening shift change, but a better opportunity could not be manufactured. He deposited his field glasses into his nondescript Ford and grabbed a backpack from the passenger seat. Glancing down, he inspected his standard citizen work garb with satisfaction. In his home country, even civilian employees were required to wear uniforms. Here, his street clothes would blend in. He confidently began the short hike.

The Russian had earned the right to his self-assuredness. When recruited to serve his motherland, he had felt honored. The Kremlin handpicked only the strongest, smartest, and bravest from among the faithful. After years of tenure, his unblemished record ranked him among the upper echelon of his comrades. At first, the privileges for himself, his wife, and his son seemed to outweigh the risks. They enjoyed fast cars, designer clothes, and a palatial home. His son attended an exclusive academy reserved for children of the elite. But being the best meant that each time he proved himself, the ante increased.

However, through happenstance, this particular job had downgraded to one simpler than usual. With all personnel searching for escapees, they were focusing on anyone leaving the base rather than anyone entering. The infiltrator waved a fake badge at the gate and sauntered in, unquestioned.

8:05 PM – EDT

Jay drove due west on Bridge Street through Lambertville, New Jersey, toward the Delaware River, the geographical dividing line between the Garden State and the neighboring Keystone State. He acknowledged his companions with a brief glance. “I’ve chosen this specific crossing into Pennsylvania because of its relatively short width and span, allowing only two lanes of traffic covering three-hundred yards of waterway. Therefore, as you know, that means fewer border patrols and you should easily be able to traverse underneath.”

In the backseat, Sera stiffened. Now what?

Before Jay reached the New Hope Bridge, he turned right up North Union and parked in a side alley alongside a series of dilapidated houses. The depressed economy must have hit this town with malice. “I’ve brought the apparatus to suspend each of you beneath the bridge so you can scoot across.” He turned off the car’s headlamps and switched on the interior dome light.

Sera and Iggy stared at each other.

“Well, I adapted mountain climbing harnesses and ropes to end in clamps rather than grappling hooks so you can merely attach and re-attach to the steel girders to work your way across.” He turned his head to one side and looked up. “Although in theory, you could probably just walk along the riverbed. The Delaware isn’t deep in this region, and the recent drought conditions mean the water level couldn’t be more than a few feet. Yes, yes, you could do that. But then, in the unlikely event there are scouts on the banks, you would be too visible. So this way is probably preferable. No, no, definitely preferable.”

“If you’re done second-guessing, Jay”—Sera envisioned smacking him upside the head—“let’s get this over with. Iggy, you ready?”

She nodded, wondering why this challenge suddenly seemed more daunting than their prison break.

8:10 PM – EDT

In the handicapped restroom stall at the Secaucus facility, the Russian disrobed an unconscious MP of a similar build and propped his underwear-clad body on the commode. As he dressed in the guard’s uniform, the intruder tucked the inert man’s key card into his breast pocket. He stuffed his own clothing into the knapsack and set out into the hallway.

Using the stolen card, he entered the restricted area and scanned the perimeter offices, some ransacked, some intact. He furtively read each nameplate, looking for the man in charge. When intermittent army units marched past, the foreigner saluted in acknowledgement, face immobile. He finally zeroed in on the office of Colonel William Zimmerman. At first it appeared to be a ransacked room, but a second look revealed an inherent pigsty.

The spy slipped into the vacant seat of command, unnoticed.

8:15 PM – EDT

Sera goggled at the New Hope Bridge rising proudly on seven supports cemented with river stone—five in the water and one at each end on land. A series of six latticework canopies made of green steel covered its length, connecting each section one after the next like boxcars on a train. She observed a sentry parading back and forth perpendicular to the lanes at the nearest end, a machine gun slung on his back. What the hell was Jay thinking?

As soon as the guard reached the far edge, Iggy crouched low. “This is it.”

The pair sneaked down to the shoreline wearing their cumbersome gear. To the requisite waist cinch and attached leg loops, Jay had added heavy straps. They crisscrossed over the shoulders and joined at the midriff to evenly distribute the climber’s weight.

Arriving at the first bridge support, they hoisted themselves up onto the ledge and paused, listening for activity above. A car passed overhead on the grated metal roadway, rumbling and shaking the bridge like an earthquake. Taking advantage of the noise, Sera donned work gloves, reached up and fastened first one, then the other clamp to the girder underneath. The mechanisms were tethered to a free-spinning ball joint on the belt, granting unfettered movement. Suspended, she began the monumental affair of crawling backward a few feet at a time by releasing one clamp and positioning it as far as possible past the other.

On the Jersey side, Jay had reparked the Subaru in the lot at the Lambertville Inn, behind the former Pennsylvania Railroad station. With an unobstructed view, he watched their silhouettes make sluggish progress. The longer they spent exposed, the greater the danger. He perspired in spite of the chilly night air. To divert his attention, Jay mentally listed the names of the fifty states, in alphabetical order, with their capitals. He sighed. Too easy.

Thirty minutes into the expedition, the restraints were digging into Sera’s limbs. Her muscles ached from exertion and her legs began losing circulation. Fearing for her older companion, she hissed, “Great plan. Jay will pay for this one.”

Iggy balled her hand in a fist, demanding silence.

Sera took this as a sign that Iggy was okay. When she finally reached the end, she pulled a laser pointer out of a zippered pocket and directed the beam across the river to Jay’s car. She flashed it several times and witnessed his lights wink in confirmation. He would motor across and occupy the guards at the checkpoint as a diversion while they disengaged. Sera boldly swung the pointer to stick it back in her pocket, fumbled, and felt the device slip from her fingers. Splash! Both women froze as footsteps thudded across the bridge to investigate.

8:45 PM – EDT

The Soviet spy tapped at Zimmerman’s computer, completing the download of the Anti-Matter weapon information. The task had taken longer than anticipated. He’d had to hack through the elementary encryption and weed through innumerable files. Now finished, he ejected the compact data storage device, stashed it in his bag, and strode back through the passageway. The exercise had unfolded as fairly effortless, but it still constituted a risk. And for what purpose?

The unending conflict between the world’s two superpowers lacked logic. The crazy Americans instituted a strategy of Security through Supremacy. The Soviets matched their firepower and then exceeded it. Espionage blossomed into a huge enterprise, with each side needing to know what the enemy was constructing. The US built a bomb; the USSR stole the plans and built a bigger one. They sank a ship, we sank a ship. They destroyed a city, we destroyed a city. Where would it end? The operative felt increasingly impotent in this game of one-upmanship.

Still wearing the pilfered uniform, he exited the complex. His son shouldn’t have to grow up in the violent world that existed today.

8:50 PM – EDT

Iggy held her breath as the patrolman shone his flashlight over the railing, sweeping it back and forth. Too agitated to even contemplate her emotions regarding Sera’s carelessness, she simply waited. After a cursory and fruitless search, he switched the light off. She heard him mutter, “Stupid shad.” He was referring to the seawater herring species that swam upstream in freshwater to spawn, similar to salmon. Of course, he was incorrect. As the fish mated in early spring, they were long gone by now.

Dangling from the underbelly of the bridge, Iggy couldn’t yet relax from relief. What a ridiculous scenario she portrayed. She wouldn’t be in this predicament if the government allowed citizens to move freely between states. How had the situation deteriorated? When she was a child in the early 1960s, her family had taken a cross-country road trip. They cruised across the nation, sightseeing the mountains and farms of rural areas, as well as the skyscrapers and industries of the urban centers. No barriers had impeded their travels. Instead of checkpoints, each border boasted welcome signs. If only it could be so again.

CHAPTER FIVE

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 2013

9:15 PM – EDT

Sitting in a booth at the antiquated Logan Inn bar, Jay slurped a beer, willing the tension in his body to subside. Thank goodness his plan had succeeded. Granted, the excursion had proven more taxing and time-consuming than anticipated, but at least Iggy and Sera were safe. After navigating the border checkpoint on the bridge, he had proceeded to this tavern and lodge located on Main Street, a road running parallel to the Delaware River in New Hope. Fortunate to reserve two of the scant sixteen guest rooms, Jay had enjoyed an education on local lore from the proprietor.

The oldest inn in town, the Logan was named after a Lenni-Lenape Indian chief regarded for his unusual camaraderie with Caucasian settlers. During his lifetime, the benevolent Native American developed a close kinship with James Logan, secretary to William Penn. The Quaker convert Penn had, of course, founded the Pennsylvania colony as a haven for those seeking religious freedom. According to legend, Chief Wingohocking abandoned his tribal name and adopted Secretary Logan’s as a sign of admiration and respect. To pay him homage, the townspeople commissioned a metal cutout sculpture in his likeness. The ten-foot, painted sheet iron figure depicted a man in feathered headdress, nobly aiming an arrow. Displayed on a pole outside of the inn, the masterpiece had been a landmark and guardian of the township since 1828. Jay made a mental note to point it out to his companions when they arrived.

He gazed around the dim interior—the authentic original structure of the dinky saloon—wondering about its appearance in its heyday. Suddenly, Iggy and Sera materialized through the smoky haze. They slid their disheveled forms into the booth.

“How’d it go?” Jay avoided direct eye contact, feeling guilty about their ordeal.

Sera glowered at him. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

He declined comment and instead shoved a couple of menus at them.

After a server took their order, Iggy cast about the room, seeking a diversion from the stilted silence. She indicated a grainy television behind Jay. “Look. They’re reporting on the summit.”

Jay followed her line of sight behind him to the set he hadn’t noticed previously. A perky blonde newscaster with a vapid smile spoke animatedly while gesturing to an inset map of the Russian capital. However, the volume was muted. He appealed to the barkeep, “Sir, can you please turn that up?” The scene switched to footage from earlier in the day showing the premier of the Soviet Union greeting Republican Vice President Jeb Bush for their historic summit in Minsk. The anchor gaily announced that the meeting had been planned for months as a first step in working towards an end to the Stale War between the dominant world powers.

Iggy’s mouth dropped in amazement. Did the young woman think it would actually happen?

“They’re talking about striking a peace accord while manufacturing Anti-Matter weapons back in Secaucus?” Sera shook her head. “The whole charade is ludicrous.”

“Every fledgling administration makes these same overtures. They do it as a public relations campaign to convince the voters that they aren’t warmongers. But nothing ever changes.” Iggy sighed. “Ever since the ’64 Nuke War.”

Their meals were plunked down in front of them, and Jay wolfed down a few bites of his burger. “Well, I suppose it’s really hard to get along with a country after they wipe out your major cities. Kind of makes you not want to play with them. I mean, where’s the incentive?”

“Yeah, well it’s mutual. We destroyed their cities, too. And they never would have hit DC if we hadn’t taken out Moscow first.” Sera shrugged as she dug into her meal.

“I was lucky enough to visit Washington DC as a child.” Iggy’s voice turned somber. “Before it was leveled. I remember a bustling metropolis with gleaming monuments and classic architecture. I stood on the Lincoln Memorial, looking up at the massive statue and marveling at how they carved it. Incredible.” She focused on the far wall, reliving a scene from the distant past. “We toured all the important sites—the huge spike of the Washington Monument and its reflecting pool, the Capitol Building with its majestic dome and a million steps, the White House’s towering columns and lush gardens. Even the Smithsonian museum resembled a fairytale castle. Now, it’s just a wasteland of radioactive rubble. Tragic.” Her vision alighted on her associates. “WB has none of the same character or charm. Frankly, it’s seedy.”

“Well, that’s precisely the point, isn’t it?” Jay hit his stride on familiar ground. When the government had rebuilt the capital in Wilkes-Barre, they disallowed a viable target. Bunkers of steel-reinforced concrete were constructed and situated a distance apart. “The buildings are virtually indestructible. And why bother with memorials and monuments? You may as well paint a bulls-eye on them. Like the White House. The presidential residence is purported to be far underground, but it could be in another state entirely. Who knows?”

The thought jarred him back to more tactical concerns. The military protected WB like a fortress within Pennsylvania. The perimeter had anti-ballistic missile defense systems programmed to blast anything in the no-fly zone. And the border checkpoints were heavily guarded. “What I do know is this. When we get to WB, we won’t encounter any easy crossings like here in New Hope.”

“Easy?” Sera bridled and nearly choked on her food. “Sure it was easy for you. You drove across.”

11:00 PM – EDT

Later that night, Sera lay in the dark on a comforter folded on the floor, her irritation with Jay having abated. She rolled over in her blanket, trying to find a position conducive to rest. Although the cramped room held a queen-sized bed, she insisted that Iggy use it. Slumbering side by side with the more senior scientist would have felt awkward and somehow disrespectful. Besides, she preferred to sleep alone and hadn’t even shared quarters since her days at the orphanage.

Dammit. She hadn’t meant to unleash those memories.

Sera loathed chronicling her existence, but sometimes late at night the images crowded her brain. She often thought of her life as a series of chapters in a book. And in the midst of each one, she longed to reach the end, to open a fresh page that progressed to the next phase. Or better yet, to skip ahead to a more promising storyline.

After her parents’ deaths, she had suffered ten lonely years in a government school and boarding house. She was the smartest in her class, and pride pushed her to excel rather than surrender to her grief. Determined to attain independence, she played by the rules—behaved, completed her homework, and self-censored caustic comments. On only one occasion did a sarcastic retort bring her within a hair’s-breadth of expulsion. Straight A grades and outstanding test scores eventually won her a university scholarship.

College, however, merely provided a means to achieve her goals. She labored through, studying hard while supporting herself with various part-time jobs. This strategy seemed to work. She graduated to accept an internship with NASA, but the victory was fleeting.

Sera thrived in the intellectual environment of the space program, despite its military leadership. And it could have led to a prosperous career. But her parental lineage stained her as politically unreliable, thus unemployable in a permanent position. Reduced to the private sector, she wound up at a technological innovation company called GenCorp.

The firm engineered efficient, economical power sources for public consumption. Or so Sera believed. When she caught her superiors providing the data to a lieutenant, she discovered that the groundbreaking projects were being funneled to the armed forces. In the ensuing scuffle, she found her fist colliding with the officer’s jaw in a swift punch. Sera grinned at the recollection.

Her conviction for American Disobedience landed her a sentence in the Gulag.

With that chapter now truncated, she eagerly anticipated a new direction for the narrative. But in order to move forward, she would be required to reopen a page from the past and reacquaint herself with an old friend.

She plumped her pillow and tried to envision the story’s end.

CHAPTER SIX

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

9:15 AM – EDT

In the bright morning sunshine, Jay hummed a breezy tune as he navigated the station wagon west, away from the Delaware River.

Sera wished he would stop. From the backseat, she glanced behind her at the New Hope Bridge, winced, and rubbed her day-after sore arms. “Hey, you know where you’re going, right?”

“I’ve got it.” Riding shotgun, Iggy consulted a road atlas. “Head towards Doylestown. When you hit route 413, turn right until you pick up 611 north. Then it’ll be local 412 all the way to Bethlehem.”

“Okay.” Jay studied Sera in the rearview. “But are you sure we need to make this particular detour?”

“Look, we need Frank Thomas.” Sera was grateful he had stopped humming. “I’ve kept in touch with him and followed his career since I was booted from NASA. He’s the best environmental space systems engineer in the country. He pioneered radically new water and oxygen recycling processes for the Sentinel Space Fort.”

Jay nodded, encouraging her to carry on.

“He invented a way of harvesting all the water in an enclosed environment. That includes urine, washing run-off, and even humidity in the air. You know, humans expel a lot of moisture just by breathing. The continuous loop purifies the H_2O and redirects it in two ways. Some is channeled for use as a liquid. The rest is split by electrolysis into oxygen and hydrogen. Astronauts breathe the O_2, while the combustible H is vented out.”

“Brilliant. So why didn’t NASA hang onto him?” Jay questioned.

Iggy raised her eyebrows. “We’d all like to know that.”

“It’s a mystery. He enjoyed a successful tenure. Promoted twice, presented with awards, that sort of thing. I interned for Frank in Houston, after I graduated college. Despite his genius, I found him approachable. A little high-strung, maybe, but practical. He tells you exactly what he thinks. A man with scruples, Frank drew a stark distinction between NASA’s space exploration and its military tasks. He felt, like we all did, that they wasted valuable resources on offense and shortchanged the spend on science. And he always prioritized crew safety over mission objectives. Then a year ago he suddenly left and wound up in academia. He cited personal reasons, but said it with heavy irony. Something sinister must have happened, because he loved that job.”

“So why is Professor NASA going to help us?” Jay maintained a healthy skepticism for the stranger.

“I’m trying to tell you that he has no love for the armed forces or the government. It’s clear he harbors resentment. And his expertise is precisely—”

“Shush.” Iggy abruptly turned up the radio. “They’re talking about the peace summit in Minsk.”

The male announcer continued in midsentence, “. . . preliminary reports indicate there are no survivors. Our correspondent is on the ground at the scene of this unfolding disaster. We go to him live where the time zone is seven hours ahead in the Russian capital.”

“Well, Bob, as you can imagine, it’s pandemonium here. Witnesses to the horrific event claim that less than a minute after the Soviet premier’s helicopter lifted off, an object that appeared to be a missile was launched. The projectile scored a direct hit on the transport, exploding it into a fiery ball that lit up the afternoon sky in a blaze of orange heat. Sadly, it is presumed that all on board perished in the inferno. The Communist leader and his entourage had been leaving the summit in high spirits following a promising meeting between the rival superpowers.”

“What is the speculation this tragedy will have on US – USSR relations?” The studio anchor volleyed the coverage back.

“Any forward progress is clearly in jeopardy. The locals we have encountered are convinced that America is responsible for the carnage, and in fact have been openly hostile. The police are demanding that we vacate immediately.”

“And is there a perceived threat to our own VP?”

“Vice President Bush left for the Minsk airport in a Secret Service-escorted motorcade over thirty minutes ago. Our sources reveal that he has boarded Air Force Two, and is currently en route back to WB.”

The initial newscaster voice interrupted. “We are receiving a bulletin over the wire. The White House Press Secretary has issued a statement emphatically denying any involvement in the incident.”

“I’ve heard enough.” Iggy snapped off the volume.

“Oh, this could be bad.” Jay unconsciously rammed the gas pedal. “Very bad indeed. This catastrophe could ignite the planet into another world war. Even if the US isn’t guilty of blowing up the premier—and I have no reason to think we aren’t—the Soviets will retaliate. We can’t afford to have that happen right now.”

“Cut it out.” Sera clutched his shoulder in warning. “And slow down. If we get stopped for speeding, we’re dead.”

“We must proceed as planned.” Iggy spoke with quiet assurance. “We can’t start questioning ourselves based on what might happen in the future. We need to concentrate on each hurdle as it comes.”

Jay eased up on the accelerator.

“Besides”—Sera released her grip—“none of this will matter if we succeed in our mission.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

10:25 AM – EDT

Jay rolled the station wagon to a stop in front of the Lehigh University gatehouse. A burly guard barely fit inside the booth, and a pair of flimsy wooden arms formed a barrier across the road. A US college didn’t require impenetrable security; visitors simply registered their official identification and license plate at check-in. Knowing that Sera had alerted Frank about their arrival, he handed over his card and tried to sound casual. “Jay Harding and associates. Here to see Professor Thomas.”

The uniformed man grunted in acknowledgement as he copied down the information and made a phone call. Then he exited to record the vehicle tag. “Professor Thomas is currently giving a lecture. Park in the lot and wait to be escorted.”

Jay nodded and drove to a lot at the foot of the hill.

As they got out into the pleasant sixty-five-degree weather, Iggy curiously sniffed the sour odor of rotten eggs.

10:55 AM – EDT

Colonel Zimmerman sat in his untidy Secaucus sanctum, searching a vast government network for clues to the whereabouts of his two missing scientists. The Governet was an amazing resource for military personnel. With proper clearance, an officer could find out almost anything about a particular citizen: address, occupation, salary, purchases, affiliations, and movements through checkpoints.

Zimmerman’s logic told him the convicts had to have had help. No other explanation existed for their disappearance. He clicked through a list of all service members and civilians who had been on duty the previous day. Nothing irregular surfaced. He scratched his head, mulling that over. Tapping his pencil on the desk, he waited for inspiration. His slow synapses eventually burst forth with a new hunch. He called up a roster of employees not scheduled to work during the escape and pored over the records in alphabetical order. When he reached Harding, Jay, he saw that the young man was cleared for vacation in Florida. But what was this? A Delaware River crossing showed his car entering Pennsylvania yesterday. And thirty minutes ago he had registered as a guest at Lehigh University. Dammit! One of his staff had lied to him. Lied!

The colonel jumped up and jogged out of his office, screaming for Captain Sutherland.

11:15 AM – EDT

Killing time next to the Subaru, Jay watched a man wearing a tan dress shirt and umber striped tie approach. A fringe of brown hair crowned his otherwise bald head. His face sported a close-cropped goatee and tortoise-shell bifocals.

The professor had arrived.

The forty-five-year-old educator greeted Sera with a warm expression and a hug. “Great to see you. And these must be your friends. Welcome.”

After brief introductions and handshakes all around, Frank led them through the main gate. Acting like a sightseeing guide, he related how Lehigh persisted as one of the few non-military schools in the nation. The learning institution had been established in 1865 by Asa Packer, an American businessman who pioneered railroad construction and participated in Pennsylvania politics. As they continued up University Drive, he pointed out that the campus lived on the side of South Mountain and their current location housed the most historic landmarks. He gestured to their left at Packer Memorial Church, named after the founder. They observed a massive nineteenth-century stone structure with stained-glass windows and a bell tower steeple. Wrought-iron lighting sconces framed the arched double doorway, crosses adorned the peaks, and gargoyles leered down from the roofs. Frank named two more buildings crafted in the collegiate gothic style—Linderman Library up ahead to the left, and the University Center uphill. He indicated the stone behemoths, each multileveled with lofty towers and intricate carvings.

Jay was stunned. “I never imagined the grounds would be so beautiful. I mean, we drove through the shabbiness of downtown to get here, and most of the area has been ravaged by economics and pollution. But this fantastic architecture and the relative lack of fall-out or soot is just, well, amazing.”

“Luckily, the bombs landed far enough away that the impact was minimal. The worst we get here is the periodic sulfur stench from Beth Steel.” Frank read their blank faces. “Sulfur is a by-product of Bethlehem Steel Corporation, which churns out durable metals for the war machine. Perhaps you can detect the smell of rotten eggs.”

Iggy recognized the stink now. She should have known.

“Anyway, the administration spends truckloads of money on cleaning and maintenance. They need to keep the students, and by extension their parents, happy with the Lehigh experience. To accomplish that, they preserve the aesthetics. Most of our undergrads are offspring of rich moguls at companies like Locklier and MacDowell-Douggan. Only they can afford the staggering tuition.”

Jay glared at Sera.

“Perhaps I should more formally introduce my colleagues.” Sera grinned. “Dr. Iggy Mikos, renowned physicist, and Jay Harding, whose parents are rich moguls at Locklier.”

Frank cleared his throat. “My office is next to us in Packard Lab.” He marched up the path and turned right to face the entrance. The edifice was built into the incline in a stepwise fashion so the top floor on the lower section sat below that of the upper section. “Notice I said Packard as in the automobile manufacturer, rather than Packer as in the father of these ivied halls. Alumnus James Ward Packard donated the funds for the premises in 1928.”

As Sera neared the stained-glass-inlaid doorways, she saw a pair of statues of stately gentlemen flanking the entrance. They peered down sternly, no doubt disapproving of these twenty-first-century ruffians.

Inside, sunshine streaming in through the windows illuminated the expansive lobby. To the immediate right and left, staircases led downward. Surprisingly, an antique car in a glass enclosure stood dead center. They walked over to the main attraction, their footsteps echoing off the marble floor.

Frank reverted back to the tour. “This horseless carriage is the first ever produced by the Packard Motor Company in 1899. It’s a three-speed, chain-drive model powered by a twelve-horsepower engine, which reached dizzying speeds of up to thirty-five miles an hour.” He smiled. “Nicknamed Old Number One, it was included by the benefactor along with his million-dollar gift.”

He continued to impart his vast repository of Lehigh trivia on the way to the fifth floor. Once inside his office, he invited them to sit while he settled into his leather wingback chair surrounded by walls of bookshelves.

In addition to the expected scholarly stuff, Jay scrutinized remnants of Frank’s prior employment. A detailed model of the Sentinel Space Fort and numerous NASA spaceships dangled from the ceiling like a child prodigy’s mobile. A signed, framed picture of the Zeus 5 Astronauts hung on the wall.

Frank abruptly switched gears, turning solemn. “Sera, what are you doing here? Last I heard, you were being detained in that forced labor research camp.”

“Yeah, I was there. Iggy and I got released yesterday.” She looked him directly in the eyes.

Iggy gazed calmly at the teacher, while Jay chose to study the ornate brass orrery on the credenza. It was the movable kind, where planets could be oriented around the sun in precise representations of the solar system.

“Really,” Frank replied evenly.

11:45 AM – EDT

Captain Sutherland gripped the passenger door handle as the government-issue Chevy Caprice rocketed west on Route 78 towards Pennsylvania. The colonel pinned the speedometer at eighty-five as he wove around slower cars. Sutherland remained speechless, while his superior muttered under his breath like a madman. The only audible words were the occasional obscenity thrown in for emphasis.

Zimmerman eventually verbalized his tirade. “Those fugitives have made fools of us. They broke out, a guard was attacked, and my command is in chaos. We must capture them on this campus. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” Sutherland hesitated. “Wouldn’t it be advisable to enlist the aid of local Bethlehem authorities? They could outnumber the felons and easily apprehend them. Without violence.”

“Absolutely not. This incident happened under my jurisdiction, and I will rectify it.” Zimmerman freed his right hand from a death grip on the wheel and shook his fist. “I will not have this pockmark on my file. And you will ensure that we succeed. Because if we don’t, it will be your ass that pays the consequences.” Distracted, he swerved back and forth in the fast lane.

“Yes, sir.” At the moment, Sutherland feared for his life more than his job.

“Do you have any idea how I ended up banished to that backwater research facility? I never intended to babysit snobby intellectuals at this juncture of my career. It was punishment.”

As the captain listened in astonishment, Zimmerman narrated an episode from his previous post, when he had been assigned to protect a prominent general. On the night in question, a suspected KGB marksman shot at General Strider through his dining room window. Fortunately, the bullet struck the frame, deflecting its path. However, wood fragments injured the general’s forearm. The Russian got away. A convenient scapegoat, Zimmerman was blamed and reassigned to the Gulag.

Avoiding eye contact, Sutherland picked at his fingernails.

The colonel composed himself. “So, if these smug scientists think they can get past me, they can go straight to hell.”

12:00 PM – EDT

In Frank’s office, Sera earnestly explained their status. “We’re not criminals. You know my history and motivations. Iggy here is a premier Anti-Matter physicist. She and her husband discovered revolutionary ways to create AM.”

Frank regarded Iggy over the top of his glasses. “Yes, I’ve heard of you. I read your published papers. You were leading the team to create AM weapons at the Secaucus installation. Just what we need. Even more destructive firepower.”

“Not true.” Iggy shook her head. “But we had to act like we were. You said it yourself—forced labor. In reality, we’ve been working on a project that could save humanity.”

He scoffed. “Oh, yeah? How do you plan to do that?”

Iggy graciously deferred to her protégé.

Sera paused. “Frank, we’re going to save Jackie K.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

12:01 PM – EDT

Startled, Frank stared across the desk at Sera’s determined look, mirrored by both Iggy and Jay. “What? Jackie Kennedy? She’s been dead for nearly fifty years.” Either he had misunderstood, or the government had obliterated his guests’ sanity.

“That’s correct. Jackie K. was murdered half a century ago in Dallas by KGB assassins.” Jay eagerly leaned forward. “The President and First Lady had been touring Texas in an attempt to garner support for the 1964 reelection. Polls showed that it would be an uphill battle for JFK to win a second victory there, even though his running mate, Vice President Johnson, hailed from the Lone Star State. I suppose it probably boiled down to Southern mistrust of a liberal Northerner and a Catholic to boot as their Commander in Chief. You know, I think a better strategy would have been—”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute.” Frank had been waylaid in shock, but had recovered. “We all know what happened. The Russians meant to get JFK, but they screwed up and killed Mrs. Kennedy instead. So what? It’s ancient history. Nothing can bring her back now.”

“Yes.” Iggy arched her eyebrow. “But what if we could?”

No one spoke.

The professor felt alarmed, but genuinely concerned for Sera. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

Sera silently counted to ten. “Frank, we’ve discovered Anti-Time.”

“What?” His empathy waned as his agitation waxed.

“We accidentally invented a way to travel through time.”

“Ridiculous.” He snorted. “I thought you needed my help. But you’re trying my patience. Everyone knows chrono-displacement is impossible.”

“That’s what we thought, too. It’s the reason it took us so long to figure out that we had stumbled upon an incredible breakthrough.” Frank tried to interject, but Sera plowed on. “Hear us out. You’re a scientist for heaven’s sake. Be objective and base your opinions on the facts.”

Frank sat back and acquiesced, putting on an indulgent expression, as if he were listening to a toddler explain how she could fly.

“Okay. The key to time travel is the conversion of Anti-Matter to Anti-Time. Lacking a better name, that’s what we called it—Anti-Time. Like we said, Iggy and I were being coerced to create weapons, but we only pretended. We put on a good front, working with the AM and studying its characteristics, but we had no intention of making a bomb. We thought the research could ultimately lead to a boon to society. Maybe an unlimited power source. Something good.”

Frank crossed his legs as he focused his attention outside the window.

Sera unconsciously quickened her pace. “Our biggest hurdle was containment. As you know, if Anti-Matter touches ordinary matter, kaboom, there go the scientists, their facility, and a sizable chunk of the eastern seaboard. We could make the AM using the radioactive properties of Gadolinium-146, but we needed to store it. The typical method of using a glass vacuum chamber with opposing magnets worked to suspend a tiny particle. However, the solution to finding the energy required for larger quantities eluded us until Iggy had the epiphany to use lasers. The basic contraption is similar, but she encased the AM in a brass sphere instead of glass. Within the sphere, six beryllium laser beams come at the particle from every side in three dimensions. Picture the beams penetrating the six sides of a cubical box.”

Jay nodded in encouragement, hanging on every word as if he hadn’t been part of the adventure.

“When we increased the energy, strange things began to happen. The containment device appeared to move. Subtly at first, with a bit of a shudder. When we intensified the power, it seemed to be out of phase, like double vision with the shadow of the apparatus superimposed over itself. We thought the laser configuration lacked stability, so we reversed the magnetic polarity to compensate. When we switched it on, the whole shebang disappeared for a fraction of a second.”

Frank took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between index finger and thumb. He took a deep breath. “What the hell does this have to do with Jacqueline Kennedy?”

12:22 PM – EDT

Having survived the harrowing ride, Sutherland scurried after his supervisor as he stormed the Lehigh gatehouse on foot.

“Official business. Make way.” Zimmerman pushed past random bystanders. He thrust out his uniformed chest and waved his ID in the surprised guard’s face. “Colonel William Zimmerman, US Army. You have a known fugitive on campus. Jay Harding is here, and I demand to know who he is visiting.”

“Uh, Professor Thomas escorted Harding and his companions about an hour ago. They’re probably in his office, right here in Packard Lab, fifth floor.” He picked up a phone. “Shall I let him know you’re coming?”

“Absolutely not. I am giving you a direct order not to contact this Tompkins.”

“It’s Thomas, sir.” The gatekeeper suppressed a smile. “Enter through the main lobby, around the corner to the right.”

Sutherland curiously observed a male undergrad who had sauntered by. The kid hoisted up his backpack and ducked into a side door of the building using a keycard. No doubt students were afforded unrestricted access. Didn’t Zimmerman consider stealth in his tactics?

12:25 PM – EDT

In the office, Frank had doggedly pursued the Jackie K. angle until Iggy stepped in.

“Be patient!” she barked. “We’ll get back to that. Now, the AM problem. Jay had a brilliant insight.”

He blushed. “Well, I don’t know about brilliant, but I realized that the object shouldn’t be moving, right? Or disappearing either. So I went to quantum physics, you know, to contemplate alternate dimensions, alternate universes, that sort of thing. But nothing from our experiment fit with those explanations. I ran into a number of dead ends.”

Frank shifted in his seat, willing a finale from the young man.

“I started theorizing on what could be happening if the object was, in fact, not moving. The only conclusion I could reach was that it wasn’t, but we were.”

“How so?” Frank drew out his words with sarcasm.

“The object wasn’t traversing through space, it was traversing through time.”

Frank rolled his eyes and flipped his palms outward.

“No, no, really. Think about it. If an object really could travel in time, it would stay in one place, right? But during that interval, the earth itself would orbit and rotate. Let me show you.” Jay got up and bent over the orrery on the credenza to demonstrate.

At that moment, a student ambled into the doorway. “Excuse me, professor, but I thought you would want to know that some military dude is coming for you and your friends. A fat, angry army guy with a side-kick on steroids.”

Sera flinched. “Dammit! The warden must have tracked us.”

CHAPTER NINE

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

12:28 PM – EDT

Iggy sprang from her seat. “We have to get out of here. Now.”

Sera and Jay followed her lead and bolted toward the door.

Frank gaped at them. “Warden—what warden?”

Sera turned back to her former boss, realizing they needed him. “The warden is Colonel Zimmerman from the forced-labor research installation. He’s come to capture us and take us back. We’re fugitives.”

Frank was having difficulty reorienting his thoughts after all the time-travel garbage they’d been dishing out. “I knew you were playing me. But it still doesn’t make sense. How the hell did you escape from that facility? It’s the most secure lock-up in the country. Physically impossible to break out.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Not impossible if you can travel through time.” Jay sallied forth. “But time is exactly what we’re short on right now, so if you would help us, we would be grateful.”

“Help? Sera, how could you do this to me? I trusted you and now you want me to risk my life by aiding criminals.”

“Your life? Frank, we have to get out of here, fast. If they catch us, we face the death penalty. You know, the Traitor Act.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Frank, they’re going to execute us.”

His posture deflated. “All I can do is get you off this campus. Then you’re on your own. Come on.”

He led them down the stairs to the main level and crept into the lobby. Outside the entrance, they heard a booming voice ordering the security guards to station themselves at each exit from Packard Lab. No one would be allowed egress without authorization.

Frank instantly deduced that the voice belonged to the Zimmerman character. With nowhere else to go, he frantically herded the group behind the glass-enclosed Packard car, Old Number One. He motioned for them to hunch down behind the automobile. Peeking over it, Frank saw an army colonel and a captain burst into the entrance and race down the hallway.

“Great strategy, Napoleon.” Sera stood. “You took us right into their path.”

“Look, this is the quickest way down.” Frank scowled as he cantered to the front marble steps leading down. His whole body tingled from shock. An hour ago, he’d been lecturing a class. Now, he was assisting federal prisoners on the lam.

When they reached the bottom, Jay broached the relevant conundrum. “Uh, Frank, the warden said they were guarding the exits. Do you have a plan for, say, getting us out?”

“You’ll see. Wait here a sec. I need to organize transportation for you.” He ducked into an empty office to make a phone call. Emerging less than a minute later, he held out a wooden chair and handed it to Jay. “Hold this.”

Mystified, Jay turned to Iggy.

She shrugged.

Frank escorted them down the corridor through unmarked double doors into a utility room. A myriad of pipes hung from the ceiling and climbed the walls—gray ones labeled Chilled Water Supply and yellow ones marked High Pressure Steam. He brandished a key and unlocked a tan side door that inexplicably read 160A. Reaching into the unlit interior, he grabbed a flashlight from a brace on the wall. “Let’s go, folks.”

They followed him single file into a cramped space with unfinished cement floors and cinderblock walls. The humid air reeked of rust and mildew. Frank instructed Jay to lock the door and jam the chair under the knob for extra protection.

Sera glanced into the gloom. “What is this place?”

“Welcome to the Catacombs.” Frank swept his lamp up and over the ceiling of the tunnel. Cobweb-shrouded pipes continued into the chamber, vanishing into the darkened passage. He explained that an elaborate heating and cooling system burrowed under the South Mountain campus. A power plant housed on the lower northeast corner supplied the sole source of energy for environmental controls; none of the buildings had boilers on the premises. The Catacombs provided underground connections among all the classrooms and dorms. He mentioned that the administration worked to keep its existence hidden from the student body for obvious reasons.

“I get it.” Jay nodded. “Secret keg parties in the Catacombs.”

“Exactly. You would think that at an engineering college, more kids would figure it out. But break-ins are pretty infrequent. The faculty and staff are well aware, of course, and we have keys in case of emergency.”

Iggy snapped her head up. “Then it won’t take long for them to guess what happened to us.”

“Right. Let’s go.” Frank wended his way uphill as quickly as possible, occasionally sloshing through puddles. The pipes around them thrummed with hissing steam and trickling water.

At the rear of the pack, Jay heard the unmistakable sound of a doorknob rattling. “Hurry up! I think they’ve found us.”

12:40 PM – EDT

The Soviet operative pushed his inflatable speedboat into the Hudson River on the shore of what was once Hoboken, New Jersey. Careful not to slip on the wet rocks, he hopped into the craft and deftly attached his backpack to a tether under the small motor. Unlocking a side zipper, he triple-checked the stowage of his stolen Anti-Matter weapon plans. Mission accomplished.

The Russian paddled to the center of the river, enjoying the sounds of lapping waves. A fishy smell emanated from the polluted water, but that remained the only blight on his senses.

Prying eyes and ears would not be a concern in these desolate environs. The spy started his engine and cruised downstream towards the ocean. The broken torso of the Statue of Liberty loomed ahead as he gazed at the ruins of Manhattan. The borough resembled an enormous cemetery, with partly demolished skyscrapers serving as memorials to the fallen. During the ’64 Nuke War, his comrades in the Strategic Rocket Force had attempted to obliterate the island with a one-hundred-megaton nuclear bomb. Enemy resistance fire caused the aircraft to veer off course and miss the target. The device landed ten miles short in the Atlantic, but achieved the same result. The detonation caused a massive tsunami that killed millions and destroyed the city.

What a waste.

12:45 PM – EDT

Having raced uphill through the filthy tunnels, Frank used his key to exit through another locked door onto a stone staircase below ground level. As they clambered up, he twisted to examine the surroundings. “No! This isn’t right. We’re at Linderman Library. I must have made a wrong turn at the intersection.”

Iggy peered past him at the grassy knoll. “Guards.” Several rushed in different directions, shouting updates. “We have to go back.”

Sera agreed as she leapt down the steps.

As they retreated, Jay bonked his forehead on a low pipe. “Are you sure you have your bearings now, Professor?”

“I don’t often chaperone felons through the Catacombs.” Frank leered at him. “In fact, it’s my first time. So cut me some slack as I try to navigate.”

Startled, Jay blinked rapidly as they doubled back.

12:50 PM – EDT

Fifty paces downhill, the pursuers saw the glow of Frank’s flashlight at the upcoming junction.

Zimmerman hooted with glee. “We have them now.”

As Sutherland watched in astonishment, his superior drew a gun and leveled it at the receding figures. It was a Locklier H_2 2011, the beloved military brainchild. The target-locking mechanism ensured that once aimed, the hinged barrel tracked the intended mark even if the subject moved. And it had a factory-installed silencer. But those attributes couldn’t compete with the reason for its widespread popularity with governmental mercenaries: the frozen hydrogen projectile. The bullet evaporated upon impact, leaving no possibility for ballistics analysis. Today’s army wouldn’t be the same without it.

“Colonel.” Sutherland hardly dared to breathe. “Are you sure we have the authority to terminate? Iggy and Sera are needed to complete Project Vindictus.”

“Yes, we need them, but Jay and the professor are expendable. I’m sending a message.” He fired the 2011 uphill at Jay, the closest. But the turncoat rounded a corner, and the projectile slammed into a hot pipe.

12:52 PM – EDT

The rebels screamed as high-pressure steam exploded around them.

Frank shouted, “My God, they’re gonna kill us all!”

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

1:00 PM – EDT

At the lower northeast corner of campus, Sutherland paced back and forth inside the college’s power plant. Deceptively small from the outside, it housed one story above ground and two below that connected directly to the Catacombs. The box-like facility teemed with pipes, boilers, and instruments within floor-to-ceiling glass and steel walls. The contraptions reminded the captain of the cartoonist who created the crazy machines. It had a comic Rube Goldberg-esque look, as if someone might pull a lever at one end, causing a ball to drop, water to cascade down a mini-Ferris wheel, and coils to spring up, finally delivering a morsel of cheese to a mouse at the opposite side. Sutherland listened as Zimmerman chewed out a maintenance worker over the sound of roaring equipment.

“I don’t care what the consequences are. Just shut off the steam, dammit! As per article seven, section twelve of the Traitor Act, I have taken over security at this institution as the ranking military officer present.”

A groundskeeper for over twenty years, Danny kept to himself and followed his own agenda, albeit slowly. He smiled benignly at the colonel. “I reckon’ you gotta speak to the university president ‘bout that, sir.”

Sutherland grinned at the man’s audacity.

Zimmerman clutched his holster. “I am ordering you to do as I say. Because if you fail to obey, it is within my rights to shoot you where you stand.”

Shaken, Danny nodded. Maybe he should ask for a pay raise.

1:05 PM – EDT

Winded from the adrenaline rush of being shot at, Frank relaxed his shoulders as he opened a door into a basement. “This is it. Taylor Hall.”

Jay glanced around, waiting for an explanation but not daring to ask.

Frank elaborated that they were situated underneath an old dorm at mid-campus. The edifice had been donated in 1907 as a gift from industrialist Andrew Carnegie in honor of his friend, Charles Taylor, who graduated Lehigh in the class of 1876. In disrepair for decades, the residence hall suffered from ceiling cave-ins, major plumbing fiascos, and a water main leak. Eventually, the administrators disengaged the water supply and condemned the building. The university had planned to demolish it and start from scratch, but the U-shaped structure was one of the earliest in the twentieth century made of poured concrete. The TNT required to knock it down would have taken half the mountain with it.

“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 O_2, 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 respectful 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 frown. 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.

“In spite of her focus on appearances, she had very traditional values. When asked about her role as the wife of the Commander in Chief, Mrs. Kennedy replied that the major role of the First Lady was to take care of the president so he could better serve the people.”

Sera snorted and then tried to cover it up with a cough.

Dee added scornful to impatient on her list of Sera’s personality traits. “You may think it’s funny, but this constituted life in the sixties. The majority of women classified themselves as housewives whose primary function was to care for their husbands and children. Most felt a sense of pride in a job well done.” She sighed. No one understood the vast societal differences of half a century ago. “In addition to being caretaker, Jackie K. had another ambitious agenda. She thought the White House lacked the majesty befitting the epicenter of government. Therefore, she committed herself to introducing culture and history to the home of the president. In her words, ‘I just feel that everything in the White House should be the best.’ She planned numerous social events to which—alongside politicians, dignitaries, and diplomats—she invited scientists, musicians, artists, writers, and poets. An educated woman fluent in French, Spanish, and Italian, Jackie herself mingled with ease at these functions. Honored guests joked that they were more excited to meet her than JFK.”

Dee took a deep breath. “She also initiated the first full-scale renovation of the White House in over a hundred years. During an early tour of the famed building, the condition dismayed her. Few antiques or artifacts remained, as previous administrations tended to ransack the interior for souvenirs of their service. She fostered a congressional bill stipulating that White House furnishings would become the property of the Smithsonian Institution moving forward. She organized the redecoration project with surprising managerial skills”—Dee glared at Sera—“for a homemaker. In the final contribution to her legacy, she replanted both the Rose Garden and East Garden. The latter was renamed the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden after her shocking assassination. Ultimately, it wasn’t her accomplishments as the wife of John Fitzgerald Kennedy that catapulted her to mythological status, but her untimely death.” She paused out of respect for the slain mother and wife.

“That’s what we want to hear about. Tell us about the assassination.” Sera could contain herself no longer.

The odd question startled Dee. “Well, my grandfather was a Dallas police officer at the time of the murder, and he collected volumes of information on the sensational crime. I have heaps of newspaper and magazine articles along with official documents and books. Obviously, my granddad’s storytelling sparked my interest, as the incident happened a quarter century before I was born.” She appraised Sera suspiciously.

Iggy adopted a gentler tone. “Can you chronicle the movements of the KGB leading up to November 22, 1963?”

“Yes, it’s in the records.” Dee’s own feisty impatience started to simmer. “Why would a few scientists and a university professor want to know about a senseless killing that happened nearly fifty years ago? What are you guys up to? What are you planning? I don’t think I want to answer your questions if you’re orchestrating a murder.” She folded her arms and clamped her mouth shut.

The waitress chose that moment to arrive, gaily plunking down frosty beer mugs and menus in front of each customer. Frank immediately clutched the menu and started perusing.

As soon as the server left, Jay placed his palms down. “Dee, no, of course not. Nothing like that. I would never . . . I mean we would never be involved in hurting anyone. We want to help people. We are not murderers!”

“I’m not saying another word about Jackie K. until you tell me precisely what’s going on.”

“No,” Sera growled. “Not an option.”

“Whoa. Dee is my friend. I know we can trust her.” Jay leaned in toward Dee. “I’m really sorry about this.”

Iggy intervened in a measured voice. “We need this information, and our best source is sitting with us. I suggest we cooperate with Miss Doherty.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Sera slumped back in defeat.

“Great.” Jay relaxed his posture. “We can tell you the whole deal, but not here. We need to find someplace more private.”

“That’s more like it.” Dee beamed. “If you want my help, you have to tell me your secrets first. We can go to my place after we finish our drinks.”

Frank gazed wistfully at his menu, a gesture not lost on Dee.

“We’ll order pizza for goodness’ sake. Now get your stories straight. I’m visiting the rest room.” She grabbed her shoulder bag and locked eyes with Iggy. “Thank you. And please, call me Dee.”

7:00 PM – EDT

A man at the bar observed Dee as she flounced her strawberry locks around the corner to make a pit stop. With neatly cropped, receding white hair, the fifty-year-old swung his gym-muscular legs off the barstool, crammed his ramrod straight back into a worn motorcycle jacket, and slapped some bills onto the counter.

He strode after the young woman, his features expressionless, as if he, too, were going to the head before leaving. His unadorned riding boots thumped across the hardwood floor as he gained ground. Suddenly, she whirled around to face him.

“Bick, you didn’t have to come here to spy on me. I can take care of myself.”

Bickford Haycock smiled. “Why are you too stubborn to let a friend help you?”

“It’s not that, really. I think I’m more annoyed because you were right. They’re definitely up to something.”

“I told you. People from your past don’t show up without a good reason. Either they want money, or they’re in some kind of trouble. More likely both.”

“I can’t imagine Jay mixed up in anything illegal or underhanded. He was always a well-behaved kid.”

“But he works for the government. You know how they operate. What have they told you so far?”

“Nothing. They asked a lot of questions about the Jackie K. assassination.”

Bick gave an involuntary jump.

“I know. It’s weird. But don’t worry, I convinced them to tell me everything when we get back to my apartment.”

“You invited these strangers to your home? This is exactly what I’m talking about, Dee. You trust people more than they deserve.”

She jutted her chin. “I know Jay, and it will be perfectly safe.”

“I still don’t like it. Give me their names and I’ll check them out.”

Dee hurriedly imparted their names and disciplines.

Bick scribbled down notes, amazed as always at her ability to memorize details. “Do not move from your apartment. You’ll hear from me.”

“I’ll be fine.” Dee placed her hand on his leather-clad arm. “Have faith.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

7:30 PM – EDT

Jay settled into a squishy armchair in Dee’s garden apartment while their hostess fluttered about proffering herbal teas, cold sodas, and salty snacks. He took in the ambiance of the living room, admiring the lush greenery of several potted plants. Warm lighting and muted earth tones were interspersed with bright peach and teal accents in the form of plump pillows and decorative candleholders. Bookshelves lining two walls were bursting with hardcovers and paperbacks ranging from thrillers and mysteries to reference tomes and research periodicals. The dustless table surfaces were cluttered with notepads, binders, and files—all current works in progress. A space well lived-in and well utilized, Jay realized it suited Dee perfectly.

She sat down on the edge of the couch, smiling expectantly at the four of them. “Okay, food is on the way. Now, tell me your story.”

Jay perched his elbows on his knees. “You know as well as we do that the assassination of Jackie Kennedy was a pivotal moment in world history. That single event, that pull of a trigger, enraged America and launched us into the ’64 Nuke War with Russia, and the combat has continued for fifty years through the Stale War.”

Dee had almost forgotten his loquacious nature, but kept up an encouraging expression out of respect.

“And the populace, which of course includes us, has suffered tremendously. Millions dead on both sides and major cities leveled, all due to a lone bullet that struck the First Lady in 1963, albeit mistakenly.”

“Everything became different after that.” Iggy’s eyes focused beyond the room. “I remember how happy we all were before the unending strife. The skies were blue and clear, with no pollution, no fallout. And, we were free.”

Jay noticed Frank slouching on the outskirts of the conversation with a bored, detached demeanor. The professor was scanning the mantelpiece over the brick fireplace, and almost spilled his green tea with a start. Jay followed his line of sight to a framed photo of Jackie K. jumping her horse over a fence, hair flying in the breeze. It rested next to a picture of a handsome police officer in an old-fashioned uniform and various prints of Dee beaming among relatives and friends, as if Jackie had been a beloved member of the family.

Jay stifled a chuckle. “To continue, the government subjugated the nation. One by one our civil rights have been stripped away. Do you realize that the Department of State monitors every citizen? I mean, there is a file on each one of us here in this gated city. What I’m trying to say is, it’s pretty obvious that Eisenhower was on the mark in his 1961 farewell speech when he warned us of the power of the military-industrial complex.”

Dee frowned as if struggling to remember.

“Before President Eisenhower’s term ended in January and he handed the reins to JFK, he gave a final address on radio and TV. In it, he admonished, and I quote.” Jay cleared his throat and spoke in an authoritative, metered voice. “‘In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.’”

Iggy nodded, impressed. “Companies like MacDowell-Douggan and Locklier profit from congressional contracts for building munitions, meaning they are highly motivated to keep the conflict raging. And the politicians need to keep these corporations content, since they bankroll election campaigns.”

“They even have a stranglehold on academia.” Sera grimaced. “They only award grants to research projects that provide applications for the armed forces. They’re touted as government grants, but no one is fooled.”

“Get on with it!” Frank barked from the corner. “As a reporter in WB, if she doesn’t know defense companies pull the strings of the marionettes in office, she’d better find a new career.”

“I’m not an idiot, if that’s what you’re implying.” Dee glowered at Frank. What was his problem? “But what can anyone possibly do about it?”

Frank rolled his eyes.

Jay nonchalantly sipped his Coke. “We’re going to stop it from happening.”

7:40 PM – EDT

Bickford Haycock had blazed away from Elmer Sudds on his 1987 Harley-Davidson Sportster, and now sat at the computer station in his sparse townhouse on the other side of the city. He hacked into the Governet by dialing into a remote node in South Florida, grateful that a former Secret Service colleague had given him passcodes and means for access. At least he had retained a parting gift from that stage in his life.

While he searched for information on Dee’s shady guests, he mused over the desultory path that had led him to his current occupation as a sole proprietor.

Bick had joined the Navy as a young man, donning the same uniform of a father who instilled patriotism and integrity in his capable son. Trained as a Naval pilot, he achieved Ace status for shooting down five enemy aircraft, believing his feats would help the nation win the interminable war. After an honorable discharge, he entered the Secret Service, banding with the legendary men in black. He protected President Colin Powell from 2009 to 2011, but working in the heart of the administration finally pulverized his illusions about fighting and dying for a country that had no conscience. Today, he ran a motorcycle repair and restoration business, the older the bike the better. He didn’t need the money, but enjoyed it. Each cycle represented a wounded, dying animal. Methodically, step-by-step, Bick healed the beast, perfecting and polishing until it breathed again. His job satisfaction had increased tenfold.

Bick straightened the orderly objects on the desk—pens here, papers there. His monitor pinged, announcing results of the first search.

Time to find out about Mr. Jay Harding.

7:50 PM – EDT

“So,” Jay put down a half-eaten slice of pizza, “that’s how we broke Iggy and Sera out of the Gulag. We used Anti-Time. As I explained, they were wrongfully imprisoned. You with me?”

Dee bobbed her head in agreement.

“Then we had the difficult task of getting them over the border into Pennsylvania. I ended up taking them to Lambertville, where we used a clamp and rope system so they could hang under the bridge and traverse across to New Hope. You see, the bridge is constructed of—”

“Got it. I’ve been there, Jay. My grandparents had a home there, but they sold it when the neighborhood deteriorated.”

“Oh.” He became distracted. “You mean the Dallas cop grandfather?”

“No, no. On my dad’s side. Please continue about time travel. I want to understand how it works.” Dee shunted aside the urge to scream at him to move on.

“Well, Anti-Time actually started as a by-product of Anti-Matter. Sera?”

“Right.” Sera watched as Dee relaxed her shoulders. But the subject wouldn’t be easy to understand regardless of who outlined it. “Simply put, Anti-Matter is a fundamental particle of regular matter with its electrical charge reversed. The common proton has an AM counterpart that’s called an antiproton, which has the same mass, but an opposite charge. The electron’s counterpart is called a positron.”

Dee waited for the pay-off.

“AM can be created in ultra-high-speed collisions, but the process is unwieldy and impractical. You need an enormous particle accelerator, which is a circular tube miles in circumference. Alternatively, AM can be made by the decay of radioactive material. Building upon research completed by Iggy and her husband, we use Gadolinium-146 to make ours.”

“Okay, but how does that make Anti-Time?”

Sera saw Jay’s glance darting back and forth between them. She abdicated the floor to him with a swish of her hand.

Jay took a deep breath before beginning his lengthy explanation.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

8:00 PM – EDT

Bick swiftly unlocked the front entrance with an emergency key he knew was hidden behind the window shutter. He flung the door open, slamming it against the opposite wall, and burst into the living room wielding a Colt .45. “All of you, in the corner now, hands in the air.”

Five faces froze in shock at the sudden intrusion. Sera’s plate slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor.

Dee leapt up. “Bick, what are you doing?”

“You actually know this guy?” Frank stared.

“Shut up and move!” Bick motioned with his gun as they stood and inched their way to the side, hands raised. “Dee, get behind me. You’re safe now.”

“Wait!” She tried to insert herself between Bick and the others, but he deftly sidestepped her.

Sera dropped her arms in indignation. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

“Quiet,” Iggy warned.

Bick turned to Dee. “These people are outlaws. They are putting your life in jeopardy and I will not stand for that.” He trained his eyes on the four fugitives. “Why are you here? What do you want with Dee? What are you planning? Answer me right now, or I’m calling the cops.”

Iggy straightened to her full five-foot, four-inch height. “Sir, we would be happy to explain if we could just sit down and discuss this like civilized people.”

“Please put the gun down.” Dee gripped his sleeve. “You don’t understand. It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, yeah? I understand that these two criminals”—he gestured to Iggy and Sera—“are supposed to be in a maximum-security lock-up. These other fools must have helped them break out.”

“Look, I know all about it because they already confessed everything. Yes, they were imprisoned, but they were steamrolled. And they have a noble reason for escaping. Let’s talk about this.”

Jay examined the revolver. “I agree. Let’s talk. No gun. Talking is, um, good.” He trailed off as Bick glared at him.

The newcomer assessed the situation. None of them seemed threatening, and none concealed a weapon. The scene he had interrupted resembled a tea party more than a sinister act. “Out of respect for Dee, I will listen.” He reluctantly slid his Colt into his jacket pocket and sat down.

Dee chose a chair next to him, while the rest filed onto the oversized couch.

Remembering her manners, Dee began introductions. “Bickford Haycock, I’d like you to meet, well, I guess you already know who they are.” She faltered, startled that she sounded like Jay. “Um, Jay, Sera, Iggy, and Frank.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

Sera was outraged by this presumptuous man. “Hold on a minute. We don’t know this Barney. How can we trust him? Besides, we can’t keep telling strangers about our mission. Eventually, someone will leak it to the authorities and then we’re dead.”

Bick bared his teeth in a false smile. “Then you’d better have some handy justifications, because you have no choice.” He patted the bulk in his jacket. “No one is leaving until you tell me what this mission is all about.”

As Sera sputtered, Iggy placed a restraining palm on her arm. “It’ll be okay.”

“You can trust Bick. He’s my friend. Let me tell you more about him to put you at ease.” Dee proceeded to give them an overview of Bick’s three disparate careers and then homed in on how she had met him as a Secret Service agent. At that juncture, President Colin Powell was trying to institute sweeping reforms in the government to give more freedom to citizens. Through frequent contact and candid discussions, Powell learned that Bick supported the program wholeheartedly. At an impasse, since his cabinet members could betray him, the president turned to his Secret Service confidante to help spread the word and gain popular approval for the movement. Bick studied the news coverage and backgrounds of WB reporters. He chose Dee as someone bold enough and radical enough to champion the scoop of the decade. He would spirit her away on his Harley to clandestine meetings where Bick parceled out relevant data and they bonded over shared ideals. But before the story hit the airwaves, Powell was forced to resign by the defense contractors and their lackeys in Congress. They wouldn’t permit a rogue Commander in Chief, albeit a Republican one, to stay in office. Although the incident had happened a couple of years ago, Bick and Dee remained close. He continued to watch out for her, as evidenced this evening.

Bick clenched his jaw. He didn’t need his life rationalized.

Dee paused. “So you see, he hates the establishment as much as the rest of us.”

8:15 PM – EDT

Sutherland pecked at a computer terminal in Johnson Hall at Lehigh University. Zimmerman had relocated his operation to the campus police station in this building, making it his command center. Radios squawked as officers bustled about trying to look busy, mainly concerning themselves with avoiding the colonel’s increasing wrath. The captain watched his superior’s machinations as he continued the grounds search, although it was obvious that his quarry had eluded capture.

Under direct orders, Sutherland had tagged the Governet to notify him of any suspicious border crossings, or anyone accessing information on the renegades. If they had help, someone could be monitoring their status. Zimmerman had not, however, dispatched an All-Points Bulletin on the missing persons, preferring to deal with the dilemma privately.

Sutherland jerked back in surprise when he heard a beep alerting him to a search on all four traitors from the same node. A hit! He hopped up to inform his superior officer, who was currently insulting a group of security guards, calling them campus clowns. It took a moment to tear the colonel away from his diatribe.

When they returned to the workstation, Zimmerman saw the intel on the screen and celebrated by whacking his underling between the shoulder blades. “That’s it! Someone knows about our pesky little quartet. I need the identity and whereabouts of the government official who conducted the inquiry. Either we’ve uncovered another subversive, or they’ve been detained.”

The captain typed furiously to determine the source of the search, and then his heart sank. “Colonel, I’ve hit a snag. The request came through an unauthorized terminal, and I’m afraid it may be difficult to trace its origin.” He cursed himself for not checking it before.

“Well you had better find a way. I’m holding you personally responsible. If you fail to find them, it’s your ass that will pay.” Zimmerman pounded the desk.

Sutherland was drowning. He simply didn’t have the technical expertise to hack through the Governet. His career was effectively over. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

8:30 PM – EDT

After suffering through a tedious discourse on Anti-Matter, Anti-Time, and time travel, Bick decided he’d had enough. They were insane. “So what you’re telling me is this.” He leaned back and concentrated on inflecting his voice with as much singsong sarcasm as he could muster. “Your mission is to travel fifty years back in time to 1963, prevent the assassination of Jackie Kennedy—thus averting the ’64 Nuke War and the hostilities that ensued, of course—and return safely to a new and improved world of 2013. Preposterous! Everyone knows time travel is impossible.”

Frank dramatically thrust his arm in the air. “I agree.”

Bick gaped. “I thought you were one of them.”

“Oh, I’m not here by choice. I got roped into this just like you did.” Frank noted Bick’s astonishment with satisfaction. “But think about it, folks, if time travel were feasible at any point in the past, present, or future, where are all the time travelers? Surely we would have encountered them in history, especially in the pivotal moments.”

“What laws of physics preclude it?” Iggy narrowed her eyes.

He didn’t respond.

“Right, none. Time travel is absolutely achievable, and we’ve done it.”

He shook his head in disgust. How had he gotten himself into this mess?

“Frank, you said earlier today that it would be physically impossible to break out of the Gulag, which we clearly have done. Both of you maintain that time travel is also impossible, which we declare we have done. I suggest we demonstrate that marrying the two is the only explanation for our escape. Sera?” Iggy motioned to a desk globe the size of a softball on the bookcase.

“I’d like to see it.” Dee glanced between Bick and Frank. “Give them a chance.”

“Great,” Jay began, while Sera retrieved the globe. “You have to realize that science fiction authors and screenwriters have given us false impressions of time travel. Characters climb into a time machine, press a button and arrive on precisely the same street at a different time. Maybe the houses are newer or older, or the mall hasn’t been built yet, but that’s the basic premise. In reality, it is true that you would move in time, not space. However, the earth would have shifted during the interval. So in addition to not being on the same street, you wouldn’t even arrive on the surface of the planet.”

“It’ll be easier to show you.” Sera suppressed a laugh at their perplexed faces. “Let’s assume we are observing the solar system from above, meaning we’re looking down at the North Pole.” She plunked the mini-orb onto the coffee table. “First, rotation. The earth spins on its axis to the east, which is counterclockwise from our perspective.” She spun it. “Say you time-jumped to the future from New Jersey like we did.” She pointed at the Garden State. “You would stay exactly where you were, but in the future, the planet would have rotated east.” She again twisted the globe counterclockwise, but allowed it to slide past her finger across the US. “You would wind up in Pennsylvania or further west, depending on the length of the jump. Make sense?”

Dee nodded, riveted, while Bick sat dazed. Frank pretended to not pay attention.

“Second, orbit.” Sera centered Dee’s empty Diet Coke can on the table. “Call this our sun. Again, from our vantage point above, the orbit is counterclockwise.” She swept the globe around the can in a wide circle to demonstrate. “Jumping to the future,” she pointed to New Jersey, “you would stay where you were, but the earth would be further along in its orbital path.” She held her finger static while sweeping the globe in a counterclockwise arc around the can. “In effect, you are behind the planet, because you remain where it was in the past. Thus, it is critical to consider the day part when you jump.”

“Why?” Dee thought she understood until the last part.

“Because you don’t want to end up buried in the center of the planet. Say you are in New Jersey again, at a point during the day when the orbital path is directly in front of you—picture that you are driving the earth forward. Six o’clock in the morning for instance.” She placed her finger on the globe in front of its forward motion. “If you make a short jump to the future, you stay in the same location, but the planet has moved forward in the direction you were driving it.” She pushed the globe, removed her hand, and the globe stood in the spot where her finger was. “Deep core of the earth. Fire and brimstone stuff, as per bible predictions. That’s why we chose six o’clock at night instead.”

“Oh.” Dee contemplated this. It seemed plausible. “How far, or rather how long did you jump to escape from the Secaucus facility?”

“Excellent question.” Jay slid his glasses back over his ears. “Thanks for the segue. When Iggy and Sera broke out of the Gulag, we had to bear in mind both rotation and orbit to ensure they didn’t land in the middle of the planet or in the vacuum of space. Of course, the calculations were quite complicated, but let me see if I can simplify things.”

“Yes,” Bick growled. “Dumb it down for us non-scienticians.”

Jay ignored him. “We’ll cheat and use some cocktail napkin type of assumptions.” He pulled the globe toward him and yanked a credit-card sized calculator from his jeans pocket. “First, rotation. The circumference of the earth is approximately 25,000 miles.” He traced around the equator. “And there are twenty-four hours in a day, or one rotation of the axis. Easy math there. So from Secaucus, a one-hour jump to the future would place you a little over 1000 miles west, about one time zone away. Second, orbit. The earth traverses 584 million miles to revolve around the sun.” He swung the globe around the Coke-sun. “Divide that by 365 ¼ days per year”—he punched keys on the calculator—“and the pretty blue ball hurtles 1.6 million miles a day. Divide that by twenty-four hours and the velocity is about 66,600 miles per hour.”

Bick gasped, amazed at the incredible speed.

“As an example, this is what would happen in a one-hour jump. As Sera said, we left at six o’clock in the evening, when we would be positioned at the taillights of the planet, to keep with the driving analogy.” Jay touched New Jersey. “The earth would spin and orbit”—he twisted and moved the globe—“and the traveler would end up here.” His finger hovered behind the planet over the American Midwest. “1000 miles west and over 66,000 miles into space. Way too far, as Frank will attest. That’s a quarter of the distance to the moon. Obviously, the final computations were more intense. We had to take into account the circumference of the earth at 40 degrees latitude, and the fact that the rotation and orbit happen simultaneously. In the end, all we needed was a jump of less than one-third of a second to the future, which put our physicists about two miles west and six miles up. It was fine, really, because they had parachutes and oxygen for the upper atmosphere skydive.” Jay peered at them, satisfied.

Frank had wearied of holding his tongue through this charade. “Fine. You did some high-school-level math, but that still doesn’t prove anything. Humans have been trying to invent a time machine since H.G. Wells, but I’ve never met any time travelers.”

“You’ve met us,” Sera retorted.

Bick checked himself. On a quiet September night in 2013, he was sitting in Dee’s WB apartment with a bunch of weirdos who purported to have built a time machine. He was in a surrealistic fantasyland.

“I have an idea.” Iggy brightened. “We’ll prove it. I need an object.”

Sera’s brows lifted. “Hey, Frank. Lend me your watch.”

He unsnapped the clasp and flung it toward her. “I expect to get this back after your magic tricks.”

“Don’t worry, you will.” She grinned.

Iggy reached into her backpack and pulled out an eight-inch-diameter sphere coated in aluminum. She placed the watch inside, showing off the brass interior. Grabbing the barbell control unit, she began tapping buttons.

Frank viewed the device with concern. “What’s in there?”

“Anti-Matter.” Sera enjoyed his horrified expression. “Don’t be a wuss. It’s a contained, microscopic amount.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Frank fought a hysterical urge to back away. “AM is the most dangerous substance known to humankind. Even if one particle touched regular matter, the explosion would reduce WB, rather, the entire state of Pennsylvania, to a distant memory.”

Bick felt alarmed. Was that true?

Jay huddled over his calculator. “I’d say one two-thousandths of a second to the future ought to do it.”

Sera and Jay sprang up and went to a west window. Dee and Bick congregated around them, baffled.

As Iggy hit more buttons, Frank followed. “Now hold on a doggone minute.”

Outside the window, an object fell from a considerable height and crashed to the street, smashing into a thousand shards.

“My watch! You bastards!” Frank ran out to the road to retrieve his shattered timepiece.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

8:50 PM – EDT

While Frank fretted over his disintegrated watch, Dee’s eyes sparkled. “Wow, this time machine is fantastic. When do we leave for 1963?”

A dumbfounded silence greeted her.

“No, Dee.” Bick’s apprehension mounted. “You’re not going anywhere. Especially with these mental patients.”

“Forget it. You’re not coming. Don’t even think about it.” Sera knew this girl would be a nuisance.

“But I thought you needed me. Isn’t that why you’re here? I’m the authority on Jackie K., after all.” Dee hunched her shoulders toward Jay. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, that’s why we came to you. For your wealth of knowledge. We need details on the KGB and their movements so we can prevent the assassination.” Jay motioned for her to sit down, but she declined. “But we didn’t intend for you to come. It might be dangerous.”

Bick strode forward. “Darn right it’s too dangerous. This contraption runs on Anti-Matter, which according to Frank is the most powerful explosive ever created. I cannot permit you to be part of this lunacy.”

“Sera and Iggy have already time traveled, and they’re okay.”

“Well, they say they have,” muttered Frank.

“Of course we have!” Iggy instantly regretted being drawn in by his bait. “That’s not the point. We just need Ms. Doherty, I mean Dee, to give us the facts. We’ll handle it from there.”

“But facts don’t complete the whole picture. I can’t simply type up a memo for you and expect you to be ready. You don’t have a clue about sixties clothing or customs. For instance, your tie, Frank.” Dee touched his brown-and-beige-striped accessory. “They didn’t have polyester ties back then.”

He grabbed it indignantly. “It’s one hundred percent silk!”

“It’s also too wide. Early sixties ties were narrow. And Sera, those hiking boots have got to go. No respectable woman would be caught dead in public wearing men’s work boots.” Dee ignored Sera’s murderous glare. “Women wore dresses and pumps. Men wore suits and hats. Gentlemen opened doors for ladies. The term housewife was not a demeaning slur. You have to blend in. You can’t hop out of a 2013 time machine and expect to assimilate in 1963.”

Iggy looked at Sera in surprise. “We hadn’t considered that angle.”

“Well, it’s imperative that you do. And I’m the person to teach you.”

“Fine, teach us.” Jay nodded emphatically. “But do it safely here in 2013.”

“I refuse. Not unless you take me with you.” Dee folded her arms in an obviously childish stance, but she remained steadfast. This was too important.

Jay slowly exhaled. “Anti-Matter isn’t the only jeopardy. We are attempting to stop the KGB. The K. G. B.,” he enunciated. “Trained killers. Professional killers. With no regard for American lives, I might add.”

“I don’t care!” Dee stamped her foot, again feeling juvenile. “I want you to succeed, and you need my help. Both before and during the trip.” She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Dee’s intuition told her that Iggy held a power position. She turned to the senior scientist and steadied her voice. “We can each benefit. You want my expertise, and I want your time machine. It’s a once-in-a-millennium chance to go back to 1963 and see Jack and Jackie Kennedy. In exchange, I promise only to offer advice and not to interfere with your mission.”

Iggy studied her sincere countenance and marveled at the conviction of someone so young. “Okay. You’ve made your case. You can tag along.” She barreled ahead over Sera’s protestations. “Let’s be clear. Your role is 1963 historian and cultural expert. You will not accompany us on any encounters with the KGB. And remember, we are neither tourists nor anthropologists. This is a critical enterprise. The fate of the world is at stake.”

“I understand.” Dee glowed with satisfaction.

Bick had been gazing out the window as if searching for something. He turned and faced the others. “If Dee is going, then so am I.” He spoke with certitude.

Sera sighed. Not another one.

“No, Bick!” Dee couldn’t bear to think of him risking his life for chivalry. “You said yourself it’s too dangerous.”

“That’s exactly why I need to watch your back. I’m serious, Dee. Don’t be so bullheaded.”

Frank chuckled at these folks begging to go when he’d rather be sheltered at home with a good book. “I see why we need the sixties buff. But why do we need Mr. Clean here?”

“Are you kidding me?” Bick fumed. “Do you understand what the KGB are capable of? I’ve dealt with them. They are singularly focused assassination robots.”

Jay held up his palm in a halt gesture. “Let’s not lose our perspective. You see, we have fifty years of history on them. We’ll know where they’re going to be and what they’re going to do. We can outfox them.”

“So what’s your plan if one of them aims a weapon at you? Bore them to death with your protracted dissertation on Anti-Time?”

Jay lifted his chin. “What would you do?”

“I am a veteran of military combat. I was a fighter pilot in the Navy and a Secret Service Agent. I’ve led plenty of covert operations. Trust me, I’d react on instinct. Just look at how easily I captured all of you.”

“You had a key!”

“No one was standing guard? Surveilling the street? You’re fugitives, but amateurs when it comes to defending yourselves. The truth, whether you accept it or not, is you need me. And Dee isn’t going without me.”

Iggy threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine. Come along.”

9:05 PM – EDT

At the Lehigh campus, Captain Sutherland acted on an inspired idea. Although he lacked the skills to locate the unauthorized terminal that had monitored the escapees, he figured out a way to take advantage of people who could. He plundered the basement computer lab beneath Grace Hall and rounded up a colony of geeks who rarely saw daylight and might be in peril of developing rickets. He predicted he would have to beat them into submission with threats of Selective Service, but to his astonishment they were thrilled to have the opportunity to legally hack the Governet. All he had to promise were unlimited salty snacks and sugary beverages.

Lined up in rows in front of green glowing screens, the squad pounded at their keyboards, each wanting to be the first to crack the assignment. One shouted he’d found a hit in Florida, but the rest scathingly rebuked him. Of course that wasn’t the source. Everyone knew the culprit had routed it through a dummy connection to fool the ignorant.

Sutherland smiled. This might actually work.

9:15 PM – EDT

From the sidelines, Frank observed the gang in the living room eye each other warily as they realized they would need to form a truce if they were going to become a team. Ever the diplomat, Iggy proposed a brainstorming session on mission details. Frank should have known she would conjure up a ploy to start bonding them with a shared purpose. He paid close attention; he needed a strategy to save his own skin.

Iggy explained that they required a space-worthy ship for time travel. She volunteered that an old airplane might suffice, as it would be insulated against extreme temperatures and pressurized for air. She opened the floor to ideas.

Frank could guess what was coming next.

Dee raised her hand. “I don’t get it. Why in the world do you need a spaceship for time travel?”

Jay pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “While we have precise calculations for time-jumps, there is still a margin for error, especially as we go greater distances. Even a tiny discrepancy could put us high in the atmosphere, causing us to crash down to the surface. Or worse, we could wind up in the planet’s core, where we would implode. Our plan is to deliberately jump outside of the earth’s gravitational pull. That way, we can use incremental jumps to get closer. If we use aircraft, as per Iggy’s example, we could then simply land on a runway.”

The potential deadly hazards of the trip silenced everyone for a moment.

Space flight. Frank thought of his old friends from NASA, and the solution ballooned inside his mind fully formed. They were going about this all wrong. He could get them an appropriate vehicle while simultaneously finding safe haven. “An airplane isn’t strong enough. In a jump from the zero pressure of space to the atmospheric pressure of flying, the wings might shear off from the stress.” He paused as if thinking out loud. “But I have a better idea. I know a guy in California who’s a former aerospace engineer from NASA. He has the means and knowledge to help us with a proper ship.”

“How would we get to California? There have to be at least ten border crossings along the way, including getting out of WB.” Bick couldn’t resist reminding them of their status. “Ten chances for you outlaws to get caught.”

“I know.” Jay snapped his fingers. “Have your friend meet us here. Or somewhere in Pennsylvania.”

Frank shook his head. “Nope. He has all his equipment and supplies on the West Coast. We have to go to him.” He waited while the rest squinted down or glanced heavenward, concentrating on coming up with a method for travel. He pantomimed their actions before speaking up. “I know a person who can get us there. A pilot who operates outside of the law. A bit of a scoundrel.”

“A scoundrel?” Sera wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like it, Frank. He might sell us out for the reward money.”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if he weren’t completely trustworthy. Besides”—Frank grinned—“he owes me his life.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2013

6:30 AM – EDT

In the balmy predawn dusk, Jay scurried inside the fence at Wyoming Valley Airport on the heels of Iggy, Sera, and Frank. The modestly sized facility, with code letters WBW, served corporate jets, cargo transports, and passenger flights for WB. The infiltrators had chosen this terminal over Westmoreland International to avoid risking more rigorous security.

As they stole into the specified hangar, Jay reflected on the atrocities that had occurred at this location. Most people assumed this valley was named after the state of Wyoming, but paradoxically, the opposite was true. Settlers in the Midwest had been puzzled when congress bestowed the moniker on the forty-fourth member of the union. The naming of the state paid tribute to the bloody Wyoming Valley Massacre in northern Pennsylvania. In 1778, British Loyalists and their Iroquois allies had slain more than three hundred American Revolutionaries, allegedly even torturing and scalping several dozen who surrendered. A monument stood nearby as a remembrance of the event—a stark obelisk on the graves of the fallen.

Next to Jay, Frank batted at his trousers, trying to clean off the grass and muck. “It was bad enough you had me sleeping on the floor last night. And then this morning crawling under the cyclone fence. My back is killing me!”

Iggy sighed. She’d had just about enough of this drama queen.

Ignoring his theatrics, Sera commented on the relative ease with which they’d broken into the airport.

“That’s because the US government contracts security to the lowest bidder.” Jay tilted his head matter-of-factly. “In this case, MacDowell-Douggan.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Well, think about it. The company wants to make money, right? So they employ the fewest number of guards possible, and concentrate them in the main terminals. Everyone witnesses the massive presence at the checkpoints inside, like Bick and Dee are probably encountering now.” Jay paused, thinking worriedly about their safety. He had booked tickets to Boston for the only two legitimate citizens among them, as a ruse to divert Zimmerman. If the colonel somehow uncovered Bick’s unauthorized search for the fugitives on the Governet, Bick himself would become a target. They wanted to send the warden on a wild goose chase in the wrong direction. Bick and Dee needed to clear screening and then sneak out of the airport to meet them. A risky proposition, but no point in second-guessing.

Jay shook himself back to the present. “Anyway, travelers assume the same stringent rules apply in the field. But patrols here are scattered. No one expects us to realize we can slink in under cover of darkness. It’s a show. Security theater.”

Sera nodded, grudgingly impressed with his limitless font of knowledge.

As a nearby plane revved its engines, Bick and Dee clambered in, banging suitcases and wearing sour expressions.

Relieved, Jay slumped down to wait for their next trial.

7:30 AM – EDT

In a repair shop on the fringes of WB, Sutherland led the way as he and Zimmerman prowled around the premises in a cop-like manner. Wielding guns with both hands, they sidled along walls and whipped around each corner pointing the weapons with elbows straight. No one was there.

Sutherland lowered his arms, taking in the surroundings, shockingly pristine for a mechanic’s garage. Although he detected the odors of used grease and fresh paint, neither tools nor parts lay strewn about the benches from works in progress. Customers’ motorcycles formed a severe angled line across the floor, as if positioned by tape measure. The facade in front displayed a dramatic black sign with gleaming chrome letters proclaiming: Bick’s Bikes.

Sutherland’s geek posse at Lehigh had indeed located the source computer of the Governet inquiry. Earlier, the captain and the colonel had broken into the townhouse of a Bickford Haycock, but the perpetrator and the escapees weren’t there. The army men had ransacked the home for clues, carelessly clearing out cabinets and upending drawers. They found nothing.

As the pair began to defile the business in a similar vein, Sutherland’s transceiver phone jingled from his pocket. These new communication devices were powerful enough to work on signals bounced from skyscraper antennae dotted across the landscape, but remained portable. Only the government, the military, and the wealthy could afford the gadgets. However, few citizens owned them, since law enforcement monitored the airwaves.

Sutherland jabbed the answer button. This had better be good news.

8:00 AM – EDT

“Where is he, Frank?” Sera couldn’t keep the accusatory tone from her voice. As the minutes ticked by, tempers flared, and they took turns questioning the professor on the punctuality and reliability of his acquaintance.

“He’ll be here. You can count on it.”

Sera noticed he betrayed his uncertainty by checking his left wrist, forgetting about the broken watch. She pressed her lips together to stop herself from chortling.

After a short while, Frank pointed. “There. There he is. Told you he’d come.”

They watched in astonishment as a garishly painted, orange and yellow sightseeing plane taxied toward the hangar. Enormous red words on the side boasted Fly with Flynn!

Jay realized his jaw was hanging open. “Not too subtle, is he?”

The transport roared into the building and made a sweeping turn, spewing exhaust fumes. The engines abruptly ceased. A moment later, the cockpit burst open and the pilot literally jumped out, alighting nimbly on both feet. He spread his arms and announced, “Fly with Flynn Flightseeing, friend of the felon and fugitive, at your service.” He bowed slightly as he smiled from one side of his mouth.

Sera stared in disbelief at the stereotypical cowboy aviator in his late thirties. He sported a crew cut, and was clad in a white T-shirt, faded denims, a distressed brown bomber jacket, and weathered brown timberland boots. He even had the expected mirrored sunglasses on his rugged, bronze face. She muttered, “Wow, the ego has landed.”

Frank approached, pumped Flynn’s hand, and slapped his shoulder. “Nice entrance. As usual.”

“Hey, we pilots do what we can. Gotta keep up the celebrity image, right?”

Frank tittered indulgently and introduced the team.

When her turn came, Sera politely shook his hand. “Flynn. Is that first or last?”

“Flynn. Just Flynn.” He gave her his goofy, lopsided grin again.

She snorted.

Meanwhile, Dee rummaged in her oversized satchel. She fished out an antique camera—an Imperial Reflex model from the sixties. She explained that her grandfather had given it to her in honor of her adoration of the Golden Age. She began snapping photos.

Flynn enthusiastically posed next to his aircraft, gesturing toward the huge red logo on the side. The others begrudgingly said cheese as the lens trained on them.

Frank, however, was appalled. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to record our presence here? We’re trying to keep a low profile, you know.”

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy, Frank. I’ve been appointed trip historian. I’ve got to chronicle our mission. And no one but us will ever see the pictures.”

Bick spoke in a subdued tone. “I believe you are historian of the past, not the present.”

Dee ignored him and kept shooting.

“Enough.” Iggy stepped into the fray. “We have to leave. Now.”

“No problem. I already refueled, so let’s board up.” The airman strode toward one of Dee’s suitcases and swooped down to grab the handle as he kept his forward momentum. But as soon as his fingers closed around it, his body jerked backward and he almost lost his balance. “Hey, what are you cats smuggling? Bars of gold?”

“No.” Dee raised her eyebrows innocently. “Just research materials.”

Sera laughed. The previous night, she had observed Dee packing a suitcase with every book, magazine, and newspaper she owned on the assassination. The other bag contained clothes and personal items, so it naturally weighed less.

Dee shrugged at the pilot, effortlessly picked up the second case, and carried it to the cargo hatch.

8:20 AM – EDT

Frank relaxed his shoulders and closed his eyes. At long last, freedom shone ahead like a beacon. He rode shotgun next to Flynn as the flightseeing craft taxied toward the runway with seven individuals crammed inside, marking full capacity. The small cockpit housed three pairs of seats in rows, with a solitary one in the rear for Jay.

Suddenly, a general broadcast blared from the radio into their headphones, knocking Frank back to attention. Due to a serious air-traffic control malfunction, all take-offs and landings at WBW were prohibited. Grounded flights were ordered to return to their gates and hangars until the problem could be rectified.

Dismayed, Frank glanced around the cabin, noting that the ploy hadn’t fooled anyone else either.

“I can’t believe it.” Jay banged his fist on the window. “The warden isn’t smart enough to have tracked us so quickly. Besides, he was supposed to stop the diversionary flight to Boston, not ground the entire airfield.”

“Quiet.” Iggy cut him off. “No time. Suggestions?”

Before anyone could respond, the Tower radioed their plane directly, ordering them to cease and desist, repeating the cover story.

“We can’t go back.” Frank appealed to his friend. “We’re wanted.”

“I know.” Flynn continued driving forward. He executed the turn onto the beginning of the runway, and then gasped. “Who the hell’s this guy?”

Sera instantly recognized the black Chevy Caprice bisecting the pavement halfway down, facing them dead on. “It’s Colonel Zimmerman.”

“He’s a colonel?” Flynn asked.

Frank nodded, looking alarmed.

“In the army?”

Frank gripped the dash. “Yes.”

The G-forces pinned all seven into their seats as Flynn throttled the engines to maximum power.

8:22 AM – EDT

Zimmerman grimly exited the driver’s side and stood next to the car, waving his arms high above his head.

Sutherland followed suit from the passenger door with significantly less confidence. “He’s not going to stop! He’s insane!”

The colonel held fast, his arrogance allowing no thought of failure. The captain gawked at the orange and yellow projectile hurtling toward them.

Both officers drew the same conclusion at the same moment. Screaming, they leapt to either side, throwing themselves flat on the tarmac. The plane lifted off, yards from their position. As it gained altitude, the landing wheels crashed into the Caprice’s windshield and rolled over the roof, crunching it into oblivion.

The deafening noise drowned out Zimmerman’s raging tirade.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2013

8:24 AM – EDT

Frank turned his ashen face to Flynn. “What are you trying to do? Kill us?” He had felt his gut whoosh up to meet his esophagus when the plane dipped after its collision with the colonel’s car.

“Yeah, Frank.” Sera flopped back in her seat, her clothes clammy from perspiration. “I thought you said you could trust him.”

Flynn calmly checked his gauges and continued pushing the altimeter. “Settle down, people. I got you outta the airport, didn’t I? It was a brilliant maneuver, and I had it all under control.”

“You nearly killed two men!” Bick hollered.

“Hey, nobody got hurt. Obviously they were going to jump out of the way. Human instinct.”

“Who is this guy?” Sera glared at her companions. “I mean, who does he think he is?”

“Actually”—Iggy squinted her eyes into slits—“I’ve been wondering why he seems rather familiar.”

“I’ll never forget him now.” Sera unclenched her hands from the armrests.

“I’d wager he’s Air Force.” Bick’s gaze bored into the back of the aviator’s buzz cut. “Only an Air Force pilot would be so cavalier.”

Flynn guffawed. “Pipe down there, Navy.”

Bick grinned. Definitely Air Force.

Dee half listened as she peered below at the sturdy concrete bunkers of WB, attempting to quell the rising bile in her throat.

“How about thinking positive? You know, bright side and all that. We’re alive, and we dodged Zimmerman.” Jay prodded Dee from behind. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” Dee clutched her midsection.

Bick patted her arm. “Put your head down. You’ll feel better soon.”

“See? Everyone’s fine. You’re all breathing.” Flynn smoothly banked the aircraft in an arc to the left. “Now, to business. What about my fee?”

“Your fee!” Frank inadvertently sprayed out the F. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Dead serious. Let’s add it up.” Flynn began ticking off his fingers. “My time, fuel costs, wear and tear . . . oh and, let’s see . . . a thrilling escape. Besides, I cancelled a lucrative gig because you said this was urgent.”

“Whoa, whoa, cowboy. Aren’t you missing something?”

“How could I forget?” Flynn splayed his thumb in the final count. “Insurance!”

“No.” Frank mustered his dignity. “How about the fact that you owe me your life?”

“Look, I can still take you back to WB.”

“Flyyyn?” Frank drew out the sound of his name like a schoolteacher who had caught a kid misbehaving.

The pilot gave him a sidelong glance. “Okay, okay. But we’re square. Score settled. Done.” He eased the throttle back as they reached cruising altitude, reducing the howling of the engines to dull white noise. “So, what’s the deal? I know you’re in deep manure or you wouldn’t have called me. But why visit Sam?”

“We need one of his submersibles. It’s critical.”

“Submersible? What good’s that? You gonna hide at the bottom of the ocean?” Flynn snickered. “Anyway, why would Sam help? You two don’t even get along.”

Frank considered this. “He’s a bit of a peacock, I’ll grant you. But we get along great.”

Flynn lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows at Frank.

“No, I mean it. Yes, we argued all the time. Yelled even. But it was in the spirit of scientific debate on the most controversial theories in engineering. The constant sparring, jabs, and insults galvanized us to accomplish our most outstanding achievements. I can honestly say that without Sam, I wouldn’t have developed my environmental systems for the space fort. And I believe the feeling is mutual.”

“Wow. Didn’t suspect that.” Flynn nodded. “You know, I’d like to pop in on Sam. It’s been a while. ‘Sides, I need to lay low after smuggling you all out of WB.”

“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 spacesuits. 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 arm 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.

6:30 PM – PDT

Five scientists, one reporter, one former astronaut, and one retired Secret Service agent had spent all afternoon discussing the mission and the events leading up to it. In turn, each person described his or her backstory and initiation into the group. Iggy, Sera, and Jay explained the intricacies of the Anti-Matter project and the discovery of Anti-Time, and their inspiration to use it to save Jackie K. Quin easily accepted their assertions, while Sam required more convincing. Predictably, he argued with Frank and the others, challenging the validity of their assumptions. He demanded extensive details on the time experiments and complex mathematics. Charts and diagrams were drawn. Sam even brought in a white board from his lab to illustrate his counter-theories.

Frustrated by the hours wasted in an academic seminar, Dee finally pleaded with Iggy to simply show them. Also weary, Bick wholeheartedly supported her. Similar to the demonstration at Dee’s apartment, they jumped an object one two-thousandths of a second to the future. Frank had requested Sam’s watch, but the aerospace engineer saw through the ploy immediately. In the end, they went outside and used a glass coke bottle. After Iggy hit the converter, the bottle plummeted spectacularly, kicking up the dusty earth in a puff of smoke while soda gushed out like a geyser.

Elated by the successful demonstration, Quin grabbed Iggy around both arms in a tight bear hug, picked her up, and spun her three-sixty. “Yee-Ha! Space. Can’t wait to get back.” Smiling, he gingerly placed her on the ground, but was troubled to realize she appeared discomfited.

Iggy eyed Sam warily, as if expecting a corollary reaction.

Sam straightened his shirt with dignity. “I see what you mean about the tourist submersible. We can finish it up and retrofit it for space travel, but it’s still going to need a lot of work.” Begrudgingly, he had become a proponent of the project, perhaps even more so than Quin.

Iggy attempted to recover her poise. “I’m pleased both of you want to volunteer to join us. We were going to extend the invitation anyway.”

“Absolutely.” Quin tipped a make-believe hat to Iggy, trying to redeem himself. “Thank you for including us, ma’am.”

Sera glared. “The vote wasn’t unanimous, flyboy.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 2013

9:00 AM – PDT

After breakfast, Dee grabbed her camera and followed the nascent team to the Eureka Ranch boathouse. The morning sun streamed in through the skylights, glinting on the time-travel transport as they admired it again.

Dee circled the wooden platform, snapping pictures. “Hey, what luck! There are eight windows. One for each of us.”

“Portholes.” Sam corrected. “Designed to maximize the number of viewports for tourists while minimizing hull stress.”

Dee turned abruptly, swinging her red curls in a defiant flip as she climbed up to the platform.

Ignoring the discord, the others spread out around the metallic ship’s circumference and hoisted themselves up, each peering through a different pane of glass.

Dee observed a partly constructed ceiling seven feet from the sub’s main floor, allowing adequate workspace for the crew. A ladder in the middle led up to a circular opening, ostensibly an airlock egress for the hatch. Under one porthole was a console with the rudiments of steering controls.

Sam mentioned that the bottom compartment housed a ballast tank to be filled with water when submerging. An air compression pump would expel the liquid weight to surface. “Not that it matters much in space.”

Iggy added, “Still, it might come in handy.”

Jay raised his eyebrows. He jumped down and snatched a clipboard, ready to assume his Project Manager persona. “We’re in pretty good shape. Obviously, this submersible is well on its way. But we’re going to need a lot of additions and modifications. I suggest a haves and needs analysis.” He began by prompting Sam to enumerate the systems already installed.

Beyond ballast, Sam had included oxygen tanks and ocean propulsion. He boasted that four-inch-thick glass covered the portholes so the windows could withstand depths of up to one thousand feet.

Dee glared at him at the mention of windows, but Sam appeared unfazed. He smiled in the manner of a contented person. Of course. He’d soon be embarking on a lifetime dream.

The group chimed in as Jay led the discussion on various additional requirements. He jotted a list, roughly mapping out a priority order. Despite Frank’s reticence to join them, he seemed excited about the prospect of replicating his O_2 and H_2O recycling apparatus.

Realizing she could focus her talents more productively, Dee quietly sat down at a workbench, dug into a suitcase, and pulled out reference materials on Jackie K. She turned the radio to low volume, splayed out her books, and began to study.

Quin swaggered over to the porthole outside the uncompleted pilot’s station. “I’m gonna need ship manipulation within easy reach.” He moved imaginary levers with both hands. “Attitude on my left and steering on my right.”

The satisfied smile wilted from Sam’s face. “I beg your pardon?”

Dee glanced up to see the others grimace at his frosty tone.

Oblivious, Quin kept flying his invisible ship. “Pilot controls, slick. Pilot controls.”

“Right. But they will be my controls. Clearly, I will be commander.”

“Whoa there, fella. Who’s the crackerjack astronaut? I’m the man for the job.” Quin jabbed a thumb at his own sternum as he hopped off the platform.

Sam marched toward him and squared his shoulders. “This is completely unacceptable. What makes you think you can take over command of my ship?”

Iggy barged between them, tamping down the urge to stiffen her arms and place a palm on each man’s chest. “Let’s hash this out as a team. Surely we can work out a compromise.”

As Sam and Quin glowered at each other, Dee startled everyone by speaking up from her research table. “Bick should be commander. He flew the most sophisticated combat aircraft in the world for the Navy, and achieved fighter ace status in the Stale War. Why, he created the Kiffin Maneuver!”

This dramatic pronouncement jolted Quin and Sam from their feud, and they turned to Bick in shock and jealousy.

Sam managed to croak out a few words. “That tactic saved Seattle in ’88. If the Russians had won the battle, the US would have been launched into another all-out war.”

Bick shifted his gaze downward.

“Uh, guys.” Jay turned up the radio. “Sorry to interrupt, but with that in mind we should probably listen to this live announcement.”

The new Soviet ruler barked hostile threats over the airwaves. “The USSR believes without a doubt that the US is responsible for the atrocious assassination of our beloved former premier. We are one hundred percent positive evidence will be uncovered in support of this fact. Once it is proven, we will retaliate with all the force at our disposal. The American president cannot hide from our wrath.”

The time travelers regarded each other in dismay.

9:10 AM – PDT

Their vocal cords failed the fugitives as they contemplated the dire report.

Jay clicked off the news, rendering the boathouse silent except for the splash of waves gently breaking on the bay.

Sera navigated them back to the conversation. “Kiffin Maneuver? What’s that?”

Quin leapt in with spontaneous enthusiasm before Bick could respond. “The Kiffin Maneuver was a kick-ass fighter pilot tactic. Simple, but kick-ass, man! Picture several bogeys engaging you head on. Your squadron has two lead planes with two wingmen chasing them.” He glided both hands forward as if they were flying. “The enemy expects a full-on assault. But at the last second, foom!” he dropped his hands abruptly. “The leads descend, and I mean fast. Pretty risky because it can throw you into a nosedive. The wingmen simultaneously ascend, foop!”—Quin raised both hands rapidly—“so the opposition doesn’t know what the hell is happening or which set of planes to attack. The wings fire at the bandits from above.” He pointed his fingers into guns. “Rat a tat tat tat tat! Boom!” His hands fanned out in a pretend explosion. “Blown away before they even know what hit ‘em.”

Dee straightened with pride. “Bick was Kiffin’s wingman, and he orchestrated the maneuver.”

“Good one, Bick!” Quin slapped his shoulder in congratulations.

“Forgive me.” Jay tapped his clipboard with his pen. “But why isn’t it called the Haycock Maneuver?”

Bick pressed his lips together wryly. “You know how these things work. The squadron boss gets the credit. Besides, my name just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“So you see, Bick will be an excellent commander,” Dee summed up, as if adding two and two.

“Wait a minute.” Sera stepped forward, waving her arms laterally like an umpire declaring safe. “This is all wrong. Yes, we need a kick-ass pilot, but we also need someone to be in charge. A leader.”

Bick nodded. “A captain. The way the Navy runs it. The captain gives orders and the crew—including the pilot—follows those orders. You Air Force guys are totally off base.”

“No way.” Quin shook his head. “The commander is in charge and the commander flies the bird.”

“I agree with Sera.” Jay squinted in thought. “You need to separate the command decision from the execution of the command.”

“Exactly. And I nominate Iggy to be captain.”

Iggy looked up, floored by Bick’s vote of confidence.

Sam had stood by fuming, but he finally spoke up. “I will be the commander. Let us not forget we are using my ship. I know it intimately. Every bolt and every rivet were connected by me. You can skip this nonsense about captain.”

Sera waited a beat. Was he threatening to take his bat and ball and go home?

“I should be in charge.”

Sera slumped at the sound of Frank’s whine.

“Without me, none of you would be here. You three”—he gestured to Sera, Iggy, and Jay—“would be rotting in a cell. The rest of you would never have heard of this crazy mission.” His voice rose a couple of octaves. “In fact, my guiding hands brought all of you together!”

“Guiding hands?” Sera repeated incredulously.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Prof,” Quin drawled good-naturedly, “you ain’t even in the running.”

Sera ignored them. “We need a captain, and Iggy is the only logical option.” She saw Sam roll his eyes. “It’s not nonsense, Sam. We need a leader, and you won’t find a more effective one. Without Iggy, we wouldn’t have discovered time travel. She invented the containment device that ultimately generated Anti-Time. She’s the foremost Anti-Matter specialist in the world. And who’s a better decision maker?” Sera scanned the room in mock wonderment.

“You have to admit Iggy makes rational choices based on facts. Whereas the rest of us get caught up in our, um . . .” Jay faltered “. . . emotions.”

Sera sighed as everyone started talking at once, each person trying to drown out the others in an effort to be heard. A consensus appeared unlikely.

10:00 AM – PDT

8:00 PM – EEDT

Back home in Minsk, the Soviet operative was prepared and composed, as usual. When they called his name, he gathered his reams of notes and his brief presentation on the data files stolen from the Secaucus research facility. He strode to the dais and surveyed the audience. KGB superiors, top scientists, and critically, the premier himself, sat before him.

The spy explained that the Americans had made significant advancements toward building a viable Anti-Matter weapon. He projected a series of schematics showing the progress made by the inmate physicists, Iggy Mikos and Sera Banks. The crowd gasped and murmured as they absorbed the information, realizing its potential for an incredibly powerful bomb that could obliterate half the continent. A few minutes later, the operative finished his speech and returned to his seat, not allowing an opportunity for questions. There was nothing more to say.

The premier stood, took over the podium, and demanded silence. He vowed the US would never get the opportunity to use this devastating country-killer against the peaceful people of the USSR. The capitalists would pay with their lives for the assassination of the previous Russian leader. He swiftly appointed a task force of the most talented scientific minds in the republic and promised them every resource necessary to ensure that the Kremlin would construct the terrible weapon first.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 2013

10:15 AM – PDT

Sera had to prod Iggy twice before she clambered onto the platform surrounding the ship to address the crew. Despite the apparent disinclination, Sera knew her mentor felt honored.

“It is my privilege to accept the position of captain on this historic mission.” Iggy gave a slight bow. “I pledge to do my utmost to ensure the safety and success of our endeavors.” She made eye contact with each team member in turn. “My gratitude is humbly offered to each one of you for your faith and confidence in me.”

Sera grinned at the white lie. In fact, they had quarreled vehemently for the past hour about who should lead. Ultimately, everyone had been swayed by Sera, Jay, and Bick’s persuasive arguments. Nobody could deny Iggy’s diplomacy, as evidenced here. Except Frank, who sat sullen next to the workbench. Again.

Glossing over Frank’s pout, Iggy adopted a playful tone. “Well, now that I have been elected captain, what is it I am captain of exactly?”

“What do you mean?” Sera looked at her, nonplussed.

“I get it.” Bick turned to Sam. “Does this vessel have a name?”

“No, not as such. I hadn’t considered it yet.”

“How about The Jackie K?” Dee leapt up onto the wooden support and reverently touched the convex hull. “That’s our goal, isn’t it? To save her.”

“If you stop to think about it, the KGB were trying to assassinate JFK.” Jay pulled off his glasses. “So why don’t we pay homage to him? The John F. Kennedy.”

The submersible builder was adamant. “Absolutely not. I will not refer to my creation in the name of that, that animal who pushed the button.”

“Okay, okay, understood.” Jay backed away, holding his hands in front of him as if in surrender.

Sera wanted to infuse some optimism, but spoke hesitantly. “We’re trying to change destiny. How about The New Hope?”

Quin raised his brows. “So much for the frigid exterior, Sera. I reckon maybe you are human.”

She cursed him under her breath.

“It’s obvious.” Frank folded his arms. “The ship should be called the Tempus Fugit.”

Bick responded with forced patience. “The Time Flies?”

“Well, yes, it’s accurate, isn’t it?”

They all exploded in hysterics, except Sam, who remained pensive. “I have always called it The Orb. So building on Frank’s suggestion, how about the Tempus Orbis?”

The whole entourage burst into applause.

“The Tempus Orbis it is!” The captain celebrated the new moniker. “I believe we should christen it.”

“You can’t christen a ship until it’s fully operational,” Sam objected.

“So what? We’re having a moment here. Surely you have some California champagne in this house.”

Sera could see Sam’s feigned reluctance. His pride showed through at having named his progeny.

“Oh all right. I’ll check the wine cellar.”

11:15 AM – PDT

2:15 PM – EDT

Exhausted, Captain Sutherland slouched in his desk chair at the Secaucus Research Installation. But the red-eye from Vegas hadn’t caused his fatigue. He was reeling from the browbeating inflicted by the Colonel after their dead end at the hangar. The near constant barrage had depleted the officer of all resilience, and fear began to take root. He tried to calm down and assess his current situation. The brass weren’t aware of the breakout, but eventually they would discover that the project had slammed to a halt due to the absence of their key scientists. A severe penalty loomed for both Zimmerman and Sutherland. The worst fate anyone could possibly imagine awaited—banishment to the Alaskan front.

Although people referred to the conflict as the Stale War, it remained active on the Bering Strait in Nome, an excellent strategic point from which to launch attacks. The Soviets occupied the city and had established a military fortress on the edge of the sea. Proximity to the motherland meant freighters could transport supplies across the strait, at least during the few months when the waters weren’t frozen solid. The enemy policed the passageway in order to prevent shipments and tankers from reaching oil-rich Prudhoe Bay in North Slope, Alaska. The Americans repeatedly attempted to reclaim the installation for the states. With no road access to the tiny burg, operatives parachuted down in covert expeditions, but the commies routinely targeted and defeated them. The most dangerous post in existence, the government assigned only those who had failed Uncle Sam spectacularly. In truth, it was a death sentence.

Sutherland couldn’t believe that the US hadn’t won a decisive victory in the five decades since Jackie Kennedy’s assassination in November of 1963. He mentally catalogued the sequence of events every kid learned by rote in school.

Although a comrade had been captured at the scene of the crime, the Russians had vigorously denied any involvement in the botched conspiracy to kill JFK. But it was no secret the strike bore the stamp of the KGB. The spy in custody demonstrated extreme resistance to torture and never cracked. Two months later, the CIA hit pay dirt when they hunted down another culprit who had escaped to the Soviet Embassy in Mexico City. In the course of the raid, several Ruskies were neutralized. That’s when the violence started to escalate.

In retaliation for the embassy fiasco, a Russian submarine sank an American aircraft carrier, the USS FDR, off the coast of Virginia in early January of ’64. Responding swiftly, Kennedy ordered the invasion of Cuba because he was panicked it would be used as a Soviet staging ground to wage war on the US. It seemed an obvious preemptive move, considering Khrushchev had used Cuba in his aggression against the Stars and Stripes during the Missile Crisis of October ’62. The Americans took over the pint-sized country and annexed it as territory, while a humiliated Fidel Castro fled in a private plane headed for the USSR. That incident led to the Nome assault.

In late January, armies marching under the Hammer and Sickle crossed the ice-covered Bering Strait and conquered Nome. Enraged at the incursion and devastated by his wife’s murder, the president approved a nuclear drop on Leningrad. The entire city was leveled in an afternoon. Kennedy assumed he would terrorize his adversaries into retreat, but the plan backfired dramatically. The Soviets invoked revenge by nuking Los Angeles, thus incinerating millions of Americans.

As ’64 progressed, the hostilities continued and the H-bombs volleyed back and forth. Sutherland examined a world map on his office wall, noting the red splotches that indicated wasted metropolitan centers. The US destroyed Star City to take out the Russian space program, and the USSR obliterated Cape Canaveral in kind. Next came a hit on Novgorod and the near miss of New York City, which effectively annihilated it anyway with the ensuing tidal wave. Hoping to disable the command structure, JFK sent nukes to the capital, Moscow. However, the Russians anticipated this maneuver and evacuated senior officials to a clandestine location in Minsk. They immediately evened the score by decimating Washington DC, but the Kennedy administration had wisely hauled out of the district.

The eradication of the capitals put an end to major nuclear strikes. In the years since the ’64 Nuke War, no atomic weapons had been launched. Both sides concluded that forging ahead would doom the entire human race. Conventional warfare supplanted fusion bombs in the continuing skirmishes. The advent of Anti-Matter technology would prove the definitive weapon to the side developing it first.

Sutherland exhaled. He couldn’t change the past. However, he could impact his own future. He sat down at his computer to begin his quest.

2:30 PM – PDT

Dee glanced eagerly at the team as they gathered on the cushioned wooden couches and chairs of Sam’s living room.

Iggy stood. “I know you’re all anxious to hear about the roles I’ve assigned.”

Dee had observed their fledgling leader’s grace as she interviewed the Team Orbis members individually to discuss their various skill sets and strengths. Despite the earlier bickering, the captain had cleverly convinced each person of which of his or her assets would benefit the mission most. She paid special attention to Sera’s opinions, understanding that although her protégé had been unreasonable about inviting Quin and Sam, she contributed valuable input.

“So, let’s end the suspense. Quin will be our Pilot. He is a bold and skilled aviator, as evidenced by his gutsy tactics that saved us from the warden. And he has enjoyed a prolific career as a NASA astronaut and commander of numerous missions, proving his expertise in space travel. A feat he alone among us can claim.”

Quin utterly failed at his attempt to not look smug, while Sam flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his shirt.

“Having clearly logged the most hours in flight, Bick has agreed to be our Copilot. He thinks strategically, even in the heat of battle as he did when orchestrating the Kiffin Maneuver. His experience in dealing with covert KGB combatants during his tenure as a Naval officer and with the Secret Service will be invaluable.”

Bick sat with a rigid spine, displaying no emotion.

“Next we need a brilliant technical mind for our Aerospace Engineer. Sam is the ideal candidate, due to his innovative spacecraft construction methods. Coupled with the fact that he built our Tempus Orbis”—Iggy smiled at Sam—“he’s perfect for the job.”

Sam’s chest swelled as he nodded.

“For life support, Frank will be our Environmental Engineer. The revolutionary systems he designed for NASA are proof he is the world’s foremost inventor in the field. He will be responsible for our survival in space.”

Frank rolled his eyes as if the accolades meant nothing.

“Jay will be our Navigator. He will make the calculations for each jump and determine our precise location in time and space. And though he would never admit it, Jay had the inspiration to use our discovery to change history. His epiphany led us to the plan to rescue Jackie K.”

Dee twisted her head toward Jay in surprise. All along she had thought he was a lemming, following the others; now she gazed at his embarrassed expression with approval.

“My colleague, Sera, has been with me from the beginning and has been instrumental in Anti-Matter formation and containment. She will be our AM Specialist and my personal advisor.”

Her confidante appeared vindicated.

“And now, for one final important role. Acting as Trip Historian, Dee will devise the best way to prevent the assassination of Jackie K. She will be the authority on the fashions and culture of 1963 to make sure we don’t attract undue attention. In addition, the reporter in her character seems to want to chronicle our trip as we embark on this epic journey, and she is welcome to do so.”

Dee rose and gave a half curtsey.

“The task won’t be easy, and it could be extremely treacherous. I need you to commit to this operation of your own free will. Our sole purpose is to save Jackie K. And, we have to agree to work as a team. That means we must support, protect, and defend each other at all times to ensure triumph. To that end, I’ve asked Dee to fashion mission patches.”

Dee pulled eight felt insignias out of her pocket and proudly spread them on the sturdy table. The light blue triangles contained a golden circle in the center, representing the ship, and the embroidered words Team above and Orbis below in black. “I apologize for the simplicity of the design. I’ll make nicer ones of real cloth when I have more time.”

“If you choose to pledge yourself to the cause, please take a patch as a symbol of your commitment. But . . .” Iggy paused as Quin jumped up from his seat and grabbed one. She laughed. “It is strictly your choice. No one will judge you, whatever your decision may be.”

Dee excitedly seized two, handing one to Iggy, who of course accepted. Bick followed, as did Sera and Sam.

“I’m in.” Jay motioned to Dee. “Toss me one.”

That left Frank.

Everyone stared at the professor as he stalled, then slowly stood. “Although I still have misgivings about the time machine and whether we can effect any change if we do go back . . .” He lifted a patch between thumb and forefinger, like tongs. “Count me in.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s destination Dealey.”

3:00 PM – PDT

6:00 PM – EDT

Following hours of intense searching, Sutherland was rewarded for his efforts on the FAA’s Governet Site. A hit! Two days ago, a tourist plane had left the small airport in Vegas, but never reached its intended airport. The pilot had filed a bogus flight plan. Hope suffused the captain. Perhaps Alaska wouldn’t be his fate after all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2013

11:00 AM – PDT

Mid-morning on Monday, Jay and Dee sat at the workbench in the boathouse admiring their arts and crafts project. In front of them sat a scale model diorama of Dealey Plaza, the fateful location where Jackie K. had been assassinated. Jay had painstakingly drawn gridlines on a two-foot by three-foot foam board, and then corresponded the squares to an architectural drawing from one of Dee’s reference books. They mapped out JFK’s motorcade route through the plaza from Houston Street to the sharp left on Elm, where the deadly shots killed an unintended target. Upright tissue boxes depicted the buildings lining the roads, and tiny fake trees grew from magic marker soil, accurately glued into position. Toy cars and motorcycles represented the full entourage, while miniature people observed from the curb and the Pergola—a concrete colonnade rendered in construction paper.

As Dee snapped pictures of their handiwork, she couldn’t help but giggle about the Hobby Hut they had visited earlier. The odd assortment of wares available for purchase at such an establishment amazed the friends. The shop sold science kits, backyard rockets, die-cast soldiers, plastic horses, flying kites, model cars, and train sets. The store even housed a gaming area in the back room where pasty-faced kids raced slot cars. Dee rehashed their amusement over the proprietor. “The owner was a caricature. A mullet-wearing, matchbox-collecting, rocket-launching, slot-car-racing freak! I couldn’t believe it when we brought our stuff up to the counter and he asked us if we were collectors.”

“And did you see how unfazed he was when I said, no, we’re just building a Dealey Plaza diorama in the basement? As if this behavior is normal?” Again, they erupted in mirth.

A few moments later, Jay glanced at the television they had wheeled in to keep abreast of the latest developments. He turned up the volume and abruptly stopped laughing. “Hey, guys, listen to this news report. The president is about to make a statement.”

The rest of the team were retrofitting the Tempus Orbis for spaceflight, but they halted work to watch.

Jay gazed at the familiar picture of the Oval Office with the Commander in Chief resting his palms on the Resolute desk. The historic piece had been built from timbers of the British frigate HMS Resolute, and given to President Hayes by Queen Victoria in 1880. A legendary photo of the desk from the Kennedy administration showed JFK working, while his son John-John peeked out from a panel door underneath. Fortunately, the iconic furniture had been evacuated from DC prior to the Russian nuclear strike of ’64.

In the background, an American flag and a presidential flag flanked a window overlooking the grass and trees of the White House South Lawn. In spite of the illusion that the room existed in a stately manor exactly like the former residence in Washington, most of the populace grasped that they were viewing a forgery. In reality, the scene portrayed an underground bunker in WB, with a sunny image projected onto the windowpane. Rumors flourished that the Republican leader rarely surfaced above ground. He purportedly had secret tunnels burrowing under the city with escape routes to a private airport.

President Giuliani began his speech. “My fellow Americans, a terrible tragedy has recently befallen the Soviet Union. Our deepest sympathies are extended to the families and friends of the premier and his comrades who perished in the horrific helicopter attack of last Thursday.” He paused and took a sip of water, as if too emotional to continue.

Jay saw through the transparent gesture. Nobody in the country mourned the deaths; they simply feared the inevitable retaliation.

“However, since no one has come forward to claim responsibility for this violence, the USSR would have the global community believe that the US is accountable for the cowardly act. This accusation is utterly and completely false. I categorically deny that the United States had any involvement whatsoever in the heinous crime.” His tone became menacing. “Now a warning to the Soviets. Any aggression against our nation will incur a swift and decisive response of greater measure. We will not stand down. And I assure the American public we will take every precaution to protect the lives and property of all law-abiding citizens.”

Sam walked to the TV and clicked it off, despite protests from the others. “Enough. We have plenty to accomplish without worrying about World War III.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2013

1:00 PM – PDT

After lunch, Dee corralled the team around the diorama on the workbench. “First, some background for context. Let’s travel to the past to November 1963. President Kennedy has embarked on a tour of five Texas cities, including San Antonio, Houston, Fort Worth, Dallas, and Austin. Tragically, he’ll never make it to his final destination. The tour’s objective is to garner support for his ’64 reelection campaign, which is already heating up. Although JFK won the Lone Star State in 1960, his popularity as a Democrat in the South is waning. Thus, various speeches, appearances, and motorcades are planned in each location to give the incumbent maximum exposure to the population. No one could fathom the tragic outcome in Dallas.”

Dee gestured to the foam board. “Here is our rendition of Dealey Plaza. Perhaps surprisingly, the park has not changed much in the past fifty years. If we visited in present day, we’d be hard pressed to notice the minor differences such as signs and lampposts. The map is oriented with north pointing up. Main Street runs east-west along the bottom, while Houston is on the right-hand edge going north-south. Houston is lined on the east by the Dallas County Criminal Courts Building and the Dallas County Records Building.” She touched the tissue boxes representing the structures. “At the top right, Elm Street intersects Houston. The Texas School Book Depository Building with its fabled Hertz billboard and clock on the roof sits on their northwest corner. Elm bisects the plaza in a southwesterly arc to the left, forming a triangular expanse between Main and Elm known as the infield.” Dee swiped her hand across the green area.

“Note that we show only half of the park. A mirror image exists to the south, with Commerce Street forming the bottom of the triangle arc. The three thoroughfares—Elm, Main, and Commerce—converge to the west under a railroad trestle known as the Triple Underpass. North of Elm is a concrete structure called the Pergola, a round archway facing forward. The back wall and top are semi-enclosed, with large rectangular openings allowing sunlight to stream inside. In front are concrete columns and a few steps leading down the sloping hill known as the Grassy Knoll. A longer staircase on the left proceeds from the railroad parking lot in the northwest down to the sidewalk.” She pointed to the magic marker walkway near the flimsy construction paper half-moon.

“Now, let’s time travel to Friday, November 22, 1963. Picture a gorgeous day with sunny skies and mild temperatures. Air Force One touches down at Love Field Airport in Dallas at 11:40 am Central Standard Time. The President and First Lady exit the plane to the cheers of the waiting crowd, while city officials present Jacqueline with a bouquet of a dozen red roses. Mr. Kennedy’s charcoal gray suit is unmemorable. However, Mrs. Kennedy is wearing a custom-made, double-breasted pink Chanel suit with matching pillbox hat. Her dark navy silk blouse dramatically contrasts with the ensemble. It’s no exaggeration to claim that spectators were as excited to see Jackie as they were to see Jack. The couple walks along a chain-link fence greeting their well-wishers. To the dismay of his Secret Service agents, JFK stops on enumerable occasions to chat and shake hands. Ten minutes later, he finally boards his limousine for the parade through the heart of downtown, with the intention of heading to the Trade Mart for a luncheon speech.”

Dee began to place Lilliputian vehicles on Houston Street. “The motorcade consists of twenty-odd automobiles and an assortment of motorcycle police.”

“Wait.” Jay held up an index finger. “Your grandfather was in the motorcade, right?”

“Unfortunately, no. The detail primarily included city officers, and granddad’s beat was in the suburbs. He would have loved to be part of it, though. He had voted for Kennedy and admired him, at least up until then.” Dee gave a wry shrug before continuing.

“Okay, so a phalanx of Dallas motorcycle cops start the procession, followed by the pilot car and four more motorcycles. Their chief purpose is to keep spectators from spilling into the road. Next is the lead car carrying police and Secret Service tasked with scanning observers and buildings for anything suspicious. Here is the presidential limousine.” She placed a replica on the board. “Imagine American and presidential flags billowing from the front quarter panels. A specially designed 1961 Lincoln convertible, it has two collapsible jump seats between the front and back seats. A narrow foothold on the bumper and two inverted U-shaped bars on the trunk allow Secret Service members to climb aboard and hold on when necessary. In the rearmost bench seat, Kennedy rides on the passenger side with his wife beside him.”

“What the hell were they thinking?” Bick thumped his fist on the table, causing the models to quiver. “It’s inconceivable that the president was out in the open like a sitting duck. Today’s agents would never permit it.”

“I know. It’s not like presidents hadn’t been targeted before.” Dee shook her head at the senselessness. “Anyway, passengers in the jump seats are Texas Governor John Connally Jr. in front of JFK, and his wife Nellie in front of Jackie. Secret Service Agent William Greer drives, while his colleague Roy Kellerman rides shotgun. Two motorcycle cops flank the rear of the Commander-in-Chief’s limo. The follow-up car trails behind, overflowing with Secret Service, including two each on the side running boards. The vice president’s car comes next, carrying Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson.”

“Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute.” Quin emphasized his drawl. “How does some fancy southern belle wind up with the name Lady Bird?”

“Nickname, to be exact. She was born Claudia Alta Taylor, after her Uncle Claud. When she was a baby, her nursemaid proclaimed her ‘purty as a ladybird’ and it stuck. No one seems to remember her birth name. Doubly unlucky for Mrs. Johnson, a ladybird is more commonly called a ladybug.”

“Sheesh. An insect.”

“Yeah.” Dee raised her eyebrows, proud of the depth of her knowledge. “The remainder of the caravan consists of various dignitaries, White House communications, reporters, photographers, police, and an official party bus for White House staff.”

“Official party bus?” Sera scoffed.

“Yes, believe it or not. I’m led to believe the designation was fairly accurate, too, with a lot of drinking and smoking going on.”

Dee motioned to the diorama. “Back to the lay of the land. Our home movie buff, dressmaker Abraham Zapruder, is perched on a concrete abutment in front of the left side of the Pergola, with his receptionist Marilyn Sitzman standing behind him.” She pointed to the tiny figures.

“Mr. Zapruder simply wanted to record a piece of history.” Jay scratched his head. “He had no idea his eight millimeter camera would capture the most sensational assassination of the century. We’re fortunate Dee owns a rare copy of the infamous reel.”

“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 after 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 exactly 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.

Frustrated, Nixon slammed the newspaper onto the bar and only then noticed his empty glass. He lifted the tumbler and shouted rude expletives at the barkeep. You would think a former VP wouldn’t have to beg for a refill. He scowled as the man poured out a measure of liquor. No tip for this jackass.

With his thirst quenched, Nixon mentally catalogued the outbursts with which the Soviet leader had proved himself notoriously unstable.

In late 1956, Khrushchev had taunted the US and its western allies with, “Whether you like it or not, history is on our side. We will bury you.” An obvious warning, some pundits disputed the translation, claiming it was taken out of context. How stupid could you be? A threat was a threat.

Then came the infamous shoe-banging incident at a UN Plenary Meeting in 1961. Khrushchev put forth a resolution decrying colonialism by Western Europe, and the Philippine Ambassador challenged him on his hypocrisy. After all, Russia was equally guilty of colonialism in Eastern Europe. The Soviet premier responded in a rage, taking off his right shoe and pounding it repeatedly on the desk. The crazy bastard then creatively called the Filipino a jerk, a stooge, and a lackey of imperialism.

Nixon himself had squared off with Khrushchev in 1959 during his tenure as second-in-command under Eisenhower. The pair had engaged in an impromptu exchange at the American National Exhibition in Moscow. The so-called Kitchen Debate occurred in the kitchen of a house built to showcase achievements of the American consumer market to the Soviets. The two men argued over the respective merits of the communist and capitalist systems for hours, discussing the labor-saving and recreational devices featured in the prototype home. The Russian leader denounced the items as luxuries that wouldn’t interest his comrades. Their attention focused on more important issues. The VP countered that at least the examples represented civilian innovation rather than military. In the end, Khrushchev agreed that the US and USSR needed to be more open and honest with each other. That maniac had agreed!

Nixon congratulated himself on his powers of persuasion. Of course, he’d excel at American-Soviet relations—much more than that entitled rich kid who graduated from Harvard. It wasn’t fair. Acceptance to the Ivy League school wasn’t enough; you also had to have money and prestige to attend. Possessing neither, he had ended up relegated to Whittier, the local California Quaker college instead.

And then JFK stole the presidential election from him. Aloud, Nixon muttered, “That sucker has my job.” And he swallowed the remainder of his whiskey.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1963 AND 2013

3:00 AM – PDT

5:00 AM – CDT

Fledgling KGB operative Viktor Vladimirsky cringed as his superior snarled in Russian, ordering him to enter the decryption codes into the shortwave. Swarthy and compact, Dmitriy Sokolov’s Neanderthal appearance and menacing behavior stereotyped him as the ruthless killer he was. The underling hastened to comply.

Viktor fiddled with the controls, his shaking fingers causing invalid entry twice in a row. Their current mission marked the first outside of Mother Russia for the clean-cut, six-foot-two blond. Given that the organization allowed no room for failure, his reputation and future hinged on this performance. Viktor paused, wiped his hand on a trouser leg, and remembered his training. Concentrate. The world exists only in terms of the immediate task. Pulling himself together, he prevailed on the third attempt.

Dmitriy grunted in dissatisfaction, barking that Section Chief Leonid Novikov might have already initiated the two-way contact.

Fortunately for Viktor, the communication came through at 5:01 am—one minute late—on the state-of-the-art radio. Produced at the Gorizont Electronics factory in Minsk, the shortwave represented the latest Soviet technology available in 1963. While the KGB operated on a strict budget, they took advantage of the best equipment when it concerned security.

Instead of the crystal clear transmission Viktor expected, the section chief’s bulletin rasped out beneath heavy static, forcing them to lean closer to understand. The instructions themselves, however, were straightforward. The three-man cell should pick up false identities at the Russian embassy in Mexico City, head to Dallas, and set up residences as American citizens. Further direction would be provided upon arrival.

A covert operation in the US. Viktor inhaled deeply, expanding his chest. He’d make his family proud.

Unbeknownst to both agents, the Leonid imposter was listening at the other end of the shortwave. His eye twitched as he waited for acknowledgment that the message had been received. It would be the acid test of whether his evil machinations would succeed. A few moments later, the confirmation arrived, as anticipated. The masquerader smiled in victory; he’d known all along his plan would work.

5:00 AM – PDT

Quin stifled a mammoth yawn as he fixed his gaze on Sera. He felt like the zombie dead at this inhuman hour of the morning.

She gently placed an Anti-Matter container into the miniature sphere and closed its hatch. Built to resemble the Tempus Orbis in one-fifteenth scale, the basketball-sized unit was sealed and prepped. “It’s ready.”

Iggy gingerly picked up the shiny brass globe and carried it into the pre-dawn darkness. “The test warrants a bit of explanation.” She sighed, pausing until Jay intervened.

“Allow me.”

“Gladly.”

“As you know, we need to calibrate longer jumps to ensure we can hit 1963 accurately. We will send the prototype back in time ninety days. The device will land exactly here where we launch it, but at that time, the earth will be three months behind in its orbit. If the object remained stationary, it would burn up in the atmosphere as the planet approached to meet it. However, it will maintain the same momentum as the earth’s orbit, thus it will continue to track three months ahead. The radio transmitter inside broadcasts the number of seconds elapsed since launch. All we have to do is find its beacon along the trajectory of orbit. Voila!”

Iggy rested the prototype on the grass and shivered in the forty-nine degree temperature. “We chose early morning so we are on the correct side of the planet. To use the car analogy from before, we are driving the earth forward in the direction where the sphere will be located.”

Quin observed Frank and Sam unconsciously nodding in agreement, while Dee and Bick stared at the metallic ball in bewilderment. The exercise was of no consequence to Quin; he was just jazzed about heading back into space.

Dee snapped her mouth shut in resignation. “I won’t pretend I understand. I trust you guys. But something else has been puzzling me. When you time-jumped Frank’s watch, only the watch disappeared, not the whole device.”

Frank seethed at the mention.

“Simple.” Jay brightened. “Brass is the key. It contains the Anti-Time bubble. You see, when we time-jumped the watch and the coke bottle, the apparatus had a brass coating on the interior, meaning the bubble formed inside the device. Similarly, the Chamber Iggy and Sera used to escape the Gulag had a brass lining. In contrast, this sphere has a brass exterior, meaning the entire unit will be transported.”

Dee looked helplessly at Bick, and he shrugged in response.

“Listen, people.” Frank stood in front of the team and affected an aggrieved tone. “Let’s yank this charade back to reality. If your time-travel nonsense really worked, and we were about to send the object back three months, wouldn’t it be there already?”

“That’s a logical hypothesis.” Sam pointed at Frank, lending credence to his theory. “Let’s scan for the beacon first to verify.”

Quin followed the eager crew as they traipsed after Sam to the observatory. They spent the next thirty minutes under the dome checking for a radio signal of the proper frequency with Sam’s satellite dish receiver. Despite everyone’s best efforts, they found no trace.

Frank planted his hands on his hips. “That proves it. Your alleged time machine does not work.”

Sera fired back, “It does work! The sphere isn’t there because we haven’t sent it yet. Cause and effect, Frank.”

“Yeah, Professor.” Quin couldn’t hide his sarcasm. “Don’t you watch any TV? It’s the cardinal rule of time travel. Nuthin’ changes till you go back and change it.”

5:30 AM – PDT

8:30 AM – EDT

In Secaucus, Captain Sutherland dedicated his off-duty hours to searching the Governet for known associates of Sera Banks, Iggy Mikos, Jay Harding, Frank Thomas, and Bickford Haycock. Someone had to be helping them. As the captain hammered on the keyboard, he lamented to himself that the overwhelming task seemed futile. But he had run out of options to find the outlaws. Inconceivably, the bogus flight plan uncovered a few days ago turned out to be one of hundreds of falsified records in Vegas. The vast deceit happening among the general population shocked Sutherland. With no way to whittle the flights down to a manageable number, he had resorted to this latest strategy. Meanwhile, he placed all hope on the likelihood that the fugitives would reveal themselves by hitting a checkpoint or using a credit card. Colonel Zimmerman had even authorized deployment of cutting-edge facial recognition software to monitor crimes picked up by surveillance tapes. After all, they could remain hidden from society for only a finite period before requiring resources and supplies.

6:00 AM – PDT

Minutes after returning to the observatory post-launch, the troop zeroed in on the prototype’s radio signal with Sam’s satellite dish receiver. Iggy confirmed three months had indeed elapsed on the internal clock, thus proving their time-jump calculations. Overcoming their weariness, Team Orbis whooped and shouted in triumph, while refraining from telling Frank, I told you so, although this required Quin to exercise monumental self-control.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1963 AND 2013

1:00 PM – PDT

Piles of clothes and shoes surrounded Dee on the boathouse floor after she had weeded out fabrics and styles that wouldn’t blend in with sixties fashions. Since most of the team had been forced to flee with scant notice, she completed her task in short order. And she’d planned ahead. The items she and Jay had purchased in Vegas were classic and timeless enough to pass without scrutiny in 1963. She wagered Sera wouldn’t be pleased with the dresses selected for her, but Dee kept that a secret. “Okay, we’re fine on wardrobe. We each have some basic jeans or skirts to tide us over until we can go shopping in Dallas.”

“Excellent.” Jay checked off the boxes on his clipboard. “Which reminds me, how is the money coming along, Iggy?”

“Give me a minute.” She tweaked the image on her computer and sent it to print. Set to highest quality, the printer took ninety seconds to churn out the two-sided document. Iggy held the heavyweight, woven sheet up to the skylight and sighed. “Nope, not ready yet.” Four perfect copies of a ten-dollar bill appeared on each side, but the front and back failed to line up properly.

Jay patted her forearm. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it. We’re just lucky Dee had some antique cash in her collection.”

Dee held up her palm. “Not that I would ordinarily condone counterfeiting.”

“Naturally. I think we’ve hit some kind of record on federal crimes as is.” Jay referred to his clipboard. “Now, we need to make sure we have enough provisions in case of emergency.” He started reeling off a laundry list. “Extra food, water, blankets, first aid kits, medicine, fire extinguishers. If our space travel takes longer than anticipated, we don’t want to be caught off guard. We need to plan for every possible contingency. In fact, I was thinking . . . we probably should have, I mean we should anticipate the need . . . but where would we get them?” Jay gazed off into the distance.

“For heaven’s sake, son, spit it out.” Bick slapped him on the back.

“Yes, right. Spacesuits. We should have spacesuits on board in the event we need an EVA. You know, an Extra Vehicular Activity.”

“We know what an EVA is!” Iggy hollered good-naturedly.

“Well, I think we need the suits in case there’s a malfunction, or something hits the ship and damages it.”

Frank paused amid his assembly of carbon dioxide scrubbers for the Tempus. “The odds of hitting an object in space are absurdly remote, particularly in 1963. Debris is relatively rare, and few human-made objects were in orbit then. Spacesuits would be a waste of storage room, not to mention impossible for us to obtain.”

“I have a couple of spacesuits.” Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“What the hell”—Quin jumped down from the ship platform—“are you doing with spacesuits?”

“I have in my possession two state-of-the-art NASA prototype suits with revolutionary stabilizing mechanisms of my own creation.” Sam hitched his shoulders back defiantly. “EVAs are notoriously dangerous because any small thrust in the Zero G of space gives you velocity in that direction. My system counter-balances the velocity so the astronaut can stay in one place to complete a task.”

“Again, what the hell are you doing with spacesuits?”

“Listen, the design was so powerful that NASA planned to adapt it to weapons. Obviously, blasting munitions in space causes a severe kickback against the ship. For an orbiting vehicle like the space fort, enormous energy is required to maintain course. My method would provide a remedy. But this is not the purpose for which I intended the invention. I see no reason to make their weapons more efficient.”

Sera approached with glee. “So you stole the suits?”

“I appropriated them from NASA along with the schematics before I resigned. I didn’t want them per se, I just didn’t want the US government to have the technology.”

“Yeah, so you stole them.”

Sam glared at Sera, and then strode over to a wooden crate crammed among others along the wall. “Here. They’re in this box.” As he dislodged it, a NASA symbol became visible on the side.

With Quin’s help, Sam wrenched open the crate and began pulling out the unwieldy white suits. Plump and stiff, they held their shapes as if astronauts were inside them.

Quin grabbed an unattached helmet, lowered it over his head and slid down the gold-plated visor with a practiced flip. “I say we take ‘em along. Might come in handy.”

While Quin walked around looking like a strange bug, Dee spotted something else in the bottom of the box. She started withdrawing a number of cobalt blue jumpsuits with a NASA logo on the left pocket and an American flag on the left shoulder. “What are these doing here?”

Sera grinned. “Yeah, did you steal those, too?”

“Believe me, I had no choice. They were in the same crate and it would have been more obvious if I had removed the jumpsuits.” Sam’s tone rang out as more defensive than righteous.

Dee noticed a plastic cuff on the arm. “What’s this?”

“It’s a heart-rate monitor. We like to know if our astronauts become overexcited. Not that it’s strictly necessary.” Sam glanced at Quin.

“Really? These are fantastic.” Dee held up a jumpsuit in front of her body, modeling it for the others. She kicked up a leg to get a better view of the entire ensemble. “We can use them as flightsuits on the mission.”

Frank folded his arms. “I am not wearing that unless you remove the NASA logo.”

Dee examined the inside of the left lapel. “Can’t. It’s embroidered through the fabric itself. But I can put our Team Orbis patches on the other side.”

“That would be wonderful.” Iggy intervened to prevent Frank from complaining. “It signifies our commitment. Plus, the heart-rate monitors will be invaluable. However, we have to make sure we leave them in the ship when we arrive in 1963. We can’t bring anything modern back with us. No future garments, no advanced technology, no communications apparatus, nothing.”

“And don’t bring any electronic grooming devices such as hairdryers or shavers.” As Trip Historian, Dee wanted to ensure there would be no anachronisms. “Believe it or not, those innocuous items are vastly different from ones manufactured in the sixties.”

Sam plugged a spacesuit into an outlet to charge its systems. “Except we’ll bring weapons, of course.”

“Especially not weapons!” Bick sounded appalled. “We can’t allow today’s technology to fall into the wrong hands. It could turn the tide of history.”

“You’ve got to be joking, we’re already attempting—”

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Dee interrupted Sam. “Breaking news.” As they turned to the television, she was annoyed to see Ken from the Federal News Bureau again.

“We’re coming to you live from the Kremlin in Minsk.” The reporter gestured behind him to the Red Square castle with its familiar onion-topped towers gleaming in the sun.

Dee snorted. Ken was clearly broadcasting from in-studio as it neared midnight in the Russian capital. No need for him to risk his handsome self in the field.

“Soviet leaders have announced the capture of a US spy ring operating here in the city of Minsk. Their intel allegedly points to these three men as the perpetrators of the recent deadly attack on the former premier.” Three photos of generic-looking men floated above the image of the palace. “The individuals are being held in solitary confinement, and the Russians are promising extensive interrogations followed by a swift trial. If convicted, as defendants usually are in the communist country, the penalty will be death by firing squad. The US press secretary vehemently denies the presence of any undercover agents in the USSR, and although President Giuliani has refuted US participation in the assault, he is unreachable today for comment. As the story develops, we see increasing tensions between the two nations and, in fact, our presence as American citizens is deemed hazardous. Our entourage has been assigned armed guards, and we have been advised to stay in designated press areas.” He furrowed his brow as if concerned. “The pundits predict the friction between our countries will certainly escalate, perhaps to the point of aggression. Stay tuned. Our continuing coverage continues after a short break from our sponsors.”

“What a putz.” Jay shook his head. “He’s correct about one thing, though. It’s only going to get worse.”

“That’s why we gotta get our butts back to ’63, right? Fix all this.” Quin’s muffled voice came from under the helmet.

“Yes, as you say, fix all this.” Sam stopped fiddling with the controls on the spacesuit and stood. “And to do that we need every advantage at our disposal. We have fifty years of knowledge on the KGB, and I suggest we use it. That means employing our superior weapons and technology. Who knows? Perhaps 2013 listening devices or video monitors will be the very tools that ensure our success. We would be fools not to benefit from five decades of advancement.”

“No, no, no, that’s exactly what we can’t do.” Jay swished his arms back and forth. “What if we’re found with modern technology? How do we explain we’re not Soviet spies ourselves? It’s simply too dangerous.”

Frank glanced up thoughtfully. “I suppose an argument could be made either way. We need every asset available to us, but we must be cautious.”

“I disagree. I don’t think there is any justification for the risks.” Iggy hoisted herself up to sit on top of the workbench. “To be fair, let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of using 2013 technology?”

Sam’s hand shot up.

“All those opposed?”

Dee joined the others as they raised hands tentatively, as if not to upset Sam.

“Have it your way.” Sam wagged a finger at Iggy. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

4:00 PM – PDT

7:00 PM – EDT

Associate FBI Director Clyde Tolson was riding home in the back of a bulletproof Cadillac limousine next to his boss, Director J. Edgar Hoover. Although they maintained separate residences on the outskirts of Washington DC, the two men were driven to work together each day, with Tolson picked up first in the morning and dropped off last in the evening. Longtime companions, they frequently dined and vacationed with each other. Both meticulously groomed, with starched white shirts, somber tailored suits, and narrow silk ties, the pair differed in that Hoover was slightly shorter and stockier, with a receding hairline. However, their contrasts and similarities didn’t warrant snide talk. Before leaving the office, Tolson had overheard a colleague comment that while the G-men might not pass for brothers, they may have been guys who shopped together.

Hoover tossed his fedora onto the seat and stabbed the button to close the soundproof window between the driver and passenger compartments. “We have a problem, Clyde.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper and waved it back and forth. “I got a memo from the president’s kid brother. He sent this little gem with instructions to investigate Union leaders. He had an epiphany that they’re connected to organized crime—as if we didn’t know. He’s ordering me to wiretap and surveil the bosses, including Jimmy Hoffa himself. Ordering me. Like I rose to my position to do his bidding.” He dropped the page onto Tolson’s lap.

The deputy scanned the Department of Justice memo signed by Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy. He passed it back in silence.

“Who in blue blazes does Bobby think he is, telling me how to do my job? That idiot is half my age. We won the gangster wars thirty years ago while he was still playing with his dollies. He can shove his memo where the sun don’t shine.”

Tolson’s voice channeled through his nose. “That’s right, J. Edgar, we got the big guys. And we did it your way, from the ground up.” Images of Wanted posters flashed through his mind: Capone, Dillinger, Machine Gun Kelly.

“It’s like I always say. The bosses never actually do anything.” Hoover shook his head, causing his cheek jowls to wobble.

Tolson nodded in agreement. The head honchos insulated themselves from being implicated. They sent their goons to do all the dirty work and never gave direct orders, particularly over the phone. Wiretapping at their level was pointless.

“Clyde, remember how it went down with Capone?”

In a brilliant maneuver, the Bureau of Prohibition had nailed Al Capone on tax evasion based on his illegal earnings. Although the TV show The Untouchables granted Agent Eliot Ness immortality for the conviction, his department had operated under supervision of the FBI.

“That’s being smart.” Hoover smacked his right fist into his left hand. “That’s being methodical.” Smack! “That’s how we get our job done.” Smack!

“J. Edgar, you know where this is coming from. It’s JFK, pulling Bobby’s strings.”

“Don’t be an ass, Clyde, of course I know. Kennedy thinks a big mob bust will grab headlines and he’ll get credit for being tough on crime, after we do all the work. He’s only trying to score points for reelection. But the president and attorney general can go straight to hell. We’re doing this my way.” Hoover ripped the memo into tiny shreds and threw them out the window in a stream of confetti.

“And if the Mafia gets wind that the president is gunning for them, he’d better expect retaliation. You screw with the mob and you’re a dead man. JFK has no idea who he is messing with.” Hoover’s eyes bugged out in fury.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1963 AND 2013

9:00 AM – PDT

Two weeks later—a couple of miles from Arcata Bay in the Pacific Ocean, the morning rain battered down on the hood of Quin’s slicker. As he steadied himself on the bow of Sam’s twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser, he was unsurprised that the wealthy shipbuilder owned a posh boat for towing submersibles.

Quin had deliberately staked out his position in the chilly downpour to avoid the rest of the crew. Working on the same project in the same boathouse for the last several weeks had engendered short tempers, and the weather seemed to add to the crankiness factor. Unfortunately, the others were gathering around him as they neared their destination.

Bick pulled his sopping wet baseball cap low over his face in a vain attempt to keep dry. “Look, I still question the wisdom of spending valuable time on this prototype.” He gestured to the half-scale replica of the Tempus Orbis being dragged behind them in the sea. “I thought time was the one commodity we lacked.”

“We’ve gone over this.” Iggy sighed as she maneuvered the winches holding the seven-foot-diameter mini-ship, guiding it toward them. “We need to ensure that a larger time bubble will maintain integrity through a fifty-year jump to the past.”

Reaching the predetermined coordinates, Sam cut the engines, and the boat slowed to a drift. “I agree with Bick. My mathematical modeling and virtual simulations have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt the jump will be successful. This exercise is a waste of time and resources.”

“Simulations?” Frank hooted. “You’re dealing with hyper-theory that’s way beyond any of us. Even the great brain of Sam Morales. Sending a small object back three months is one thing, sending eight human beings back half a century is another. The laws of the universe don’t care about your models and will find a way to send us that message. And I for one am not subjecting myself to this lunacy until it’s been tested.”

“We have to follow proper scientific protocol.” Jay nodded at Frank. “The sphere should land precisely where we are now, sink to the bottom and hopefully remain undetected for the next . . . I mean the last . . . whatever, for fifty years. Dee and I will scuba down and retrieve it. Then we’ll verify the age of the radioactive isotope placed on board and see if we’re ready to send ourselves back in the full-size ship.”

Bick untied the tethers, detaching the prototype from their vessel. “But even if we left for 1963 today, we would only have three days to get ourselves to Dallas, find Dee’s grandfather, and convince him to help us—a bunch of strangers, I might add—that a crime is going to be committed.”

“All we have to do is persuade my granddad to come with us to the scene of the crime. He’ll see it happen and arrest the KGB. No problem.”

“Sure, no problem.” Frank raised his eyebrows. “We’ll just tell him we’re from the future.”

“Let’s get the show on the road, people.” Quin leaned on the railings, watching the sphere bob up and down.

Iggy handed the converter to Sera. “The precise sequence has been set. Please initiate the time-jump.”

“Wait a minute. I need to capture this for posterity.” Proceedings came to a halt as Dee ducked inside to retrieve her antique camera and an umbrella. “Okay, ready.” She balanced the umbrella over her shoulder and began snapping photos of Sera and of the floating orb.

Sera gripped the barbell device as the pouring rain sluiced down. She clicked several buttons.

They collectively held their breath and stared at the brass sphere rolling in the ocean. Suddenly the water around the replica started to froth, bubbling and hissing as if it were boiling. They heard the thunderous sound of metal being bent back and forth upon itself. Bwang! Bwong! The exterior became distorted, with bulges appearing in some areas and hollows in others.

“Shut it off!” Iggy shouted.

Sera frantically punched buttons. “I am. It’s not working!”

“Do something! If the AM gets out, we’re history and so is Northern California.” Frank retreated to the far side of the boat.

Frozen in place and waiting to be vaporized, Bick idly wondered if Frank thought he could escape the blast.

“It’s no use.” Sam wrung his hands. “The sequence has gone too far to stop with the remote.”

Splash! Quin dove in next to the ship. He straddled the top, opened the misshapen hatch and crammed his body through the narrow hole.

Iggy cupped her hands into a megaphone. “Cut the power manually!”

Inside the prototype a searing light disoriented Quin. He bumped around the tight quarters until he found the manual override switch and shut it to the off position. But the intense light remained and the walls of the sphere continued to morph in and out, forming a lumpy shape. Dammit! He toggled the lever back and forth, but it had no impact.

9:30 AM – PDT

12:30 PM – EDT

His heart thudding, Captain Sutherland arrived at the doorway and saluted. “Sir, you wanted to see me?”

Colonel Zimmerman quivered in fury as he pointed at his computer screen. “The Pentagon wants an update on Project Vindictus. And I have nothing to report since the escape of our key scientists three weeks ago.” He enunciated his words with menace. “What is your progress on locating the fugitives?”

The captain could sense a volcano about to erupt, but had no option other than to give an update. “In addition to monitoring checkpoints and credit card transactions, I have investigated acquaintances of the traitors Sera Banks, Iggy Mikos, and Jay Harding. I indentified citizens engaged in subversive activities as well as those who exhibited changes in purchasing habits. After personally visiting said suspects, I have found no evidence they aided or abetted the renegades, nor are they harboring them at present.” Sutherland’s mind whirled in a tumult of the grungy airports and seedy motels he’d recently endured.

“You mean to tell me you don’t have one single lead?” Zimmerman pounded his fist on the desk. “It’s imperative we find them. Are you completely incompetent?”

Sutherland flinched. “No, sir. The pursuit continues. I will begin immediately with associates of the next turncoat, Professor Frank Thomas.”

10:00 AM – PDT

The members of Team Orbis collapsed into couches and chairs in Sam’s living room, dripping wet, their faces ashen. Iggy rested her elbows on her thighs and covered her eyes. Frank moodily fiddled with his glasses, cleaning them with a handkerchief. Sera stared straight ahead, while Jay seemed to be having a mute conversation with himself.

Trembling, Sam returned from the kitchen with a pitcher of ice water and began passing out tumblers. Dee shook her head, refusing.

Bick rose. “Perhaps a Diet Coke then?”

Dee nodded gratefully.

Quin piped up, “Appreciate a Coke too there, Bick.”

After Bick had returned with the beverages, Quin took a deep swallow. The worst was over.

Sam sat down and spoke with forced cheerfulness. “Quick thinking, Quin, to cut the power lines to the Beryllium lasers. Excellent deduction, because if you’d clipped the wires feeding the magnets, we’d all be just a memory.”

“Instinct.” Quin smiled broadly. “We astronauts are trained to make instantaneous life or death decisions.” In truth, he’d made a wild guess on a heads-or-tails wager, but since they were all alive, no harm done.

“Well, thank goodness for Quin’s judgment call and that we didn’t blow up the entire western seaboard, but what the hell happened?” Bick looked pointedly at Sam. “I thought you scientist types assured us the test would be successful.”

Sam avoided eye contact. He’d been so cocksure it would work.

Iggy removed her elbows from her knees and sat up straight. “This is why we do the test. We discovered the ship’s hull is not robust enough to contain the Anti-Time bubble required for a fifty-year leap. Without stable containment, the object could not transfer through time.”

“Correct.” Jay was already scratching notes on his clipboard. “The good news is we know what we’re dealing with now. We’ll run a slew of simulations to determine how to fortify the exterior of the real Tempus. But the bad news is it’s going to take a while.”

“How long?” Dee tried to read his clipboard from the side. “We need to be in ’63 in three days, on October 13, so we can arrest the KGB for breaking and entering.”

“It’ll never happen.” Frank started pacing. “It could take weeks or even months to complete the scenarios and rebuild the hull. I’d say this is a definite sign a fifty-year time-jump is unattainable. Haven’t I said that since day one?” Nobody responded to his rhetorical question. “We should cut our losses and try to figure out how we are going to survive on the run right here, right now, in the present.”

“Before we run away and live in the woods,” Iggy countered dryly, “let’s examine our options and establish a viable course of action.”

“I agree.” Sera glanced at her companions with a measure of optimism. “Jay can create a project plan to determine the expected schedule for reengineering the ship. Then we’ll need an alternate strategy to stop the KGB. Dee?”

She bowed her head in thought. “Well, there was another incident, but I discounted it for reasons that will be all too obvious. On November 18, four days before the Jackie K. assassination, the KGB killed an innocent civilian.”

“This is crazy. Let’s face reality, shall we?” Frank couldn’t believe they were being so obtuse. “To recap: Our time machine is a death trap. We’ve missed our deadline. And even if we could go back, how could we possibly prevent a murder and then arrest the KGB if no crime was committed?”

Disregarding Frank’s negativity, Bick considered the dilemma. “You would have to let it almost happen so you could arrest them for attempted murder. It would be incredibly dangerous both for the victim and for us, but not unachievable.”

“Wait a minute!” Dee slapped her hands together. “Aren’t we forgetting something? We can travel in twelve-month intervals. Why don’t we go back fifty-one years and wait until October of 1963?”

“Absolutely brilliant, Dee.” Bick squeezed her shoulder. “I can’t believe we hadn’t thought of it before. We’d have tons of time to plan and prepare.”

Quin drained the remainder of his cola. “No way am I going to hang around some backwater decade like the sixties. What a bore-fest! Let’s go back, do our job”—he interrupted his statement with a loud belch—“and get home.”

Sam looked at Quin with disgust. “If that’s the case, why not remain in 2013 until the appropriate time?”

“No, unfortunately, we can’t.” Jay frowned. “Gadolinium-146.”

“He’s right.” Sera gestured toward him. “I forgot. The radioactive material we use to make Anti-Matter has a half-life of forty-eight days. And we’re running low as is. There is no way we can hold off for one year, either in 2013 or in 1963. It will be difficult enough to get here, but nearly impossible five decades ago. We should go back as soon as time permits.”

“It’s decided then. We’ll go back as soon as we are able.” Iggy stood up, signaling an end to the debate.

Quin couldn’t help but add more justification. “Besides, your Colonel Runway-Blocker is still after us. Probably best to get out of Dodge.”

“If those idiots haven’t found us by now, they never will.” Sera dismissed him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1963 AND 2013

1:00 AM – PDT

3:00 AM – CDT

Under cover of the moonless night, KGB operative Viktor Vladimirsky wielded a crowbar at the corner of Young and Field Streets in downtown Dallas. Receiving a nod of approval from his superior, Dmitriy Sokolov, he wedged the bar between the doors of the defunct train tunnels and began to wrench them apart. Few people realized this complex had been a bustling freight depot until the 1940s, when it became a major hub for the armed forces. Thousands of World War II troops had traveled through this station on the way to boot camps across the country. Now, it was obsolete.

Fortified with flashlights, the spies cantered down the pitch-black stairs and followed the underground passage two blocks north toward the Santa Fe Building at 1114 Commerce Street. A striking example of Art Deco-style architecture, the twenty-story, buff brick structure with cast-stone trim boasted five dramatic archways surrounding the windows on the first four floors. Constructed by the Santa Fe Railroad, it had functioned concurrently as office space and a warehouse, with train tracks leading underneath so workers could offload freight indoors. But two decades ago in 1942, the US government had acquired the building and condemned it. Scheduled for demolition, the edifice was resurrected by its registry as a significant historic landmark. The exterior remained intact, but the inside was gutted and remodeled into a new Federal Building. No longer in service, the train tunnels were boarded up and forgotten.

The trespassers mounted the cobwebby stairs under the building and jimmied the door open. Watchful for guards, they navigated to the sixth floor records department where top-secret documents were stored. Ten minutes of systematic searching through file cabinets rewarded them with the folder they sought.

Viktor snapped pictures of its contents with a mini-camera while Dmitriy stood sentry. Hearing a guard approach, he hissed at Viktor to stop flashing the camera. Both men ducked behind a desk. Dmitriy pointed his gun while Viktor held his breath. Fortunately, the watchman was complacent. He superficially shone his flashlight around the room, saw nothing, and returned to his rounds.

The KGB spies completed their task and hurried back down to the old train tracks, leaving no trace of their handiwork.

7:00 AM – PDT

10:00 AM – EDT

J. Edgar Hoover sat in his regal Department of Justice office flanked by a US flag on his right and an FBI flag on his left. He glared across his mahogany desk at his right-hand man, Clyde Tolson, who had been summoned for a clandestine Sunday meeting. “I will not stand for this, Clyde. The bumbling brothers are scheming against me. Pressure to go after the mob was bad enough, but every day there’s a new interference. They’re so close to me they’re practically in my shorts.” A vein in his temple throbbed. “New processes and procedures instituted to turn my agency into a paper-pushing bureaucratic clearinghouse. Status reports, progress updates—it’s a load of bull. They’re dying for a way to trip me up and usurp my authority in my domain. And I think I know what their objective is.”

Tolson’s eyes gleamed as he perched on the edge of his seat.

“But I need confirmation. And the only way to do that is to find out what is going on . . .” Hoover paused for emphasis “. . . at the White House.”

“I understand.”

“This is a tricky operation. One that’s extremely risky, but absolutely necessary to ensure my survival. I need to know what their intentions are.” The FBI director gazed at his underling. “This is an assignment I would trust to no one but you, Clyde.”

“Thank you.” Pride suffused Tolson.

“Here is the device.” Hoover handed him a tiny electronic gadget manufactured to resemble a housefly. “I need you to plant this in JFK’s desk lamp. In the Oval Office.”

Tolson’s bravado faltered as he accepted the bug. How could he possibly get away with spying on Kennedy?

Hoover continued, immune to his deputy’s distress. “At the meeting tomorrow, I’ll distract the president and his little brother, and you take care of the rest.”

Tolson felt his forehead get clammy, but he could not let the big man down. “You can count on me, J. Edgar.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

MONDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1963 AND 2013

3:00 AM – PDT

5:00 AM – CDT

With newfound confidence, Viktor entered the decryption codes into the shortwave and settled back alongside his cohort, Dmitriy. Viktor’s sparsely furnished quarters in the Oak Cliff community in Dallas offered a temporary safe haven for the spies. Needing to maintain their anonymity, both KGB operatives had set up residences in large, multi-unit apartment blocks. They would not be fraternizing with the neighbors.

The transmission from Section Chief Leonid again came one minute late at 5:01 am. Their boss demanded a detailed account of the information gleaned at the Federal Building the previous day.

Viktor strolled back and forth while Dmitriy laid out the illicit photos and explained the particulars of the motorcade route.

At the other end of the airwaves, the Leonid-pretender listened through the static and concluded that the plans were unfolding as expected. He proceeded to notify the cell members that their target would be the rear passenger on the right-hand side of the third car.

Shocked, Viktor stopped pacing. Could their mission be that brazen? He glanced down at the materials to confirm the identity of the victim. No doubt. Although apprehensive about the high-profile assignment, Viktor promised to fulfill his sworn duty to the homeland.

Conversely, Dmitriy embraced the opportunity to employ his lethal skills once again.

Abruptly, the communication terminated.

5:00 PM – PDT

8:00 PM – EDT

Lyndon Baines Johnson flopped into the overstuffed easy chair in his book-lined study. After a jam-packed day, the vice president’s suit looked even more rumpled than usual.

His wife of twenty-nine years sat on the couch in a pressed, peter-pan-collared dress, a single strand of pearls encircling her neck. Her sable hair was groomed into a popular style—teased full on the crown with a short flip at the ends. Although married to a prominent politician, Mrs. Johnson often came across as someone who had wed beneath her station in life. “How was your day, dear?”

He rubbed his graying temples. “Lady Bird, I’m tuckered out from all this campaigning. Why it seems all we do lately is worry about reelection. Kennedy doesn’t care about much else.”

She hummed her agreement, “Mm hm.”

The vice president stared straight ahead. Next month, he and the president would tour Johnson’s own beloved home state, relentlessly begging for votes. It mortified him that the incumbents were in danger of losing Texas just because JFK was a liberal Yankee.

But LBJ hadn’t told his spouse of the ultimate betrayal. Rumors floated that Kennedy planned to drop him from the ticket. Ingrate! He wouldn’t have even won in 1960 if it hadn’t been for Lyndon Baines Johnson carrying Texas. That pond scum Nixon would have been Commander in Chief now. The Southerner narrowed his eyes. “I’m being used.”

“I know, I know. He surely doesn’t appreciate you, does he?”

Johnson shook his head. “And this Cuban mess. It keeps escalating.” Who would have thought an island dictatorship ninety miles off the coast of Florida would cause such a threat? But it had. Barely three months into their term, JFK had launched the Bay of Pigs catastrophe. He’d sent in CIA-trained Cuban exiles to overthrow Fidel Castro’s communist regime. He promised US Air Force support; however, he failed to deliver. The tactic could have succeeded, but the coward scaled back the operation to create plausible deniability for America. Fool!

That event was the catalyst for the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962. Military intelligence discovered that Castro had allowed the USSR to secretly plant nukes on his country’s soil. The medium and intermediate-range ballistic missiles had the ability to strike the Continental United States. The world stood on the brink of its first all-out nuclear war. A US Naval blockade preventing weapons and supplies from being shipped to Cuba from Russia averted the disaster by a slim margin.

Johnson harrumphed. Why hadn’t Kennedy learned his lesson? Castro remained in charge, and JFK continued to taunt the Latin madman. “And now this.”

The Second Lady wrinkled her nose as her husband picked up a battered newspaper from September 9. Oh, golly, not that gosh darn news story again. She resolved to be patient.

LBJ read aloud from an article about a speech made at the Brazilian embassy in Havana. “‘Denouncing US-prompted raids on Cuban Territory, Castro said, “We are prepared to fight them and answer in kind. The United States leaders should think that if they are aiding terrorist plans to eliminate Cuban leaders, they themselves will not be safe.”’ This is a nightmare!” He slammed down the newspaper in impotent rage. “If Castro sends someone after Kennedy, you can bet he’ll place a bull’s-eye on my back as well. The president has put all of us in a terrible predicament.”

“Lyndon, I do believe you would make a much better president than he.”

Johnson sighed. “Someday, Bird, someday.”

9:58 PM – PDT

11:58 PM – CDT

Viktor waited with Dmitriy in the back meeting room of a downtown Dallas burlesque joint called the Carousel Club. “So, this American. He defected to the Soviet Union and then reneged. Do we know why?”

“Who cares? He probably found out it wasn’t the worker’s paradise he envisioned.” Dmitriy puffed out pungent tobacco smoke, and then crushed the Lucky Strike in the ashtray. “At least not for an unskilled laborer.” Both men chortled at the joke, knowing they enjoyed positions of prestige and power in their native country.

Suddenly they heard a commotion in the corridor outside their locked door. Shouting voices drowned out the faint sounds of laughter at the evening’s featured entertainer—a bawdy comedian on stage in the main venue. Dmitriy ordered Viktor to check out the disturbance while he covered him with gun drawn.

The irascible club owner was holding a scrawny patron in a headlock, dragging him toward the rear exit. The red-faced captive struggled and twisted to no avail, howling that he was supposed to be there. The proprietor ignored his protestations and punched the guy in the gut for disturbing a closed meeting.

The KGB men stood by, grinning and nudging each other. They knew how much the owner relished acting as his own bouncer. His temper was legendary.

Still pummeling the intruder, the proprietor noticed his audience. “I caught this deadbeat trying to sneak into the back.” Although he didn’t know why the pair rented the space, they paid a lot of money for privacy. That’s what counted. He guessed they were lawless businessmen, perhaps connected to organized crime.

Dmitriy decided the visitor had suffered enough. “It’s okay, Jack, he really is with us.”

The beady-eyed owner roughly pushed the man aside and straightened his skinny tie. “If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced.

The patron defiantly lifted up his chin, as if to say I told you so, and followed the others into the room.

They sat down at the conference table. Dmitriy was ticked off that the so-called guest was staring at them with unabashed admiration. Before he had a chance to officially open the meeting, the weasely newcomer spoke in the most convoluted Russian Dmitriy had ever heard.

Dmitriy sliced his hand from left to right. “Enough. Stop mutilating our language.”

“Yes, sir, comrade sir.”

Dmitriy quashed an urge to smack the man in the face. “All we want to know is whether you currently have a job. Are you employed?”

“No, sir. Well, I would be, but you know how it is.” He smirked. “Most supervisors are afraid to hire someone smarter and cleverer than them. They don’t want to be upstaged. You know, embarrassed.”

Dmitriy renewed his resolve not to beat him senseless. “Fine. We need you to do something for us.” He leaned back and prepared to explain in the simplest terms possible.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1963 AND 2013

9:00 AM – PDT

11:00 AM – CDT

Fifty-six-year-old Superintendent Roy S. Truly sat in his second-floor office at the Texas School Book Depository on the corner of Houston and Elm Streets in Dallas. A three-decade veteran of the textbook warehouse, since 1934, he hooked his wireframe glasses over protruding ears and examined the application of the young man sitting across from him. Three days shy of his twenty-fourth birthday, the boy seemed to be quiet and well mannered.

With his soft-spoken southern drawl, Truly interviewed the candidate, asking about what experience he’d had and where he had worked.

The nice young fellow responded that he had just served his term in the Marine Corps and had received an honorable discharge. He listed some things of an office nature that he had learned to do in the service.

Truly raised his eyebrows in appreciation—a clean-cut ex-marine. And he used the word sir, which a lot of them didn’t do at this time. Nevertheless, he continued by questioning the boy about past activities and whether he had ever had any trouble with the police. The answer was negative. The superintendent nodded. No reason to check further back, owing to the recent discharge from the armed forces. Truly had no grounds to suspect the man was not being entirely truthful.

The candidate elaborated that he needed a job because he had a wife and child to take care of. And he was expecting another baby in a few days. He would be glad to have any type of work, and stressed that he really needed a job to support his family.

Truly considered himself to be a good judge of character, and his gut confirmed the applicant’s sincerity. However, because he had observed the candidate’s slight physique, he posed one more query. “Son, are you a hard worker? Able to lift heavy boxes?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Truly reasoned that service in the US Marine Corps likely involved rigorous physical training, and thus made his decision. “Congratulations. You’re hired.” He apologized for offering work of a temporary nature, since there were no openings for permanent jobs.

The latest hire beamed as he stood up, careful not to wince in pain. His abdomen ached from the previous night’s thrashing.

Truly shook his hand to seal the transaction.

“Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” Lee Harvey Oswald gushed. “I guarantee you won’t regret it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1963 AND 2013

7:00 PM – PST

Three weeks later—Quin snapped off the television, and gestured to the reinforced hatch they were supposed to be installing. “Come on guys, this thing ain’t attaching itself.”

As the rest of the team dragged themselves away, Dee stared at the blank screen, reflecting on the evening news broadcast they had just witnessed. The Russian premier had announced that the three US spies captured in Minsk had been convicted of his predecessor’s assassination and executed. He had then demanded that the American president publicly admit responsibility for the crime or risk the full fury of Soviet vengeance. Both sides were gearing up for the inevitable hostilities. Her gut churning, she turned to face her colleagues. “If the Russians attack, how do you suspect they’ll strike first?”

“Invasion.” Bick was fastening winch chains around the shiny brass hatch. “They’re not dumb enough to start another back-and-forth nuke volley like ’64. It’ll be an aerial assault and ground invasion supported by troops shipped down from Alaska.”

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous for us? If they came through California, we could be in their direct path.” Frank removed his glasses and began to clean them.

“Eureka is hardly a primary target. More probably Seattle or San Fran, and they’re hundreds of miles from here.” Sera wondered how he could be so paranoid. “I think you’ll be safe for the moment, Frank.”

“No way will it be a ground assault.” Sam strode over and rechecked the chains Bick had just secured. “The Soviets are seriously ticked off, like Kennedy was after they hit Jackie K. We violated their national pride.” Giving his approval to Bick’s work, Sam offered Quin a thumbs-up. “No doubt in my mind they’ll nuke, and not one city, but multiple targets simultaneously.”

“Kablooey! There goes the planet.” Quin gave a wry frown as he cranked the winch. The contraption creaked and groaned.

“You know, we’re contemplating what the USSR might do.” Jay steadied the swinging chains. “But it’s quite possible the US will launch preemptively.”

Dee noticed Sera’s pallid complexion and furrowed brow. “Sera, what’s wrong?”

“Anti-Matter,” she croaked. “What if either superpower deploys AM weapons?”

“Surely the military’s AM research ceased after they lost their preeminent Anti-Matter physicists.” Sam eyed Sera and Iggy.

“You might think so, but the warden had already enlisted NASA to review our progress. They could be attempting to continue the project, despite how inept their scientists are.” Iggy jerked her head up and looked at Sam and Frank. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Sam signaled Quin to lower the hatch onto the ship. “Most of the foremost experts left the space program in the recent past.” He obviously counted himself and Frank in their number.

“But as Sera said, the Russians could be working on AM bombs also, either independently or with help from the Americans.” Jay gazed up. “You know how effective the KGB spy network is.”

From a ladder, Iggy dropped the hatch into place with a thunk. “Speculation on who strikes first and by what means is unproductive. We need to focus on reengineering this vessel and obtaining more Gadolinium-146.”

“Sure, piece of cake.” Frank didn’t hide his sarcastic tone. “We’ll just head on down to the local radioactive isotope superstore.”

7:10 PM – PST

Crammed into the stern of a fishy-smelling, decrepit rowboat on Sam’s property, Captain Sutherland listened to the conversation inside the boathouse with a miniature sound amplifier. Concealed by the dark evening, Sutherland congratulated himself on finally scoring a victory in his search. This Sam Morales character—an acquaintance of Frank’s—had literally disappeared after his resignation from NASA. The captain had located the virtual hermit by a fluke of luck; the man had registered his tourist submersible business with the IRS.

Sutherland felt a pang of longing on hearing Sera’s voice. He had to find a way to get her out of this. But what were they talking about? A vessel? And Gadolinium-146? He had to figure out what on earth they were planning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1963 AND 2013

2:00 PM - PST

Sera retreated to the back of the Eureka sporting goods store, searching for a door while praying her behavior would not arouse suspicion. Her euphoria at being on her first solo excursion had crashed, replaced by apprehension. After purchasing her burglar’s accessories—three pairs of gloves and three black ski masks—she had spotted a man standing in front of the next building, checking his watch. Although facing away, his frame and mannerisms seemed hauntingly familiar. Sutherland. Was she being paranoid or prudent?

She headed to the fitting room, but at the last second darted to the stockroom. Bingo, a rear door. Before opening it, she peered around boxes and racks, but unfortunately, there were no windows. She had no idea what she would be walking into. It could be a blind alley, or worse yet, the man who resembled Sutherland could be lurking outside.

Sera doubled back to the plate glass storefront and again examined the street for the loiterer. He had disappeared. Now or never. She donned her jumbo sunglasses and yanked her baseball cap low over her forehead. She exited, speed-walking toward Sam’s Ford Explorer SUV. Only a guilty person would run. Straining her ears for a pursuer, she heard only the chattering conversations and sedentary footfalls of other shoppers. Maybe the guy with Sutherland’s physique had simply been waiting for someone. Whew, her adrenaline pumped. Turning down a side street, she grinned as she approached the car. She hit the remote unlock, opened the door, and threw her package inside. Jumping in, she started the ignition, hell-bent on fleeing. She was reaching out to shift into drive when the passenger door flew open and Captain Drew Sutherland popped up from a crouch, aiming a gun.

“Hello, Sera.” He climbed in. “Turn off the ignition; you’re not going anywhere.”

2:05 PM – PST

5:05 PM – EST

In his Fifth Avenue New York City apartment, Richard Nixon was pouring liquor over the ice in his cocktail shaker when the phone rang, jolting him into spilling. Dammit! Who had the audacity to call on a Sunday afternoon? With no intention of answering, he sat down to enjoy his drink. But the caller was persistent. After the fifteenth ring, the former vice president begrudgingly grabbed the receiver with a bark. “Yes?”

Mudge, a partner from his law firm, prattled on about a meeting.

“There’s a what? A reception? Hang on.” Nixon cursed under his breath as he searched for a pen and paper. “Okay, shoot. Pepsi clients. Uh huh. Dallas?” He slammed the pen down. “Why do I have to drag my ass to Texas? Why can’t they come to New York like civilized people?”

Mudge rapidly explained the client’s request.

“They want a political celebrity, you say?” Nixon picked up the pen and tapped it on the page. He began to thaw toward the idea. “Date? Uh huh, November 21, 8:00 pm. Got it. Address?” He jotted more notes and then banged the phone down without saying good-bye.

Nixon referred to the notepad. November 21 in Texas. During the Kennedy tour. Well, well, well. Wasn’t that a kick in the head?

2:07 PM – PST

For several minutes, Sera remained hostage to Sutherland while he gloated about his skillful detective work and how he had tracked down the fugitives. This guy wasn’t as dumb as he looked. And he knew their hideout.

Sera affected a bored stance, weary of his boasting but convinced he wasn’t going to shoot her. She finally cut him off. “Sutherland. Sutherland!”

He stopped in mid-sentence and proffered a goofy smile. “Please, call me Drew.”

The man with the pistol wanted to be on a first-name basis. Whatever. “Okay, Drew. Here’s where we stand. I’m a federal criminal. You have a revolver. What happens now?”

“You don’t have much choice.” The captain sighed. “You have to surrender and come back with me, or you’re dead.”

“Come back with you? Are you crazy? The colonel already tried to kill us in the Catacombs.”

“Catacombs? Is that what they call those tunnels at Lehigh?”

“Drew, focus!”

“Zimmerman wasn’t trying to kill you.” Sutherland shrugged. “Of course, Jay and the professor were expendable.”

“Yeah, right. What do you want from me?”

“I haven’t told Zimmerman I found you. And, he hasn’t reported your escape to our superiors because he can’t afford to tarnish his record.” Sutherland observed her shocked expression. “The colonel must produce an Anti-Matter weapon or his career is history. He needs you and Iggy back in Secaucus to finish the device and then, well, then you’re expendable.”

“See?”

“Wait! Yes, he would have you killed in a staged breakout attempt. But, I have a solution.” Sutherland clasped his fingers together. “I can make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal? Spend the rest of our lives in jail instead of being executed for treason? Thanks, but no thanks.” He may have been clever enough to find them, but Sera questioned Sutherland’s common sense.

“No, no, not at all.” The captain sliced his hands back and forth. “But before we agree to the terms of this offer, I need to know what you’re up to.”

Sera stared forward, her arms folded.

“I watched you at the ranch yesterday. I heard Iggy mention Gadolinium-146, and I know that’s a component used to make Anti-Matter.” He tried to read Sera’s face, but her features were impassive. “She also mentioned a vessel, and I’m well aware of Sam and his submersibles.” Sutherland took a deep breath before reaching his dramatic conclusion. “I’ll wager you’re making an AM bomb and constructing a submarine to attack Russia with it. Am I right?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sera glared at him. “We’re not submarining to Russia. Are you insane?”

“Aha! But you are making a weapon, aren’t you?”

Sera considered this demented theory and had an inkling she might be able to use it for leverage. “Okay, you got me. We’re creating an Anti-Matter weapon. It’s our only asset.”

“I knew it! So as I said, the military is demanding the AM device. You give it to me, and I’ll use it to negotiate your freedom. Everyone wins. The government gets their war-ending Anti-Matter bomb and you get amnesty.”

Sera paused as if contemplating. “Fine. We’ll surrender to you, but we need two weeks to complete the weapon. And it’s gotta be the same deal for the whole team.”

Sutherland slowly shook his head. “I can’t wait that long. I have to report back to Zimmerman.”

“Oh, come on, Drew. He’s gonna kill me.” Sera wanted to smack him. They needed more time. It would be impossible to relocate the operation.

“I’ll give you one week. It’s my best offer.”

Sera slumped in relief.

“Next week you give yourselves up to me and hand over the AM device. I’ll bargain for your release. And who knows?” Sutherland gazed into her eyes. “If you met me on a personal level when you got out, you might look at me in a different way.”

Sera highly doubted it. “See you in a week.”

Sutherland exited the car and waved until she drove out of sight.

11:40 PM – PST

In the dark evening almost ten hours later, Sera flung herself into the passenger seat of Sam’s Explorer. The day was just getting better and better.

Quin shoved a heavy box into the backseat and dove in behind it.

Bick hopped in the driver’s side, floored the accelerator, and peeled out of the parking lot of the University of Northern California Bioresearch lab in Santa Rosa.

The argument started as soon as they hit Highway 101 North toward Eureka.

Quin leaned forward to shout in Sera’s ear, “What the hell were you thinking back there?”

“I was thinking that a night watchman showed up out of nowhere and aimed a gun at you. Naturally, I jumped him. To save your worthless hide, I might add.”

“Oh, please. I had everything under control.” Quin dismissed her with a swish of his hand. “Do you realize I was carrying a lead-lined crate of radioactive material? All I needed was for the guard to get a few steps closer, then whammo! Right in the noggin.”

Sera whirled furiously toward him. “What if he shot you in the meantime, ace? Then what?”

Bick glanced at the odometer and sighed. Over two hundred miles to go. He didn’t think he could put up with the squabbling for the next several hours. “Look, we got the Gadolinium-146 we came for and we got away. Successful mission, right?” Iggy had nailed it when she said these two required supervision.

Quin was undeterred. “No way. When she attacked the rent-a-cop, he pulled off her ski mask. You saw the security cameras. By morning, her picture could be plastered all over the Governet.”

“Fine. Next time I’ll let them shoot you.” Sera pressed her mouth into a hard line. “Besides, none of this matters anymore. We have to leave for ’63 as soon as possible.”

Quin started to rebuff her, but Bick interrupted. “Don’t make me pull over, you two.”

They rode the rest of the way home in silence.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1963 AND 2013

8:00 AM – PST

6:00 PM – EET

In the godforsaken wastelands of Siberia, an arctic wind roared over the clandestine Russian military base, several hundred miles from the Trans-Siberian Railway. Only the highest echelon of politicians and KGB members knew this facility existed. Outside, the temperature dropped significantly after the early sunset in the northern clime. Inside, energy levels palpably increased as workers made final preparations for a top-secret mission.

The Soviet operative impotently allowed himself to be harnessed into a spine-dislocating bucket seat next to two equally unfortunate comrades. As the technician tightened the straps on his restraint, the spy reminisced about his claustrophobic submarine voyage back from New York. At least he’d been able to get up and stretch his legs. In hindsight, he wondered why he’d complained.

As leader, he instructed his team to initiate their prelaunch check sequence, and mentally reminded himself not to hyperventilate in the recirculated air. The crew flipped levers and pushed buttons while tiny indicator lights flashed green and yellow. The command deck gave a thumbs-up for all systems go, but the operative was not reassured by the advanced technology. Close proximity to Anti-Matter drove him to the verge of panic.

He had attempted every thinkable avenue to get out of this dreaded assignment, to no avail. The premier insisted the spy was the best man for the job.

He vowed to use every resource in his arsenal to make it back home from this Mission of Honor.

The final countdown began.

1:00 PM – PST

Shortly after lunch, Jay burst into the boathouse. “Guys!”

Startled, Iggy nearly misaligned a laser for the Anti-Matter container. “Jay, are you trying to kill us?”

He skidded to a halt. “No, of course not. I’m . . .” He shook himself. “It’s happening. I heard a news report in the house. It’s really, really happening. You’re not going to believe this. They’ve done it and . . . and . . . so have we. It’s awful, just awful. You can’t comprehend the enormity of such a thing.”

“Snap out of it, Jay.” Sera clicked her fingers in front of him. “Exactly what has happened?”

“It’s gone. WB is gone. Completely obliterated by the Russians.” Jay sank into a chair. “We hit Minsk in retaliation. No one is sure if it was nukes or something more powerful . . .” His voice trailed off. “You know, AM.” He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “And that’s not all. They took out Secaucus, too.”

Bick turned on the television. Images of devastated US cities flickered by in a montage of ruins.

The color drained from Frank’s face as he swayed back and forth.

Dee called out, “Frank!”

Frank’s knees buckled under him, and he hit the floor in dead faint.

Quin mildly observed Frank sprawled out in front of him. “Secaucus you say? So much for that warden of yours.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1963 AND 2013

7:30 AM – PST

As he washed the breakfast dishes, Quin cheerfully whistled the tune of “Surfin’ USA.” Dee had shared the harmonious Beach Boys’ guitar hit as part of her 1963 cultural lessons. He used the melody to drown out the bickering between Sera and Frank.

As a measure of unity, each team member had refrained from mentioning Frank’s fainting episode the previous day, acting like nothing had happened.

“You’re missing my point entirely, Frank.” Sera gestured to a diagram she’d drawn. “If the timeline splits fifty years ago . . .”

Crash! The noise emanated from outside.

“Not now.” Frank held up his index finger. “Something is happening out there.”

“I hardly see what that has to do with—”

“Zip it!” Quin cocked his head to one side, listening.

As Sera took in a breath to deliver a scathing rejoinder, they heard the unmistakable sounds of shouting. Alarmed, all three made the same decision at the same moment and raced out the back door into the crisp morning air.

Iggy, Jay, Dee, Bick, and Sam were sprinting across the hill rise. In the distance, two figures pursued, the heftier bald man in the lead brandishing a gun.

Sera’s mouth hung open. “Dammit! Zimmerman and Sutherland.”

“Isn’t Zimmerman your warden guy?” Quin shrugged. “So much for the Secaucus nuke.”

Frank spun and grabbed Sera by the shoulders. “Sutherland sold us out. You said we could trust him.” He shook her. “We’re doomed!”

“Easy there, fella.” Quin disengaged Frank. “If the warden wanted to kill them with that Locklier H_2 2011, they’d be toast by now. What we need is some sort of diversion so we can mount a rescue.”

Sera watched impatiently as the five fugitives headed toward the boathouse. “But there’s no way to get past those Nazis without getting caught.”

Frank straightened and set his jaw. “Not all of us. Just me.” Before he realized what he was doing, he felt his feet pounding across the lawn, gaining speed as he flew straight toward Zimmerman. He was sick of living as an outlaw, sick of hiding out, sick of being cooped up with these lunatics. This had to end. When he got close, he took a flying leap and was surprised to hear himself screaming as he catapulted onto the colonel’s back, tackling him from behind.

Riveted in place, Quin and Sera observed Sutherland join the melee, attempting to free Zimmerman.

Regaining his composure, Quin clutched Sera’s arm. “Come on!” They pelted past the junk in Sam’s yard toward the boathouse.

Entering from a side door, Quin latched it shut.

“Where are they?” Sera’s eyes darted back and forth.

Iggy cautiously poked her head up from inside the Tempus Orbis. “In here.”

“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Quin congratulated her. “Power up that baby and get us out of here.”

“Go?” Iggy stared in disbelief. “But we haven’t tested the reinforced hull yet.”

A bullet exploded through the wall inches from where Sera stood. She jumped back in surprise. “I hate to say it, but he’s right. There’s no other way out.”

“Okay, agreed.” Iggy leaned down inside the ship and then popped back up. “Jay says to grab the scuba tanks. Over there.” She motioned to the corner. “Say, where is Frank?”

Sera sped over to the gear. “He’s, uh, stalling them. He attacked the warden.”

“What? Really?”

Sera lugged the tanks onto the Tempus Orbis platform, and Quin heaved them over the hatch to Iggy.

Smash! Captain Sutherland kicked open the door and entered. Frank followed with his hands raised in surrender. Zimmerman marched in next, prodding Frank with the weapon.

“You betrayed me, Sutherland.” Sera stopped halfway through the hatch. “You son of a bitch!”

Sutherland pushed both palms forward. “No, Sera, it wasn’t me. I can explain.” He grimaced as she dropped out of sight. “Wait, Serendipity!”

“Quin, go!” Frank whirled around and kicked Zimmerman in the groin. The colonel crumpled in agony.

Quin clambered up and threw himself into the Tempus headfirst, falling to the floor with a thud. He rolled over and eyed Sera. “Serendipity? That’s your name? You’ve got to be joking.”

“Shut up!” she roared.

In the boathouse, Zimmerman recovered from the blow and brought Frank to his knees with his hands clasped behind his head. He aimed his gun at the professor. “Order them out of that ship now, or you’re a dead man.”

A blinding flash of light incapacitated Frank, Zimmerman, and Sutherland as a thunderous boom reverberated around the boathouse.

“Ship?” Frank blinked at the colonel several times. “What ship?”

1963

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1963

8:15 AM – PST

9:15 AM – CST

Quin woke up with a pounding skull, and avoided opening his eyes to the intense light. Man, this was some hangover. Funny he didn’t remember getting drunk. But despite the pressure in his brain, the rest of his body felt extraordinarily buoyant.

A semi-yielding object suddenly squished against his head and then moved away. What the heck? He felt a smack in the face and snapped his lids open.

“Get off me!” Sera yelled.

Now he got it. They were in the zero gravity of space. Awesome! He must have floated into Sera’s midsection. “Gee whiz, just an accident.” Quin winked at her upside-down glare. He grabbed purchase on a ceiling handhold, kicked off, and glided toward the pilot’s station.

Sera kept flailing her arms, trying to swim in one direction, but only succeeded in tumbling haphazardly. She hissed an inaudible expletive.

“Anchor yourself, babe. Find a grip and move slowly.” Quin strapped himself into his bucket seat.

Sera bristled at the sexist remark, yet heeded his advice.

Bick’s consciousness catapulted back into his cranium like a freight train. He felt the horrible sensation of plummeting after stepping off a cliff in a dream. He opened his eyes in alarm to discover his body pushing against restraints. “What happened?”

“Time-jump.” Iggy rubbed the back of her neck. “It knocks you out. Remember?”

“Yeah.” Bick pressed his eyes shut again. Other than feeling like an awakening coma victim, something else seemed wrong. He listened intently for several seconds and heard nothing. The silence in the ship embraced him like a cocoon. He had never noticed the ambient cacophony of life until it was gone. “This isn’t what I expected. It’s peaceful, despite the migraine. How long were we out?”

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 above 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?”

As they crossed over Main Street again, Sam began inspecting an identical concrete colonnade on the other side. Instead of a statue, a white obelisk stood in front. “What’s the deal with these structures? Is this the Pergola you were telling us about, Dee?”

“No, no. The two on this side are smaller. The Pergola in question is on the north side of the plaza, with its twin on the south side. We’ll come to that soon. The entire park is engineered in a mirror image, with Main acting as the dividing line down the center. As you can see”—she pointed to the right and left like a tour guide—“there are these small Pergolas here on each side, with rectangular reflecting pools in front bordering Houston. Notice on the infield ahead there’s a Texas flag behind George and a US flag behind the obelisk.”

Jay walked around one of the concrete pools while bending to peer in the water.

Meanwhile, Dee ran through her words in an attempt to keep them moving forward. “All of these pavilions were built during the Great Depression under the WPA—Work Projects Administration—as a means of creating jobs for impoverished citizens. There is no particular purpose to these structures, other than adding aesthetic quality to the park. They were make-work.”

Iggy noticed Jay still staring at the water basin. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out what’s supposed to reflect into these pools.” He kept glancing from the water to the buildings across Houston Street.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Reflecting pools are meant for somber personal reflection.” Sam rested his chin on his fist and pondered his image.

Iggy studied the surface of the water. “No, I think Jay is right. I remember visiting the Washington Monument in DC when I was a child. The shallow pool in front reflected the entire pillar.”

Quin dipped his fingers into the water, rippling his Stetson-hatted likeness. “On the other hand, who cares?”

Dee basked in Sam’s defeat. “Anyway.” She hurried them north along Houston in the direction of the Texas School Book Depository. The yellow billboard on the roof touted HERTZ Rent-a-Car in red next to a digital clock. Under the time display, the sign read Chevrolets, advertising the make of cars they rented. She made a sharp left onto Elm, and suddenly stopped short. “Oh.” A tingle of reverence mixed with revulsion traversed her body from head to toe.

Iggy almost bumped into her. “What is it, Dee?”

“Nothing. I just didn’t expect to feel such a rush of emotion. It’s like we’re trespassing on sacred ground.”

Bick put his arm around her in a friendly manner. “Dee, it hasn’t happened yet. And it’s not going to. We won’t let it.”

“You’re right. I was caught off guard.”

After Dee regained her composure, she continued down Elm, slowly spinning and absorbing the view. “I can’t believe how different this is from what I imagined. The whole plaza is smaller than I thought. The pictures somehow gave a false impression of it being a huge expanse. And the infield slopes downward toward the Triple Underpass. You couldn’t tell that from the aerial views at all. It seemed like a flat plain.” She clicked her camera in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree series.

Halfway down that section of Elm, Dee halted and mutely pointed at the center of the road. Without exception, each understood that the assassination had occurred in this exact spot, and waited in silence for a few moments, out of respect.

The team then followed Dee as she turned right and climbed a series of concrete steps. Although most of the plaza graded downward, the lawn here inclined sharply up to the main Pergola that featured prominently in the photos from the past. “This is it.” About one hundred feet long, the rounded concrete trellis had a semi-enclosed back and top with a latticework of gaping rectangles, while its front opened to the plaza. Anchored at either end of the half-moon shape was a square section with an angled roof forming a slight peak in the center. The copper surface of the roofs had oxidized over time to a pale green.

Sera deflated in disbelief. “It’s just a big, ugly hunk of concrete.”

The others gathered inside the Pergola and faced the scene of the crime, in the middle of the street. Old-fashioned cars and trucks whizzed past. Elm was a busy thoroughfare in 1963.

Dee indicated the steps they had mounted. “These stairs serve as an exit where witnesses fled up the Grassy Knoll after the assassination. It was the quickest way out, and many people had parked in the rail yard behind that stockade fence.”

Sam wandered over to the five-foot-high fence. The barrier ran perpendicular to Elm and then made a right turn at the Pergola to continue parallel to Elm all the way to the Triple Underpass. Huh. The KGB struck from out in the open when they could have hidden from view.

Iggy stood facing the street, her back against a concrete abutment jutting out from the Pergola’s right-hand side. Placing the heels of her palms on the ledge behind her, she hoisted up her butt, and carefully rose to a standing position. “I can see why that Zapruder fellow filmed from here. Nice panorama.”

“I was wondering about that. About the motorcade, I mean.” Dee clambered up onto the perch next to Iggy. “After we stop the KGB, do you think we can stay in ’63 until November 22 so we can see the president and Mrs. Kennedy?” She clasped her hands together. “I would love to see Jack and Jackie in person.”

Iggy scanned the peaceful square. It was difficult to imagine a crime occurring here, much less the unspeakable murder of the president’s wife. “I don’t see why not.”

12:00 PM – CST

Lyndon Baines Johnson stared at the portrait of Sam Houston—former president of the Republic of Texas, as well as subsequent senator and governor of the state—hanging over the mantle in the Small Parlor of the Governor’s Mansion in Austin. Elaborately furnished, with bright yellow walls and expensive draperies, the room reinforced the impression that the residence was more opulent than the vice president’s. Meanwhile, the First Lady had redecorated the already superior White House, making it a showcase museum. It wasn’t fair.

John Connally Jr. ran a hand over his well-groomed, salt-and-pepper hair. “Did you hear me, Lyndon? I don’t think it’s a good idea for JFK to tour Dallas.” The Democratic governor’s usual attire—a dark pressed suit—lacked only his trademark white cowboy hat when indoors.

In contrast, Johnson’s suit hung off his gangly frame in typical disarray. “Of course I heard you. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. I wasn’t even consulted on these plans.”

“You need to get involved. There’s a lot of hatred toward Kennedy in Dallas. Your ticket may have won Texas in ’60, but you lost resoundingly in Dallas.”

“I’m well aware of the poll results, John.” LBJ measured out his words.

“Between you and me, the people of Dallas cannot be controlled. Remember Adlai Stevenson?” At his reception the previous month, the US Ambassador to the United Nations had been heckled and booed by anti-UN protesters. “When he tried to leave the auditorium, the picketers swarmed around and jostled him.” Connally’s eyebrows lifted in horror. “A woman smacked him in the head with a sign and a man even spit on him. Animals!”

“The same thing happened to me and Lady Bird when we campaigned in Dallas for the last election. The mob poked signs at us and yelled obscenities. They spit at us, too. Naturally, my wife was upset, but we survived unscathed.”

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Lyndon. JFK is planning on a motorcade route.”

“Sure. It’s the traditional route. Roosevelt’s motorcade followed the same path in ’36. The goal is to maximize the president’s exposure to citizens.”

“But he’ll be in an open limousine,” Connally continued in an exaggerated whisper. “There could be an incident.”

“Everything will work out fine, John. You’ll see.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Vice President.” Although he considered the VP a friend, the governor was beginning to get testy. “You won’t be riding in the same car with him.”

2:00 PM – CST

Iggy, Sera, Jay, and Dee returned by taxi to their new home base in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas. Jay had located the residence, a miracle find, in a classified ad. They couldn’t believe their luck when they had checked it out. A furnished, two-family house on the corner of East Tenth and Denver, the separate apartments on each floor were vacant and available for rental. Jay had signed the lease for 429 East Tenth Street immediately.

They unloaded luggage from the cab and started hauling it into the ramshackle powder blue house with peeling white trim. For safety, Jay insisted that the women occupy the upper floor, while the men reside on the lower—a symbolic demarcation, as porches ran across the front on both stories with an outside stairway leading to the top one, making both levels easily accessible.

As Sera was dragging a heavy suitcase inside, she heard the beep beep of a horn approaching. She plunked down the baggage. “The guys must be back with the cars.”

Dee grabbed her camera, and the four of them hastened outside to the porch. Jay gripped the railing and vaulted himself onto the scrubby lawn. Meanwhile, Iggy, Sera, and Dee stood riveted on the stoop, mouths agape.

Quin drove up in a violently turquoise Chevy, tapping the horn in a staccato beat. Freshly polished, the sleek, angular auto glittered in the sun. Behind him, Sam pulled up in a two-tone pink and black Ford with a smoother, curvier appearance. Shiny chrome trim accented both vehicles.

Jay lost his footing after the jump, but adroitly recovered and jogged out to the street. “Hey, man, awesome cars!”

Quin sprang out. “Isn’t it a beaut? A ’58 Chevy Impala, two-door hardtop coupe. The factory name for this color is Tropical Turquoise. Cool, huh?” Both men walked around the car, kicking the chrome-hubcapped whitewalls in misguided macho fashion. “Check out the way the body extends halfway over the rear wheels. Those are called fender skirts, you know.”

Jay peered through the window and admired the three-tone interior—turquoise, silver, and black stripes on the seats with turquoise trim. Then he stepped back to take in the entire machine. “This thing looks like it can really fly.”

“You know it. Get a load of the engine.” Quin popped the hood. “It’s a big block 348-cubic-inch V8 with a four-barrel carburetor. That’s 280 horsepower. Not bad. Plus it’s an automatic. Even the girls can drive it.”

Iggy marched across the grass and placed her hands on her hips. “What the hell is this?”

Quin manufactured his most innocent, boyish face. “Cars.” He opened his eyes wide. “You told us to buy some used cars.”

“Are you joking?” Sera drew alongside Iggy, distinctly unimpressed with Quin’s act.

Not to be upstaged, Sam climbed out. “This”—he swept his arm dramatically—“is a 1950 Ford. A two-door Club Coupe, expertly customized by the former owner.” The other men flocked around him to ogle the vehicle. The nose was painted black, with the color swooping low and continuing to the rear. The roof and the rest of the body were a pale coral. A chrome strip separated the two colors.

“The owner also extended the rear bumper and added a spare tire housing. He used what’s known as a Continental Kit to create it.” Mimicking Quin and Jay, Sam kicked the tires as he continued around. “Here we also have whitewalls with fender skirts on the rear. But these tires have chrome hubcaps with flippers, meaning a style featuring spoke-like bars that reflect light when the vehicle is in motion.” Sam smiled knowingly, as if he were an expert on antique cars. “And now for the pièce de résistance. See the tiny traffic light hanging in the rear window? The green light goes on when you hit the gas, red for the brake and amber for coasting.”

Caught up in the enthusiasm, Dee swiveled her head between the two hot rods. “This one’s nice, but I think I like the turquoise one better.”

“Preference is not the issue here.” Iggy shook her fist in the air.

Sam pretended not to hear as he opened the hood. “The carburetor was sticking a little, so I thought I’d diagnose the problem. Not the factory engine, mind you. This is from a 1956 T-Bird with 312 horsepower. That guy made a lot of special modifications. Varoom!”

Iggy reached into the Ford and leaned on the horn—“BWAAAH!”—scaring the daylights out of Sam, Quin, and Jay, who jumped back in alarm. “Where did you get these cars?”

Sam winced as he rubbed his ears. “We bought them from a local used-car dealer named Edmund Roy. All aboveboard, I assure you. The man painstakingly restored the Chevy after a major fender bender. And the Ford. Well, he custom-built this car to take his wife, Patti, on their honeymoon to Niagara Falls in ’55. It’s where all the newlyweds went in the fifties.”

“He’s right, you know.” Dee nodded emphatically. “It was considered a very romantic spot.”

“What part of the word inconspicuous don’t you understand?” Iggy gestured meaningfully at the used vehicles.

“But just look at them.” Quin stroked the chrome bumper on the Chevy. “They’re gorgeous!”

“And they don’t make them like this anymore. Listen.” Sam knocked on the Ford’s fender, making a loud clunk. “See how solid? Like a tank!”

Sera folded her arms. “You’re simply going to have to return them. I’m sure this Mr. Roy will understand if you explain how you screwed up royally.”

“Absolutely,” Iggy agreed. “We’re trying to keep a low profile, remember?”

“Too late, ladies.” Quin pointed to the license plate on the Chevy. “Already registered ‘em and got tags.” He noticed Dee pulling out her camera, so he plastered a grin on his face and stood in front of the Impala.

Dee shot some pictures of both men and cars. “By the way, where’s Bick?”

As if in answer to her question, a loud rumbling emanated from down the block. Iggy and Sera eyed each other in exasperation as Bick rode along Tenth Street on a gleaming chrome and black motorcycle. He leaned into the curve as he turned onto the driveway.

“Oh no, not another one.” Iggy smacked her forehead.

Bick hopped off the bike and yanked off his helmet, beaming. “Check it out. It’s a ’58 Harley-Davidson DuoGlide. Classic!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1963

4:00 PM – CST

Later that afternoon, Sera tugged at the waistband of her dress and clumped along in her heels, lagging behind Quin and Sam as they walked along Commerce Street. Dee had better buy pants for Sera on her next shopping trip, or she’d be sorry.

Sam consulted a scrap of paper. “That must be it up ahead. Dee said it was across from the Adolphus hotel.”

Sera caught up with the guys as they stopped in front of 1312 ½ Commerce, five blocks east of Dealey Plaza. Above the door, a white marquis with black lettering shrieked Carousel Burlesque – Girls! Girls! Girls! On the left, another proclaimed New for November – Tammi True and Kathy Kay. Below it, pictures of strutting performers wallpapered the facade. “I am utterly stunned we have to scope out a nudie bar. This is so undignified. And why is it always girls, girls, girls? Doesn’t one girls suffice?”

Quin held out his hands in mock helplessness. “We gotta do what we gotta do. It’s for the good of the mission, right?” He opened the door, only to be met with a staircase leading up, obviously the reason for the one-half in the street number. He gestured in a chivalrous manner for Sera to go first. Then he tried to look up her skirt as she climbed ahead. Her flattering dress hugged her hips and flared out above the knees. Dang, this gal should show off her legs more often.

“You realize this isn’t the same as strip clubs as we know them from 2013, right?” Sam joined them on the small landing and fished a cotton handkerchief from his pocket. He shook it out, covered the knob, and twisted it. “It’s a burlesque. More about entertainment than sex.”

Sera grinned maniacally at his contradictory behavior. Turning her head to avoid getting caught, she noticed Quin beaming crookedly in return. “You were saying, Sam?”

He started to enter. “Well, in addition to dancers, they have comedians, musicians, ventriloquists, and even movie nights. In fact, women patronize these establishments, too.”

“Ventriloquists?” Quin halted. “I don’t want to see some clown playing with a doll. I want to see naked chicks.”

Sera grunted and pushed him into the club. The twin stenches of stale cigarettes and musty alcohol overwhelmed her as she scanned the layout. Since the stairs and entrance took up some space in the middle, the front wall receded behind them. A bar occupied the front wall to her left, while a curtained stage traversed the far left side. A smattering of scuffed wooden tables and chairs cluttered the audience section across the floor, and a row of tacky vinyl booths lined the extreme right. Already dark in the venue, the booths in the recessed area to the right of the steps lurked in shadows. From unseen speakers, Bobby Vinton crooned his melancholy ballad “Blue Velvet.” Dee had mentioned his hit song in her pop culture lessons. What did they call him again? Oh yeah, The Polish Prince.

After absorbing the coarse ambiance, they had begun to saunter forward when an old man sitting on a barstool demanded they fork over a cover charge. Quin sputtered that they shouldn’t have to pay if there was no entertainment, but the man wouldn’t budge. “No exceptions. Two dollars each. Gents and ladies.”

Sam glared as he peeled off six bills. “It must be too early for performers.” He glanced around the nearly empty club. “And don’t get your hopes up, Quin. The dancers don’t technically get naked. They wear skimpy costumes, kind of like a bikini on the bottom and tassels on the top.”

“Groovy! Can they twirl ‘em in opposite directions?” Quin demonstrated by helicoptering his index fingers in front of his chest.

“Stop it, you pig.” Sera slapped his mitts away. “Sit down and don’t make a spectacle of yourself.” She slumped into a chair at a table near the stage. From this vantage, she observed three runways jutting into the room. A carousel horse on a floor-to-ceiling pole dominated the center runway, ostensibly for the striptease acts. Nice. Cutting-edge strippers inventing pole dancing for the world. Maybe they had pioneered the lap dance as well. Stellar contributions to the human race. “Professional KGB assassins met at this sleaze parlor on a regular basis?”

Quin spun a banquet chair around and straddled it backward. “Yup. Dee said something about a meeting room in the back. Guess they arranged for private screenings with the, uh, talent.”

Sam rigidly remained standing. “I will investigate. The rest rooms are back there, so I’ll go alone so as not to arouse suspicion. Keep a low profile.”

“Don’t catch any germs in there, pal,” Quin called out after him.

“Shut up and order me a scotch.”

Sam pushed through a swinging door in the center of the back wall and entered a short hallway. As he passed the ladies’ room on the left, a paunchy, balding man burst out of a door on the right, almost bumping into him. The man muttered a curse, but Sam ignored it and nonchalantly continued. When the man had departed the hallway, Sam doubled back to explore the room just vacated. It was a barren office with a utilitarian, metal desk and a squat, gray safe in the corner. Half empty bottles of booze nestled among littered papers. Framed photos of cavorting strippers and variety acts adorned the walls. Typical. The owner probably fancied himself a showbiz mogul rather than a raunchy club operator.

Resuming his tour, he passed the men’s room on the left, and then the corridor turned a right corner. The passage revealed an exit on the left and another door on the right. Sam lightly touched the handle and opened the door. The unoccupied room housed oak chairs and a table with an overflowing ashtray as a centerpiece. Cases of beer and champagne were haphazardly stacked around the perimeter. This must be the infamous KGB meeting room, doubling as a storeroom.

Satisfied, he tried the rear door. It opened easily, but on a close examination he determined it would remain locked from the outside. Made sense considering the extortionate admission charge. He crossed over into the men’s room and scrubbed his hands of doorknob filth while automatically vetting his appearance in a mirror above the sink. Not bad. He smoothed his hair and straightened his narrow sixties tie. Next to the mirror was a large window with access to a fire escape down to the alley below. Sam also saw a staircase leading up to the locked back entrance. Interesting. He filed this information for his report to the team.

In the main showroom, Sera and Quin had yet to be served. More patrons were gradually traipsing in, but the joint seemed lacking in service.

Quin laced his fingers together and folded them backward, loudly cracking all knuckles at once. “I’ve had it. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink at the bar.”

As Sera reluctantly rose, Quin put a palm on the small of her back in a guiding fashion. She flinched at this uncharacteristic act from a man with an ego the size of the planet. “What do you think you’re doing?” She elbowed him in the gut.

A paunchy bartender with a receding hairline greeted them. “Welcome to the Carousel. I’m your host, Jack Ruby. What can I get you folks?”

“A couple of beers and a scotch.”

“No hard liquor. Just the set-ups.” Noting Quin’s stupefied expression, Ruby elaborated. “Beer and champagne only. You want the hard stuff, you bring it yourself. We sell you the set-up.”

Quin settled for three drafts, while “My Boyfriend’s Back” by the Angels bounced its clapping singsong melody over the loudspeakers.

As Ruby poured their drinks, he shamelessly critiqued Sera from head to toe, taking in her slim, athletic build. “Hey, doll. Need a job? We’ve got openings for dames like you.”

“I have a job.”

“What about nights and weekends? Extra cash? We’re always on the lookout for new talent. Want to be a star?” Ruby stared at her breasts. “You could be a headliner at the Carousel.”

Sera couldn’t believe the audacity of this lecherous middle-ager. “If you think for one minute that . . .”

Quin jabbed her with his elbow. “She means, ‘No thanks.’”

She clamped her lips and turned to him in murderous rage. “Cut it out!” she hissed.

“You’ve got yourself a real pistol there, fella.” Ruby chuckled. “Well, if you’re too shy to be a dancer, why not start as a cocktail waitress? You could work your way up. We need the help.”

As Sera opened her mouth to deliver a scathing reply, Quin kicked the side of her shoe and looked at her pointedly. Suddenly, she saw the whole scene fade into a vision of the broader picture. Of course. Working here would afford an ideal opportunity to monitor the KGB. She abruptly reversed course and offered a bright, fake smile. “I’d be delighted to work here as a cocktail waitress.”

“Great! You can start tomorrow. I’ve got the perfect uniform for you to show off your . . .” Ruby narrowed his eyes. “. . . assets.”

11:30 PM – CST

Sam leaned out of his bedroom door at 429 East Tenth Street and eavesdropped to confirm that the team was watching a rerun of The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Or a live broadcast, now that he thought about it. He closed the door and returned to his suitcase. He unzipped an inside pocket and, reaching in, felt his hand close around smooth, cold metal. He pulled out a Locklier H_2 2011. With its frozen hydrogen projectile, it was the most advanced weapon available in his time. He gripped the lustrous gun and aimed it at the bureau. Excellent. The tracking mechanism had not been adversely affected by time travel. He carefully slid it into the compartment and stashed the bag in the closet.

Earlier in the day, Iggy and Bick had gone downtown to purchase a few legitimate 1960s revolvers. For self-defense purposes, they quickly added. But what good was some meager defense when you might need some serious offense?

Only Sam had possessed the foresight to do what was necessary.

CHAPTER FORTY

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1963

10:25 AM – CST

Bick motored the pink and black Ford through the Oak Cliff section of Dallas using an extra key from the copies they’d had made. Jockeying the coupe into a parking space off Ledbetter Drive, he inhaled through the open window. “Definitely what you’d call a greasy spoon. The neighborhood smells like fried eggs and bacon.”

Dee sprang out and snapped photos. “This is where my granddad stopped on morning break. I’ve never seen it before, not even in pictures. In our era the building has been demolished.”

Jay took in the establishment. Blue and red neon letters on the roof stated Rebel Drive-In. Plate glass windows across the front revealed a counter with bolted stools and several tables inside. A small, half-open window on the left had a shelf jutting out below. “What the heck is this place?”

“It’s a drive-up diner with counter service inside and carhops outside.” Noticing Jay’s blank expression, Dee elaborated, “A carhop is a waiter or waitress who takes the order and delivers it right to your car. See that girl over there on roller skates?”

Jay stared at the skater in disbelief.

“Drive-ins were the precursors to drive-through fast food. That’s why the seating area is limited. Most people ate in their cars.”

“Roller skates?” Bick observed the fetching teen almost lose her tray as she negotiated a downslope. “Not too practical for serving food. Must be a novelty to attract attention.”

“All right, all right. Enough sightseeing.” Iggy ushered the others to the front door.

In spite of the drive-in’s name, Dee was flabbergasted to see a Confederate flag tacked up behind the register. They ordered beverages at the counter, Dee settling for a regular Coke, and sat down at a booth in the otherwise vacant eatery. Hank Williams’s lilting cowboy twang warbled from the jukebox. Ironically, the tune was “Let’s Turn Back the Years.”

At 10:30 am, a police officer entered the restaurant. He carried his muscular build with dignity, but his dark eyes sparkled with affability in a handsome, suntanned face. A patrolman’s cap covered most of his shiny black hair.

Iggy, Bick, and Jay looked questioningly at Dee, and she nodded. Her grandfather. In her excitement to see him again, she’d forgotten how much she missed his presence in her life. His senior years had been rewarding; he’d lived long enough to dote on each of his grandkids, Dee included. But in her timeline, Granddad had been gone for ten years. Now she sat ten paces from him, a man exuding vitality with the same playful twinkle she adored. In 1963, he would be, what? Thirty-nine? Only fourteen years older than her current age. That plus five decades. She knew all along he wouldn’t recognize her. However, to see him in the flesh and realize she counted as a complete stranger . . . Dee gave an involuntary sniff.

Jay awkwardly pawed her arm.

Dee rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath. She sipped her Coke and watched her grandfather order tea. “I’m okay. This is too important for me to fall apart. I have to talk to him and gain his trust.”

She steeled her resolve and approached the uniformed man. “Officer Tippit, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dee Doherty, and my friends and I need to discuss an urgent matter with you.”

Puzzled, the policeman nevertheless doffed his hat in deference to the earnest kid. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dee.” Her appearance and mannerisms seemed familiar, but he didn’t recall the name. Clutching his glass of tea, he followed her to the table.

“Officer Tippit, I would like you to meet my associates, Iggy Mikos, Bickford Haycock, and Jay Harding.”

Her young grandfather graciously shook hands and began memorizing faces and names. Over a decade on the force had taught him to be constantly on alert, using his observational skills to evaluate each encounter. Although Iggy hadn’t spoken, she was clearly an authoritative figure, and probably the leader. Bickford’s precise movements and perfect posture hinted at a military career. And Jay. Obviously a poindexter or perhaps just a bookworm. You could tell for sure he’d been beat up on the playground. As a whole, the group appeared mostly harmless. “Nice to meet you folks. Call me J.D.” He sat down, leaning forward expectantly.

Wanting to keep her flood of memories at bay, Dee jumped right to the point. “We have a lead on an unlawful act that’s going to be committed here in Dallas.”

J.D. hadn’t counted on this sudden twist. In his experience, people tipped off the police for only two reasons—either they were crazy, or they were involved. His first impressions might have missed the mark. He chose his next words carefully. “Now, what would you nice citizens know about a criminal offense?”

Failing to notice the officer’s skepticism, Bick spoke like a co-conspirator. “If we could tell you”—he swiveled from side to side, confirming that nobody else was listening—“the time and place where a crime is going to occur, could you prevent it? Could you arrest the perpetrator?”

“Well, it’s possible.” J.D. gazed above their heads as if speculating. “But how could anyone know about a crime in advance unless they were somehow mixed up in it?”

“Oh gosh, no. Of course not. Nothing like that. I mean we couldn’t . . .” Jay knocked over his soda and grabbed a bunch of napkins to sop it up. “We, we wouldn’t even be capable of such a thing.”

J.D.’s eyes widened at the stranger’s nervousness.

Iggy felt the plan tumbling down around her. How could they be so careless with their historic meeting? She cast about wildly, thinking of a plausible scenario. “It’s not us. We have a reliable source.”

“Reliable source?” J.D. parroted. “Then I would very much like to meet your informant.”

“You can’t.” Dee landed on familiar ground. “I’m a reporter and I am not at liberty to reveal my sources.”

“Is that so?” The officer slid a notebook and pen from his breast pocket. “Which news organization do you work for?”

He had her. Dee couldn’t produce credentials. No one spoke.

“I thought so.” The patrolman sat back and folded his arms. “You people apparently have something to say to me, or you wouldn’t have tracked me down. Now I have a job to do. A job I take seriously, so I’m giving you exactly one minute to tell me what’s going on.” He checked his watch. “Make sure it’s the truth.”

“The truth? You want the truth?” Dee’s voice shrilled with raw emotion.

“No!” Jay implored.

Dee’s desire to appease her grandfather impelled her forward. “We’re time travelers from the future. Fifty years to be exact.” She slapped her palms on the table. “We’re from 2013.”

Incredulity washed over J.D., replaced by disappointment. “I can’t help you if you’re not going to level with me.” He stood up to leave.

“No wait! I have proof.” Dee pulled a photograph from her purse and thrust it at him. “I know you’ll help us. You’ve got to. It’s part of your nature.”

Something about her demeanor gave him pause. What was it? Desperation? No, faith. J.D. snatched the picture. “What is this?”

“Christmas. 1965.”

Officer Tippit studied the faded print. He recognized a living room similar to his own, decorated for the holiday. Surrounding the tree, three children gaily opened presents. His children—Allan, Brenda, and Curtis. But somehow they were different. Taller maybe, with slimmer faces. In the background, his wife Marie lounged on the settee, hands clasped over an expectant midriff, smiling serenely at the camera.

Dee, Jay, Bick, and Iggy scarcely breathed while they waited for a reaction.

J.D.’s palms started to perspire. The intuitive part of his mind acknowledged this to be his family. But rationally, it was not possible. Sanity returned. It was one thing to try to fool a lawman. It was another to involve his wife and kids.

He tossed the picture onto the table. “What kind of parlor trick is this? This is a fake photograph. You’ve obviously superimposed my family’s faces over someone else’s.”

“No, we really are from the future, and this is your family.” Dee gripped his sleeve. “You’re going to have another child. A baby girl.” She omitted that the infant would grow up to become her mother.

“Leave my family out of it.” J.D. shook her off. “I suggest you pay a visit to Parkland Memorial Hospital. They have a special ward for people like you.”

“Please, J.D.” Iggy tried appealing to his sense of duty. “A murder is going to be committed, and we have to stop it.”

The police officer strode out, letting the door bang shut behind him.

3:15 PM – CST

Afterward, Dee spent a glum couple of hours contemplating their failed meeting with J.D. Tippit. She mentally rehashed the entire conversation, including everything she’d said and hadn’t said. Sensing her palpable frustration, the rest of the team left her alone. But Dee could mope for only so long. Eventually, her normal state of optimism returned, and she decided all they had to do was try again. And again. No matter what it took, she would convince her grandfather of their sincerity.

In the meantime, she devoted her energy to helping Sera get ready for her new career.

“Are you done yet?” Sera despised sitting impassively like a porcelain doll. “You’ve been grooming me for a half an hour already.” Worst of all, she couldn’t see the progress. Her back to the mirrored bureau in their bedroom, she faced Dee perched on the edge of the opposite twin bed. Sera’s view consisted of their hideous floral bedspreads.

“Almost.” Dee patted a powder puff over Sera’s cheeks and dusted off the excess with a soft brush. “There.”

Sera turned to the mirror and examined her reflection, tilting her head from side to side. Unbelievable. If the image weren’t moving, she’d swear it was a portrait of someone else. Swept back from her forehead, her hair cascaded down in wavy curls framing a radiant complexion. The muted shadows and subtle make-up hues made her eyes seem larger and her contours softer, less angular. She missed her severe black eyeliner already, but the overall effect was, perhaps, pretty. However, she objected on principle. “I still don’t see why I need to be primped and painted to serve drinks to perverts.”

“You’re welcome.” Dee grinned. “Go ahead and put on your uniform. Doesn’t your shift start at four o’clock?”

“Yeah, four to eleven. Ruby overlaps it with the crew from seven until two. Closing time. At least I get home at a decent hour.” Sera was pulling on black stockings when an uncomfortable thought occurred to her. “You don’t think anyone is around right now, do you? I don’t want to be ogled in this outfit.”

“Nah.” Dee decided a white lie was in order. “I think everyone’s out except Quin. He offered to drive you to work.”

Sera felt herself flush.

Five minutes later, they descended the staircase to the lower floor of the two-story house. To Sera’s dismay, the entire team was sprawled around the living room watching her humiliating debut. Thank goodness nobody said anything. But as she got closer, she realized the men were sitting riveted to the sagging couch, mouths hanging open at the sight of her black dress that closely resembled a French maid costume. She instinctively yanked at the hem of her skirt, willing it to lengthen.

Sam whistled wolfishly.

“Feeling a bit of a breeze there, Sera?” Quin raised his eyebrows and admired her lean thighs.

Mesmerized by her metamorphosis, Jay touched the side of his cheek. “Your face is so different. Well, I mean, uh, you look beautiful.” He hastily continued, “Of course, not that you don’t usually.” He clamped his lips shut before he could inflict any more damage.

“What?” Sera wanted to wring his neck. “Dee did it.”

Iggy could practically feel the enraged impotence emanating from her protégé. “Well done, Sera. You can definitely pass for a cocktail waitress in that disguise. No one will ever know you’re a spy. On behalf of the team, I want to commend you for volunteering for this assignment.”

“Yes, we’re grateful.” Bick made an attempt to keep the banter away from the Junior High level. “Hey, that was a stroke of luck you got a job at the Carousel. How did you manage it?”

Sera shrugged. “Well, Ruby just offered it. I didn’t ask for an application or anything.”

“Yes, one might even say it was”—Quin entwined his fingers together and placed them behind his head—“serendipity.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1963

9:30 PM - CST

Jay scrutinized the building as they arrived at 2321 West Illinois Avenue, on their second drive-in restaurant visit in Oak Cliff on the same day. He paused to absorb the cheesy facade. Vertical red and white slats lined the front, while white Y-shaped struts supported a wooden awning across the length. A neon sign on top bore the name Austin’s in white script followed by BAR-B-CUE in bold yellow. A smaller font beneath boasted Tender as ol’ Austin’s Heart. As they entered, Jay gave an exaggerated sniff. “At least it smells better than that Rebel place. More like barbecue sauce than refried grease.”

Iggy glanced around the dimly lit, shoebox interior. “It’s filling up. Let’s find a spot to wait.” Groups of teenagers and young adults entered in successive waves.

After fifteen minutes, Dee motioned toward the door. “There he is.” In walked a now-familiar, comely police officer in uniform. Although crowded, the establishment had limited capacity, so J.D. must have noticed them. But he made no immediate acknowledgment.

Bick spoke up to be heard over the rising buzz of conversations. “What’s the story? He’s got a part-time job?”

“Two, actually. In addition to working full-time on the force, J.D. moonlights here Friday and Saturday nights from ten until two.” Dee deliberately used her grandfather’s first name as practice. “He’s also a security guard at the Stevens Theater on Sunday afternoons.”

“The man’s not afraid to work hard to take care of his family, is he?”

Dee proudly nodded at Bick’s approving assessment.

A group of high school students were engaging the officer in an animated exchange. While still commanding respect, J.D. interacted easily, swapping jokes and countering their friendly insults with pithy rejoinders.

“J.D. has always been able to relate to the younger generation.” Dee fondly recalled her own childhood. “He’s really popular with kids. It’s why he’s so successful as a security guard. In fact, the owner, Austin Cook, always told Granddad his mere presence here discouraged fights. They just love him so.”

Nearby, J.D. kept an eye on Dee’s entourage while maintaining an ongoing dialogue with the teens. However, the more he considered the quartet, the more he admired their persistence. As his anger faded, his curiosity intensified.

The team loitered until the fans surrounding the veteran law enforcement official had dissipated and he was left alone.

Although nervous, Dee arranged her face in a reporter’s look—meant to convey intellectual objectivity—as she approached him. “Good evening, Officer Tippit. Sorry to bother you while you’re working.”

“Oh, it’s you again. The people from the future.” J.D. grinned good-naturedly. “How did the head examinations go?”

Oblivious to his jokey tone, Iggy straightened her spine. “I assure you, Officer, we are perfectly sane.”

“Of course you are.” J.D. feigned seriousness. “Fifty years from now, right? Tell me, how does the space race turn out? Does a man ever set foot on the moon?”

“You bet he does!” Jay began ticking off his fingers. “First there was Project Mercury, which launched men into space. But, hold on, it’s 1963, so you would know all about that. Then we had the two-man Gemini teams, which were delayed for a few years because of the war. They accomplished long-duration flights and EVAs, which were necessary for lunar distances. Finally, the Apollo series. On the eleventh mission, we landed men on the moon. Talk about a momentous occasion. Many say it was the greatest achievement in human history. The date was July twentieth, nineteen—”

“Jay!” Iggy poked her elbow into his ribs. “You’re not helping us.”

“What? I haven’t even gotten to the space forts yet.” Jay opened his mouth to elaborate.

J.D. stifled a laugh.

“Settle down, son.” Bick shot Jay a warning look. “Why don’t we let Dee explain things to the patrolman so we don’t waste his time?”

Dee took a breath and forged ahead. “I realize you don’t believe we’re from the future. But I know important details about your life any random stranger wouldn’t.”

“Go ahead. Impress me. I’m listening.” He folded his arms.

“Okay, in 1956, you and your partner, Dale Hankins, conducted a routine check for intoxicated drivers at Club 80 on West Commerce Street. A visibly drunk patron defied your order to cooperate. The crazed man drew a semi-automatic pistol, aimed it at you, and pulled the trigger. Luckily, in his impaired condition he had forgotten the safety. You and Dale simultaneously shot the man, killing him instantly, thus protecting all the innocent bystanders. You received a Certificate of Merit Award for outstanding judgment and quick thinking. You’re a hero.”

“Well, Miss, hero is a noble word. But it’s not easy to live with killing a man, even in self-defense. Regardless, did you expect me to be dazzled by your detective work? That account is a matter of record. And if you really are a reporter, as you say”—J.D. didn’t conceal the irony in his voice—“then isn’t it your job to dig up information on people?”

“I am a reporter!” Dee barked, and then hung her head, deflated.

Jay nudged her. “What about that other thing? You know, the secret.”

Dee snapped her head up with fierce determination. “I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but you leave me no choice. We are from 2013, and I can prove it. I know something very private. Something you haven’t told anyone else. Yet.”

“And what would that be?”

“You married your high school sweetheart, Marie Gasway, shortly after your honorable discharge from World War II, in which you earned a Bronze Star for combat duty.”

J.D. rolled his hand forward at the wrist in a get-on-with-it gesture.

“Before the engagement, you didn’t have the means to get her the kind of ring you thought she deserved.”

Surprised, the officer stopped motioning with his hand.

Dee dealt her final trump card, enunciating clearly. “You have a surprise for your wife on layaway at Sterling Jewelers. A diamond ring.”

J.D. took an involuntary step back, and replied in a hoarse croak, “No one knows about that. Not anyone. How could you possibly know?”

“My granddad told me.” Dee answered honestly.

“You have my attention now.” J.D. shrewdly appraised her. “Who’s your grandfather?”

Dee waved dismissively. “You haven’t met him yet. That won’t happen for years and years.”

“Fine, if you want to play it that way, don’t tell me. But of all the cops in Dallas, why me?”

“Because I know from my granddad that you are a good and honest man we can trust.” Dee felt a surge of hope. At least she had piqued his interest.

“Well, obviously I’m not buying the bull about time travel, but you have gone to extremes to convince me to help you. You mentioned a murder.” J.D. sized up each member of the group. “For now, I’m banking on the fact that none of you are involved. If someone might get hurt, I can’t live with that on my conscience. So, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me everything you know.”

10:00 PM – CST

“Excuse me. Excuse me!” Sera pushed her way through the throng of chattering dancers in the ladies’ room at the Carousel Club. Unfortunately, the bathroom doubled as a dressing room. Suitcases of make-up cluttered the sinks, scarves twisted lazily over the mirrors, costumes hung from the stall doors, and stilettos formed an obstacle course on the floor. The cramped quarters reeked of cheap perfume and body odor.

Sera finally freed herself from the confines of the lavatory. This was the worst job ever. Her first day, and she’d already been groped up the thigh and slapped on the ass twice. How could Dee call the sixties a more civilized decade? These men were misogynistic cavemen, for crying out loud.

She returned to the bar to collect another round of colas for Sam and Quin. She loathed serving the two of them, but it afforded the opportunity to talk discreetly.

Sera thumped the drinks on their table. “See anything yet?”

Sam alternated between watching the movie and the front entrance, barely able to see through the swirling cigarette smoke. Most of the ambient light came from the flickering screen. Motion Picture Night at the Carousel was a unique form of entertainment. While various strippers silently gyrated on three runways, a reel of Cleopatra projected behind them. Not the classy Liz Taylor version shown in theaters earlier in 1963, but a steamier version directed by Cecil B. DeMille in 1934, starring Claudette Colbert.

“No. Still no sign of the KGB. However, Cleo is making lots of friends.” Sam dragged his eyes away from the actress. “Anyway, there’s no guarantee they’ll be here on any given night.”

“Wanna make a bet?” Quin lifted his chin toward the door. “Here they come. Dmitriy Sokolov and Viktor Vladimirsky. I recognize them from Dee’s photo library.”

Sera squinted through the haze. “Yeah, you’re right. But who is that behind them? He’s certainly not Ivan Grekovich.”

They watched as the third man stopped the two known Soviets from heading to the bar, gesticulating angrily. Then he led the way to the back hallway while the others obediently followed.

“Ivan was short and fat. But this guy is any man,” Sam speculated out loud. “What, five-foot-ten? Brown hair? Unremarkable features? He’s the perfect spy.”

Before opening the door, the mystery man halted and gazed around the burlesque. His scan flitted past Sera and company, paused, and then rested briefly on them again.

Taken aback, Quin racked his brain trying to figure out what had caused the guy’s second glance. They were sitting unobtrusively, being served by a cocktail waitress—Sera. She stood with one hand on her miniskirted hip, the other balancing a tray, and a shapely leg jutting out. Of course. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer there, Sera.”

“I’ve got a virtual fan club in this sleaze pit. Care to join? Ten bucks will buy you a membership and a free miniposter.”

Quin pretended to go for his wallet while Sera gave him a withering glare.

“Cut it out, kids.” Sam shifted his chair to better observe the KGB disappear through the swinging door. “The important question is, where the hell is Ivan? And who is Mr. Espionage Agent Du Jour?”

“Maybe we screwed up. Changed the timeline or something.” Quin slurped the dregs of his drink and chomped on an ice cube. “Didn’t Iggy drone on about that?”

“That’s asinine.” Sera swiped his nearly empty glass off the table. “We’ve been in Dallas for three days and have hardly interacted with anyone. I fail to see how we could have altered the course of history.”

“Maybe I bought the Chevy Ivan was meant to buy, and he has no way to get here. Ever think of that?”

“She’s right,” Sam interjected, as Sera rolled her eyes. “We’ve only been here a short time. Perhaps Ivan comes into the picture later. We’ll have to stay vigilant and see what develops.”

10:15 PM – CST

While J.D. had kept tabs on the boisterous clientele at Austin’s Barbecue, Dee, Jay, Iggy and Bick had briefed him on the upcoming crime. Wanting to maintain order, the officer had interrupted the conversation on several occasions to curtail rowdy behavior.

Now, he reviewed the facts. “So, y’all are telling me an innocent housewife is going to be kidnapped and killed on November 18, here in Dallas. I can’t arrest the perpetrators because you have no concrete evidence.” J.D. sucked air through his teeth. “Except for your knowledge of the future.”

“That pretty much sums it up.” Jay sighed.

Out of respect, Iggy volleyed it back to the lawman. “What do you think, J.D.?”

“Well, ma’am, if we simply prevent the incident from occurring, the criminals may keep trying until they succeed. The trick is to thwart the homicide, but almost let it happen. That way I can arrest the killers for attempted murder. And kidnapping.”

“Not an easy task.” Bick felt a kinship with J.D. This cop was the real deal.

“Exactly right, but we have a plan.” Dee nodded eagerly. “And you’ll know we’re telling the truth when the events play out exactly as we predict.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.” These folks sounded mental, but they seemed sincere. And J.D. found it difficult to believe they’d be involved in manslaughter. Best to go along with them for now and see what developed.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1963

10:45 PM – CST

Jack Ruby held up a hand to halt his conversation with the nincompoop at the bar while he filled a drink order for the fledgling waitress. He congratulated himself on discovering Sera. Several regulars had already asked how soon the pretty new gal would strip. Ruby had ruefully shaken his head and made the excuse that she was a trainee. No harm in implying her status might change. Wishful thinking, the expectation of seeing her dance, would keep them coming. Quick as a whip, the recent hire had even provided advice on supply-ordering procedures after she’d noticed they were out of stock on key items. All on her first shift.

“Are you brewing them? I haven’t got all day, Ruby.” Sera grabbed the beers and handed in another ticket. “I’ll be right back for those, so make it snappy.”

He chuckled. If only she wasn’t such a wisenheimer. The customers didn’t seem to mind, though. He’d seen them flirt, tease, pinch, grab—anything to get a rise out of her. She also wasted time yammering with her two friends parked near the main stage. But, hey, no one went thirsty, so who cared?

The patron he’d been talking to waved both arms to attract Ruby’s attention. The club owner snarled at him to be silent as he surveyed his kingdom. The Cleopatra movie credits had rolled, but in typical Friday-night fashion, the Carousel was packed. In rotating order, all three runways were in use as each girl performed a solo number to the cheers of the crowd. Satisfied, he reluctantly turned to the half-wit. “What?”

“Listen up, Jack, this is serious, important stuff. I was saying, it is readily foreseeable that a coming economic, political, or military crisis, internal or external, will bring about the final destruction of the capitalist system. Assuming this, we can see how preparation in a special party could safeguard an independent course of action after the debacle.” Lee Harvey Oswald gave him a supercilious smile.

“Special party?” Ruby eyed him with disdain. “What are you, a commie?” The guy sounded like he was reading from a script.

“I’m a Marxist. I have studied Marxist philosophy and also other philosophers.” Oswald gazed confidently at the barkeep. “Yes, I will very definitely say that I am a Marxist, that is correct. But that does not mean, however, that I am a communist.”

“What the devil is the difference?” Ruby reminded himself that he could always beat the crap out of this pesky fly. Again.

“The difference is primarily the difference between a country like Guinea, Ghana, Yugoslavia, China, or Russia. Very, very great differences. Differences which we appreciate by giving aid, let’s say to Yugoslavia, in the sum of a hundred million or so dollars a year.”

“Irregardless, what’s the difference?” Ruby unconsciously tightened his fists as he envisioned the man on the floor, writhing in agony.

“The difference is, as I have said, a very great difference. Many parties, many countries are based on Marxism. Many countries, such as Great Britain, display very socialistic aspects or characteristics. I might point to the socialized medicine in Britain.”

“And I might point to my boot connecting with your ass, sending you sailing toward the door.” Ruby decided to preach a lesson to the skinny twerp. “You commies are all the same.”

Oswald opened his mouth to object, but the strip joint mogul cut him off.

“Communists, Marxists, Socialists. Doesn’t matter. You’re all a sorry bunch of whiners who cling to the idea of a pie-in-the-sky society. In the real world, those societies are excuses to make slaves of your everyday working stiff.”

“It’s not supposed to be like that.” Oswald clenched his jaw.

“What’s wrong with good old democracy? Here in the USA, we choose our own leaders. Hell, I voted for Kennedy. He’s a legendary president who’s making significant progress. He’s reforming taxes, promoting civil rights, and fighting communism. He’s even going to put a man on the moon. And his wife, Jackie, is one classy broad. Get a load of how she jazzed up the White House. Whaddaya call ‘em? Oh yeah, the King and Queen of Camelot. You’ll see. JFK is just what our country needs. In the future, people will look up Kennedy in the history books and say, ‘Well, this man was ahead of his time.’ You’re lucky you were born here.”

Oswald snorted.

“Listen to me, you fool. With American Capitalism we’re free. Anyone can make it if they work hard. Take me, for example, a schmuck from Chicago and I own two nightclubs.”

Sera returned to the bar as Ruby was calling himself a schmuck. She arched her eyebrows at him.

Lee Harvey Oswald straightened his shoulders and drew up one side of his upper lip. “Freedom is an illusion. It’s like Karl Marx said. A lie told often enough becomes the truth.”

“You idiot.” Sera whipped around toward the pompous little twit. “Marx didn’t say that, Lenin did.”

Behind Sera, Viktor Vladimirsky stopped his approach with his left foot in mid-air. He put his foot down and abruptly retreated.

10:55 PM – CST

Waiting in a booth with a brooding Dmitriy, Kon idly watched ventriloquist Bill Demar perform. While the hayseeds around him cracked up at the lame routine, the KGB cell leader failed to comprehend what was so humorous about a lecherous dummy. These hackneyed jokes may have been funny at one time, but Kon barely broke a smile. He could see the operator’s lips move as the doll spoke. Pathetic.

Kon’s thoughts were disrupted when his dour, blond underling precipitously returned to the table empty-handed. “Hey, Lurch. Where’s my beer?”

“I just heard that cocktail waitress quoting Lenin.” Viktor stole a glance at the bar. “She mouthed off at something Oswald was pontificating about.”

“So what?” Dmitriy interrupted. “No one listens to that dope. Besides, we’re parched over here.”

Viktor ignored him and addressed Kon. “Forgive me, comrade sir, but why would an ordinary barmaid be familiar with the words of our historic politician?”

Kon cocked his head to the side. “Which one?”

“The new girl. You know, what’s her name, with the dark hair and sexy legs. The dame you keep . . .” Viktor hesitated as his superior glared. “What do you think? Could she be an American spy?”

“Don’t be absurd, Vik,” Dmitriy again weighed in. “You watch too many movies.”

Kon observed the waitress as she served a couple of patrons near the runways. “I think it’s time I learn more about Miss Sera and her friends.”

11:40 PM – CST

Less than an hour later, Kon rolled his black 1959 DeSoto to a stop on South Denver Street on the block between East Ninth and East Tenth. He pulled out his technologically advanced binoculars and examined a two-story blue and white house. The pair of men from the burlesque—the swaggering stud and the dashing dandy—had driven Sera to this residence in a turquoise Chevy Impala.

Kon settled in for a tedious night of surveillance.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1963

10:00 AM – CST

Bick cruised the pink and black Ford along West Fifth Street in Irving, Texas. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing, barging in on a stranger on a Saturday morning?”

“We have to talk to her.” Dee kept her nose pressed against the passenger window while she scanned for number 2515. “Besides”—she turned to the trio sitting in the back—“we successfully recruited J.D., didn’t we? He didn’t know us either.”

In the rearview mirror, Bick saw Officer Tippit lean his forehead into his palm, while Iggy and Jay looked on, alarmed. Evidently, the policeman needed more coaxing.

“Stop the car! We’re here.” Dee beamed as Bick squealed the brakes. “Remember, we’re visiting a housewife who’s separated from her husband. She’s a single mom with a couple of toddlers. Lynn is four and Christopher is two. Be diplomatic and don’t frighten her.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve gone over all that.” Jay sighed.

Dee hopped out and strode across the lawn past a sprawling live oak that dwarfed the tiny white ranch house behind it. “Come on!” She continued to the front door, which was sandwiched between a protruding garage on the left and a picture window checker-boarded with square panes on the right.

Iggy hurried to catch up. “Dee, you seem a bit overexcited. Why don’t you let J.D. and me do the talking?” They couldn’t afford to blow this encounter like they almost had with J.D.

Dee scowled as she rang the bell.

An attractive thirty-year-old woman with a dark, wavy pageboy cut opened the door. She observed the uniformed lawman with an inquisitive expression. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Officer J.D. Tippit from the Dallas Police Department. Are you Mrs. Ruth Hyde Paine?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Paine. How can I help you, Officer Tippit?”

“Well, ma’am”—he removed his cap and held it in both hands—“we’re awfully sorry to trouble you, but we have information about a possible crime. We would like to request your assistance.”

“Certainly. Won’t you please come in? I’ll have to ask you to keep your voices down. The children are taking a nap.”

As they entered the cozy living room, J.D. introduced the team as the informants who had brought the matter to his attention.

Mrs. Paine invited her guests to make themselves comfortable while she went to the kitchen to brew coffee.

“I’m still not happy about being here,” J.D. whispered. “We have no concrete evidence she’s in any danger. I feel like a fraud manipulating my position of authority.”

Convincing Mrs. Paine was the linchpin in Dee’s plan. She refused to allow it to fall through. “She is in danger. What if they kill her? You don’t want her death on your conscience, do you?”

J.D. cast his eyes downward.

They heard bubbling and hissing from the percolator as the smell of fresh coffee permeated the air.

Their hostess returned and served steaming mugs. She sat down and regarded the group with unfettered curiosity. “Now, what is it you came to see me about, Officer Tippit?”

“Please, call me J.D.” He pulled at his chin nervously. “This isn’t an official police investigation yet, so I’ll let Iggy take the lead.”

“We have a few questions.” Iggy gazed around the room, trying to decide where to begin. The décor made her feel like she was trespassing on the set of a sixties sitcom—perhaps Rob and Laura Petrie’s New Rochelle sitting room from the Dick Van Dyke show. Hung on the opposite wall was a ticking clock with a small face and large wooden spikes radiating out from its center. A late-fifties matching couch and love seat complemented the wood-paneled TV console. Old-fashioned rabbit-ear antennas testified to the only method of obtaining a broadcast of the popular comedy. She envisioned Mr. Van Dyke as Rob Petrie tripping over Mrs. Paine’s ottoman just as he did during the opening theme song. Iggy chided herself to marshal her thoughts. “First of all, do you speak Russian?”

“Fluently.” Of all the possible queries, Mrs. Paine never imagined one about her proficiency in a foreign tongue.

“Forgive me, ma’am, but isn’t that a bit unusual in this day and age? With the Cold War in progress?” Bick shifted in the overstuffed armchair. How extraordinary to be in the company of a person who had died half a century ago, from his perspective.

“That’s exactly why it’s so important. How can we improve East-West relations unless we speak the same language? I studied Russian for several years. I also participate in the Young Friends’ Soviet pen-pal program at the Meeting House.”

“Friends’ Meeting House?” Jay scooted forward with interest, perching on the edge of the ottoman.

“The general public seems to want to call us Quakers.”

“Nixon was a Quaker, wasn’t he?” Jay blurted out.

“He still is, young man,” Mrs. Paine sharply corrected. “I also taught Russian at Saint Mark’s school last summer, but I only had one pupil. An aspiring actor. Now, I have a question for you. What do my language skills have to do with anything?”

Iggy admired this spirited activist who was not afraid to speak her mind. “We have reason to believe there is a Soviet connection to an impending homicide.” She was careful not to mention the KGB.

Mrs. Paine gasped. “Oh my goodness. Who? Is it someone I know?”

Iggy took in the woman’s perfectly coiffed hair, slim pencil skirt, button-down sweater, and strand of pearls—outdated by post-millennium standards, but the height of fashion in 1963. How could she inform a well-mannered, yet feisty mother of two that her life was at stake? “We’ll get to that. Tell me, how often do you go to downtown Dallas?”

Mrs. Paine considered her warily. “Hardly ever. Living in the suburbs, I don’t have the need.”

“Do you have plans to visit the city within the next week?”

“No, of course not.” She shook her head emphatically.

The time travelers looked at each other in astonishment. Could it be true? Or was she lying?

“Are you sure?” J.D. addressed Mrs. Paine and then turned to Dee in consternation, doubts resurfacing.

“Absolutely certain.” Their interviewee set down her mug and folded her arms. “I’ve been forthright with you, and I would appreciate it if you would return the favor. What’s all this nonsense about downtown Dallas? And Russian? Who do you think is going to be murdered?”

Dee had sat on her hands until now in an effort to keep from railroading the conversation. Enough was enough. She took a deep breath, but paused when Iggy gave a slight shake of her head. Screw it. Dee exhaled. “You.”

Iggy, Jay, Bick, and J.D. remained mute with shock, while Mrs. Paine’s laughter rang out. “Don’t be ridiculous. What on earth makes you think someone would want to kill me? I don’t have any enemies.”

Dee forged ahead, ignoring the victim’s cavalier attitude. “We have all the facts; we know what will happen. You’re going to be kidnapped in Dallas and killed by a riverbed. That’s where we come in. We can help you and prevent it from happening.”

“Help me?” Mrs. Paine’s face flushed. “How dare you make up such a depraved lie with my children sleeping in the next room? Do you think you’re being funny? Is this some sort of twisted joke to you?”

“Not at all, ma’am, we’re dead serious.” Bick flinched at his poor choice of words. “If you’ll let us explain . . .”

“I’ve heard enough. This interview is over.”

“No, wait! We have a logical . . . I mean a rational . . . well we have a reason, although it may be hard to fathom. What I mean is, we, uh, we’re . . .” Jay’s voice trailed off “. . . from the future.”

Mrs. Paine stood. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

10:25 AM – CST

Kon knelt on the second-story porch of 429 East Tenth Street and jimmied the window open. He climbed in to begin his methodical search of the premises.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1963

10:30 AM – CST

As Mrs. Paine was trying to hustle them out of the house, J.D. persuaded her to give them another chance. Once again seated in her living room, he continued his heartfelt plea and assured her that he didn’t purport to be from the future. He categorically agreed with her conclusion that the time-travel story was a hoax. However, he admitted the eccentric crew knew facts about him no one else could. The officer opened her mind to the possibility that they might have an invaluable source of knowledge. If her safety were in jeopardy, wouldn’t it behoove her to listen? At least for the sake of her children.

Iggy’s thoughts wandered while J.D. persisted. She surveyed the room and spied an overflowing toy chest in the corner. Funny she hadn’t noticed it previously. Despair rippled through her as she remembered her own son Andreas at a younger age. When she had departed 2013, he was fourteen years old and already absorbing the propaganda spewed forth by the military academy the government forced him to attend. Why should he be penalized because of her actions? What she wouldn’t give to turn back the clock and nurture him through his formative years. With a start, Iggy realized nobody was speaking in the present. Apparently, Mrs. Paine had reluctantly acquiesced to hear their fantastic tale.

Iggy willed herself out of her reverie. “Well, as Dee so tactfully pointed out, in our timeline someone succeeds in murdering you. We’re here to stop that from happening.”

Mrs. Paine rolled her eyes at the mention of timeline. “Who? Why?”

Iggy continued, “I understand you have a boarder living at home, another young mother, but her husband resides elsewhere.”

Mrs. Paine nodded as she sat stiffly on the couch.

“J.D.”—Iggy motioned toward him—“initially arrested your boarder’s husband for the crime. Since he rents a room in the Oak Cliff patrol district, it was under their jurisdiction.”

“That’s absurd.” Mrs. Paine raised her palms. “He may be a simpleton, but he would have no reason to harm me.”

“The police thought he had motive. But Dee is better equipped to explain.”

Dee rested her forearms on her knees. “Here’s the scoop. During a protracted interrogation, the accused barely spoke. However, questioning of his acquaintances revealed that he blamed you for his separation from his wife. He complained you were driving a wedge between them.”

Bewildered, Mrs. Paine protested, “That’s not at all true.”

“It’s what the detectives uncovered. As a result, the prime suspect became Lee Harvey Oswald.” Dee shrugged. “Oswald was eventually exonerated because the bullet in evidence came from the same gun used later in another heinous shooting. The investigation of the subsequent homicide led to the startling discovery that you overheard something in Russian at a club in Dallas. It was presumed that what you heard included incriminating information about the impending murder. That was the impetus for the assassins to”—Dee lowered her voice—“silence you.”

“I don’t think so.” Mrs. Paine felt relieved. “There is no explanation for why I would visit a club in Dallas. Unless you are implying it was a Soviet Friends’ Meeting House?”

The team exchanged awkward glances.

“No.” Bick sipped at his empty coffee cup and examined the residue in the bottom. “No one knows why you were at this particular establishment.”

“Then what was it?” As the seconds ticked by, Mrs. Paine glared at each of them in turn. “It’s a simple question. What kind of a club was it exactly?”

“Well, um, you see, that’s really a delicate issue, as it were. It’s called the Carousel. And it’s a, uh, venue with a variety of performers.” Jay bowed his head and shielded his eyes with one hand. “I suppose the proper term for it would be . . . a burlesque.”

Shaking with mortification and rage, Mrs. Paine steadied herself off the couch. “Get out of my home.” She leveled her entire arm toward the door. “This instant.”

10:40 AM – CST

Kon felt his fingers close around a cold metal object hidden inside the pocket of a suitcase. He pulled out a shiny high-tech weapon and cradled it. What were they doing with this? Deep in thought, he snapped back to reality when he heard the sounds of car doors slamming on the side of the house. Keeping a tight grip on the gun, he gingerly replaced the luggage in the closet. He heard Sera and her two cohorts through the open window, complaining about how they were relegated to buying groceries while the others furthered the mission. They continued with whining about being deemed the least diplomatic of the group. How unprofessional.

Kon secured the weapon in the belt of his jeans and slipped out the back door.

3:00 PM – CST

Dee sat in their first-floor living room, watching the afternoon sunlight slant through the side windows, illuminating the dust motes swirling onto the dingy furniture. Surrounded by the team and her grandfather, she had lost the thread of the debate. Their colossal failure with Mrs. Paine hadn’t rattled her; after all, time travel was a farfetched tale to swallow. No, it was J.D.’s skepticism that hurt. She needed him to trust her and believe in her as he would in the future. Without the familial bond, she felt adrift like an orphan, even though her granddad sat five feet away. Maybe he needed time to get to know her. Dee sighed and halfheartedly turned her attention back to the conversation.

“Look, we’re through squabbling, ‘kay? I volunteered.” Quin jabbed his thumb at his chest. “I’m taking the lady’s place at the Carousel, and that’s the end of it. All you gotta do is keep her out.”

“Stopping Mrs. Paine is the easy part. Once she sees us, well, she has to accept our prophecy, right?” Jay leaned forward on his elbows and pressed two fingers into each temple. “But you’re talking about a suicide mission, Quin. If you play Mrs. Paine’s part, the Soviets will kill you instead of her.”

“You don’t get it, do you, boy.” Sam blindsided the others with his harsh tone. “We have no other choice. Someone needs to replace Paine, and Quin is our man. He will get close to the commies and overhear their Russian conversation. As soon as Quin is kidnapped by the KGB, Bick and I will rescue him and Tippit will arrest the perpetrators. Done.”

J.D. furrowed his brow. “If Mrs. Paine shows up, and if there are homicidal Soviets lying in ambush, then I have another problem. I can’t allow you civilians to put yourselves in harm’s way.”

“Civilians? Hogwash.” Bick was scandalized by the thought of being called an amateur. “I’m former Navy and Secret Service. Quin and Sam were in the Air Force. We were in greater peril when we fought the Ruskies in the war.”

“No offense.” J.D. held up one hand in deference to their service in an alleged upcoming war.

“This is insane.” Sera jumped up from her seat and began pacing, forgetting she’d already changed into her revealing cocktail waitress outfit. “What if they kill Quin before we have a chance to react?”

“Listen, babe, it’s my ass on the line. I can take care of myself.” Quin took in a glimpse of her behind. “No need to twist your panties in a knot.”

“Fine.” Sera whirled around to face Quin. “Have it your way. This time we won’t save your worthless hide like I did back in California. When they shoot you, instead of getting them on kidnapping, J.D. will arrest them for murder.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1963

8:00 AM – CST

As soon as she woke up, Dee hopped out of bed in her pajamas and bounded downstairs to the front porch. Yes! The weighty Sunday edition of the Dallas Morning News had arrived. In addition to keeping tabs on Kennedy, she wanted to monitor the consistency of the timeline versus their own history.

Dee joined the crew in the kitchen, where Bick’s signature western omelets were sizzling on the stove. The pungent aroma of onions and peppers quelled the hunger in her oversensitive stomach as she spread the newspaper on the cheap Formica table. JFK’s upcoming visit dominated the headlines. “Get this. The president of the Chamber of Commerce claims Dallas has a reputation for being the friendliest town in America. He says the citizens will, quote, ‘greet the president of the United States with the warmth and pride that keep the Dallas spirit famous the world over,’ end quote.”

“Friendliest?” Cranky from a grueling shift at the Carousel last night, Sera snatched the front page. “Who does he think he’s kidding? Does he expect the bad guys to care?”

“Standard PR. He’s aiming for a positive spin.” Dee nudged the paper back and resumed skimming. “‘The Dallas City Council is imploring citizens not to demonstrate or create disturbances. In fact, Mayor Earle Cabell is calling on the city to redeem itself during Kennedy’s visit. He asserts’”—she interjected an editorial comment—“wow, I can’t even believe this line: ‘Dallas has shed its reputation of the 1920’s as the Southwest Hate Capital of Dixie.’”

“Now that’s”—Jay pointed his fork in the air—“the spirit Dallas is famous for the world over.”

Dee grinned as she cut out the article. “They go on to outline the plans for protecting the president, stressing a heavy police presence and thoroughness of preparations.”

“An open limo crawling through the downtown streets?” Sam’s voice oozed with derision. “Why don’t they paint a bull’s-eye on the car?”

“They’re following the official procedures of this day and age. Regrettably, they’re underestimating the possible threat.” Bick slid a perfectly folded omelet onto a plate. Living as a bachelor had provided ample opportunity to hone his cooking skills. “Who’s next?”

Dee mumbled a white lie about wanting dry toast in order to maintain her figure.

“In that case, hope y’all don’t mind. I’m starving.” Quin grabbed the dish and began shoveling food into his mouth while continuing to speak. “Hey, I’ll take some toasht if you’re makin’ it. Anyway, thounds like those in charge are setting themselves up for a coloshal screwup.”

Sera was forcibly reminded of feeding hour at the zoo. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about the motorcade right now.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking about that.” Jay propped his elbow on the table. “Sera’s correct. We can’t do anything today to further our cause. So I’m suggesting, I mean I don’t know if you feel we should or not, but how about we take the day off, considering?”

“Fabulous!” Dee jumped up, clutching the news story to her chest. “I would love to see ’63 society firsthand—fashions, books, magazines, music. We could be like tourists of present-day Texas.” Her eyes shone with excitement.

Iggy recalled her earlier speech admonishing them not to act like time-travel tourists, but decided her team deserved an exception to the rule. Besides, a break from the stress would be welcome. “I don’t see any harm in that proposition. Let’s have some fun.”

Instead of the whoop they expected, Dee hunched her shoulders. “I have one caveat. In light of our grave mission, perhaps we should contemplate a detour before we revel in the blessings of our current good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” Sam grimaced. “It’s not like you’ve been successful in your attempts to convince people we’re from the future.”

“I think . . .” Dee faltered and then bravely pressed on “. . . we should attend religious services, bearing in mind what we are up against.” She looked beseechingly at her two best supporters. “Today is Sunday after all.”

Bick and Jay both immediately agreed.

Sera held her tired face in both hands. “Would I have to wear a hat?”

Lowering her head, Dee nodded.

Quin wiped stray ketchup off his mouth. “What kinda church?”

“Blessed Sacrament is only three blocks from here on North Marsalis Ave. I walked by the other day and noticed they have a 9:30 mass. You know, Roman Catholic.”

“Close enough.” Iggy smiled. “We owe ourselves an uplifting event. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day, and we’ve worked hard to get this far.”

Sam gazed out the open window. “You know, it’s a good thing you folks came to see me back in California. No doubt the country will benefit in the end.”

8:15 AM – CST

Stiff and cold from hiding since early morning, the KGB cell leader crouched beneath the kitchen window outside the blue house on the corner of Tenth and Denver Streets, listening. Kennedy. Of course it all came back to Kennedy. He’d known all along this bunch would be trouble. For everyone’s sake, he hoped to hell they wouldn’t interfere with his plan.

11:15 AM – CST

Several hours later, Team Orbis was strolling along West Jefferson Boulevard, two blocks south of their temporary home. Buoyed by the hour’s dose of God’s word, Dee led them on a shopping trip through the retail district of Oak Cliff. The priest’s sermon had been especially poignant. He spoke of selfless acts of service in the name of the Almighty, particularly when those acts would remain anonymous. Dee felt his homily was meant for them.

After meandering in and out of a bookshop, a women’s clothier, and a shoe store, they passed the Texas Theater, boasting a double feature. Dee mentioned that J.D. had worked there as a security guard a few years ago.

They crossed Jefferson Boulevard at Bishop Street, heading to a music shop. A bright yellow box sign over the storefront said Top Ten Records, with a black phonograph record underlying the first two words. Neon letters in the picture window spelled out Latest Hits, Rock ‘N’ Roll, Folk, Motown, Jazz. Upon entering, they heard the harmonious love song “Hey Paula,” by Paul & Paula, being broadcast on the local pop radio station.

Bick introduced himself to owner Dub Stark, and they started discussing the current music scene. In typical male fashion, Jay, Sam, and Quin joined them in the lively conversation about the best contemporary singers and bands. The colleagues purchased several LP records, including the one by Paul & Paula, and another hit by Little Stevie Wonder.

While Dee snapped photos, Sera admired a large RCA Victor clock made to resemble a black vinyl record. The center included the iconic logo of fox terrier Nipper listening to a gramophone. Numerous statues of the same canine dotted the interior. Thousands of albums were jammed into bins around the tiny space, and the walls and shelves displayed various branded swag. An old-fashioned black rotary phone was mounted to the side of the cash register counter. Thinking aloud, Sera turned to Iggy. “It’s amazing. None of these cultural items survived into our era. Antiques like these simply don’t exist.” She narrowed her eyes. “Which reminds me, what book did you buy earlier?”

“A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle.”

Sera raised her brows.

“It’s a book that won the Newbery Medal for outstanding children’s literature in 1963. I adored it as a kid, but it’s out-of-print where we’re from.”

“Please tell me it’s not about time travel.” Sera benignly tapped her foot.

“Well, the main theme involves the classic struggle of good against evil. A trio of angelic beings helps some children rescue their father from an insidious dark cloud known as The Black Thing.” Iggy blushed. “However, they move through the galaxy by means of a tesseract, a fifth dimensional phenomenon that shortens the distance between two points by folding the fabric of space and time. Like a wrinkle.”

Sera laughed. “I don’t know which is more ironic. That it’s about time travel or that it’s about the battle between good and evil.”

1:00 PM – CST

In her cramped kitchen that contained not only a stove and refrigerator, but also a washing machine and ironing board, Mrs. Paine finished rinsing the lunch dishes while her boarder pressed clean laundry.

Chores complete, the Russian housemate tugged at her curly brunette ponytail. “Let’s call Papa,” she requested in her native tongue.

Mrs. Paine pursed her lips and nodded. She understood that Marina wished to speak to her husband, but couldn’t place the call due to the language barrier. Contrary to his usual habit, he had not visited this weekend. Marina had asked him not to come because of a Paine-family birthday party.

Ruth Paine referenced her address book and dialed the number for 1026 North Beckley Avenue. “Is Lee Oswald there?”

A man replied, “There is no Lee Oswald living here.”

“Is this a rooming house?”

“Yes.”

“Have I reached WH3-8993?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Paine hung up and addressed the young wife and mother. “They don’t know of a Lee Oswald at that number.”

Marina’s eyes widened in surprise. She knew this was the address and phone number Lee had provided. Frustrated and upset, she asked her confidante where her husband was and what he was doing.

Mrs. Paine had no answers.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1963

2:00 PM – CST

Driving into the parking lot, the time travelers were greeted by a white wooden sign depicting a cowboy on a bucking bronco next to the words, Howdy! Welcome to Mesquite Championship Rodeo. Dee grinned over the southern hospitality.

The group wandered the grounds, soaking in the multitude of colorful characters. The unseasonably warm weather brought a glut of fans outfitted in authentic western wear. The men sported plaid shirts, faded Wranglers, pointy boots, and cowboy hats. Many women also wore jeans, but the majority donned denim or patterned prairie skirts. Their button-down shirts flaunted fancy white piping, and they coordinated their ensembles with leather boots and felt hats. Clad in jeans, Team Orbis blended right in.

A gray-whiskered ranch hand with a nametag identifying him as “Hampy” directed the seven men and women toward an office building that doubled as a ticket booth. A placard on the front gate warned, No Firearms on Premises. Dee raised her eyebrows at Bick.

Paying admission allowed them the dubious privilege of passing the smelly livestock pens on their way to the bleachers. Dee hurried by, grateful for the open-air stadium, while Bick paused to pat the horses’ noses. They found the front row and sat down with anticipation. Having printed their own currency, they could afford the best seats in the house.

Dee consulted her program. The festivities commenced with the Grand Entry—a parade of performers and patrons riding on horseback around the dirt field to strident marching music. The entire populace stood, removed their hats, and faced the Stars and Stripes billowing in the breeze. Raspy notes of the national anthem squawked from loudspeakers as the crowd joined in. Dee heard Iggy’s voice projecting proudly as she paid tribute to the flag. The announcer caught the team off guard as he asked the audience to bow their heads. Bick glanced sideways at Dee in surprise, but she simply shrugged. The emcee intoned a heartfelt prayer to Jesus, asking Him to bless and protect the men in the military as they defended America’s freedom. He then prayed for the security and safety of the cowboys and cowgirls who would be competing.

Dee pulled out her camera as the real fun began. The events started with Cowgirl Barrel Racing. Young women sprinted their American Quarter Horses in a cloverleaf pattern around three barrels with their long hair whipping out from under their Stetsons. The racers’ determined expressions revealed the fierce rivalry to achieve the fastest time.

In Steer Wrestling, two riders on horseback chased a neutered male bovine. The Hazer kept it running in a straight line to allow the Bulldogger to catch it by the horns. He leapt off the horse and wrestled the steer to the ground, using leverage rather than force to flip the animal. Dee winced as the creatures’ necks were twisted in unnatural angles.

Spectators were invited to participate in Cowboy Poker, a bout of insanity involving four volunteers who each bet twenty-five bucks to play an imaginary poker hand at a card table in the middle of the arena. Bick and Sam needed to physically restrain Quin from entering this macho exercise. Sera voted to let him go. The operators released a bull into the ring to measure the steadfastness of the bettors. Rodeo clowns egged on the ferocious quadruped, enticing him to charge the foolhardy contestants. The last poker face left sitting won the whole pot, plus bragging rights. Quin sulkily maintained he would have reigned victorious. The crew admonished him for wanting to risk serious bodily harm for such a meager reward. Dee giggled and continued snapping photos.

Bareback Riding followed, with the cowboys’ knees pumping up and down as they spurred their mustangs’ withers. They strove to maintain control of their bucking charges until the eight-second buzzer sounded. Far more dangerous than it looked, many riders were pitched off after a few seconds. The height of their horses made for a hard landing.

During a short intermission, the team roamed around the perimeter buying snacks and beers, forgetting their mission and enjoying the carnival atmosphere. Dee even cajoled the others into taking pictures on the shoulders of a cheesy fake bull with its hindquarters in the air. Stoic Sera lost herself in the moment, laughing with her head thrown back and Quin’s ten-gallon hat in her free hand. Sam, however, flatly refused to participate, claiming they were behaving like infants. But he said it with a smile and offered to take a shot of Dee and Bick together on a make-believe ride.

Then came the most ludicrous game of all. Misguided parents encouraged their small children to race sheep across the field in Mutton Bustin’. A strict weight limit was enforced, with no tot over fifty-five pounds permitted to enter. Placed on the woolen backs, the kids clung to the animals’ necks, trying to hang on until they reached the opposite side. Unlike the adults, the youngsters wore helmets to prevent their tiny skulls from crushing when they fell. All except one tumbled off the sheep within a few yards of the gate. A five-year-old girl won first prize by heroically gripping her charge as they dashed to the finish. The organizers rewarded her with a fuzzy stuffed lamb. As the crowd roared its approval, Jay deemed it a form of child abuse.

At last came the show they were most excited to see. Bull Riding. The rodeo achieved new heights of lunacy as grown men straddled the animals and strapped their left hands to ropes tied around the bulls’ chests. When the chutes opened, the cowboys endeavored to remain seated for eight seconds as the enraged, two-thousand-pound beasts bucked and snorted beneath them. One got close enough that Dee saw snot spewing out of the brute’s flared nostrils. Earth kicked up from its hooves splattered her jeans. At least she hoped it was dirt. All of the contestants wore cowboy hats; however, none wore a stitch of protective gear. She feared for a rider’s life as he was tossed to the ground and nearly trampled. She held her hands over her eyes, but couldn’t resist peeking. A patron next to her chided her to “Cowboy up.” Meanwhile, Sam jokingly rooted for the massive bulls. In the most hazardous occupation, rodeo clowns distracted the pawing animals after each performance while the glory seekers ran like hell.

Dee couldn’t remember when she’d had this much fun. Tomorrow would be a different story.

7:00 PM – CST

8:00 PM – EST

The nation’s chief law enforcer, J. Edgar Hoover, and his number one lackey, Clyde Tolson, sat in the formal dining room of Hoover’s residence located at 4936 Thirtieth Place Northwest, in Washington DC. In customary fashion, the coworkers shared a Sunday meal while discussing the Bureau.

Tolson possessed startling news, but dreaded how his hot-tempered boss would react. He wisely waited until a couple of top-shelf cocktails and gourmet appetizers had been ingested before broaching the subject in his whiny voice. “We’ve got it, J. Edgar. The proof.” He took a gulp of gin and tonic.

“Your point, Clyde?” Hoover crunched on an ice cube from his tumbler.

“The listening devices. In the Oval Office? The president and attorney general want you out.”

Hoover remained calm. “Hardly surprising. Go on.”

Tolson regained his aplomb and spoke rapidly. “Bobby is gunning for your dismissal. He thinks you’re not aggressive enough in pursuing organized crime. Their only hesitancy is JFK’s fear of your”—he cleared his throat—“alleged secret dossiers.”

“He should be afraid. Kennedy is not invincible.”

Tolson leaned forward. “So what’s the plan? What are we going to do about it?”

The FBI director dabbed his lips with a cloth napkin. “Not to worry. Soon I will be best friends with the president of the United States.”

11:00 PM – CST

Sam Morales silently seethed in the darkened bedroom of their home base on Tenth Street. After the others had crashed into bed, he had reached into his clandestine hiding spot to feel for the Locklier H_2 2011. The gun would be his insurance policy for their upcoming encounter with the KGB.

It was missing.

With shocking clarity, he realized a member of Team Orbis must have snatched it in compliance with the myopic rules about bringing technology to the past. Bastards!

Whoever had done it had demonstrated unmitigated gall in invading Sam’s personal effects and stealing his most valuable asset. He fought the urge to run into the general quarters, screaming a demand that the weapon be returned. No, he would play their game. He needed to exercise patience and wait until he could search a vacant house.

It had to be stashed on the property.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1963

4:00 PM – CST

On Monday afternoon, Mrs. Paine watched as Marina Oswald slammed down the kitchen phone, clearly upset and angry. She led her boarder into the living room.

Marina slumped onto the couch and held her face in her hands.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Mrs. Paine addressed her in Russian.

Marina shook her head. “Lee shouted at me and told me he was angry. But I’m the one who should be angry. He is furious because we called his rooming house yesterday.”

“He’s your husband. You have every right to call him.” Although Mrs. Paine expressed indignation, she felt relieved that Lee hadn’t skipped town. He had two children to provide for, but he had never been very responsible, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he had done something rash. “If we had the correct phone number, why on earth did the man tell me Lee didn’t live there?”

“He rented the room under a fake name—Mr. O.H. Lee. He even bragged about it as if this is a good thing. He doesn’t want his landlady to know his real name because she might read in the newspapers that he lived in the Soviet Union and has been questioned in the US. I ask you, who is going to put his name in the paper?”

Mrs. Paine patted her arm.

“He also doesn’t want the FBI to know where he lives because he says their visits have been unpleasant. He thinks he has lost jobs because the FBI tracked him down at work. He believes he is a top priority for the US government, but he is nothing to them. He acts like he is different from other men, except the only difference is in his imagination, his fantasy.”

Mrs. Paine held back any comments on Oswald’s delusions of grandeur. “He chose the boarding house because it’s closer to the job. So what if he calls himself a silly name? At least he’s employed. Making an effort for you and Junie and Rachel.”

“Yes, but he’s living a life of secrets.” Marina stood up and paced back and forth. “What if he’s lying to me? I don’t know how he spends his time outside of work. He only visits us on weekends.”

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

“No. He would only wrap his story around himself like a shield.” The young mother started wringing her hands.

“I’m sure everything is fine.”

“I have to know the truth.” Marina looked at her with sudden purpose. “There’s only one choice. I’m going to follow him.”

“No! You can’t.” Mrs. Paine imagined sirens wailing, warning her this was a bad idea.

“I’ve made up my mind. I’m going.” The color had drained from Marina’s face. “If I get ready now, I can trail him when he leaves work.”

Mrs. Paine leapt up to stop her. “Please sit down and think about this.” She suspected Lee had been violent in the past, and she didn’t want Marina to stoke the fire.

“I have. He’s my husband. The father of my little girls. You’ll watch them for me, won’t you?”

“No!”

“Fine, then I’ll take them with me.”

“That’s crazy. I didn’t mean I wouldn’t baby-sit; I meant you shouldn’t go. What if he catches you? You think he’s cross with you now, picture how infuriated he will be if you spy on him.” Ruth desperately trawled about for a ploy to halt this insanity. “What about this? What if I follow him instead of you?”

Marina slowly turned and gazed down at the carpet. “Lee would be equally mad if he saw you.”

“I’ll simply make an excuse for being downtown. Besides, I won’t let him see me.” Mrs. Paine forced a smile, praying she would agree. “And, I’ll wear a disguise. He won’t suspect a thing.”

“Wait. I have an idea.” Marina dashed into the bedroom and returned. “You can wear a babushka.” She held up the Russian equivalent of a headscarf.

Mrs. Paine nodded.

“Ruth, would you really do this for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

4:30 PM – CST

In an unprecedented gesture, Quin had permitted Sam to drive the Chevy Impala as they taxied Sera to work. Although eager to try out the powerful V8 engine, Sam regretted accepting the favor.

“Are you insane? That pothole is the size of Detroit.” Quin swerved both arms in body English as he stomped on an imaginary brake. “Do you know what kind of damage that can cause?”

“Shut up and let me drive.”

“That’d be easy if you’d treat the vehicle with some respect.” Quin gripped the dashboard as if he were riding a roller coaster instead of motoring through downtown Dallas.

“What difference does it make? When we’re done with the mission, what are you going to do? Drive it onto the ship and take it back with us?”

Quin hesitated. Now that was a depressing thought. “Well, no. But it would be a crime to injure such a beautiful machine.”

“It is gorgeous, Quin.” Sam thumped the steering wheel. “Nonetheless, it’s just a car.”

From the backseat, Sera rolled her eyes at the boys’ inane bickering. Didn’t they realize what a Herculean task they had ahead of them? Not only were they battling the lethal KGB, but also the historical flow of time itself. Nobody had ever confronted a more formidable adversary. “Do you think there was any merit to Frank’s hypothesis?”

“Whaddaya mean?” Quin whipped around, momentarily forgetting to badger Sam. “Like time travel ain’t possible?”

“Obviously not. We’re here, aren’t we? I meant what if history is inevitable? What if we can’t effect any change even though we jumped back fifty years?”

“Already have. Bought cars. Rented a house. We’ve gone over this.”

Sera sighed. “You don’t get it. What if our presence in 1963 is already part of the timeline? What if our actions result in the very same outcome as before? What if we’re sublimely impotent?”

“Not me, sister.” Quin jabbed his thumb at his chest. “Now don’t go and get all negative.”

“I might as well be talking to a rodeo clown. Sam, what’s your opinion?”

Deep in thought, he didn’t respond immediately. He had spent the entire morning searching for his modern-day weapon while the others were out. And he’d been resoundingly unsuccessful. One of his teammates must be carrying it. “I’d wager we’ve given ourselves a serious handicap. Here we are, squaring off against the best-trained killing machines on the planet, and all I have is a rusty revolver in the glove box. We’re not even on equal footing with the bad guys.”

“I’ve got my handy-dandy World War II surplus Remington right here in my ankle holster. Good enough for me.” Quin slapped his pant leg. “Sam, buddy, you want to turn in here to get to behind the Carousel. Sera, babe, you sure you’re allowed in the back entrance?”

“I told you—all of Ruby’s waitresses have keys in case we have to lock up.” Sera gathered up the shoulder tote holding her uniform. She’d begun traveling to and from her job in street clothes to lessen her bondage in the ridiculous outfit.

Sam maneuvered the car into the narrow alleyway. “As I was saying, we should have brought 2013 weapons and technology to give ourselves an advantage. If we fail, we only have ourselves to blame.”

“It was a common-sense rule. It would have been too dangerous to bring that stuff.” Sera reiterated Iggy’s party line. “What if it fell into the wrong hands?”

Sam made a final effort to probe them for information about his gun. “Rules are made to be broken. I wish somebody had broken this one and had the foresight to do what was necessary.”

Sera snorted. “No one would have jeopardized our mission like that. You’d have to be an idiot.”

4:50 PM – CST

Feeling foolish, Mrs. Paine waited near the reflecting pool in Dealey Plaza across the street from the warehouse where Lee Harvey Oswald worked. The seven-story brick building was a regional textbook storage and redistribution center. Double windows with rounded tops were spaced a few feet apart on every floor, excluding the sixth and seventh. Separated by a small ledge, the seventh story had narrow pairs of rectangular windows. The sixth had semi-circle windows across the entire side, except for the panes at the far left and right, which were square. With the facade sporting so many windows, she hoped nobody inside noticed her loitering on the street, particularly her boarder’s husband.

She checked the Hertz sign and clock on top of the Texas School Book Depository. Five o’clock. Where was he?

Finally, the unmistakable rodent scurried out the front door and strode down concrete steps bordered by two columns on each side. He headed left on Elm Street, and Mrs. Paine tailed him for a half mile due east. Oswald made a right onto South Field and traversed another couple of blocks. Keeping about fifty yards distance between them, she almost lost sight of her quarry as he crossed Commerce and continued east on the opposite sidewalk. Wondering how her life had become a paperback spy novel, she saw him enter a building halfway down the block. With her sunglasses, headscarf, and overcoat, she’d gone unnoticed.

Reducing her pace as she approached her destination, Mrs. Paine observed two women and three men lingering near the entrance. Why did these people seem familiar? Perhaps she knew them as acquaintances—friends of friends. As she drew closer, their faces sharpened into distinct features, and the epiphany struck her like a bullet slamming into her heart. These were the same five lunatics who had visited her home the other day: J.D., Iggy, Bick, Dee, and Jay. Although the police officer wasn’t in uniform, there could be no mistake.

She perspired with foreboding and debated turning back. What did they want from her? No, it was a public area with considerable foot traffic. They wouldn’t be able to snatch her bodily from the street.

Her brief moment of fear morphed into outrage. Mrs. Paine marched over to the quintet. She stood between them and the doorway Oswald had entered, and yanked off her sunglasses. “What are you people doing here? I demand to know why you are following me!”

No one answered, or even acknowledged her presence. All of them averted their gaze by staring at the pavement. Jay shuffled his feet and adjusted his glasses before seeming to look past Mrs. Paine to the building behind her.

Something peculiar was happening. Mrs. Paine slowly spun around to track Jay’s line of sight. And then she saw it. Big black letters on a brightly lit white sign above the door. Carousel Burlesque.

She staggered backward, reeling in shock.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1963

5:10 PM – CST

As Mrs. Paine stumbled on the sidewalk, J.D. and Bick steadied her so she wouldn’t collapse. Ashen, she gratefully accepted their help.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” J.D. tried to check her pulse, but she brushed him away.

“Yes. I think so. It’s just . . . it’s that place. The one you told me about.”

“Correct. Like we said.” Dee folded her arms. “The Carousel Club.”

Iggy looked at her in consternation and slashed her fingers to the side. “Hush!”

Dee glowered, but kept mum.

Mrs. Paine held a hand to her brow. “It came true. I can’t believe it came true.”

“Well, ma’am, it would be nice if we were wrong this time.” Bick gave a wry frown.

“There’s no way you could have possibly known. I didn’t even know I was coming to Dallas until about an hour ago.” Mrs. Paine stared at the five strangers in awe. “Dear Lord in heaven. I suppose you really are from the future.”

“Well, not me.” J.D. grinned. “I’m simply your average working man. But I reckon these folks are telling the truth after all.”

Dee’s heart blossomed with affection. Now that granddad had finally accepted them, maybe he would have faith in her. And the plan was back on track. She relented. “Thank goodness you didn’t go inside.”

“Yes,” Jay chimed in. “We’re darn lucky you stopped to yell, er, I mean talk to us.”

Iggy eyed Mrs. Paine from top to bottom, taking in her scarf, glasses, and coat. “We might not have recognized you if you hadn’t stopped.”

“I was hoping nobody would. That’s why I’m wearing this babushka.” Mrs. Paine patted her hair covering.

“Why do you need a disguise? Who were you hiding from?” Bick glanced at the pedestrians on Commerce Street. “From us?”

“Oh, no. Of course not. I didn’t believe a single word of what you said. I was following my boarder’s husband.”

Jay jerked his thumb toward the entrance. “You mean that, uh, gentleman?” He noticed her regard him with disdain. “Okay, that rabid ferret who went in ahead of you?”

“That’s him all right.”

Mrs. Paine explained the afternoon’s drama with Marina.

The team stood mute, contemplating the improbable sequence of events that had brought them to this precise location at this exact moment.

J.D., however, couldn’t remain silent. “Why isn’t the man home with his family? A father of two infant daughters shouldn’t be out fraternizing with strippers. Doesn’t he understand where his priorities lie?”

Before Mrs. Paine could answer, Iggy held up a palm to halt her. “Let’s not worry about him right now. What’s important is that we keep you safe.”

J.D. shook himself and spelled out orders with quiet authority. “Iggy is correct. I need to go inside. Dee and Jay, take Mrs. Paine to her car and escort her back to Irving. Bick and Iggy, stay here by the Ford, just in case.” He gestured to the pink and black vehicle parked nearby. “You said they’re more likely to exit out the back, but Sam’s got that covered in the Chevy.”

The police officer’s sense of urgency was infectious. The four members of Team Orbis prepared to follow his instructions.

Mrs. Paine, however, remained immobile. “That’s it? You’re sending me home?”

“Yes, ma’am. The best way to protect you is to ensure the Russians never lay eyes on you.”

“We’ll stay with you the whole time.” Dee slung her arm around Mrs. Paine’s shoulder and gently steered her away.

J.D. turned and bolted into the Carousel.

5:15 PM – CST

In the back meeting room of the burlesque, KGB cell leader Kon discussed mission plans and escape strategies with his comrades.

Viktor sat with rigid attention, committing all details to memory.

Dmitriy languidly rolled an unlit cigarette between his thumb and fingers, in obvious protest of Kon’s latest rule: no smoking while on official business. A seasoned operative, Dmitriy relied heavily on instinct, and his mind wandered from the briefing.

Kon ignored the subtle insubordination; it mattered little to him whether Dmitriy lived or died. In the end, each man would determine his own fate. As he proceeded, someone jiggled the locked doorknob from the outside.

Kon looked purposefully at Viktor and nodded.

When Viktor opened the door, Lee Harvey Oswald nearly fell into the room. He chattered in Russian, attempting to say, “How can I assist in the ongoing struggle against capitalism?” But the garbled sentence structure and mispronunciations morphed his words into a nonsensical string sounding more like, “How can I assist the capitalist agenda?”

Dmitriy guffawed at the American buffoon, laughing so hard he turned bright red and started to wheeze from the exertion.

Spurred on by the outburst, Viktor allowed himself to chuckle, but kept his reaction in check.

Not comprehending the joke, Oswald raised his chin to defend himself, but Kon intervened in English. “You have been given orders never to speak our language. By doing so, you demonstrate your disrespect for our homeland. Furthermore, you have been commanded not to approach us unless specifically requested. Leave us at once.”

“Sir, I only want to axe what I can do to help.” Oswald stood his ground in defiance.

“Viktor, please escort Mr. Oswald back to where he belongs.” Kon observed dispassionately as Vik grabbed the flailing intruder under the arms and threw him into the hallway. “Now, let’s continue.”

5:20 PM – CST

After J.D. Tippit had bounded up the stairs and paid his two-dollar admission to the Carousel, he surveyed the interior. He found Quin seated at a table in the center, with Sera hovering over him in her skimpy uniform. Joining them, he updated them on Mrs. Paine’s arrival and her intention to track her boarder’s husband.

“I saw the guy she was tailing. He’s a white male, slender, weighing about 165 pounds, about five-foot-ten, and in his early thirties. And although I wouldn’t testify to it, in my professional assessment he would be categorized as a loser.” J.D. smiled and scanned the smoky venue, but could not locate the subject.

Brassy stripper music wailed from the speakers as favorites, Marilyn Moone and Little Lynn, performed Middle Eastern style with scarves flowing. Spotlights shone on the two as they seductively removed the sheer swaths of material one by one, mimicking the Dance of the Seven Veils.

Mystified, J.D. spoke over the din. “It’s Monday afternoon, for Pete’s sake. Why is this place jam-packed?”

“Ladies’ night.” Quin waved his hand in abdication of logic.

“That’s right. On Mondays, Ruby advertises free admission to women to entice more men to show up.” Sera noticed both companions laboring to understand. “The guys come to ogle the dancers, but hold out hope of meeting female patrons as well. More liberal-minded girls. You see?” Still no reaction. Sigh. “They want to hook up with sluts.”

Recognition lit both men’s faces.

“So that’s why he calls it Lucky Tom-Cat Night.” Quin smacked his forehead. “At least we finally get to watch naked chicks.” He kept his tone casual, although he felt himself sweating with trepidation over the upcoming task.

Ever vigilant, J.D. abruptly pointed. “There he is. The errant husband. He must have gone to the men’s room.”

“That moron?” Sera snapped her gum, getting carried away in her covert role. “He’s been here before. Kind of a stalker to the dancers.”

“I’m sure of it. That’s Lee Harvey Oswald.”

5:25 PM – CST

Idly chatting in the Ford parked on Commerce Street, Iggy and Bick were flabbergasted to see Mrs. Paine tripping back towards them in her high heels, with Jay and Dee in swift pursuit. They simultaneously jumped out of the car to intercept.

“What the heck is going on here?” Bick caught up just in time to blockade the front door to the club. “Why aren’t you taking her home?”

Jay leaned against the doorframe, panting. “Obviously we tried to stop her. She won’t listen to us.”

Mrs. Paine placed her hands firmly on her hips. “Step aside. I’m going in.”

“No!” Dee scrunched her face in horror. “Don’t you realize they’re going to kill you?”

“You told me”—Mrs. Paine wagged a finger at Dee—“that I’m meant to hear something related to a murder. If I can do something to prevent a homicide, I must.”

“I’m afraid I can’t permit that.” Bick spread his arms wide as a barrier. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I may be a proponent of peace, but that doesn’t mean I won’t confront evil when I am called upon to do so. I have to live with my own conscience.” With surprising strength, Mrs. Paine shoved Bick aside, opened the door, and darted in.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1963

5:26 PM – CST

Sera was explaining the unidentified third KGB man to Quin and J.D. “I heard them talking. His name is definitely Kon. Probably with a K for Konstantin, but maybe a C, I don’t know.”

“Imagine being saddled with a name like that.” Quin scratched his head. “Betcha he got razzed plenty as a boy.”

“What difference does it make? It could be an alias, or . . .” Sera trailed off. “Hey, what the hell is Bick doing with that lady?”

“What lady?” Quin craned his neck.

“Dammit!” J.D. pounded his fist. “That’s no lady. That’s Mrs. Paine. She should be halfway to Irving by now.”

The three of them hurried over.

Bick secured his arm around Mrs. Paine’s waist and hustled her to a booth in the shadows. With free admission for Ladies’ Night, she had breezed past the bouncer, while he was detained paying the cover charge.

As Bick slid into the vinyl seat, penning her in, Mrs. Paine noted the spectacle on stage. Two half-naked women cavorted, while another posed upside down on a carousel-horse pole. She averted her eyes.

“Bick, how could you let her in here?” J.D. growled.

“I tried! We all did. She literally shoved me aside.”

“It was my choice.” Mrs. Paine lifted her chin. “They couldn’t prevent me from undertaking my duty as a citizen.”

Bick displayed his palms in a pleading gesture. “Mrs. P., we had it all under control. Quin is supposed to take your place. Like a decoy.”

“Yeah, we got ourselves a regular sting operation going.” Quin gave a lopsided grin. “And Sera is keeping tabs on the Ruskies.”

Mrs. Paine’s glance traveled the full length of Sera’s costume. “Humph.”

Sera wanted to laugh, but couldn’t be bothered. “For now, the comrades are still in the meeting room. I should pretend to work before Ruby starts sniffing around. Besides, I’ll be in a better position to spy on them. You guys deal with this”—she nodded toward the straight-laced Quaker—“issue.”

5:30 PM – CST

J.D. made a lap around the club without seeing anything suspicious. The only person he recognized was the man Mrs. Paine had been following. Lee Harvey Oswald sat in front, fawning over the performers when they gyrated near him. The policeman noticed that the dancers gave him a wide berth. What was this guy’s problem?

J.D. checked his watch and meandered over to Oswald’s table. He feigned interest in the show, but tasted sour bile in his throat at these young women parading around almost nude. The music ceased, and the entertainers curtsied before making their exit.

After exchanging names, J.D. initiated an innocuous conversation about the burlesque, saying it was his first time and he was meeting a friend. Oswald imparted his personal knowledge of the best strippers and their attributes. Apparently, Tammi True counted as a particular favorite. He waxed on about each girl while the lawman sipped his Coke, disgusted with the trivia.

Eventually, Oswald ran out of factoids.

“I see y’all are married.” J.D. pointed to Oswald’s wedding ring. “Does the wife know you’re here?”

“Nah, she don’t know nothin.’ She’s home with the kids.” Oswald gripped his beer in his right hand and concealed his left under the table.

“So is my Marie. I’ve got two boys and a girl. You?”

“Two baby girls.”

“How old?”

“One’s twenty-one months. Other’s a newborn.” His eyes shifted around the room.

“Congratulations!” J.D. clinked his glass against Oswald’s with false gaiety. “My kids are older than that now, but I sure do remember when they were babies. What I wouldn’t give to rewind the clock and freeze those special moments. First words, first steps. Those are the milestones you can never get back.” In spite of himself, his mouth curved up as he thought about his own children. “They’re so cute. Growing by leaps and bounds.”

“Yeah, so ‘er mine. Cute. Getting bigger.” Oswald frowned at his draft and took a huge gulp.

“Heck, son. Then what are you doing here? Go home to your wife and babies.”

“It’s none of your business. It’s complicated.”

“It’s easy. Get up and walk out.” J.D. gestured toward the door.

“Listen, pal, quit sticking your nose in where it don’t belong.” Oswald glared at Tippit, his resentment expanding. “I can’t just go home because I don’t live with them. And when I do it’s a bad scene. My wife’s favorite hobby is nagging. Nothing is ever good enough. She always wants more—more clothes, more appliances, more luxuries. She wants it easier for her, but she don’t care how hard I work to support her and the kids.”

J.D. raised his eyebrows. Then what was he doing here? “I know it’s tough providing for your loved ones. You have a lot of responsibility and a lot of bills to pay. Myself, I have three jobs. But when I’m not working, my family comes first.”

“You don’t get it, do you? Everything I do is for my family. I only put up with my current job to make ends meet. My boss ain’t smart enough to see my potential. But one day the world will see what I’m capable of. I’m going to make my mark.”

“Yes, but until then, what about your children? Nothing can replace the job of a dad. Who else is there to teach your kids right from wrong? Who gives them answers when they have questions? You’re the most important man in the world to your children.”

“As the most important man, you have to make your kids proud. It’s up to you to set an example.” Oswald looked smug.

The officer rose. “That’s the spirit. You’ve inspired me to go home tonight and be the best dad I can be.”

Oswald shrugged.

“Nice talking to you. I gotta go find my friend.” J.D. shook his hand as the music blared for the next number.

5:40 PM – CST

J.D. had barely returned to the booth when Sera rushed over with a breathless announcement. “Meeting’s adjourned. Kon is in the office settling up with Ruby. They could be on the move any second.”

“Okay, folks. It’s showtime.” Standing, Quin bounced on the balls of his feet, not knowing where to begin.

J.D. looked at Quin. “I’ve got to catch them in the act of kidnapping you, so I’ll station myself out back to ambush them. When the time comes, keep close to the Russians.”

Bick slid out of the booth and patted the weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “I’ll cover your six.”

“Negative. I need you to stay here and protect Mrs. Paine. Don’t let her out of your sight.” J.D. hastened away.

A few minutes later, Sera discreetly tilted her head. “Kon is emerging.”

“What? Where?”

Sera placed a hand on Quin’s cheek to stop him from whirling around.

Bick narrated, “He’s headed toward the stage. With the way he’s scanning the club, he seems to be searching for someone.”

“Us?” Quin goggled.

“Don’t be silly.” Sera wanted to be more scathing, but he deserved a break. “He doesn’t know who we are, remember?”

While they observed Kon’s movements, Mrs. Paine remained focused on Lee Oswald. He sat near the runways, appearing agitated. She was horror-struck when he abruptly rose and skirted the perimeter, loosely in their direction. How could she explain her presence to him?

Bick resumed chronicling Kon’s behavior. “He’s winding his way around the tables.”

As Oswald advanced, Mrs. Paine pulled the scarf around her face. She could not let him see her. Replaying her promise to Marina, she made a snap judgment. She leapt up and dashed toward the back hallway.

Caught unaware, Bick refocused. “No!”

Sera was closer. She clattered her tray down and pursued. She darted around the familiar layout and blocked Mrs. Paine’s path. “Where do you think you’re going?”

They sparred side-to-side, ending in a stalemate. Unbeknownst to either, Kon was sauntering closer.

Mrs. Paine charged forward, knocking Sera directly into Kon.

Bick and Quin ran after Mrs. Paine, hurdling over Sera and Kon. Ruby waddled over to yell at Sera.

Mrs. Paine punched through the swinging door and careened along the hallway, trying to reach the exit J.D. had used. Bick and Quin caught up as she reached the corner. Suddenly, a door opened from farther down, and they heard two men speaking Russian.

Mrs. Paine gasped and covered her mouth.

The Soviets halted, eyes riveted on her.

Bick and Quin grabbed her arms. As they spun her around, the barroom door opened.

It was Kon.

CHAPTER FIFTY

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1963

5:45 PM – CST

Hearing an unexpected scraping noise, J.D. jerked his head up. Someone had opened a window on the second story where the Carousel Club was. The dim light from inside illuminated a woman’s stockinged leg and black pump sticking out over the sill. A head and torso emerged onto the fire escape. Holy smokes! It was Mrs. Paine, followed by Bick and Quin. According to the floor diagram, the three had departed out the men’s room into the dark alleyway behind the club.

As Mrs. Paine and Bick clambered down the fire-escape stairs, Quin caught J.D.’s eye. He thrust both arms forward at the elbows. “Go! We gotta go!”

Waiting in the getaway car, Sam cranked the engine. J.D. ran around to the driver’s side and ordered him to shove over. With no time to argue, Sam obliged.

Bick grabbed the counter-weighted ladder and rode down first. He used his mass to keep it from rolling back up as he assisted Mrs. Paine, who struggled in her skirt and heels. When they had cleared the final rung, Quin jumped the last five feet and landed adroitly, bending his knees on impact. The ladder clattered as it retracted.

Sam heaved open the passenger door and bent forward so they could squeeze in behind him. Bick dove in first and yanked Mrs. Paine after him.

From Sam’s doubled-over position, he surveyed the fire-escape window. The KGB were tumbling out. “Hurry up. Here they come!”

Quin snaked into the backseat, and Sam slammed the door shut.

J.D. punched the accelerator and they peeled out, narrowly missing a dumpster adjacent to the rear stairs.

Mrs. Paine gripped Bick’s shoulder as she gazed out the back window. “They’re getting into that black car. They’re coming after me!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll lose them.” J.D. wrenched the steering wheel, making a hard right onto Field Street.

Mrs. Paine banged into Bick as they hurtled around the corner. Heavens, J.D. really knew how to handle a vehicle. He drove like a cop from the movies.

Heading north, they crossed over Commerce. The officer sped up as they approached Main Street, giving the impression he would continue straight. At the last second, he jammed the wheel to the left, fishtailing onto the thoroughfare.

Bick observed the black DeSoto sail across Main Street. “Excellent tactic! They kept going.”

“Oh, thank goodness we lost them.” Mrs. Paine drew in a deep breath and held her face in her hands. This couldn’t be happening. A simple, God-loving housewife and mother of two couldn’t be hooked up with clairvoyant time travelers in a crazy car chase with homicidal Russians. At least she had left her children with Marina. They were home safe. That was a blessing.

As the Chevy zoomed east across Houston Street into the heart of Dealey Plaza, Quin looked over the infield toward the Pergola. What the? “That’s them! They’ve found us!” He saw the DeSoto headlights racing along Elm Street, running at an angle to Main. The KGB were about to intersect them at the Triple Underpass.

J.D. floored the gas pedal through the underpass out of Dealey and blasted the horn to frighten other drivers out of the way. As the two roads merged, the KGB closed the distance between them. J.D. made a rash decision. Half a mile after the Triple Underpass, he cut right just before a bridge, taking them down a bumpy embankment. Trees lined the right and a stream burbled on the left. The car rattled violently as they trundled across the dry riverbed.

Sam steadied himself by planting a hand on the roof. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m driving along the Trinity River, trying to lose them.”

“Trinity River?” Sam bellowed. “Are you insane?”

“It’s not dangerous. The ground is pretty flat and the river is hardly a trickle.”

“No, that’s not what I meant; I meant this is where they kill Mrs. Paine!”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1963

6:00 PM – CST

“No one’s going to get killed today. Not if I can help it.” J.D. revved the engine as the turquoise Chevy bounced along the rutted riverside.

“Did we lose ‘em?” Quin gripped the seat in front of him, eyes wide with fear and excitement.

“Yeah, I think so.” Bick sensed the adrenaline rush drain from his body. “Close call.”

“Not so fast, Bick. After all, it won’t take them long to figure out where we went.” Sam reached out to adjust the passenger side rear view. “I see something, but I can’t quite make it out in the dark.” He screeched an obscenity. “It’s them! The bastards turned off their headlights. They’re gaining on us! Wait a minute. What is he doing? One of them is hanging out the . . .” Crack! A bullet ripped the side mirror clean off the car, precisely where Sam’s hand had been a second before. “Those commies are shooting at us!”

“Everybody get down. Now.” J.D. began swerving back and forth, scraping low branches on the right.

“Forgive me, Mrs. P.” Bick threw his arm around her shoulder, thrust her forward, and anchored his torso across her like a human shield.

Crash! Mrs. Paine screamed as the rear window shattered, raining shards of glass over them.

“Okay. That’s it. They’re messing with my car. Now it’s personal.” Quin grabbed his gun from his ankle holster. He balanced it over the back seat in the gaping hole where the window had been.

Sam simultaneously rummaged for the revolver he’d stashed in the glove compartment. As he leaned out to aim, J.D. shouted, “What are you nitwits doing?”

Sam ducked back in. “We have to do something!”

Quin discharged the weapon, causing a deafening boom inside the vehicle. The projectile sailed high over the pursuing car.

“Put those guns away before someone gets hurt!”

“It was just a warning shot.” Quin crouched as the KGB returned fire. “Guess it didn’t work.”

Bick gave a muffled yell from his prone position. “Take out their radiator. That’ll fix them.”

“All right. But be careful!” Tippit kept up his serpentine maneuvers.

While the KGB continued their volley of bullets, Quin fired three rounds in succession. The first two missed entirely, but a split second after the third, the front passenger tire burst and the DeSoto spun out of control, heading toward the sparse trees.

“Yee-ha!” Quin cheered.

“I take it that worked.” Bick cautiously rose.

Sam couldn’t resist riding Quin. “Some shot. I thought you were targeting the radiator.”

Quin blew into the barrel of his Remington. “I stopped ‘em, didn’t I?”

6:45 PM – CST

Jittery and nauseous, Iggy drove the Ford as rapidly as she dared through the streets of Irving with Sera, Dee, and Jay in tow.

As they arrived at 2515 West Fifth Street, Iggy felt elated to see the Chevy parked at the curb. Her relief turned to foreboding when she noticed the bullet-ridden car.

Distressed, the four of them rushed into Mrs. Paine’s house to determine the fate of their friends. They found J.D., Sam, Quin, Bick, and Mrs. Paine shaken but unharmed, seated in the living room drinking coffee. An open bottle of whiskey sat on the table. The car chase survivors immediately clamored to explain their harrowing escape at the Trinity River.

When they’d finished, Iggy poured herself a steaming mug, relieved at the outcome. “All that matters now is everyone is safe.” She leaned back and rested against the couch cushions.

Dee looked around the room at everyone relaxing and recovering from their ordeal. What was wrong with them? Didn’t they understand what was at stake? She tried to hold back, and succeeded for about two seconds before exploding. “No, our safety is not all that matters now!” Instantly gaining their attention, she stood up in a fury. “I had the plan all worked out. Now everything is utterly and completely ruined.” She turned on Mrs. Paine. “This is all your fault. If only you had listened to us, our mission wouldn’t be in jeopardy. You should never have gone into the Carousel. Now, we’re no better off than we were before. It’s hopeless!”

Mrs. Paine’s face twisted with outrage at the attack, while J.D. stared in surprise. Each wondered what was hopeless.

Iggy jerked forward, spilling coffee on her pants. “Dee Doherty! That is no way to behave. Sit down and show some respect. These people are trying to help us.”

Dee scowled.

Sera choked on a snicker as Miss Diplomat was scolded. Quin caught her glance and rolled his eyes.

J.D. was taken aback by Dee’s negativity; she usually seemed so optimistic. He’d witnessed this kind of tantrum in his own family and knew how to diffuse it. He took a deep breath. “I need everyone’s cooperation in remaining calm. We have important issues to discuss, but y’all have to keep a level head. Clearly there is more to this situation than you people have let on. I have my theories, but I’m going to need some explanations.”

Sam endeavored to interrupt, but J.D. held out a palm to stop him. “Not yet. First things first. Tonight there was an attempted kidnapping by violent criminals. So far, these men are at large. It is only prudent we post lookouts to ensure our safety. Do I have any volunteers to guard the house?”

Sera punched a fist in the air, eager to recuse herself from this pointless conversation. Quin followed suit. The police officer accepted their offers.

Sera ducked into the bathroom to change into civilian clothes.

J.D. sat with his chin resting on a steeple of fingers. He was buying time so tempers would cool and he could command their undivided focus. After a few minutes, he straightened. “Now we start at the top. No offense to you, ma’am”—he nodded at Mrs. Paine—“but why did you folks travel fifty years to the past to save a Quaker housewife?”

“I think the housewife herself might hold the key to that question.” Bick matched his voice to the officer’s measured tone. “Mrs. Paine, what did you hear in Russian at the club? Would you be willing to translate for us?”

There was absolute silence as they waited for her answer.

“It was awful. They were boasting about the great reward awaiting them when they return to the USSR. That they would be revered as heroes after assassinating our president.” Mrs. Paine examined her clasped hands in her lap. “That’s the other murder you were referring to, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s why we’ve come all this way.” Iggy explained that the Russians at the Carousel were KGB operatives sent to kill John F. Kennedy on Friday as his Dallas motorcade passed through Dealey Plaza. And how they would end up botching the mission and slaughtering the First Lady instead. She gave a thorough history of the timeline of events, including the devastation of the ’64 Nuke War and the oppression that ensued.

Half an hour later, Mrs. Paine and J.D. were trying to assimilate the history of the future.

“So then the government, yes, the government must have . . .” Mrs. Paine halted, thinking of the implications.

“Must have sent you back to change a pivotal moment.” J.D. drew the same conclusion.

Iggy thought they deserved the truth. “Well, no, not exactly.” She surveyed the others, angling for help. “You see . . .”

“We’re on our own.” Jay jumped in. “The government wasn’t going to do it. You have to understand the world is very different where we come from. The military runs the country and the power mongers don’t want anything to change. In fact, the very technology we used to get here was intended to build weapons of mass annihilation. When we discovered time travel, we felt a moral obligation to fix the past.” He went on to tell them about the accidental discovery of Anti-Time and how they had assembled the crew, carefully omitting the parts about being fugitives from the law.

Mrs. Paine and J.D. asked a series of questions about the politics and technology of the next half century.

Sam was in the middle of a protracted explanation of the scientific advances of 2013, when they heard the sound of a door opening and shutting in the hall beyond the living room. He broke off in mid-sentence. “What was that?”

“Oh, that’s my boarder, Marina. She’s probably going to make a bottle for the baby.” Mrs. Paine got up from the couch.

Iggy raised her eyebrows. “We didn’t realize anyone else was home.”

“She’s been here the whole time. I’m guessing she fell asleep from exhaustion and worry over her husband. I’ll wager that her day was nearly as bad as ours. Besides, did you think I would leave the children home alone?” Mrs. Paine chortled as she entered the kitchen.

The crew engaged in a hushed debate, trying to gauge whether the boarder might have overheard their story. Voices emanated from the kitchen.

“Do you hear that? What are they speaking?” Jay stammered. “That’s not . . . it couldn’t be . . . Russian, could it?”

“It most certainly is.” Bick grimaced.

Team Orbis glowered at Dee.

“It’s not my fault! The Paine murder was basically a footnote in the Warren Commission Report. I didn’t know her boarder spoke Russian.”

7:30 PM – CST

Cell leader Kon crept behind the residences along Fifth Street in Irving, keeping to the darkest shadows. He patted his jacket pocket, checking his revolver. A show of firepower and the element of surprise would be his best allies. This game with the meddlesome Americans had gone on long enough. Time to end it once and for all.

He sneaked between lot number 2515 and its neighbor. The flashy Chevy and the gaudy Ford were parked in the street, confirming the interlopers’ presence.

He inched along a stockade fence separating the two properties. Without warning, Sera and her friend flung open the doors of the Chevy and emerged, the man wielding a pistol. He might be a lousy shot, but a gun was still a gun. Kon made an instant decision and dove for cover behind bushes next to the house. The man fired the weapon. The bullet hit the lawn and kicked up a tuft of dirt. Kon laughed to himself. Inept. But next round, the guy might get lucky. The KGB spy scrambled to his feet and sprinted out of the backyard, pumping his powerful legs as fast as they could go.

There would be another chance.

7:35 PM – CST

Enthralled, Sera watched the Russian disappear before she rounded on Quin. “What the hell was that?”

“Don’t sweat it. I hit the grass on purpose to scare him.” Quin slid the Remington into his jeans.

“No, you idiot. We had the perfect opportunity to capture him. You blew it!”

“What didja expect? That I should kill him and bring his body in for questioning?”

“Obviously not. I . . .” Sera faltered. What could he have done? They had neither authority nor evidence to arrest Kon.

The front door opened and J.D. peered out.

Sera hissed at Quin, “Don’t let Mrs. Paine know the KGB were here. We don’t want to frighten her.”

“I have a brain, you know,” Quin whispered. “But how did he find us? I left them with a blowout at the Trinity River.”

“Maybe he circled back to the Carousel and tailed us in the Ford.” Sera shrugged in bewilderment.

In a louder voice, Quin called to the officer. “Hiya, J.D. What’s up?”

Sensing no immediate threat, J.D. opened the door wider. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

Sam squeezed past him, followed by the rest of the troop. “What happened? We heard what sounded like a gunshot.”

“Nah. All clear. An old car drove by and backfired.”

J.D. sniffed pointedly. “You sure?”

“Absolutely, Officer Tippit. Nothing to worry about.”

Mrs. Paine watched as J.D.’s eyes roamed around the yard. Was Quin telling the truth? Shivering, she checked Sera’s face and found it placid. Maybe she was experiencing simple paranoia after the nerve-wracking day.

J.D. reverted to cop-speak. “Okay, people. Show’s over. Let’s all go inside, shall we?”

7:40 PM – CST

Leaving Sera and Quin outside, the others returned to the living room, where Bick launched a line of inquiry to Mrs. Paine. “Where did your boarder go?”

“Marina? When we heard the commotion, I had just finished telling her that her husband was at a burlesque and it was nothing to worry about. Men sometimes do these things.” Mrs. Paine smoothed her skirt underneath her as she sat on the couch. “She was upset and retired to her bedroom to feed the baby.” She looked up and found all of them staring at her. “What?”

“So, um . . .” Jay touched his index finger to his cheek. “She speaks Russian then?”

“Of course she does. She’s from the Soviet Union.”

Dee scooted forward on the ottoman. “And her husband?”

“No, Lee’s not Russian, although he claims to speak the language. You would think he’d have a better handle on pronunciation and grammar after living in the USSR for over two years. In fact, that’s where he met and married Marina.” Mrs. Paine saw the team stealing glances at each other, and sucked in her breath. “You can’t possibly be suggesting what I think you are.”

“Well, ma’am, do the math.” Sam ungraciously began ticking off his fingers. “He lived in Russia. He married a Russian. He was at the Carousel while the KGB were having a meeting. I’d say that makes him a suspect.”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Yes, Oswald was at the club.” J.D. recalled his inane conversation. “However, he wasn’t meeting with the KGB. I spoke with him for a while, and he seemed more interested in the entertainment than anything else. Even his own family.”

“Inconclusive!” Iggy inadvertently barked out the word. “I mean, tell us more about him. What does he do? Where is he employed?”

Mrs. Paine stiffened. “I hadn’t even thought to make the connection. He works at the Texas School Book Depository. In Dealey Plaza.”

Dee whistled softly. “Maybe he is involved. I mean, in our timeline he couldn’t have been. He was detained after mistakenly being arrested for murdering Mrs. Paine. But now, who knows?”

J.D. shook his head. “After talking to him, my assessment is that he’s a fool. I doubt the KGB would have anything to do with him.”

“I agree.” Mrs. Paine sounded relieved. “He’s not a particularly capable person. He has trouble holding down a job. And he can’t even drive. I don’t think he’d pass muster as a Soviet operative.”

J.D. gazed upward. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to pay a visit to Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald.”

11:00 PM – CST

Later, as Mrs. Paine got ready for bed, she considered the day’s extraordinary events and how her life had been saved. Truly a blessing. She was grateful to Officer Tippit and the time travelers for sparing her children the agony of losing a parent. No child should have to endure such a hardship. Her thoughts wandered to Jackie Kennedy. If anything could be done to prevent the tragic assassination of the First Lady, Mrs. Paine would volunteer.

What about Lee? Could he possibly be affiliated with the KGB? Did he have the heart to kill someone? But how would he make his escape? Laughable, really.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1963

7:00 AM – CST

At daybreak, sunlight flooded the two-tone Ford, and Sera was growing weary of Quin’s snoring. Bored, she punched him in the arm.

He jolted awake. “What? What’s going on? Where are we?”

“Nothing’s going on. We’re still parked outside of Mrs. Paine’s house.” They had guarded her home through a restless, chilly night, taking turns sleeping and keeping watch. The others had left in the Chevy after their meeting the previous evening. With luck, they would get the car’s major damage repaired today, no questions asked. “Kon never came back.”

“Kon? Who the hell is Kon?”

“Remember? The KGB guy from last night.” Honestly. Couldn’t he retain the basic facts? “I think he’s their leader.”

“How do you figure?” Quin reflexively wiped his chin, wondering whether he’d slept with his mouth open.

“I don’t know. It’s just the little things, I guess. The way the other two always let him enter rooms first. They way they never interrupt him. Stuff like that.”

“Did you go to spy school or something? You know, for a scientist, you make a decent outlaw. Observant.” Quin yawned loudly, spreading his arms and arching his back. He kept the foghorn sound effect going a bit longer than necessary. “What’s your story? Why are you so committed to this mission anyway?”

Sera stifled a contagious yawn. Watching him was like seeing a bear wake from hibernation. “Mostly on account of my parents.”

“What are they? Rogue agents?”

“You could say that.” Sera tittered. Why did he care? “They were key Reagan Revolution players who organized and led the march in San Fran. They dedicated their lives to the pursuit of freedom. But they, um, they didn’t make it.”

“Geez, Ser. How old were you?”

“Eight.”

“I’m so sorry.” Quin awkwardly squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sure they would be very proud of you today.”

“It’s all right. It was a long time ago.” Sera gazed out the window and dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. What had possessed her to talk about her parents? “What about you? What’s in it for you, flyboy?”

“Me? I’m easy.” Quin grinned. “When Frank called, I thought I was just helping a fellow fugitive. I had no illusions about being a superhero. When I found out about the plan, it seemed like a good idea at the time. And I had nothing better to do, so here I am.”

“Come on! You’re a space junkie. You were ecstatic to get back into Zero G.”

Quin tilted his head from side to side. “Guilty.”

“And you were pretending to be dead. That had to be lonely.”

“Nah. It wasn’t so bad. And it beat actually being dead.” Quin rubbed his hands over his prickly hair. “It would have been nice to see my sisters and their kids, though. Two nieces, four nephews—all of them exploding rockets of joy. But they all thought I bought the farm. There was no other way to keep them protected.” He swiped his forefinger under his nose as if he had an itch.

Sera looked at him in surprise. “I can’t picture you with a family.” Her perception of him altered, from a pencil drawing of a lone cowboy riding a trusty horse, to a vivid watercolor of a favorite uncle playing with adoring children.

“Well, I didn’t spontaneously generate into a man destined to save the world.” He sniffed.

Sera tactfully redirected the conversation. “Do you really think we can do it? Change the past? Save the world?”

“Absolutely. There’s your proof.” Quin pointed toward the lawn where Mrs. Paine was approaching with a tray. “Mrs. P., alive and well, and bringing us breakfast, I hope.”

5:00 PM – CST

In the early evening dusk, J.D. Tippit sat waiting in his civilian car—a 1953 Ford—at the corner of Zang Boulevard and North Beckley Avenue in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas. He could think of countless ways to spend his time in a more enjoyable manner, but that wouldn’t accomplish his purpose. He sighed.

A city bus rumbled down the street and stopped before the intersection to discharge one lone rider, Lee Harvey Oswald.

Oswald sauntered toward the front door of 1026 North Beckley, a brick ranch house with a red peaked roof. A white overhang supported by four latticework struts shaded the porch. According to the inside scoop Mrs. Paine had gotten from her boarder, he rented an elfin room, barely big enough for a twin bed and a chest of drawers.

Still in uniform from his tour, J.D. hastened to intercept Oswald. “Son, we need to talk.”

“That’s your problem.” Oswald whipped around rebelliously, about to sound off. His face betrayed recognition. “Hold on. You’re the guy from last night. You a cop?”

“That’s correct.”

“Good for you.” Oswald resumed walking toward the boarding house.

“Freeze!” J.D. snarled the order.

Oswald turned and raised his hands in mock surrender. “You gonna shoot me or arrest me?”

J.D. resisted the impulse to inquire what he had done to make him think he might be arrested. “Neither. You’re going to answer some questions. That’s all.”

“I’ve already answered questions. Lots of them. My wife has, too.” Oswald brazenly lowered his arms. “I lived in the Soviet Union. So what? That’s not a crime. I bet the FBI put you up to this, didn’t they?”

“No, this has nothing to do with the FBI.” J.D. wondered where the inflated ego came from. “However, I do need information regarding some Russians.”

Oswald swayed from side to side, as if contemplating his next move. But he remained silent.

“Russians from the Carousel Club? You know them?”

“What’s it to you?”

J.D. spoke bluntly. “We believe the Russians are planning a felony. We need to prevent it from happening. If you’re acquainted with them, maybe you can assist us. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll have a little chat?”

Oswald nodded vigorously in an apparent one-eighty-degree change in demeanor. “Sure, I’ll come with you. Just let me go inside and get a jacket. It is November, after all.”

5:05 PM – CST

6:05 PM – EST

Vice President Lyndon Baines Johnson settled into the overstuffed chair in the Oval Office and willed his body to relax. Finally, a spare moment to hijack the control center of the most powerful man in the free world. JFK was currently hosting a reception with the National Education Association in the State Dining Room, after having delivered a speech in the White House Flower Garden. Taking advantage of his absence, the VP reached down and pumped the lever to adjust the seat to a more suitable height for his six-foot, three-inch frame. Of course, if the office were his, he would have chosen a fabric more comfortable than stiff leather. He tipped back and crossed his ankles on top of the Resolute desk.

Time to find out what had caused such a stir in the press yesterday. It galled him that he had to discover after the fact what his own executive branch proselytized. Like being an outsider.

Johnson grabbed a sheaf of papers containing a full transcript of the address Kennedy had given to the Inter-American Press Association in Miami. The group constituted a press advocacy organization representing media outlets in North America, South America, and the Caribbean. The president had been slated to discuss the Alliance for Progress, an initiative he had enacted to establish economic cooperation between North and South America. Evidently, he had strayed from the topic at hand.

LBJ read the opening remarks:

I am very proud to be here tonight. I am particularly interested in the fact that two of our distinguished guests this evening are former prime ministers of Peru and are now publishers of newspapers. It does suggest to those who hold office that when the time comes, as they say in the United States, “if you can’t beat them, join them.”

Johnson snorted. Typical JFK repertoire, cracking jokes whenever he had an audience. Didn’t he understand decorum? LBJ skimmed. Blah, blah, blah. Kennedy called the news media vital to public awareness and spoke of his pride in their fight for freedom of the press. The speech continued:

It is on the Alliance for Progress that we base our common hope for the future. That hope is for a hemisphere where every man has enough to eat and a chance to work, where every child can learn, and every family can find decent shelter.

Of course the president would promote the Alliance. He had created it in a transparent effort to counter the emerging communist threat from Cuba. Johnson simmered. It hadn’t succeeded. The only way to deal with the commies was to be ruthless. JFK underestimated his adversaries.

LBJ skipped forward to the explosive text:

It is important to restate what now divides Cuba from my country and from the other countries of this hemisphere. It is the fact that a small band of conspirators has stripped the Cuban people of their freedom and handed over the independence and sovereignty of the Cuban nation to forces beyond the hemisphere.

The VP swung his feet off the desk. What in tarnation was Kennedy thinking? Fidel Castro would not take kindly to being called a pawn of Russia. He read on:

They have made Cuba a victim of foreign imperialism, an instrument of the policy of others, a weapon in an effort dictated by external powers to subvert the other American Republics. This, and this alone, divides us. As long as this is true, nothing is possible. Without it, everything is possible.

LBJ leaned forward, seized a pen, and started underscoring the inflammatory passages. The newspapers had gotten it right for once. The president had virtually incited a coup to overthrow Castro’s regime. No wonder Fidel had vilified the US and its policies earlier in the day. Hadn’t JFK bungled the Cuban situation enough already? The speech elaborated:

Once this barrier is removed, we will be ready and anxious to work with the Cuban people in pursuit of those progressive goals which a few short years ago stirred their hopes and the sympathy of many people throughout the hemisphere.

Johnson gouged the document in frustration as he continued reading:

No Cuban need feel trapped between dependence on the broken promises of foreign communism and the hostility of the rest of the hemisphere. For once Cuban sovereignty has been restored, we will extend the hand of friendship and assistance to a Cuba whose political and economic institutions have been shaped by the will of the Cuban people.

Without even glancing at the last paragraph, the VP crumpled the pages into a ball and fired it at the wastebasket.

What a set of false promises. Offering aid only after the citizens revolt and neutralize Castro? It would never happen. All Kennedy had accomplished was to enrage the Cuban leader and his communist ally—the Soviet Union.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1963

5:10 PM – CST

After transporting Oswald three-quarters of a mile from his rooming house to the team’s headquarters, J.D. invited him to sit in the living room. He introduced Iggy, Dee, and Jay.

Oswald demanded an explanation for their attendance.

“Settle down. You’re here to answer questions, not ask them.” Officer Tippit’s broad, uniformed shoulders, combined with his commanding tone, made for an imposing presence. However, this seemed lost on their guest. “How do you know the Russians who frequent the Carousel Club?”

The subject rolled his eyes. “What makes you think I do?”

“You wouldn’t have agreed to come with me if you didn’t, so stop the nonsense.”

“Fine.” Oswald scowled. “But they came to me.”

“Why would they approach you?”

“Everyone wants to know what I’m up to. The Russians, the Cubans, the FBI, the CIA, you name it.” He crossed his arms.

Iggy gazed questioningly at Dee. Puzzled, Dee shook her head.

“I’m different.” Oswald squinted at each woman in turn. “I lived in Russia. That makes important people take notice of a guy like me.”

Dee took the bait. “Okay. Why would a guy like you choose to live in the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War?”

“You wouldn’t understand. I moved for political reasons.”

“Ah.” Jay pretended to be fascinated. “What are your politics then?”

“I subscribe to Marxist philosophy. I began my studies at the age of fifteen, from an ideological viewpoint.” He tapped his index finger on his temple. “I and my fellow workers and communists would like to see the present capitalist government of the US fall. The government supports an economic system which exploits all its workers. Under that system, art, culture, and the spirit of man are subjected to commercial enterpray-zing, and religion and education are used as a tool to sur-press what would otherwise be a population questioning their government’s unfair economic system and plans for war.”

Jay’s mouth hung open as he tried to digest Oswald’s outlandish commentary, his pathetic malapropisms, and his erroneous pronunciations. This barnyard animal sounded like he’d memorized a propaganda leaflet. Incorrectly.

“You’ll see. In the future, people will look in the history books and say, ‘Well, this man was ahead of his time.’” Oswald smirked.

History books? Dee wished her reference materials contained more information on this horse’s ass. Unfortunately, mentions of him were brief.

Iggy observed Jay clamping his mouth shut and realized she’d been gaping as well. “And what’s wrong with capitalism? Our society is viewed as one of the most stable and productive in the world.”

“Take off your blinders and look around at what you’ve got. Segregation. Unemployment. Automation.” He paused between each word, as if expecting agreement with ideas considered to be common knowledge. “And don’t forget the use of military forces to sur-press other populations.”

“And you really believe”—Dee struggled to keep the incredulity out of her voice—“Marxism is the answer?”

“To quote Karl Marx, ‘from each according to his ability, to each according to his need.’ What he meant was that every man should contribute to society the best he could, and take from society as much he needs, irregardless of how much he contributes.”

“Actually, his sentiment entailed consuming only in proportion to one’s needs rather than as much as one might desire. Irrespective of that”—Jay emphasized the proper word—“the quotation didn’t originate with Marx. Although he popularized the phrase, the socialist movement commonly used the slogan. It was first attributed to Louis Blanc in 1840 in his famous essay, “The Organization of Work.” He in turn stole the core idea from utopian socialist Henri de Saint Simon, who purported that each should be rewarded according to how much he works. So you see, Blanc bastardized Saint Simon’s more capitalist-centric quote into the one that many today erroneously to ascribe Marx.” Noticing everyone peering at him with peculiar expressions, he abruptly halted.

Oswald’s face, however, radiated venom.

Jay cleared his throat. “Anyway, why did you leave the Soviet Union if their system is superior?”

“You think you’re smarter than me? With your encyclopedia books and fancy words? Well let me tell you something. You don’t know nothing. Their system is better. It just hasn’t been perfected yet.”

“And the problem is . . . ?”

“I went to live in a Marxist society where everyone works and everyone is treated equal. But there were state officials who had better pay, larger apartments, and more benefits than me!” Oswald’s voice shrilled, “The problem is they have fat, stinking politicians over there, same like we have here.”

“Enough!” J.D. hollered. “We are not debating the merits of different political doctrines. We need to understand some key points of relevant information. Oswald, what business did you have with the Russians at the Carousel Club?”

“My business with them is none of your business.”

“Fine, if that’s the way you want it.” J.D. pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “How about we take a ride down to the station house? A couple of nights in the lockup should change your mind.”

Oswald sneered. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t tempt me. And I’m sure those Soviets wouldn’t be too pleased to find out you’d been arrested and interrogated.”

Oswald blanched at the mention of the Russians. “Look, all they did was tell me about a job.”

J.D. began a rapid-fire succession of questions. “Would that be your current job at the Book Depository?”

Pause. “Yeah.”

“Why did they want you to work at that particular warehouse?”

“Maybe they wanted to help a like-minded comrade.” Oswald draped his arm lazily across the back of the couch. Beads of sweat on his forehead revealed his nervousness.

“Come on! There has to be more to it. They must want something in return.”

Oswald shrugged.

“I ask you again. What do they want you to do?”

“They haven’t axed me to do anything.”

J.D. considered Oswald. He seemed sincere—almost wishful that he would be called upon by the KGB. He was also hiding something. “Circumstances indicate the Russians are going to commit a heinous crime. Innocent people might be murdered. Men and women with children, just like you. I know you don’t want that to happen. Will you help us? Be a hero to your family?”

Oswald wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve.

“Think. Have they said anything suspicious?” The policeman jangled his handcuffs for emphasis.

Oswald stared at the floor. “They’re planning some kind of maneuvers. Tonight. Two am.” He mumbled the last two words: “Dealey Plaza.”

6:00 PM – CST

Team Orbis, J.D. Tippit, and Mrs. Ruth Paine watched President Kennedy’s limousine speed up as it fled Dealey Plaza through the Triple Underpass.

The eight-millimeter film flickered to an end, and Sam turned it off, thrusting them into semi-darkness. After guarding Mrs. Paine’s house most of the day, he and Bick had brought the mother of two back to their home base in Oak Cliff for a meeting.

“And that’s the footage Abraham Zapruder recorded of the motorcade. Jackie K. was pronounced dead on arrival at Parkland Memorial Hospital.” Dee took the reins as narrator, humbled to share the monumental scene. She had kept the horrific film concealed in her tote bag until now.

Yawning, even though she’d tried to pay off her sleep debt, Sera switched on the living room lamp. The artificial light accentuated the shocked faces of J.D. and Mrs. Paine. Quin, however, was dozing on the couch, his head lolling forward. Realizing he wouldn’t want to miss the ensuing discussion, Sera discreetly bumped her hip into the armrest, waking him.

“It’s up to us to stop the proverbial crime-of-the-century. But we need to determine a new strategy.” Iggy leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “We gleaned a few snippets of intel from that jerk Oswald. J.D., why don’t you recap for those who weren’t here?”

The officer spent a few minutes relating the salient points.

When J.D. had finished, Jay took off his glasses, fiddled with them, and put them back on. “According to Oswald himself, he is acquainted with the Russians, not that he necessarily knows they are KGB. Do we actually believe him? He may recognize they’re Soviets simply from hanging out at the club. After listening to him, I’d diagnose Oswald with a classic case of schizophrenia. I mean, think about it. Distorted perception of reality, delusions, paranoia, social dysfunction, inflated sense of self. It all fits. For all we know, this alliance with the KGB is completely manufactured. He could be in cahoots with the toaster, too.”

J.D. shrugged. “For now, he’s offered our best lead. I suggest we follow it and see if it pans out.”

“He’s right. No harm in trying. Besides, I’m through with the Carousel.” Sera blew out a breath of relief that she would nevermore have to don the dreaded barmaid costume. “No way to spy on the commies since they’ve ID’d us. None of us can go back. This is our last chance to get them until their next recorded appearance on Friday in Dealey Plaza. And then it will be too late.”

“Dealey,” Dee echoed. “If the KGB truly did instruct Oswald to apply for a job there, it can’t be a coincidence.”

“It seems likely they would use him as a sentry to help them sneak into the school book building during the motorcade. The situation is very different now that we’ve changed the timeline.” Bick smiled at Mrs. Paine. “Thank God.”

“I got the impression Oswald has no clue what they’re planning.” J.D. cocked his head. “Nor is he smart enough to figure it out.”

Mrs. Paine stifled a laugh. “That’s Lee. So, if the KGB are going to be in Dealey Plaza tonight, what does that mean?”

“Sounds like a dress rehearsal to me.” Quin raised his palms. “Who knows? Maybe the Marxist poster-boy will prop the back door open.”

“I doubt it. But you’re missing the point.” Sam pulled his lips in, forming a thin line. “What it means is that all three of them will be together, outside, late at night. We have the perfect opportunity for an ambush.”

“What would we even do with the KGB if we captured them?” Iggy pondered the next step. “Suggestions?”

“Kill the bastards.” Sam nodded emphatically.

“Sam!” Iggy hissed his name in mortification. “We have discussed this. We are not murderers.”

“I didn’t mean we should,” Sam backpedaled. “Just tossing out options.”

She observed him shrewdly. “It’s not within you to kill in cold blood. I know you, Mr. Morales.”

Sam averted his eyes. An awkward moment ensued.

Jay broke the silence. “J.D., couldn’t you arrest them? You know, keep them in jail for a few days until this blows over. I mean, they were involved in a shoot-out.”

“Unfortunately”—J.D. obliterated his optimism—“we shot back. I can’t let my captain hear about an episode where we used excessive force. The investigation would focus on me rather than the KGB. And I have little evidence to prove they were the aggressors.”

“Fine. Then arrest them for something else.” Jay inadvertently raised his voice. “Anything else!”

“Son, I don’t know about where you’re from, but around here law enforcement obeys the law. I can’t arrest someone if they haven’t committed a crime. When I threatened Oswald earlier, I was bluffing.”

“Hell, we’re over-analyzing this.” Quin rubbed his eyes. “All we gotta do is hold ‘em until after the prez leaves. That oughta do it.”

“Not possible.” Bick shifted uncomfortably. “Where would we imprison them for the next few days? Moreover, kidnapping is a federal offense. Ultimately, they would try again. We need a more permanent solution.”

Mrs. Paine perched on the edge of her seat. “They’re Russian spies, aren’t they? Why don’t we expose their false identities and get them deported? Send them back to the USSR.”

“That’s a great idea. In fact, we kicked it around previously. But they have authentic papers.” Dee sighed. “Flawless. They even have phony birth certificates filed in Houston. Only a federal agent could determine the difference.”

“In that case,” Mrs. Paine confidently continued, “I propose we go directly to the authorities. The FBI or Secret Service or whoever’s in charge and tell them the whole story.”

“Lady”—Sera blurted the term acidly—“you had to almost get yourself bumped off before you believed us. What makes you think the Feds will?”

Mrs. Paine’s features contorted in anger.

“Sera! It’s easy to say that now.” Iggy attempted to smooth over the rift. “In hindsight, we have found it difficult to persuade others of our fantastic tale. Be that as it may, we need to come up with an appropriate plan soon. We’re running out of time.”

“Time.” J.D. paused and scratched his head as if thinking aloud. “Y’all have a time machine. Why not send the KGB through time?”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1963

7:00 PM – CST

Dmitriy stomped back to the Carousel meeting room in a fury, slamming the door behind him. “Kon, I had my hands around his scrawny neck. You should have let me snap it in two.”

“You nearly did. Sit down. Now.”

The swarthy KGB yanked out a chair, almost clipping comrade Viktor. “Who does Oswald think he is?”

Kon kept a bland face. “He’s an idiot.”

“You got that right.” Dmitriy grabbed a pack of Lucky Strikes. “How dare he stick his nose into our business?”

“Outstanding question.” Kon glared at Dmitriy. “I suppose the answer would be, you recruited him. Care to explain that judgment call?”

Boldly ignoring the no-smoking rule, Dmitriy lit a cigarette. He inhaled and locked eyes on his superior as he blew out a cloud of smoke.

“Now, I’m left to contend with him.”

Viktor gazed from one compatriot to the other, garnering the courage to speak. “Do you think he was telling the truth? About the Americans?”

“He better be.” Dmitriy casually flicked ashes into an empty pilsner glass. “Otherwise I will kill him.”

“The waitress has more friends than we thought.” Viktor ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “First the guys who tried to protect the babushka lady, and now . . .”

“I know.” Kon wanted to berate them for speaking Russian in public yesterday, but the issue was moot.

“And one of them is a cop!” Dmitriy slammed his palm against the wooden table.

“Again, I know.” Kon tipped back in his chair as he visualized the pieces of this jigsaw slotting together.

11:30 PM – CST

Dee ground the gears of the Hertz rent-a-car as she shifted into third and entered the acceleration lane. “We’re making excellent time. It’s eleven thirty and we’re almost through San Antonio. We should arrive at Padre Island right on schedule.” She smiled and hummed absentmindedly, exhilarated to have a new plan.

Clenching the armrest, Jay was experiencing considerably less euphoria as she mishandled the vehicle. Regrettably, the Ford Coupe and the newly repaired Chevy Impala were being used by the remainder of Team Orbis. And the only choice for a rental at that late hour had been a manual transmission. Dee claimed she was skilled, but frankly the ride was harrowing. “At least try to stay in one lane, would ya?” Jay cracked the window to get some cool air. “I hope our scuba gear is still buried where we left it.”

“No worries.” Dee waved her hand flippantly. “Nobody ever goes there; it’s a cattle ranch for heaven’s sake.”

“Okay, but then there’s the issue of the night dive.”

“You brought underwater flashlights, didn’t you?” Dee glanced at him in confusion. “Besides, night dives are no big deal. I’ve done tons of them. All you have to do is relax and remember which way is up. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t panic.”

“Uh, well, yeah.” Jay fidgeted. Not panicking was the problem.

“Anyhow, Anti-Matter is way more dangerous than a midnight scuba. You should concern yourself with that. I’ll make you a bargain. How about I take care of the underwater stuff and you take care of the physics stuff?”

“Deal.” Jay settled into comfortable terrain. “The portable AM device on the Tempus is completely secure. Iggy herself created it, and I installed numerous backup systems and contingencies. In fact,” he continued sardonically, “transporting our AM is safer than riding in this car.”

“Hm.” Dee missed the dig, pondering. “Don’t we need a lot of brass as a containment field for our extracurricular use of Anti-Time?”

“Already done. I packed plenty of extra brass strips in the event we needed to make repairs to the hull of the ship. We have more than . . . AARRGH!” Jay threw both forearms up to protect himself as Dee swerved into oncoming traffic. “Watch it!”

“Chill out, Jay. You wouldn’t want me to run over an innocent armadillo would you?”

Jay peered out the windshield as she maneuvered the car back into their lane. Breathing heavily, he twisted in his seat to gaze at Dee rather than the road. Anything to keep his mind off the white-knuckle drive. “So, Ms. Doherty. Hypothetical question. What do you think you would do if you lived here? That is to say, now, in this decade. Nineteen hundred and sixty-three.”

“Oh my gosh.” Dee slapped both hands over her face, as Jay watched in terror. “I don’t know.” She clutched the wheel again to his relief. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I guess I’d still be a reporter.”

“You wouldn’t want to be a typical sixties housewife, taking care of her husband and children?”

“Sure I’d like to have a family someday, but I wouldn’t abandon my career.” Dee paused, mulling it over. “I’d love to be a White House correspondent. Can you imagine me reporting from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? Better yet, interviewing the First Lady? It would be a dream come true.” Her eyes shone. “I would die for the chance to meet Jackie K.”

11:50 PM – CST

Dmitriy cradled the strange weapon, admiring the lustrous metal. Smooth and cold, the object resembled no firearm he’d ever seen. Incredible. He couldn’t locate a single screw, rivet or joint that would give a clue as to how it was manufactured. The entire surface was pristine, as if poured whole from a molten alloy.

Sitting behind the desk, he aimed the gun at a picture of Ruby’s decadent strippers on the back of the office door. Four girls had been photographed in the midst of performing the popular Monkey dance—three nearly naked following a taller woman in a skirted suit. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Dmitriy envisioned picking them off one at a time.

The door flew open and Kon appeared, framed by the bright fluorescents from the hallway. “What the hell are you doing? Put that down!” He crossed in front of his underling and reached out.

Dmitriy froze, and was astounded to feel the barrel automatically track Kon’s progress.

The KGB cell leader snatched the contraband item. “I told you to get the shortwave radio out of the safe for later. I didn’t say you could rummage through my stuff.”

“Did you see that? It followed you.” Dmitriy stared at the device with envy. “This thing is straight out of Buck Rogers. Where the devil did you find such a beauty?”

“I lifted it from our adversaries. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Them? I thought they were just a bunch of do-gooders. But this looks like a top-secret military invention. What are they? CIA?”

Kon tucked the weapon into his belt. “That won’t matter after tonight.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1963

1:20 AM – CST

On top of the Triple Underpass—the railroad bridge crossing over Elm, Main, and Commerce Streets—Kon aimed a pair of binoculars east into the landscape of Dealey Plaza.

Elm Street divided the key section of the park with the infield on the right and the Grassy Knoll on the left. At the top of the knoll stood the white concrete Pergola backed by a five-foot stockade fence. The fence formed a right-angle perimeter to the side of the rail-yard parking lot. The train tracks originated from around the seven-story Texas School Book Depository at the far left and continued through the lot in a graceful arc until merging with Kon’s position on the bridge. A stationary freight train occupied most of the tracks, partly obscuring the Union Terminal North Tower, an operator-switching house in the parking lot.

By the dim light of the crescent moon, the cell leader was observing the scurrying antics of the Americans. He tsk-tsked in mock disillusionment at their ineptitude. How could these amateurs expect to outfox the cunning maneuvers of an advanced operative?

The downtown district was utterly deserted, except for an infrequent car whooshing down the street.

1:25 AM – CST

Wedged low under the steps to the empty loading dock behind the Texas School Book Depository, Sam couldn’t believe he’d drawn the figurative short straw in this assignment. Everyone else had secured prominent locations for battle. J.D. had insisted on orchestrating their positions, but the police officer wasn’t taking advantage of Sam’s superior intellect.

Certain he was wasting his talents, Sam sneaked around to the front of the building to argue his point with Iggy. He found her huddled at the top of the front entrance stairs, surveying Elm and Houston Streets. Iggy would not listen. She scolded him for abandoning his post and shoved him away.

Sam stormed around the corner, returning to the loading dock. He was startled to see a man skulking about, heading toward the rail-yard lot. The man was carrying a weapon that gleamed despite the dark.

Why did that gun look so familiar? Sam crept forward as the stranger targeted his firearm. With a spark of recognition, he realized what was wrong. One of the Russians was toting a Locklier H_2 2011. Sam’s Locklier 2011. With a burst of fury, he charged the KGB man.

1:29 AM – CST

Bang! In the crook of the stockade fence, Quin snapped his head as a projectile ripped a hole in the side of a boxcar across the lot. The noise jolted his attention to the appalling specter of Dmitriy and Viktor wrestling with Sera between two parked cars. Viktor clamped a hand over her mouth while Dmitriy pinned her arms behind her back. Crud! These guys were early. Volcanic rage erupted within Quin as he sprinted toward them, shrieking like a madman.

Trying to escape, Sera chomped on Viktor’s forefinger while simultaneously kicking backward into Dmitriy’s groin. Dmitriy buckled in anguish.

Joining the melee, Quin slugged Victor in the jaw and yanked Sera away with superhuman strength. They both tumbled to the ground.

A second later, J.D. and Bick arrived from their respective hiding spots, brandishing revolvers. Viktor and Dmitriy ceased struggling, knowing they were defeated.

Iggy ran over from the textbook building and helped to restrain the KGB. “Where’s the other one?”

Bick looked at J.D. in surprise. They shrugged in bewilderment. It had happened so fast.

Sera heaved Quin off of her. “What the hell were you thinking back there?”

“I was thinking that, uh, they were going to kill you.”

“Oh, please. I had everything under control.”

Quin bowed his head sheepishly. “Sorry. I didn’t . . . I didn’t want anything to happen to you.”

Sera opened her mouth to offer a caustic retort and was surprised when she found nothing to say.

1:31 AM – CST

Ecstatic at reclaiming his 2011, Sam wielded his prize as he chased Kon east along the train tracks, away from the shenanigans at Dealey. After a couple of blocks, the KGB leader swerved left onto Market Street with Sam lagging by a dozen yards.

As Sam turned the corner in pursuit, he was obliged to duck as Kon stopped to fire a few rounds in his direction. While Sam was distracted, Kon jumped into the waiting DeSoto and peeled away. Bastard! Sam resumed running, pelting the pavement with swift, hard strokes. He shot wildly at the departing car, hoping to disable it.

Suddenly, a wall of sound and heat accosted Sam, catapulting him into a backward tumble. He bounced painfully on the blacktop. Bruised and battered, he came to rest at the side of the curb. In a split second, he envisioned the outcome of the frozen hydrogen projectile making contact with Kon’s gas tank. Sam glanced up fearfully for confirmation.

The DeSoto was engulfed in flames.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1963

5:00 AM – CST

The man filling Leonid’s shoes entered the encryption codes on his shortwave radio and began the standard greeting. The seconds ticked by, but instead of proper acknowledgment, static hissed over the airwaves. Frustrated, the imposter reentered the numeric sequence. Again, no response.

After the third unsuccessful try, he slammed down the receiver. They were supposed to answer at five o’clock Central Time. Where the hell were they? It was utterly unforgivable that a KGB cell would miss a scheduled call. Only one explanation seemed likely: something catastrophic had happened and they’d been deactivated. Inconceivable! They were purported to be the world’s best-trained espionage experts.

Without them, the entire scheme would unravel. Months of covert planning and painstaking preparations would vaporize. He squelched an overwhelming urge to dash the radio to smithereens.

Someone would pay for this travesty.

6:30 AM – CST

In the early morning twilight, Jay addressed the team in a fake announcer-type voice. “Okay, sports fans. We’re pleased to bring you live coverage of the inaugural KGB Olympics. Our athletes have been training for this event for . . . well, not at all. However, they are fit specimens, so the competition should be exciting.” Although he hadn’t slept, Jay felt exhilarated to be reunited with the team for this historic occasion.

“The race is about to begin. Iggy Mikos will be officiating. Are you ready? Yes, Iggy nods her assent. On your mark, get set, and go! She has punched the converter.” Jay lifted binoculars to his eyes. “And there they go, exploding out of the racing blocks, already two miles east of our position at an altitude of thirty-thousand feet. Paradoxically, due to the time-jump to the past, they existed simultaneously in the brass-lined trunk of the Ford and in the air for a fraction of a second. In the spirit of sportsmanship, we won’t take marks off for a false start.”

Sera anxiously scanned the sky for the tiny specks. “Jay, are you certain you rigged the parachutes to deploy? The Russians are probably unconscious.”

“Absolutely positive. I tested the auto-release myself.”

“Like we should care.” Quin hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “No loss if they hit the ground. Splat!”

Sera glared at him. “Don’t be so flip. We don’t want any more blood on our hands. The KGB may be heartless killers, but we’re not. Remember, I’ve been up there.” She pointed at the sky. “When we broke out of Secaucus, I went into a spin and almost didn’t pull my cord in time. You can’t imagine the terror.”

“It’s okay. Nobody else is going to die. They’re just about to . . . there goes one!” Jay gestured toward the white canopy billowing in the distance. “A-a-and the other! Told you my contraption would work.” He smiled like a loon.

“Frankly, I’m bothered that our actions caused the death of the third cell member.” Bick attempted to sound matter-of-fact, rather than accusing. “Sam, you say Kon shot at you, you returned fire, and his car spontaneously exploded?”

“Correct.” Perspiring despite the chilly temperature, Sam loosened his jacket collar. “You saw the inferno. I couldn’t have helped him if I’d tried.”

“I’ve never heard any news reports where a bullet caused a car to blow up. Except in the movies, of course.” Dee chuckled, although it seemed forced.

Sam had resolved to take his secret of the Locklier 2011 to his grave. “I’ve given it considerable thought. Fortunately, science can explain. I simply hit the gas tank at an angle that split it open. Then a loose wire likely created a spark that ignited. End of story. I didn’t intend to kill him.”

“It’s a horrific tragedy that a man has died.” Iggy noted the sour expression on Sam’s face, so she continued hastily, “Accidents happen. No one is blaming you.”

Sam grunted.

Everyone’s eyes were drawn to him.

“Well, that’s that, then.” Dee projected false brightness and turned it back to Jay. “What’s the progress?”

“We’re coming into the home stretch with Dmitriy Sokolov leading by a nose, or a foot, perhaps is more accurate, followed by Viktor Vladimirsky bringing up the rear. Or maybe it’s the other way around, I really wouldn’t know. Their present trajectory will take them directly to the finish line right inside the gates of the Manned Spacecraft Center, which had a grand opening here in Houston two short months ago.”

Jay lowered his binoculars and tilted his head. “Interestingly, in our time this Mission Control hub will be named after General Westmoreland. He’s the commander who conquered Cuba at the start of the ’64 Nuke War, and went on to become a vicious, militaristic US president. As an aside, the complex was originally slated to be christened after current Vice President Johnson—who as a senator from Texas helped shepherd legislation to approve funding for the facility—but that’s an issue for another day.”

Jay raised his voice in a final crescendo. “Almost a photo finish, folks. Dmitriy wins! Followed in second place by a victorious Viktor! Our brave soldiers in the Military Police are swarming the compound, vying for the chance to congratulate our winners. Hopefully, the grand prize will be a protracted prison sentence for our intrepid foreign contestants.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1963

5:00 PM – CST

Hours later, after catching up on sleep, Jay held a pencil and a notepad, sketching. He drew a box around the letters KGB, and connected it to a circle containing the letters MP. “Now what happens?”

Bick was hunched over the coffee table at home base. “Following procedure, the MPs will transfer the detainees to the Bureau of Prisons, where the Feds will no doubt uncover their fraudulent American identities.”

On the paper, Jay linked MPs to a box saying FEDS.

“Evidence of the plot in the form of the stolen motorcade route, maps, and weapons will be found and the conspiracy will be blown wide open. The cell will remain in jail for the rest of their natural lives.”

Jay blithely slashed vertical lines across the KGB box to indicate prison bars. “You’re certain, completely sure, they would be incarcerated for life?”

“Absolutely, son. The US government is dead serious when it comes to foreign agents who target the Commander in Chief. Good old Viktor and Dmitriy will never see the light of day.”

“What if—now hear me out because I hate to say this—but what if the Soviets send another unit?”

“Eventually our commie friends will be traced back to Russia. Their government will have to answer for placing assassins in our midst. Once they’ve been caught red-handed, they’ll think twice about provoking our wrath.”

Jay penciled another line leading to a box with USSR.

“As a result, the US will never again be complacent about presidential safety.”

Sam snorted.

Jay ignored him as he drafted a rudimentary American flag on the bottom of the sheet, billowing in a hash-mark breeze. He glanced up from the page; however, nobody was paying attention to his artistry.

Bick uncharacteristically reclined and propped his feet up on the table. “It’s not exactly the scenario we envisioned, but the outcome is the same, so who cares?”

“You betcha.” In a tattered armchair, Quin clasped both hands behind his neck.

“I, for one, can’t wait to see Jackie K.” Dee hopped off the couch and danced a happy jig. “And JFK, of course. It’ll be our reward.”

Jay stared up at the ceiling. “You know, this whole bizarre episode reminds me of a French story I once read titled Le Voyageur Imprudent. It involves a man who travels back in time and . . .”

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The doorbell chimed repeatedly, interrupting the reverie.

“Saved by the bell.” Quin languidly called out over his shoulder, “Come on in, it’s open!”

J.D. Tippit strode into the sitting room, in full uniform after his shift. “Houston.” He unbuttoned his jacket. “We have a problem.”

Quin arched his head back, looking at the officer upside down. “Problem? Nah. We nailed the KGB; Jackie K. is safe and sound.”

“I contacted a colleague of mine who’s on the job in Houston.”

“What the heck does the Houston PD have to do with anything?” Sera was flipping through an issue of Time magazine.

J.D. removed his patrolman’s cap and tossed it down. “I asked him to discreetly get in touch with the Air Force officials at the Manned Spacecraft Center. He had to pull strings and promise favors. It took all day for him to find information.”

Iggy bolted upright. “What kind of information?”

“Those bureaucratic dunderheads have already started the paperwork.”

“What sort of, I mean, what kind of paperwork?” Jay stammered. “You can’t possibly be saying what I think you’re saying.”

J.D. slumped into an easy chair. “The KGB are going to be released.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1963

12:00 PM – CST

1:00 PM – EST

“Oh my gosh! What an incredibly beautiful city. So clean and bright, like brand new.” Dee leaned over Jay’s lap to gaze out the window as the commercial airplane—a propeller-driven DC-3—began to descend. “Look! That huge obelisk must be the Washington Monument. I can even see the rectangular reflecting pool jutting out in front.” She twisted her head as they cruised past, admiring the midday sunlight sparkling on its surface. “But there’s no image reflected in the water. Maybe Sam was right.”

“Seriously, Dee.” Jay pressed himself back in his seat. “Use logic. You’d have to stand right in front of the basin in order to see the monument mirrored in the water.”

“Whatever.” Dee propped an elbow on Jay’s leg and pointed with her free hand. “See that immense white dome, with like a gazillion steps leading up to the entrance? That’s the Capitol Building where Congress used to convene.”

“One has to give Iggy credit. The old District of Columbia really lives up to her description. The structures gleam.” Jay shifted, uncomfortable with Dee splayed across his thighs. He noted Bick peering at them in amusement from across the aisle. “If you had told me you preferred the window seat, I would have gladly relinquished my spot.”

“No, no, no. That’s okay. I finally learned my lesson. I get woozy if I’m too close to a window during flight.” She pushed off from him to bend forward and rummage in her bag. “Wait, let me get my camera. I want to capture this scene on film.”

Jay rolled his eyes around and rested them on Bick with a beseeching expression.

Bick reached over and tapped Dee on the knee. “I would suggest you fasten your seatbelt instead. The landing might be rough in this antique model.”

Jay touched the factory-fresh armrest and gave a small smile.

Dee sat back and buckled up. “I’m just excited. I never imagined I’d visit our nation’s former capital in its heyday. DC is the antithesis of WB.”

“That may be so. But we’re not here on a sightseeing tour.” Bick shook his head ruefully. “We have a difficult task ahead of us.”

“And we thought convincing J.D. and Mrs. Paine was tough.” Jay removed his glasses and massaged his temples. “We’ll be lucky to even get a meeting with anyone of consequence.”

“I’m a reporter.” Dee scrunched her brow in puzzlement. “It’s my job to gain access.”

Bick lowered his voice so he could barely be heard over the whining of the engines. “You were a reporter, back in ’13. Remember, you don’t have any credentials in ’63.”

“Ah, hold on a second.” Dee unclasped her seatbelt and once again angled forward to dig into her shoulder tote. “Somewhere in here . . .”

Jay and Bick exchanged weary glances.

“Ta dah!” Dee whipped out a laminated card.

Jay snatched it. “Where did you get that?” He examined an official-looking Associated Press pass bearing her name and picture.

“After J.D. asked me for credentials, I realized I might need proof. Iggy helped me fake one up.”

Jay handed it back. “What if some official tries to verify its authenticity?”

“Don’t be such a square, Jay. They’d have no reason to.” Dee pocketed the ID. “I know what I’m doing. I only hope we can stop them in time.”

1:30 PM – CST

Mrs. Paine drove her green 1955 Chevy station wagon through the residential streets of Irving on her way to the grocery store. Anxious for an update on the president, she flipped on the radio and tuned in to a local news program. After a brief weather report predicting sunny skies for Friday, the announcer outlined JFK’s activities. Air Force One had just touched down in San Antonio, where the Commander in Chief and First Lady would be joined by Vice President Johnson, Governor Connally, and their respective wives. Later in the afternoon, Kennedy would dedicate the US Air Force School of Aerospace Medicine at Brooks Air Force Base, seven miles southeast of downtown San Antone.

The station broke for a commercial—a hot dog jingle with a child’s voice singing about how he wished to be a wiener.

Mrs. Paine started to hum along with the catchy tune, and then chastised herself for disregarding the gravity of the circumstances. After her elation upon hearing of the KGB’s capture, she’d been devastated to learn of their impending release.

The broadcast continued with a correspondent in San Antonio describing the president’s motorcade route. It would wind through the business district in an open limousine, exactly as planned for each city in the Lone Star state on this whirlwind trip.

All day, the sixties housewife had experienced a feeling of dread roiling in her gut. Mrs. Paine could not relax until she knew the outcome.

Would Jacqueline Kennedy be safe in Dallas?

3:30 PM – CST

Quin coasted the turquoise Chevy to a stop in the alleyway behind the Carousel Club. “Why the heck you want to park here, anyway? The main entrance is out front.”

“I kept the key, you idiot.” Sera jangled her keychain, trying to annoy him. “Ruby won’t be too pleased to see me after I abandoned my shift Monday, so we’ll sneak in. Besides, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of paying his cover charge.”

“Yeah, screw him,” Sam concurred as they got out.

Sera climbed the stairs and led them through the rear entrance. She strode down the hallway, thrusting the swinging door open with a bang. In the muted light of the main venue, a handful of early-bird patrons were scattered about the tables and booths. Music blared, but only one scantily clad dancer practiced her craft on the carousel-horse pole.

Tending bar across the room, Ruby popped up. As Sera approached, his legendary temper flared. “Well, well, well. The prodigal waitress has returned. You can forget about getting your job back.” He sauntered around the bar to face them. “You’ve been replaced. Plenty of other girls who need work. Girls who don’t skip out.”

“Save the sanctimonious speech, Ruby. We haven’t got time for a tantrum. We have to talk. Now.”

“Before we talk about anything, pay the cover charge. And I mean all four of you.” The club owner crossed his arms. “Two dollars each.”

“It’s urgent!” Sera admonished.

Ruby raised his chin in a challenge. “And fork over the key.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Sera dug the key out of her pocket. “We’ll give you ten. Sam?”

Sam grumbled something about a two-bit shyster as he slapped a ten into Ruby’s palm.

Ruby made a show of examining the bill as if believing it might be phony. Satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, he stuffed what was actually a counterfeit note into his wallet. “What’s this about?”

Sera moved in close enough to smell his rank aftershave. “You’re being made a fool of, Jack.”

“Nobody would dare.” He patted the pistol bulging from his waistband.

“Shut up.” Sera snapped her fingers.

Quin and Sam sprang to Ruby’s sides, each grabbing an arm at the elbow like a couple of goons. They frog-marched their sputtering hostage toward the back meeting room.

“What the hell are you doing? This is my club!”

Iggy yanked a wooden chair out from the conference table, and the men shoved Ruby into it.

“Who are you people? I’ll kill you, I swear I will.”

Sera placed one hand on either arm of the chair and bent over him. He was obviously bluffing. “You want introductions? Fine. I’m Sera. I believe you’ve met Quin and Sam.” She stepped aside. “This is Iggy Mikos. She’s in charge now.”

Ruby watched them, more mystified than angry.

Iggy cleared her throat and mimicked Sera’s hardball tone. “You think you’re calling the shots, but you’re way out of your league. Do you know the caliber of the hooligans you’re associating with?”

“What are you getting at?” Ruby adjusted his narrow tie. “I run a high-class establishment.”

Iggy scoffed. “What do you truly know about the men who rent this room?”

“That’s none of your business, you nosy broad.”

“You’d better cooperate, Ruby”—Sam punched a fist into the palm of the other hand, hoping to seem threatening—“or history will remember you as a chump. This is imperative.”

Quin observed the burlesque proprietor’s blank look. “He means it’s important, dumbass.”

Sera decided to appeal to his unnatural affection for Kennedy. “The situation involves the president’s visit to Dallas. A matter of life or death.”

Ruby’s spine went rigid.

“Okay, now that we have your attention, we’ll start over.” Iggy sat down, relieved, but still attempting to sound tough. “Give us everything you got on these guys.”

“I know enough. They pay a bundle for the meeting room. And for use of the safe. I figured they were connected. You know. The mob.” He noticed their dumbfounded faces. “For Pete’s sake! The Mafia. Organized crime.”

“They’re not connected, Jack.” Sera swatted the top of his skull. “They’re commies.”

The cogs turned in Ruby’s brain. In hindsight, his tenants sported features that seemed more Slavic than Sicilian. Could they be Russian? He rubbed the back of his neck. Commies. JFK. Dallas. Life or death. “Red bastards!” he shouted. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“We haven’t said anything.” Iggy belied her words by nodding.

Ruby slapped his hand over his mouth. “My God. Jackie will be by his side the whole time.” Suddenly, his shocked expression turned to granite. “Why should I believe you? This could be some sort of trap.”

“If we were going to shoot you, you’d be dead.” Sera sighed. “Think about it. Even you can figure out I’m not a waitress. It was an excuse to spy on them. Remember when I bolted Monday night? My cover was blown after we tried to nail them.”

“Who are you working for? Where do you get your information?”

“If we tell you any more, we’ll have to whack you.” Sera laughed.

Quin focused on Ruby. “Point is, we need your help to find the Russians, capiche?”

“Quin is correct. You’re our best shot.” Sam squelched a shudder. How had they come to this? A small-time flesh peddler as their savior.

Flattered, Ruby stood and began to walk around the table. “I suppose if my calling is to protect my president, I can’t say no. The suspects are here every night, so it’s not a stretch to assume they’ll return. Although they never showed up last night.” Ruby glared at Sera’s smug grin. “But they did leave some stuff in the safe.”

“Like what?” Sera made a mental note to thank Quin and Sam for buttering him up.

“A shortwave radio . . . documents . . . weapons.” Ruby squinted into the distance. “Those sons of bitches will definitely be back.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1963

3:45 PM – CST

4:45 PM – EST

While Dee paced back and forth muttering, Bick and Jay sat on marble benches in the lobby at the Department of Justice building in Washington DC. At 950 Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest, the trapezoidal edifice was located less than a mile from the White House. Over the echoing footsteps of cheap-suited bureaucrats, the two men brooded on their unsuccessful attempts to determine the KGB’s status.

Upon arrival in the nation’s capital, they had taxied to the Federal Bureau of Prisons at 320 First Street. Armed with her fictitious press pass, Dee had claimed she was investigating an explosive story on corruption in the military court system. Hoping to raise their hackles with the threat of an exposé, she tried to schedule a meeting with James V. Bennett, director of the Bureau of Prisons since 1937. After being held in suspense, her request was unequivocally denied. Before succumbing to defeat, Bick discreetly made inquiries to junior associates until they uncovered a crucial fact: the Manned Spacecraft Center trespassers had been handed off to the Justice Department.

Capitalizing on his triumph, the trio hightailed it to the DOJ, where they were now waiting to be seen by a low-ranking official.

Dee stopped pacing in front of Jay and barked, “What time is it?”

Jay checked his watch. “A quarter to five.”

“Where is this guy? If he doesn’t come soon, it will be too late. Everyone will be heading home.”

“Calm down, Dee. They assured us he would come.” Bick scanned the reception area. “That could be the gentleman right there.”

Dee wheeled around and broke away to intercept the approaching man. Meeting him halfway, she spoke in an exaggerated whisper.

Jay observed Bick rubbing his eyes and decided to distract him. “You know, Kennedy should be in Houston now. He’s riding in a convertible limo through the streets of the city, this being his second motorcade after San Antonio. In a little while, he’ll be giving a speech at Rice University honoring US Representative Albert Richard Thomas. He and the vice president will try to convince the congressman to run for a fifteenth term in the House. Quite persuasively, I might add.”

Bick nodded in acknowledgement.

Encouraged, Jay continued, “Fascinatingly, Thomas was instrumental in securing the location of the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston, where we, um, visited yesterday morning. Anyway, tonight the presidential party will fly to Fort Worth, where they will stay at the Texas Hotel. And then . . .”

At the sound of Dee arguing, Bick held up a finger to silence Jay.

“You have no idea what you’ve done, you officious weasel!” As the man scurried away, Dee shouted, “You’ve just sentenced all of humanity to hell!”

In a fury, Dee stomped back to Jay and Bick. “I can’t believe these buttheads. Apparently the DOJ is too stupid to figure out that the KGB aren’t who they say they are. And now, we’ll never get the chance to rat them out as Russians.”

“Don’t be so fatalistic, Dee.” Jay lifted his eyebrows in a hopeful expression. “We’ll find someone else. We’ll convince them; you’ll see.”

“You don’t get it! We’re too late. The KGB have already been released. The imbeciles in charge decided they were engaging in a foolish prank and let them go with a warning and a fine.”

“That’s it.” Bick stood up. “Enough tomfoolery. We must consider drastic action.”

Dee collapsed into the seat Bick had vacated. “What’s the use?”

“We have to speak to a person of authority. Even if we have to barge in without an appointment.” Bick set his jaw, undeterred. “And, we have to notify the team in Dallas.”

“Well”—Dee sat upright, her stubborn optimism returning tenfold—“we have nothing to lose if we ambush the top man. Let’s do it.” She clenched a strong fist in the air. “Who is he?”

Jay gave her a sidelong glance. “The attorney general, of course, would be the highest position in the chain of command. But Bobby Kennedy is not likely to be here on any given day, although in our history this very office will be named after him. In 2001, to be precise. Nonetheless, as JFK’s closest advisor, he would typically be situated at the White House. I reckon we’d have a better chance of getting Sera to dance at the Carousel than of gaining access there.”

“Will you shut up about Bobby?” Dee grabbed him by both shoulders. “Obviously we can’t storm the White House. But the KGB could be halfway to Dallas by now. You have to go call home base and warn the others.”

Startled, Jay hurried off to find a phone booth.

“Sorry.” Dee held her face in her hands. “I couldn’t take any more tutorials.” She looked at Bick. “Okay, so not Bobby. Then who’s the head honcho in this building?”

“If I’m not mistaken, the director of the FBI would have an office here.” Bick chortled uneasily. “However, we have to think smaller scale. You can hardly expect to manufacture an audience with J. Edgar Hoover.”

“We’ll see about that.” Dee got up.

“Wait! I’m serious!”

Dee marched out to the center of the foyer and yelled as loud as her voice would carry, “J. Edgar Hoover! J. Edgar Hoover! I demand to see J. Edgar Hoover!”

5:00 PM – CST

“How much longer do we have to endure this stench?” Sam sounded muffled through the handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. “I can’t fathom a worse smell. Did something die in here?”

“Prob’ly.” From a squatting position, Quin pulled his left foot back from a bracing spot and awkwardly swapped it with his right, accidentally kicking Sera. “Whoops.”

Sera grunted in the semi-darkness. After all, what difference did it make? They were surrounded by garbage. “Suck it up, Sam. It’s the only hiding place in this darn alleyway.”

“Sera’s correct. And we’ll stay here all night if we have to. It’s our best lead to catch these assassins.” Iggy took a deep breath and regretted it as her lungs filled with rotten fumes. She gagged into her hand, trying to suppress an impending retch.

“Shush!” Sera clutched Iggy’s forearm in panic. “I think I hear someone coming.”

“I got it.” Quin cautiously rose to peek out of the crack between the dumpster and the lid, where they had wedged a rolled up newspaper. “Nope. Only a couple of strippers on their way to earn a buck. They’re climbing the back stairs.”

“That’s another issue I have with this whole plan.” Sam spoke quietly, but still sounded indignant. “Are you sure the KGB will enter through the back? I mean how far can we trust Ruby? He was willing to rent his room to a bunch of thugs he thought were mobsters. What does that say about him?”

“Look, you don’t know Jack like I do. He just wants to feel like he’s part of the action. A big shot. You know, a player.” Sera swiped the perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve. “He’s got an ego, but he still knows everything that happens regarding his club. The KGB will return, and they’ll use the rear entrance.”

Sam guffawed. “Yeah, smart guy.”

“Well, obviously he didn’t know they were Russians, but how could he? I didn’t say he was a mind reader, or—”

“Button it,” Quin ordered. “Here comes a dark blue Buick. Could be our comrades now.”

5:20 PM – CST

Fifteen minutes later—sitting in the Carousel meeting room, Viktor Vladimirsky hung his head in shame. KGB section chief Leonid was chastising his underlings through the shortwave radio. Their recent failure had been inexcusable. They were screwed.

In polar contrast, Dmitriy Sokolov glared at the communication device with homicidal rage, as if by sheer force of will he could impact the man at the signal’s origin. No way would he assume culpability for the failed plan. Kon had been calling the shots then, but now he was dead. Dmitriy smiled. He was gratified to have gleaned this fact from overhearing the Americans on the way to Houston.

Dmitriy explained how Kon’s ineptitude had resulted in their capture, as well as the death of the cell leader himself. He had begun to outline each mistake, when Leonid caustically interrupted.

The commanding officer challenged him to explain how the Americans had bested his elite squad.

CHAPTER SIXTY

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1963

5:30 PM – CST

6:30 PM – EST

Aman in a crisp suit entered the vacant office at the Department of Justice where Dee, Jay, and Bick were loitering. Dee thrummed her fingers on the table.

“Clyde Tolson, associate director of the FBI.” He spoke in a nasally whine.

Dee jumped up. “What’s the meaning of this, making us wait for an hour and a half? You have a lot of nerve.”

“Listen, Miss.” He emphasized the title scornfully. “You are extremely fortunate I didn’t have you arrested for disturbing the peace after that stunt you pulled. And luckier still that the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation is going to meet with you at all, for reasons I can’t fathom. Evidently, you have piqued J. Edgar’s curiosity. Don’t waste his time. You have five minutes.” Tolson turned and flounced out of the room.

Momentarily flummoxed, it took them a second to realize that he meant for them to follow. The three troublemakers hoofed down the deserted corridor after Tolson.

On the way, Bick gave quiet instructions. He felt that he should take the lead with Hoover, given the culture of the early sixties in which an older man might engender more respect than a younger woman. Dee glowered; however, she resisted comment.

Upon arrival at the director’s cavernous office, Bick expected a polite greeting, but instead Hoover’s consummate indifference to their presence bowled him over. Unbelievable. The G-man was studying a sheaf of papers behind an immaculate desk so massive you could land a modern day Navy F-25 on the surface.

When Tolson ushered them to a conference table and told them to sit, Bick reluctantly acquiesced. The puny table had low wooden seats, like a separate kids’ section at Thanksgiving dinner. The FBI leader apparently intended to demonstrate the pecking order in the room. Bick caught the familiar whiff of lemon-scented furniture polish. This fellow was a clean freak.

As the clock on the wall advanced, Dee cleared her throat in an unveiled effort to expedite the proceedings. It didn’t work.

Finished with his documents, Hoover calmly filed them in folders. Then he raised his bug eyes. “What is so pressing that it caused you folks to create a scene?”

Dee perched on the edge of her seat and brazenly disregarded Bick’s advice. “Mr. Hoover, my name is Dee Doherty, and these are my colleagues, Bickford Haycock and Jay Harding. We need to speak with you about a serious matter of national security. We thought it was urgent enough to enlist Bobby Kennedy, but Jay said we probably couldn’t gain access to the White House, so, um . . .” she hesitated at his venomous glare “. . . we’re here.”

Bick clamped a hand over his eyes. Why wouldn’t she listen?

Sensing the hostile vibe, Jay intervened. “Well, what Dee is trying to say is that we came to you because you are a powerful man, a man with tremendous influence who fights to protect the citizens of these United States of America. We implore you, as the only person in the country who can prevent a catastrophe of mammoth proportions, to help. I mean, you wouldn’t believe the enormity of the impending doom. The repercussions will be beyond comprehension.”

Hoover’s mouth twisted.

“Thank you, Jay.” Bick cocked his head to one side, attempting to present himself as the sane, intelligent member of the group. “Mr. Hoover, you are no doubt busy, so we will get right to the point.”

“In that case”—Hoover tipped his chair back and propped his feet on the desk—“spit it out.”

“It’s the president.” Bick stood up to build suspense. “His life is in grave danger.”

“I’m certain you are mistaken, sir.” Hoover clasped his hands across his burgeoning gut. “Kennedy is the most well-protected man in the free world.”

“That may be true in theory.” Bick shook his head. “But in practice . . .”

Dee barreled forth. “The trespassers—”

“Hut!” Bick lifted his index finger to hush her.

“But they’re KG—”

“Hut!”

“Yes, I heard about your paranoid fascination with those two men. I assure you it is a wasted effort. Trust me, they are nobodies.”

Jay flung his arms out wide. “They’re not nobodies! They’re—”

“Hut!” Bick muted Jay. “Please forgive my associates. They are a bit overexcited about the evidence we have to share with you.”

“Evidence?”

“J. Edgar!” Tolson’s irritating voice interjected like a shrill cat. “We’re getting nowhere with this nonsense. Allow me to escort them to a holding cell.”

“Wait!” Bick bet all his chips at once. “You can hold us or arrest us or whatever you want. However, first we request one minute to show you what will transpire. Dee?”

She dug into her shoulder tote and plucked out her trump card—an eight-millimeter spool of film. She licked her lips and smiled. “Do you happen to have a movie projector?”

9:00 PM – CST

Mrs. Paine was at loose ends. Silence engulfed the residence at 2515 West Fifth Street in Irving. Both the Paine and Oswald children had been put to bed. Marina was puttering about, folding laundry. The visiting Lee Harvey Oswald had retired early, unusual for the night owl who tended to stay up late watching movies on television.

Despite the peaceful calm, Mrs. Paine could find no solace. She ambled through the kitchen to the door leading to the garage. Funny, the single bulb hanging from the ceiling was glowing. Lee must have left the light on. Mrs. Paine sighed.

With limited space in the cozy ranch home, the garage had become more of a storage room than a vehicle parking spot. She threaded her way past a table saw and drill press left behind by her estranged husband. Various boxes of her boarder’s possessions littered the concrete floor.

Mrs. Paine stepped over a rolled-up green and brown blanket on the floor, ostensibly belonging to the Oswalds. Sitting down in front of a squat freezer unit, she gathered up the chunks of wood she’d cut into cubes. She dipped a brush into a pot of shellac and began to paint, transforming them into alphabet blocks for Lynn and Christopher. She enjoyed crafting toys with her own hands for the benefit of her kids.

Mrs. Paine suppressed a shiver in the unheated garage. When the time travelers were finished with their task, they would be back to guard the house. An extra precaution, they said. She silently prayed the team would indeed be able to thwart the KGB again.

Tonight would be a crucial juncture in the quest to save Jackie K.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1963

9:30 PM – CST

10:30 PM – EST

“That went remarkably well.” At the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge in DC, Bick fumbled with a bulky, diamond-shaped keychain and unlocked the door. He ushered Dee and Jay into room 419, one of two standard accommodations they had booked for the night. He gave his voice a wry inflection. “Considering.”

Dee bounded in and tossed her carryall bag onto a chest of drawers, beaming. “I knew the Zapruder film would convince him we were telling the truth. And that we’re from the future. Did you see his expression when he realized he was witnessing an episode that hadn’t happened yet? His froggy eyes nearly popped out of his head.”

“Yeah, you know in hindsight, maybe we should have tried the same tactic on Officer Tippit and Mrs. Paine.” Jay settled onto the cheesy flowered coverlet on one of the stock twin beds found in twentieth century motels. “But it might have been difficult to get J.D. to come with us to see a film clip. After all, he was working. And Mrs. Paine would have kicked us out immediately if we had arrived with an eight-millimeter projector. That would have been beyond weird.” He traced the pattern of the mottled bedspread with an index finger. “In the end, I guess we’re lucky Hoover’s ego motivated him to meet with us. Further that he even listened to us after the way you insulted him.”

“What are you talking about?” Dee paused from drawing the curtains, which according to some unwritten rule matched the floral print on the beds. “I was polite!”

Bick snapped open his travel case. “As they say, sometimes you attract more bees with honey.”

“I can’t imagine how you get your sources to reveal their secrets.” Jay stretched out lengthwise and winced at the cheap detergent odor wafting from the pillows. “Didn’t they teach you, um, diplomacy in journalism school?”

Dee peered out the window. From their location at 2601 Virginia Avenue Northwest, the Washington Monument was down the street and sharply to the left, causing her to crane her neck. Her temper blazed. “I know what I’m doing. This entire scenario is beyond diplomacy. It’s life or death! We needed action and I got it.”

“Well, no problem anymore. Mission accomplished.” Bick spoke evenly, trying to placate Dee. “Hoover’s on our side. A man in power has unlimited resources.” He stared, unfocused, at his sixties shaving kit and then shook himself. A shower and shave would be most welcome.

“Darn right!” Dee’s anger evaporated, and she catapulted herself onto the second bed, bouncing its springs. “Jay, you told the others we’d be staying here, didn’t you?” She observed his emphatic nod. “Great! Then they’ll call us when they’re done. We’ve got our bases covered from both angles. I can’t wait to tell them we’ve enlisted J. Edgar Hoover to help.”

11:30 PM – CST

J.D. Tippit stood in front of a sturdy wooden door. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. He listened intently.

Without trepidation, J.D. opened the door and entered. The floor instantly gave way. In freefall, he desperately jerked both arms and both legs to gain traction.

He woke up flat on his back, panting. As he waited for his heart rate to return to normal, he looked to make sure his wife was still sleeping. Thank goodness.

That was a helluva dream. He closed his eyes, trying to reconstruct the sequence. The realization dawned that the knocking sound persisted. Apparently, he’d worked the sound into his dream. He squinted at the nightstand clock. 11:30 pm. Full mental acuity resumed in a flash.

J.D. had wanted to assist the time travelers as they dealt with the KGB, but he couldn’t abandon his police tour or family obligations. Maybe they had come with news. He donned clothes and hurried to the front door.

Flinging it wide, he was stunned to see the Irving housewife, Mrs. Paine.

“What’s going on? Why are you here?” The police officer stepped into the brisk November air and twisted from side to side, searching past her.

“I’m frantic with worry.” Mrs. Paine jogged her hands up and down. “You know how they’ve been taking turns guarding my house? Well, they promised they’d be back to check on me when they finished. As a precaution, you see. They never came back.”

“They were supposed to contact me, too.”

“I fear something terrible has happened.”

“I think y’all are right.” J.D. ran his fingers down his stubble. “I better find out what’s going on. You go home, and I’ll call you as soon as I learn something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. Paine switched on her maternal chastising tone. “I’m coming with you.”

11:45 PM – CST

At his Pepsi client’s reception in Dallas, Richard M. Nixon bent over the bar and splashed more whiskey into his half-full crystal tumbler. He held up the decanter in an offering gesture to the gentleman standing next to him. The man declined.

Nixon studied the teetotaler. They’d been introduced at the beginning of the party, but he couldn’t remember the name. Was he a Pepsi bigwig? Or a political backer?

Ignoring the scrutiny, the man congratulated the former vice president on his decision to bow out of public service. It was the correct move for a statesman who’d lost two major elections in a row. After all, since losing the presidency to Kennedy in ’60, Nixon hadn’t even won the governorship of his home state of California in ’62. He admired a politician who knew when to quit.

Nixon labored to process the information while shutting out the revelry of the other guests. The man smiled at him, but surely that was an insult. His mind fixated on the greater injustice. “Are you kidding me? I should have beat JFK! It was the narrowest margin in history, with a gap of barely a tenth of a percent. In fact, if they’d recounted the votes accurately after the court challenge, I would be president right now.” He stuck out his chin. “Show some respect.”

The partygoer gazed at him quizzically.

“And look what happened.” Nixon’s face flushed. “Kennedy is failing. His approval ratings continue to nosedive. Don’t you read the papers? The American people are not happy with their president.”

The man countered that the electorate didn’t matter. What mattered were the men with power. Like the supporters of the military industrial complex mingling among them. They had gambled on Nixon in ’60 and lost. Now, they stood behind JFK and banked on the profit that would result from his increase in military spending. He pointed to the troops amassing in Vietnam—sixteen thousand and climbing. With that in Kennedy’s favor, his second term would be assured.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Nixon wobbled closer. “JFK doesn’t stand a chance in ’64. At this very moment, he’s trying to drum up votes here in Texas, taking advantage of Johnson’s birthplace legacy. But he has no loyalty. Come January, he’ll drop LBJ from the ticket like a sack of manure. He’ll sign on someone with more clout in more states. However, the strategy will backfire. Mark my words; the citizens will see right through him.”

Endeavoring to focus on the man, Nixon paused for a reaction, but none was forthcoming. “He doesn’t deserve to be Commander in Chief. Think about it! What kind of a World War II Naval officer gets his PT Boat run over by a bumbering . . . I mean lumbering Japanese destroyer?” He shook his head at the insanity. “Lieutenant Kennedy’s boat sank in the Solomon Islands, and two servicemen died in the incident. He would have been court-martialed if not for his rich, bootlegging, politically influential father. He has no character.”

Nixon swirled his drink, dismayed when a dollop sloshed onto the floor. He glanced up, hoping his companion hadn’t noticed. The man grinned. So what? Plenty of whiskey remained and he was making an important point. “The world would be better off without John F. Kennedy.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

2:00 AM – CST

“That’s it. They’re definitely being held captive.” From a recessed entrance halfway down Commerce Street, J.D. watched the bouncer lock the front door of the Carousel. “Closing time. 2:00 am. Our proof is that their cars are parked outside. I’m betting the Russians imprisoned them in the meeting room.” He didn’t vocalize his worst suspicions—that the KGB had already executed the team.

Mrs. Paine got up from the stoop. She whisked her hands over the rear of her calf-length pants to swipe away the gravel and dirt. “Let’s go.” She took off.

J.D. hastened to catch up. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Well, there’s only one way in now, right?”

The cop huffed an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But let me go first, will ya?”

They wended their way to Field Street to access the dark alley behind the club. As soon as they arrived, the bold housewife burst into a sprint.

“Hey!”

She took a gazelle-like leap toward the fire escape, attempting to catch hold of the ladder. Falling short, she landed hard, stumbled, and almost crashed into the building.

J.D. ran over and steadied her. “Are you crazy?”

“No, I can do this.” Mrs. Paine was breathing heavily from exertion. “Why do you think I wore my pedal pushers?” She pointed at her tapered pants.

“Not on my watch. Step aside.” From a standing position beneath the ladder, the patrolman bent his legs and sprang up. Failing to grab hold, he tried again. And again.

“I think you should—”

“Quiet!” Although he cut her off, J.D. saw the wisdom in Mrs. Paine’s approach. He retreated and then raced forward, hoping momentum would improve his altitude. Triumph! He pulled the bar with him as he slammed down onto the pavement. The rusty pulleys squawked in protest.

He glanced around to ensure nobody had heard. Satisfied, he turned to his partner in crime. “Thank you for your assistance, ma’am, but this is far enough. It’s best if you stay put.”

She nodded with an uncharacteristic air of contriteness. “I understand what’s best, Officer.”

Tippit grunted his acknowledgment and began to deftly climb. Reaching the landing, he drew a pocketknife from his trousers and wedged it between the window and the jam. He twisted and turned the instrument to create enough of a gap to accommodate his thick fingers. A few seconds later, the frame suddenly slid open.

J.D. was scandalized to see a dainty hand pushing it up. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

“And I told you I knew what was best.” Mrs. Paine smiled wickedly.

“You’re just not equipped to take orders, are you? Come on.” J.D. hoisted himself over the sill into the men’s room and then guided her through. Ignoring the foul stench of stale urine, he crept to the door to assess the situation.

Before he had a chance to crack it open, Mrs. Paine barged in front. “Follow my lead.”

“Wait! They already murdered you once, remember?”

She charged through the door into the hallway and headed toward the main venue—away from the meeting room.

Cold terror flooded the lawman. Her action, although valiant, also qualified as foolhardy; she was going to get herself killed. He wielded his gun in a double-handed cop grip, preparing to defend her with his life.

Mrs. Paine’s voice boomed out in Russian.

J.D. heard a mad scramble as Dmitriy and Viktor exploded out of the meeting room and ran toward the unexpected diversion.

Holding his breath, J.D. waited until the last possible moment. As the two approached, with Dmitriy in the lead, J.D. gave the restroom door a mighty heave, knocking the beefy KGB into his counterpart. Viktor landed spread-eagle on the floor, while Dmitriy staggered from the impact.

The officer cocked his arm back and drove his fist into Dmitriy’s jaw, destroying the last of his equilibrium. Dmitriy hit the ground with a resounding thump.

Tippit aimed his weapon at the spies and ordered them to freeze. Then he relieved them of their pistols.

Shockingly, the fight was over in less than a minute, though J.D.’s body still vibrated from adrenaline. He looked up in amazement to see Mrs. Paine trip lightly around the prostrate Soviets to free the time travelers. That lady was one cool Quaker.

Fifteen minutes later, the KGB were securely bound and muzzled with the same ropes and gags they had used on the team. Iggy, Sera, Quin, and Sam congratulated their saviors on the daring rescue, while a surly Ruby threatened to kill the commies who had done this to him.

Mrs. Paine examined each of the former captives. She politely refrained from mentioning the putrid smell of garbage emanating from them. Everyone checked out except Iggy, who had a streak of dried blood in her blonde hair. She’d been injured during their capture, but the wound had congealed. She was okay.

The Americans collapsed into chairs to recap the evening’s adventures.

Sam explained how the Russians had outfoxed them. Hiding in the men’s room, the KGB had left a shortwave radio broadcasting a public frequency. When the voices lured the team and Ruby, the Russians had ambushed them.

Grateful that no one had gotten seriously hurt, J.D. relaxed. But he still had a burning question. “Mrs. Paine, what did you say in Russian?”

“I quoted Kennedy.” She chuckled. “I said, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.’”

NOVEMBER 22, 1963 DAYBREAK

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

NOVEMBER 22, 1963

7:15 AM – CST

At 2439 West Fifth Street in Irving, Buell Wesley Frazier was eating breakfast at the home of his sister, Mrs. Linnie Mae Randle, where he lived with her and her family. Wearing a blue and white striped, collared shirt, the clean-shaven nineteen-year-old talked to his little nieces as they watched them cartoons on TV. As he finished his coffee, his mother—who was staying with them for a spell—happened to glance up, and saw a man looking in the window.

“Who is that?”

“That is Lee.” Wesley saw Lee Harvey Oswald disappear in the direction of the carport. Oswald had spent the night at the Paine house half a block away. “I have to go.” He got up right quick to brush his teeth.

He had met Oswald a month ago at Texas School Books where they both worked. At that time, Wesley hadn’t lived in Dallas very long and wanted to make friends with everybody he could. Friendship was something you couldn’t buy with money, and you always needed friends, so he went up and introduced himself and said, “We are glad to have you.” They talked back and forth, and he come to find out Oswald’s wife was staying in Irving, and Oswald didn’t have a car. Wesley offered him a ride to work anytime he wanted. Oswald asked Wesley if he could ride home with him, say, like Friday afternoon on weekends, and come back on Monday morning. Wesley thought that would be just fine.

They had done that until last weekend, when Oswald didn’t come to Irving. Oswald said he was working on his driver’s license, and he was going to go take a driving test. Wesley assumed Oswald could drive a car, being as old as he was. Because most everybody in the state of Texas, by the time you were his age, if you couldn’t drive a car something was wrong with you. To be frank, Wesley figured Oswald had taken the test and passed. Most men did. They usually worked at it, studied good enough so they didn’t flunk out. Or there wasn’t any use going down there if you didn’t know the rules because you were not wasting any time but your own. Wesley had no way of knowing Oswald had lied.

Wesley picked up the sack lunch his sister had made for him and walked out to meet his coworker. Oswald was wearing a blue zippered jacket on top of a brown button-down shirt. As they got into Wesley’s 1954 Chevrolet, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed a two-foot-long parcel wrapped in brown paper splayed across the back seat. It probably measured six to eight inches wide. “What’s the package, Lee?”

“Curtain rods.”

“Oh yes, you told me you was going to bring some today.” Wesley remembered that was the main reason Oswald had gone to Irving yesterday afternoon instead of waiting until the weekend—to get the rods to hang curtains in his apartment.

Wesley gave him a once-over while he backed out of the carport. Oswald usually carried a sack lunch. “Where’s your lunch?”

“I’m going to buy lunch today.”

After a month of commuting together, Wesley had learned a lot about Oswald. He had seen a lot of guys who liked to talk and some who didn’t. Oswald was one of those types that just didn’t talk. He would say a few words, and then he would cut off. To be frank, Oswald never offered to pay for gas. He never did.

They rode the rest of the way to the warehouse in silence.

7:30 AM – CST

Dark blue, with bold white print stating Dallas Police on each side, squad car number 10 pulled out of the Oak Cliff substation on the 4200 block of West Illinois Street. Officer J.D. Tippit drove south toward his assigned district—number 78—five miles from downtown. He was working solo as per standard procedure. Rain drizzled across his windshield, but the informants from the future had assured the patrolman that the skies would clear.

J.D. yawned while giving thanks that his wife had slept through his late-night absence. Despite being tired, he felt there was ample reason for optimism. The time travelers currently held the KGB captive; the First Lady should be safe. Tippit would rather have been at the Carousel helping them guard the Russians, but he couldn’t in good conscience abandon his duties. Today it seemed more vital than ever to serve and protect the citizens.

Upstanding citizens like Mrs. Paine. Although she professed to being an advocate of peace, she wasn’t afraid to put herself in harm’s way. He shook his head in amazement at the bravery and conviction of the spunky housewife.

7:45 AM – CST

8:45 AM – EST

Dee simmered on the sumptuous leather sofa in the customized DC-3, trying to find an outlet for her frustration. The constant drone of the engines sawed across her nerves. “I can’t believe the arrogance of this guy making us wait again. He’s wielding his power like a knife in front of our throats.”

“Aren’t you being a bit dramatic, Dee?” Jay opened his mouth wide to pop his eardrums. “I reckon he’s in a meeting, is all.”

“But we have important information!”

“It can hold off a few minutes until we’ve reached cruising altitude.” Bick surreptitiously rolled his eyes. “Besides, we’ll be back in Dallas soon.”

Jay gazed around the cabin. “You know, it’s funny. I had no clue Washington bureaucrats traveled in such opulence. I mean, striped wallpaper in an aircraft? Recessed lighting? I bet this cost more to decorate than Air Force One. And it’s so roomy. Without these couches, this section of the plane could easily fit twenty people.”

As Jay was taking a deep breath to plow on, the door partitioning the two sections banged open. Clyde Tolson emerged, resembling a character from the ’30s in a double-breasted suit. “J. Edgar will see you now.”

Dee swung toward him, her red curls whipping over her shoulder. “So we’re finally being granted an audience with his director-ship?”

Tolson scowled at her as the three of them unbuckled their seatbelts and traipsed to the back. The rear of the plane was even more luxurious than the front. Lustrous wood paneling lined the flat sides of the fuselage and lush wall-to-wall carpeting covered the floor.

Hoover sat at a polished cherry conference table with both a US and an FBI flag framing him from behind. The room resembled his office, except it lacked the enormous desk. The corner housed a communications console with radio and telephone equipment.

Jay and Bick politely sat down.

Dee plopped into a chair across from Hoover. “It’s all over. Our friends called us this morning at the hotel. They’ve captured the KGB at a downtown club.”

“They what?” Hoover slammed his palms on the glassy surface. “How?”

“Apparently they had quite an adventure.” Jay leaned forward, oblivious to the metaphoric sparks flying. “The Russians caught them first, actually, with a surprise ambush. It’s a long story, but later on the tables turned and now the KGB are prisoners. You see, it all started when—”

“Will you shut up for one second? Are you telling me your friends decided to foolishly step forward to capture lethal foreign agents on their own?”

“Well, somebody had to.” Bick could hear his worn-out patience feeding into his tone. “We couldn’t have these assassins running amok around Texas.” He continued in a half-murmur, “After the Department of Justice failed to check their backgrounds and released them, that is.”

Hoover’s jaw muscles clenched. Then he deliberately relaxed his posture from head to toe and clasped his hands on the table. “Listen to me. I realize you folks have the best intentions. However, you have no idea who you are dealing with. This situation is way too dangerous for a bunch of zealous civilians. I’m asking you to let official channels take the lead. Our job is to get down there and put the proper measures in place.” The chief G-man’s eyes bored into his second-in-command, who nodded in response. “Clyde, please show them back to their seats.”

9:10 AM – CST

Mrs. Paine gripped the edge of the couch cushion beneath her knees as she watched live television coverage of JFK’s visit to Fort Worth. She listened to a reporter stall with trivia about previous presidential appearances, and then Jack Kennedy finally came to the podium of the Texas Hotel to deliver his breakfast speech to the Chamber of Commerce. He greeted his political colleagues and gave his opening statement. “Two years ago, I introduced myself in Paris by saying that I was the man who had accompanied Mrs. Kennedy to Paris. I am getting somewhat that same sensation as I travel around Texas. Nobody wonders what Lyndon and I wear.”

The spectators tittered in appreciation. Thank goodness the Commander in Chief appeared to be chipper and carefree, with a poised and well-groomed Jackie at his side. As he continued, Mrs. Paine checked her spiky, living room wall clock and realized she was running behind. She needed to ferry daughter Lynn to a dentist appointment. In hindsight, she would have preferred to reschedule, but now it was too late.

Mrs. Paine left the TV on as she prepared to depart. Although the English-language broadcast would be lost on Marina, she knew her boarder would enjoy the footage when she got out of bed.

11:10 AM – CST

Sera tossed the crunched-up pack of Lucky Strikes into the air with her left hand and served overhand with her right. The projectile lobbed over the bound and gagged KGB as it hurtled toward Quin. He set up for a spike, fumbled, and the facsimile volleyball bounced to the floor.

“Score!” Sera raised her fists in triumph.

“Dammit! Will you two cut that out?” Ruby voiced his annoyance; he was trying to listen to the news. “Enough is enough.” He had scrounged up an AM radio from his office to keep tabs on the president. According to the Associated Press, JFK had finished his second speech of the day in the parking lot of the Texas Hotel and was moments away from flying to Dallas. The trip would take twenty minutes.

“That’s a wrap.” Quin snapped an imaginary movie clapboard with his forearms. “We’re outta here.”

Iggy raised her brows. “I don’t think so. Someone has to stay and watch this scum.”

“Oh, come on!” Quin spread his arms in a beseeching manner. “We wanna see the prez. You know, be where the action is.”

“This is my club. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll make sure their commie hides don’t move.” Ruby patted the pistol in his pocket.

Sera leapt up. “Great! Let’s go.”

“No, no. We need somebody else.” Iggy pursed her lips. “We have to leave at least two people guarding them, just in case.”

“She’s prob’ly right. These jugheads pose a deadly threat to Jackie K.” Quin snatched a box of Carousel stick matches Dmitriy had left on the table. “We’ll draw straws. Short straw has to hang around.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll stay. Go on. Get out of here.” Sam waved them toward the door.

Iggy and Sera’s expressions lit up.

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.” Quin shook Sam’s hand.

“Wait.” Remembering her wound, Iggy ran her fingers through her blonde hair. “Sera, can you see the blood?”

“Um, yeah. Kind of conspicuous.”

“Does anyone have a hat?”

“Only Ruby. Except I don’t think a fedora suits you.” Sera grinned. “But I have an idea.” She dashed off to the ladies’ room and grabbed a scarf a dancer had left behind. She returned and showed it to Iggy. “Will this work?”

Iggy enthusiastically accepted the light blue, patterned scarf. “I’ll make a babushka, just like Mrs. Paine.” She folded the cloth into a triangle, placed it over her head, and tied it under her chin. “Yes, this will do nicely.” She picked up her brown overcoat and followed Sera and Quin to the exit.

After they’d left, Sam sat next to Ruby and pulled out his antique revolver. He hefted it from one palm to the other, studying the pitted barrel. Imagine. Igniting combustible nitrates to project a metal slug. What a primitive technology.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

11:30 AM – CST

Richard M. Nixon shifted his weight from side to side as he stood on the tarmac at the east end of Love Field in Dallas. Why did it take an eternity to board a plane? It’s not difficult; you walk up the stairs and sit down. And boy did he need to sit. His head pounded and his ears buzzed from the aftereffects of last night’s whiskey. At least they had served a top-shelf brand or he’d have felt very sick indeed.

The former vice president glimpsed the north end of the terminal where the press and public had converged, eagerly anticipating the arrival of that glory hound, Kennedy. He couldn’t understand it. They fawned over his ass, captivated by predictable rhetoric and sophomoric jokes.

Finally, the line in front of him began to inch forward. He was grateful to get the hell out of Dodge before the reporters even noticed his presence. That would have been a sticky situation.

Today especially, Nixon could live without the liberal media that had savagely undermined his political career. He mentally rolled back the clock to his successful midterm election run for the Senate in 1950. His opponent, Helen Gahagan Douglas, was a former actress turned House Representative known for her communist-leaning agenda. Nixon had capitalized on her reputation as a Left Wing sympathizer with the comic reference, “pink right down to her underwear.” Douglas had responded by bestowing him with the moniker, “Tricky Dick.” The pundits lapped it up. Years later, the unfortunate nickname kept dogging him, while Douglas herself had faded from the limelight.

Fast forward to the presidential debate against JFK in 1960. Although Nixon had outmaneuvered his rival by every measure of content and articulation, the news agencies had slaughtered his performance based solely on physical appearance. Of course he’d looked tired and pale after having campaigned vigorously. And being hospitalized for two weeks due to a pernicious knee infection. It was Washington, not Hollywood. Men should be judged on their character, not the amount of makeup they wore. In the end Nixon had clearly won the debate—ask anyone who’d listened on the radio. But the media declared Kennedy the victor.

Then, as he’d been painfully reminded at his Pepsi client’s reception, there was the recent fiasco of the California gubernatorial election. A reluctant contender, he’d been goaded by national Republican leaders to enter the race. As usual, the journalists blatantly favored the Democratic incumbent, Pat Brown. Angered by the liberal bias, Nixon had lashed out during his concession speech by uttering the off-the-cuff line, “You won’t have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore, because, gentlemen, this is my last press conference.” Naturally he didn’t mean a word of it. But maybe the citizens would take heed and start to question the spin of the nightly news.

He entered the cool air-conditioning of the commercial jetliner and handed his ticket to a pretty young stewardess. She called him by name and directed him to a first class seat. Now that was better. Nixon couldn’t wait to escape from the backward south and land in the civilization of Queens, New York. Mercifully, only a few hours remained until he would disembark at Idlewild Airport.

11:40 AM – CST

Bick strode alongside Dee as they followed Tolson down the taxiway around the south end of Love Field. As expected, the clouds had dispersed, letting the sun dry up the puddles. It would be a beautiful day.

As Bick and Dee hurried to keep pace, Tolson began to speak, but the incoming roar of a descending Boeing 707 drowned out his voice.

Bick stopped to rubberneck the aircraft. The side was emblazoned in capital letters: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. “He’s here. Kennedy is landing.”

“Ooh!” Dee clapped her hands together. “Let’s go look. I want to take pictures of Jack and Jackie.”

Tolson whirled around to face them. “Are you off your nut? We have work to do.” He studied Dee. “Would you rather shoot them with your camera, or see about the guys who will to shoot them with a gun?”

Dee didn’t allow herself to be lured in by the taunt.

Tolson straightened the lapels of his tailored suit. “As I was saying, we can’t let any civilians know about the KGB plot.” To illustrate, he pointed at the mob in the distance clustering to greet Air Force One. “We have to keep a tight leash on this intelligence or we could cause the very war you are trying to prevent. We have told only those who need to know.”

“Yeah, we get it.” Dee’s ego was still smoldering. “We’re not morons, you know. We did manage to time travel fifty years into the past. I think we’re capable of understanding simple concepts.”

“We’re good, Tolson.” Bick’s shoulders unclenched slightly. At least the officials had been apprised of the circumstances. FBI and Secret Service agents would be well-equipped to deal with Soviet assassins. As they rounded the corner, he relaxed even further when he observed the shining chrome of his ’58 Harley Davidson DuoGlide in the exact spot where he’d left it the day before.

Dee, however, scanned the parking lot and abruptly stopped walking. Other than the bike and parked vehicles, only one black sedan was visible—obviously an unmarked car. “Okay. Where the hell is everyone?”

The G-man headed toward the official-looking vehicle.

“Wait! Where is everyone who’s coming to the rescue? You know, the cavalry.”

Tolson didn’t break his stride.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

11:45 AM – CST

At the Texas School Book Depository, two pairs of employees rode the side-by-side freight elevators in the rear of the building near the northwest corner. The crew had been laying plywood to fix the floors in the six-decade-old warehouse and were now racing each other down from the sixth floor to the first.

Laughing, thirty-eight-year-old Charles Douglas Givens emerged from the east-side car first, making his team the champions. But as he patted his pocket, he discovered he’d left his smokes upstairs in his jacket. Sighing, he retraced his steps. After he’d retrieved his coat containing his cigarettes, he spotted Lee Harvey Oswald on the sixth floor. With clipboard in hand, the new employee walked toward him from the southeast corner of the building—the front side facing Elm Street. Oswald was a fellow who kept pretty much to himself. He never had too much to say.

Givens paused before entering the elevator. “Boy, are you going downstairs? It’s near lunchtime.”

Oswald appeared startled, as if he hadn’t been conscious of the clock. “No, sir. When you get downstairs, close the gate to the elevator.”

Givens nodded, realizing Oswald meant the elevator on the west side where you could pull both gates closed and it would come up by itself. “Okay.”

Givens got down to the first floor and grabbed his lunch. He thought no more of his coworker as he went outside to watch the president’s parade.

11:50 AM – CST

At the kitchen table of his home at 238 Glencairn Drive, J.D. Tippit finished the last morsel of his sandwich and fried potatoes, washing it down with a cold glass of milk. He and his wife had spent his brief midday break discussing JFK’s visit, but now the Dallas cop felt he ought to resume his tour. Cutting his time well short of the allotted hour, he explained that with the majority of police resources in the city center, he would be needed in the suburbs. J.D. openly expressed relief he had not been assigned to the motorcade. Secretly, however, he wished he could help protect the presidential party on this pivotal day in history.

As always, Marie understood his work ethic and sense of duty.

Having married his high-school sweetheart, J.D. knew her almost as well as he knew himself. His three jobs and long hours meant too much time apart, missing each other. But Marie hid her disappointment well. She never complained.

This weekend would be the first in a month that J.D. wouldn’t have to work. He promised himself he would make it up to her.

He kissed his wife good-bye and returned to squad car number 10, thinking how blessed he was to have married such a wonderful woman.

11:53 AM – CST

At the conference table in Hoover’s office with wings, Jay leaned in closer with both fists propping up his chin. He looked the director straight in the eyes. “So, basically, you have an attempt being made on the lives of one in three US presidents, counting from Lincoln until now. Of course the statistic only holds true if you include Kennedy and the attempt that was supposed to be made today.” Jay grinned with the knowledge that they were succeeding in the mission.

“And?” Hoover raised his eyebrows and held his palms up.

Jay mistook his impatience for attentiveness and continued. “Right. From the sixteenth president through the thirty-fifth, seven out of the twenty were shot at, and three of those men died: Lincoln, Garfield, and McKinley. Assassins also targeted both Roosevelts—Theodore and Franklin Delano—as well as Truman and Kennedy. However, those plots failed and the leaders survived.”

Hoover struck a patronizing tone. “I don’t think you’ll find my grasp of history lacking. What I’m interested in is the future.”

“What was I thinking? Naturally those events are in the past for you.” Jay whipped off his glasses and shook his head. “Sorry. As we move forward into modern times, that is, into my era, the one-in-three odds remain about the same. On a trio of additional occasions, the Commander in Chief will have a virtual bull’s-eye on his back. I say his because regrettably the position still seems to be held by men. Anyway, as you can see, presidential safety continues to be an issue. We need to put more stringent measures in place in the next few decades or suffer disastrous consequences.” He hooked his frames over his ears and blinked rapidly. “But let’s start at the beginning. In Kennedy’s second term . . .”

“You misunderstand me, son.” Hoover gripped Jay’s forearm in an effort to get him to refocus. “Politicians come and go. You must know that. I want to hear what happens with the Bureau. My Bureau.”

11:55 AM – CST

The door slammed shut behind Sam Morales as he strode down the back stairs of the Carousel Club. In his wake, a surprised Jack Ruby remained the sole watchman over the KGB. Sam didn’t hesitate. He needed to plant himself in a position of consequence. Ruby could handle the Russians for under an hour.

With satisfaction, Sam noted that Quin, Sera, and Iggy had taken the Chevy. He’d gambled on Quin’s love affair with the turquoise car—and won. Sam approached the Ford Coupe, a hulking tank sitting next to the putrid dumpster.

Sam crouched low behind the extended rear bumper. What was it called? Oh, yes. A Continental Kit. He reached behind the spare tire housing and trawled around until he found a cold metal object.

The panacea for peace. His Locklier H_2 2011.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

12:00 PM – CST

Jack Ruby sat in the Carousel meeting room with his .38 caliber Colt Cobra leveled at Viktor and Dmitriy of the KGB. He was inflamed by these commies who had the gall to come to his country in order to assassinate his president.

Now alone, Ruby was tempted to snuff out their pathetic lives. He slumped in his seat, suddenly aware of his sleep-deprived condition. Perhaps he shouldn’t act rashly. If only he could close his eyes for just a short while. He tipped back and propped both legs on the table. His eyelids fluttered.

At the unmistakable sound of the rear door banging shut again, the proprietor started. Must be Sam returning. Relieved, Ruby realized barely five minutes had passed since his co-captor had departed. Maybe they could take turns guarding the Russians.

He heard someone enter the room behind him. “Glad you’re here. I was about to nod off.” Ruby had just begun to turn his head when he felt the chair back shoved down underneath him. In an instant, he was flat on his back, legs in the air. The impact loosened his grip and the gun thunked to the floor. He stared at the inverted image of his assailant. “You! How the hell did you get in here?”

Lee Harvey Oswald casually picked up the weapon. “You left the back door open, Jack. You really should be more careful.”

Ruby struggled to his hands and knees. He reached out, expecting the return of his revolver. When it didn’t come, he glanced up, his face flushed in anger. To his astonishment, the reprobate was pointing the menacing snub-nosed revolver at his head. “How dare you point my gun at me in my club, you filth!”

“Shut up and don’t move.” Oswald kept the pistol trained on the burlesque owner while he rummaged around for a sharp object. He found a razor blade resting on a box of champagne.

Ruby goggled as Oswald slashed the ropes restraining Dmitriy’s wrists.

Dmitriy ripped off his own gag and hurled a few nasty expletives at Ruby. He freed his remaining bonds, and then released Viktor. Both KGB tied Ruby’s extremities to the chair, leg to leg, arm to arm, using the same ropes that had restrained them.

Ruby tried to protest, but Oswald threatened him with the firearm.

When they’d finished, Dmitriy snatched Ruby’s weapon from Oswald and opened the cylinder, letting the ammunition clatter onto the table. He scooped up the bullets and dropped them into his pocket.

Oswald smirked as he approached Ruby with a gag.

“You won’t get away with this,” Ruby snarled. “I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch!”

12:05 PM – CST

Sera paced across the Pergola steps in Dealey Plaza, surveying the onlookers meandering in the bright sunshine. The crowd expected the motorcade any second, but she knew JFK was running late and wouldn’t pass their location for twenty-five minutes.

The scene unfolded as it would have in Sera’s timeline. Unwitting chronicler Abraham Zapruder climbed onto the concrete abutment jutting out from the Pergola. Then he helped up his twenty-three-year-old receptionist, Marilyn Sitzman. In the history books, she steadied the dressmaker’s arm as the fifty-eight-year-old shot the most explosive film of the century. Then again, not anymore.

Sera contemplated the severe hardships Team Orbis had battled to land at this moment. Through bitter arguments and conflicting objectives, they had been thrust together and forced to form a solid alliance. What would happen when it was over? She’d never been this close to anyone, except her long-departed parents. In truth, the crew would risk their lives to defend one another, like a family. Would they remain so in the future? Sera gazed wistfully across the road at her mentor and friend.

Iggy had positioned herself in the infield of the common, where scant spectators waited and she had an unobstructed view of Elm Street. She tucked a few wayward strands of blonde hair underneath her babushka as she examined her neighbors. Immediately on her right an unidentified man and child loitered. To her left stood Mary Moorman, the Polaroid shutterbug, with her friend Jean Hill, in a bright red trench coat. The Moorman photos constituted key evidence in the Jackie K. assassination. They would become personal souvenirs in this revision.

Iggy wondered where Dee was. Probably trying to race here. Too bad, she would have enjoyed this event more than anyone. In the meantime, the team in the plaza would monitor the situation until the coast was clear. Iggy’s eyes traversed the incline along Elm Street toward Houston, where their pilot-turned-leading-man roamed the intersection with a determined grimace.

Quin had ambled up the hill to the intersection at Houston Street to patrol the denser multitude, several feet deep at the corner. The buzz of animated conversation hung in the air. Zilch for concern so far. But his shoulder blades remained clenched together in high alert.

In a matter of moments, the exciting journey would end and Quin would travel back to his own epoch. Would his Fly with Flynn flightseeing plane still be parked at Arcata airport in Eureka? He would need it to resume his life as a fugitive. Shoot. Hadn’t thought about that. Living under the radar was a lot less thrilling than it sounded. Mostly it involved not getting caught, not drawing attention. And not getting attached. He couldn’t live with himself if someone got nailed for fraternizing with an outlaw. He glanced toward the Pergola where Sera was standing sentry. Back to life as a loner.

12:10 PM – CST

Bickford Haycock spun his Harley to a screeching halt in the alleyway behind the Carousel Club. Funny. Only the Ford sat parked in back; perhaps the Chevy was out front. He popped the kickstand and checked his watch—T minus twenty. Dammit, what was keeping Tolson?

A minute later, the black sedan arrived with the Fed driving and Dee riding in the passenger seat. Without a word, they jumped out of the car and all three scurried up the back stairs to find the door unlocked, with nobody acting as lookout. They exchanged worried frowns.

As they entered the meeting room, their adrenaline response kicked into overload. The room’s solo occupant—Jack Ruby—was bound to a chair and gagged.

Bick adroitly liberated the wannabe gangster and asked him what had happened.

Incoherent with rage, Ruby ranted maniacally about how the others had left and Oswald had attacked him. Now the club owner was dead set on going after that pinko commie. With Tolson assisting, Bick and Dee pacified Ruby and convinced him they would take care of Oswald and the Russians. It was too dangerous for him to get involved. They told Ruby to go about his customary business. If possible, he should establish an alibi for the last hour.

Bick and Dee realized they had to move, fast.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

12:12 PM - CST

Bick and Dee pelted down the rear stairs of the Carousel, Tolson lagging behind by several yards.

The associate director finally reached the pavement, car keys cupped in his hand. “Climb aboard. I’ll drive.”

Bick spared a moment to covet his Harley, but he needed to be practical. Tolson was a G-man who could gain access through the police roadblocks set up for the motorcade. Bick squelched his gut intuition and threw himself into the front passenger seat of the sedan.

Dee jumped into the back, sliding to center, while Tolson slowly cranked the ignition. Come on, come on. He pulled out of the alley and made a left onto Field Street.

“Turn around, dammit!” Bick gripped the dashboard. “You’re going the wrong way.”

Tolson shrugged. “Can’t. Too much traffic.”

Bick furrowed his brow and nodded warily. However, after they’d crossed over Jackson, a perfectly legitimate avenue leading to their destination, he watched in alarm as Tolson made another left onto Wood. “Whoa, whoa, pal!”

Dee hoisted herself forward, hovering over the front seat. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Bick jabbed his thumb behind him. “Yeah, Dealey is in the opposite direction.”

“Calm down. We will arrive at our destination shortly.”

“That had better be destination Dealey.” Dee smacked Tolson in the head. “The First Lady’s life is at stake.”

He winced from the blow. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t have you running around chasing assassins. It’s too dangerous”—he squinted at Bick—“for ordinary citizens like yourselves.”

“Ordinary citizens? Ordinary?” The nasally tone of Tolson’s rebuttal was more than Bick could bear. “You wouldn’t even know the presidential party was in jeopardy without us. I’m a decorated Secret Service Agent. My experience alone would be invaluable to—” He cut himself short and anchored his shoulders back. “I refuse to defend myself to you. For the sake of humanity, turn around!”

“Please exercise some restraint and let the professionals do their job. In the meantime, I’m returning you to J. Edgar for your own protection.”

“Whose protection?” Bick knew a coward when he saw one. “We’re not afraid of confronting the KGB, are we?” His eyes blazed at Dee.

She resolutely shook her head.

In a lightning move, Bick wrenched the dash-mounted emergency brake, jamming the rear wheels. Screak! Rubber vaporized on the blacktop. Bick and Dee simultaneously flung open the doors and got out, the acrid stench wafting around them while Tolson sputtered.

“Take care of yourself, Tolson. I guess that’s what your best at, isn’t it?” Bick slammed the door, muffling his feeble protest.

As the pair began their mad rush back to the Carousel, Bick fingered his motorcycle keys. His first instinct had been correct. Figured.

They arrived at the bike two minutes later. He lobbed a helmet to Dee and swung his leg over the saddle. She clambered on, gripping his midsection.

Bick had spent a decade protecting the president to the exclusion of a personal life. Given another chance, he swore he wouldn’t make the same mistake. Ironic he would be sucked in again, fifty years in the past.

“Ready?” He throttled the engine, and they sped off.

12:23 PM – CST

On the infield of Dealey Plaza, Iggy continued her lookout. Nothing but regular spectators to the north, south, east, and west. From up the incline along Elm Street, Quin was making his way toward her. Evidently, that area was copacetic as well. As per the historical records, the temperature bordered on seventy degrees.

Iggy glanced at the Hertz Rent-a-Car billboard on top of the Texas School Book Depository. The digital clock displayed 12:23. Seven minutes until the motorcade. She skimmed the seven-story warehouse—the dominant structure in the park—scrutinizing the abundance of windows lining the front. Wait. Several people were lingering inside the tall windows on the fifth floor with virtually their entire silhouettes showing from the knee up. Who would be inside when the leader of the free world was about to pass by? After a moment, Iggy almost laughed out loud at her foolishness. Of course. They had a great vantage point to see the parade.

She noted peculiar movement on the far side of the sixth story. Only a head and torso were visible. Why? The frame of the farthest window on that floor opened, and a shiny object glinted in the sun. Could it be a pistol?

Flooded with dread, Iggy pushed her palm forward to stop Quin as he strolled closer. She had to communicate without drawing attention. Locking her elbow, she stiffened her arm at an angle, aiming at the offending window.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

12:24 PM – CST

Quin recognized Iggy’s panic and abruptly turned to follow her line of sight. There! The last window on the sixth floor. Something was amiss. No kidding—square-peg, round-hole stuff. Man, that Iggy had spy-caliber intuition. He broke into a sprint and weaved his way through the parade watchers toward the schoolbook warehouse.

He reached the building, jogged up the front steps, and entered. Around a bend, he spotted a staircase on the right. Excellent. He raced up half a flight and then the next one as it doubled back. A slew of curses voiced themselves in his brain; the stairs stopped short on the second story. He went through a doorway and traversed catty-corner across a wide secretarial pool dotted with typewriters on wooden desks.

Quin maintained a confident stride, acting as if he belonged. As he passed through a couple more doorways, he was fighting off feelings of impotence, until he came to a door in the northwest corner of the edifice and savagely ripped it open. Pay dirt. A hidden staircase along the back wall. He bounded up, two at a time.

Halfway to the third floor, the stairs turned ninety degrees to the left—clearly the corner of the building. At the top of the landing, he had to run around to catch the next flight directly above where he’d started. Who built these crazy stairs? M.C. Escher? He doggedly continued. Fourth story. Fifth. Sixth.

The expansive room encompassed the entire level and housed hundreds of boxes, presumably containing textbooks. Most of them boasted Rolling Readers in bold black font. The piled cartons towered seven feet tall along the walls and throughout the interior, constructing hallways that allowed one to navigate the maze.

Quin made a beeline down a dusty corridor toward the front windows.

12:26 PM – CST

Former Secret Service Agent Bickford Haycock skidded in a wide arc, landing the DuoGlide between two parked cars at the intersection of Jackson and Houston Streets. “This is as close as we’re gonna get on the bike.”

The pair hopped off the Harley and ran three blocks north along Houston, working against one-way traffic. Reaching the park’s oversized statue of George Dealey, they veered left and crossed Main Street into the infield of the plaza.

As they slowed to a fast trot down the sloping grass, Bick observed his companion canvassing the crowd. “Do you see the KGB?”

“No, but I’m having a hard time figuring it out.” Dee moaned in frustration. “Everyone isn’t where they’re supposed to be. And we only have four minutes left!”

“Keep cool. Remember the situation isn’t static like in pictures. People are in motion.”

“Right. You’re right. I’m used to them being stationary like an X on a map.” She sighed and then fixated on an individual. “Wait. That person definitely doesn’t belong. See? Next to the man and child? A woman in an overcoat with a scarf covering her hair. Could be anybody in disguise.”

They cautiously approached.

“Iggy! Thank goodness it’s you.” Dee embraced her. “We’ve just come from the Carousel. The KGB have escaped!”

“They what? How?”

“No time for that now. Any sign of them here?”

“I saw something in an open window on the sixth floor of that building.” Iggy lifted her eyes toward the Texas School Book Depository. “It could have been a chrome pistol. Quin’s checking it out.”

“Dammit!” Bick spat on the ground. “Oswald. He works there and he freed the KGB. They’re probably up there now. I’ve got to go and back up Quin.”

“What about the FBI?”

“They’ve got their heads up their asses. We’re on our own.”

“Well, Sera and I have this area covered.” Iggy indicated the Pergola and infield. “But where’s Sam?”

Bick raised his brows. “I thought he was with you.”

A quizzical expression crossed Iggy’s face.

“Never mind. Dee, go warn Sera and return to the bike. Under no circumstances are you to stay and watch Jackie and JFK.” Bick slashed his flat hand horizontally. “It’s too dangerous. Promise?”

Dee blinked in a half nod.

“Good. We’ll all meet back at the house when this is over. Go!” Bick dashed up the hill.

12:28 PM – CST

Dee hustled across the now traffic-less street and climbed the concrete Pergola steps. Sera was standing on the far left side near the roofed-in portion, several yards from Mr. Zapruder’s filming perch. Dee related the latest shocking developments to her friend. Sera stamped her foot, uttered a few expletives, and began a more diligent surveillance.

Her task complete, Dee returned to street level. She paused before the sidewalk, facing Elm. To her right a sizeable green highway sign instructed, Stemmons Freeway Keep Right. As if on cue, a well-dressed man with a black umbrella ambled in front of her. If memory served, his name was Louis Witt. The raingear signified an obscure political protest of one. Dee smiled at his absurdity. He was attempting to heckle the president about his father. As the US Ambassador to the United Kingdom in the 1930s, Joseph Kennedy Sr. had supported British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, who was appeasing Hitler as he propagated Nazi policies before the dawn of World War II. Witt planned to wave and open the umbrella to represent the PM’s trademark foul weather gear.

Dee contemplated Bick’s sincere warnings and concern over her safety. She loved him like a big brother, but—she gazed at the excited citizens chattering and waiting for the historic event—like hell she would leave. This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see Jackie K.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

12:29:00 PM – CST

12:29:00 PM – CST

The motorcade proceeded along Houston Street and began to navigate the sharp left onto Elm. A phalanx of motorcycles led the way, followed by the pilot car, four more motorcycles, and the lead car. Next came a 1961 Lincoln convertible—the presidential limousine—which slowed to a crawl as it made the turn. Two motorcycle cops on each side flanked the rear of the vehicle.

Dee watched as the procession of automobiles started to trundle past. She glanced anxiously across the road at the babushka-wearing Iggy, who was shielding her eyes from the sun while scanning the throng. Before Dee could fathom that the moment had arrived, a wave of cheering cascaded down from the corner. The open-top black limo overfilled with six occupants came into view, American and presidential flags billowing from the front quarter panels. Resplendent in a tailor-made, pink Chanel suit and matching pillbox hat, the First Lady sat next to her husband, holding a vibrant bouquet of red roses.

12:29:30 PM – CST

Getting swept up in the thrill, Dee bounced up and down on the balls of her feet while completely forgetting her trusty camera. She waved at the approaching Jackie K., who beamed and waved back, causing Dee to nearly swoon with excitement. Louis Witt initiated his individual rally, opening and shutting the black umbrella metaphor high above his head.

12:30:00 PM – CST

History imploded as Dee heard a loud report. Directly in front of her, the president raised both elbows laterally to shoulder height and brought his clenched fists to his throat in a guarded manner. Mrs. Kennedy turned to her husband, reached out, and leaned toward him in concern.

Seated forward of JFK, Texas Governor John Connally reacted, swiveling to his right with right arm clutching his trademark white cowboy hat on left knee. As another firecracker pop echoed, he slumped into the lap of his wife, Nellie. He cried out, “My God, they’re gonna kill us all!”

A third frightening bang resonated. Dee screamed in horror as she witnessed the back right portion of Kennedy’s head blow up, spattering the Lincoln with bloody tissue.

12:29:00 PM – CST

12:29:00 PM – CST

The motorcade proceeded along Houston Street and began to navigate the sharp left onto Elm. A phalanx of motorcycles led the way, followed by the pilot car, four more motorcycles, and the lead car. Next came a 1961 Lincoln convertible—the presidential limousine—which slowed to a crawl as it made the turn. Two motorcycle cops on each side flanked the rear of the vehicle.

Inside the Pergola, Sera heard a peculiar scraping noise over the swelling din of the crowd. Whipping her head toward the square, roof-topped section, she saw a booted foot and denim-clad leg peeking through the uppermost rectangle of the latticework concrete structure. What the hell? Of course. She’d fallen into the trap of not thinking to look up. The top of the colonnade would be a perfect spot for a hit man to hide. But he would not get away with it. She broke into a determined run.

12:29:30 PM – CST

Arriving behind the Pergola, Sera saw the culprit’s leg swinging up to gain purchase on the roof. She instantly assessed the ease with which an assassin could mount the superfluous Work Projects Administration’s legacy. Although the rectangular openings started high above, they were reachable. Several ledges made narrow footholds, the first measuring thirty inches from the base. Climbing rapidly, she reached the rim of the pale green copper roof and grabbed a boot dangling over the edge. Holding fast, Sera kicked away from the side, relying on gravity to make her body into a counterweight. The suspect slid off the sloped roof, thrashing his legs in an attempt to loosen her vise-like grip. As Sera desperately hung on, they passed the point of no return and tumbled to the ground.

12:30:00 PM – CST

As she lay flat on her back, Sera panicked; her lungs had deflated on impact. Her throat made a strangled wheeze as she tried to inhale. Just when she took a sudden rasping breath, a staccato burst pealed out. She rolled over. What was that?

The man Sera had pulled down lay to her left, groaning. She turned to him and recognized his features with a shock, as another explosion reverberated around the plaza. “You! You’re supposed to be dead!”

“You’re ruining everything, you crazy American!” KGB cell leader Kon clambered to his feet to the sound of another shrill blast.

12:29:00 PM – CST

12:29:00 PM – CST

The motorcade proceeded along Houston Street and began to navigate the sharp left onto Elm. A phalanx of motorcycles led the way, followed by the pilot car, four more motorcycles, and the lead car. Next came a 1961 Lincoln convertible—the presidential limousine—which slowed to a crawl as it made the turn. Two motorcycle cops on each side flanked the rear of the vehicle.

Sweating from foreboding rather than exertion, Bick zigzagged his way across the sixth story of the Texas School Book Depository and rounded a tower of boxes. Victor and Quin were battling in the sawdust on the freshly laid plywood. The KGB operative now straddled the astronaut, with his chrome pistol drawn in a threatening manner, but Quin forced the weapon away. Bick felt a surge of relief. At least the gun was no longer targeting the Commander in Chief through the window. He shook his head at his brief moment of schadenfreude and raced toward the melee.

12:29:30 PM – CST

Bick’s tenure in the Secret Service had taught him to react on autopilot. He bent his legs and leapt at Viktor, body slamming him off Quin. Liberated, Quin sat up abruptly, trying to figure out his good fortune. As Bick wrestled with Viktor, he observed Lee Harvey Oswald materialize from around the corner, carrying a long package wrapped in brown paper. In a flash, the slimy snake disappeared between a row of boxes and the open southeast window.

12:30:00 PM – CST

Boom, click, click. In a shooter’s stance, on one knee, with his bolt-action Mannlicher-Carcano rifle resting on a strategically placed stack of boxes, Oswald aimed out the southeast window and fired. The bullet sped toward the Lincoln convertible sixty yards away, sliced through JFK’s back and exited his neck, punching a hole in his necktie knot. The president was wounded seriously but not fatally.

Bick shouted, “Stop him! It’s that human zero Oswald!”

Boom, click, click. Oswald’s second shot narrowly missed his mark in the car on Elm Street, hitting John Connally instead as he turned in response to the first report. The slug entered the governor’s back, shattered his fifth rib and tore a ragged two-inch hole under his right nipple. At high velocity, the projectile continued carving a path straight through his right wrist until finally lodging in his left thigh.

In the warehouse, the gunfire seemed to surround them. Quin focused on the sound of shell casings clattering to the floor. He ran toward the source while Viktor shoved a box of Rolling Readers with his feet, tripping Quin and sending him flying. Bick persisted in trying to pin down Viktor.

Boom, click, click. Oswald discharged a third shot, which uncharacteristically for the former Marine marksman, entirely missed the intended vehicle. The bullet zoomed one hundred and fifty yards to hit a curb down Elm Street in front of the Triple Underpass. A chunk of concrete ricocheted up and scraped bystander James T. Tague on the right cheek.

12:29:00 PM – CST

12:29:00 PM – CST

The motorcade proceeded along Houston Street and began to navigate the sharp left onto Elm. A phalanx of motorcycles led the way, followed by the pilot car, four more motorcycles, and the lead car. Next came a 1961 Lincoln convertible—the presidential limousine—which slowed to a crawl as it made the turn. Two motorcycle cops on each side flanked the rear of the vehicle.

At the top of the Grassy Knoll sloping up from the street, Sam was crouching behind the corner of the stockade fence. Although all spectators’ eyes were riveted on the parade, he could not risk being seen, particularly by his fellow Team Orbis members. He tugged his Locklier H_2 2011 out of the waistband of his jeans and held it up to the gap between wooden slats at the corner. The hand holding the gleaming metal felt clammy with perspiration. Once again, Sam balanced the scale in his mind: the value of one man’s life versus millions. Rationally, the argument always favored the masses. And Kennedy was a monster. Or at least, that’s what he would become. Now, he was technically an innocent man. What did that say about the guy who would be pulling the trigger?

12:29:30 PM – CST

Sam lowered the weapon and hung his head. Iggy had him pegged all along. He was not a murderer. With his guard down, a hand from behind seized the butt of Sam’s gun and tried to wrench it from his fist. Sam struggled to maintain possession as he turned to face his attacker. KGB henchman Dmitriy punched him in the gut. Sam doubled over, bewildered as to how the spy had escaped their makeshift prison. Gasping for air, he was grateful to see a man in a double-breasted suit running to his aid. As the three men scuffled, Sam received a bash to his skull and collapsed, still trying to keep the Locklier away from the killer.

12:30:00 PM – CST

A deafening crack rang out in the park. Dazed from the blow to his head, Sam’s grasp weakened, and Dmitriy easily plucked the gun from his hand.

Another kaboom echoed through Dealey. Sam watched, powerless, as Dmitriy aimed the 2011 like a pro through the crook in the fence.

Sam fought to get up as Dmitriy fired and a thundering crash clanged out. Impossible. A Locklier 2011 was silent. What had happened? Sam shuddered to think he was culpable.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

12:30:08 PM – CST

12:30:08 PM – CST

Secret Service reflexes instinctively took over. Clinton J. Hill had leapt off the driver’s-side running board of the follow-up car and was already sprinting toward the presidential limousine. From the passenger side, John D. Ready also jumped, but quickly returned to his post when he determined he couldn’t cover sufficient ground to reach the preyed-upon convertible. From the rear seat, George W. Hickey Jr. snatched up his automatic rifle and cocked it, while the other agents in the entourage simultaneously drew their firearms. Too little, too late.

Stricken with shock, Dee monitored helplessly as Agent Hill grabbed the handhold jutting out from the trunk of the Commander-in-Chief’s Lincoln. He hoisted himself up, only to stumble off the footstep as the car lurched forward. He valiantly galloped a couple of strides and landed his feet squarely on the second attempt. The First Lady had inexplicably climbed onto the trunk, her white-gloved hand reaching for something. Hill seized her elbow and forced her into her seat. He assumed a spread-eagle posture across the top of the backseat as driver William Greer accelerated through the Triple Underpass.

The idyllic scene of moments before had morphed into pandemonium. Some spectators dropped to the ground in terror. Others screamed as they ran up the Grassy Knoll toward the parking lot to escape in their cars. Those remaining stood stupidly, watching the rest of the motorcade as it fled Dealey, not cognizant of the violence that had erupted. An involuntary sob emanated from Dee’s throat.

12:30:30 PM – CST

But there was no time. Dee pushed through her grief and assessed her surroundings. No immediate threats appeared; no KGB surfaced, as police swarmed the plaza. A motorcycle cop who had flanked the driver’s side of JFK’s vehicle parked across the street and ran over to search the area behind Dee. She recognized him instantly as Bobby Hargis, the officer who was supposed to shoot Viktor in the buttocks. On her right, a man huddled on the grass protecting a toddler. She spied Iggy across Elm, motionless as a statue. Without thinking, Dee plodded her feet forward, one after the other, over the sidewalk and off the curb. Barely a yard from her, the official party bus whizzed by, breaking her trance.

12:31:00 PM – CST

Standing in the gutter, Dee craned her neck, observing as a multitude of vehicles continued to rush past, following in the wake of Kennedy’s limo. When the street had cleared, she dashed across, planting herself firmly in front of Iggy. “This is an animated nightmare. My God, what have we done?” Her companion was staring, unfocused, arms hanging loosely, her fingers trembling.

“Iggy? Are you all right?” Dee felt panic burgeoning inside, threatening to take over. Their leader had never before been rendered inert during a crisis.

Iggy opened her mouth, but failed to speak. Dee grasped her shoulders and shook hard. “Iggy? Come on. We have to find the others and get out of here. The police are going to ask questions. We cannot be hauled in as eye witnesses.”

12:30:08 PM – CST

12:30:08 PM – CST

Secret Service reflexes instinctively took over. Clinton J. Hill had leapt off the driver’s-side running board of the follow-up car and was already sprinting toward the presidential limousine. From the passenger side, John D. Ready also jumped, but quickly returned to his post when he determined he couldn’t cover sufficient ground to reach the preyed-upon convertible. From the rear seat, George W. Hickey Jr. snatched up his automatic rifle and cocked it, while the other agents in the entourage simultaneously drew their firearms. Too little, too late.

Behind the Pergola, venom surged through Sera. “You have no idea what kind of hell you’ve unleashed, you son of a bitch!” From her supine position she squinted up at Kon through the dappled sunlight, watching him stand and tighten the grip on his pistol. What was he planning? Was he going to shoot? A twinge of fear punctured her bravado.

“You foolish amateurs shouldn’t have come.” Kon’s fury pulsated in each word. He shoved his gun into its holster and darted into the rail yard.

12:30:30 PM – CST

Sera swiftly got to her feet; she had to capture Kon. But how was he alive? She charged after him, contemplating the anomaly. They had all witnessed the DeSoto engulfed in flames. No one could have survived that inferno. This subterfuge expanded far beyond the assassination. Before she could formulate a theory, Sera, aghast, saw Kon hop into the driver’s seat of a beat-up green Rambler parked beside the Texas School Book Depository.

12:31:00 PM – CST

Dammit! No way to catch up on foot. Sera altered course toward the Union Terminal North Tower, the rail-switching building where they had left the Chevy. She dodged a man in a 1930s gangster suit who was fleeing through the lot.

Kon gave a mocking wave as he revved the Rambler’s engine and peeled out behind the warehouse in the direction of Houston Street.

Sera wrenched the Chevy door open and hurled herself inside. She jabbed the key into the starter and cranked it hard. That commie would pay for his insolence.

12:30:08 PM – CST

12:30:08 PM – CST

Secret Service reflexes instinctively took over. Clinton J. Hill had leapt off the driver’s-side running board of the follow-up car and was already sprinting toward the presidential limousine. From the passenger side, John D. Ready also jumped, but quickly returned to his post when he determined he couldn’t cover sufficient ground to reach the preyed-upon convertible. From the rear seat, George W. Hickey Jr. snatched up his automatic rifle and cocked it, while the other agents in the entourage simultaneously drew their firearms. Too little, too late.

From his landing zone on the sixth floor, Quin swore as he observed the spineless Oswald race away from his sniper’s perch, carrying a rifle. Bick was continuing his scuffle with Viktor when the KGB man gained the superior position and aimed his revolver. Facing the barrel, Bick clutched the gun’s cylinder, holding fast to prevent it from rotating enough to fire. Viktor simply released the weapon and rolled off a surprised Bick.

Viktor pelted after Oswald, who ditched his Mannlicher-Carcano behind some boxes and disappeared down the stairs. Bick followed on Quin’s heels as they gave chase, hell-bent on catching these mongrel bastards.

12:30:30 PM – CST

A couple of flights ahead of Viktor, Lee Harvey Oswald cantered down the L-shaped stairs, exited through the door to the second-story lunchroom, and headed toward the soda machine. A moment later, Dallas Motorcycle Patrolman Marrion L. Baker and Warehouse Manager Roy S. Truly bounded up the stairs to the same level. Baker noticed Oswald walking away and called him over. Poking his gun into Oswald’s abdomen, he turned and questioned Truly. “Do you know this man? Does he work here?” Truly licked his thin lips and responded in the affirmative. Oswald’s face remained impassive.

12:31:00 PM – CST

Bick and Quin tailed Viktor to the first floor, neither one realizing that Oswald had stopped on the second. The large overhead doors for the loading dock were open, and they exploded out onto the sunlit platform.

They arrived just in time to see Viktor sail off the dock into the path of a decrepit green Rambler. The driver screeched to a halt to avoid mowing him down. Stunned and shaken, Viktor circled to the passenger side and opened the door as the station wagon lunged ahead. He scarcely managed to get in before the driver zoomed away.

Bick and Quin gaped at each other, dumfounded. Was that Kon?

12:30:08 PM – CST

12:30:08 PM – CST

Secret Service reflexes instinctively took over. Clinton J. Hill had leapt off the driver’s-side running board of the follow-up car and was already sprinting toward the presidential limousine. From the passenger side, John D. Ready also jumped, but quickly returned to his post when he determined he couldn’t cover sufficient ground to reach the preyed-upon convertible. From the rear seat, George W. Hickey Jr. snatched up his automatic rifle and cocked it, while the other agents in the entourage simultaneously drew their firearms. Too little, too late.

His Samaritan helper gone, Sam roused himself out of his stupor to belatedly contend with Dmitriy. From behind, he kicked the assassin’s right elbow, compelling him to drop the Locklier 2011. Finished with his task, Dmitriy ignored the weapon and bolted away from the corner of the stockade fence.

Sam scrabbled in the dirt to retrieve his gun and took off in pursuit of his quarry.

12:30:30 PM – CST

Sam saw Dmitriy tearing toward the railroad tracks as a freight train clamored in from behind the Texas School Book Depository. His motive was clear. The Russian was trying to beat the locomotive and use it as a barrier. Sam put on an extra burst of speed; he could not permit him to go free. But he needn’t have worried. The KGB’s getaway plan failed as the train rumbled in front of him, making a wide arc on its way to the bridge over the Triple Underpass.

12:31:00 PM – CST

Dmitriy trotted alongside in the direction of the train’s motion, although its velocity surpassed his own. At the first open boxcar, he catapulted himself inside.

Sam continued to run at the same spot, even as his adversary outpaced him in the moving train. He targeted the next available car, which had a ladder on the side. Garnering his courage, Sam vaulted up, latching both hands onto a rung. Madre de Dios! His torso smashed against the train, legs swaying dangerously close to the wheels clacking beneath.

Sam looked down at the tracks rushing by and squeezed his eyes shut. Fearing for his life, he summoned all his strength to heave himself up until his feet reached the bottom rung. He felt a cold surge of adrenaline from head to toe as he white-knuckled the bar.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

12:32 PM – CST

Mrs. Robert A. Reid, a grandmother employed as a clerical supervisor for the Texas School Book Depository, arrived at her desk breathless. She had run inside to her second-floor workplace after watching the parade in the street near the front entrance. She had been very anxious to see the First Lady. When the car had come by, Mrs. Kennedy was dressed very attractive as she held her hat in the wind that was blowing a little bit.

But then, Mrs. Reid had heard three shots.

My goodness, she had been afraid those shots had come from the book building, because it seemed like they came just so directly over her head. She had run inside to get out of the line of shots in case they fired some more.

Now at her desk, Mrs. Reid looked up and saw Lee Harvey Oswald in shirtsleeves, calmly holding a full bottle of Coke in his right hand. Perhaps he didn’t know what had happened. “Oh, the president has been shot, but maybe they didn’t hit him!” Strange that one of the warehouse boys would be up in the office at that time.

Without breaking stride, Oswald mumbled something and walked straight to the stairway leading down to the front door.

My goodness. Mrs. Reid wrinkled her brow. She dismissed him and paid no more attention to her coworker.

12:33 PM – CST

Frequency tuned to panic mode, Quin had jerked forward after the disappearing Rambler to follow on foot, but Bick had reined him in.

Searching madly for a means of pursuit, Bick spotted the Holy Grail. “Look! It’s Sera. Let’s go.” He pointed to the unmistakable turquoise Chevy, approaching with an impatient driver blaring the horn. The conspicuous vehicle weaved through the traffic of pedestrians fleeing the killing zone.

As soon as the car came parallel to their position, Quin hurdled over the edge of the loading dock. His feet clocked the pavement while momentum propelled his body onward. He broke his fall by ramming his palms into the front quarter panel.

Alarmed, Sera stomped the brake, thinking she had clipped a bystander.

Quin pushed himself off and raced around to the driver’s side. He yelled over the car, “Come on, Bick!”

In the split second before Bick sprang off the platform, he noticed a man in a double-breasted suit scurrying past the Impala. From midair, he bellowed, “Tolson, you coward!” He landed with a thud, bending his legs to cushion the impact as he observed the G-man break into a run. “Get back here!” Bick sprinted after him while shouting instructions at Quin. “Go! Get those KGB bastards!”

Quin spared no thought on his friend’s bizarre behavior as he wrenched the car door open. “Shove over. I’m driving.”

“Not a chance.” Sera pumped the gas pedal and the Chevy pitched ahead, knocking Quin off balance.

He stumbled and recovered. It was like a reenactment of the scene with Kon moments ago. Was she going to leave him behind?

Sera promptly leaned into the steering wheel and pulled the seatback toward her. “In the back or you walk.”

With no other option, Quin dove in behind her, muttering expletives. Sera gunned the engine. Squealing tires, she made a hard left onto Houston Street, now trailing the Russians by two minutes. Keeping a vigilant watch for the Rambler, she drove as fast as she dared without calling attention to their chase.

Quin began monkeying his way over the seatback to sit in front. “Some mission, huh? I guess we really screwed the pooch on this one.”

12:35 PM – CST

Sam lay facedown, splayed out across the top of the boxcar in a narrow gangway running down the middle. He hadn’t realized walkways existed on top of trains. After all, who would be crazy enough to venture up here? He laughed at the absurdity of his thoughts.

The breeze felt cool against his skin as he rested from the exertion of climbing. But there was no time to waste. He raised himself to hands and knees and crawled toward Dmitriy’s train car. Reaching the edge, he gingerly crouched.

In order to continue, Sam had to make it to the next carriage. His gut told him the falsehood that it was harder to jump in the direction of the train’s motion. However, logic dictated that his body would sustain the speed of the locomotive. The gap measured four feet, but seemed as daunting as a wide canyon. He steeled his nerves and leapt, crashing to all fours again. Wonderful. Dmitriy had probably heard him over the clattering of the train.

Brilliant idea. Now what? He inched over to the side and peered down to weigh his alternatives. The sliding door was mounted on a railing, which could provide a handhold. He positioned his body along the rim, aligned with the tracks. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his legs over the side, simultaneously trying to swing them forward like a pendulum. But he wildly miscalculated and instead hung like a target. Inside, a surprised Dmitriy reached for his revolver.

Sam clutched the railing and rocked back and forth. He released and crashed onto the floor of the boxcar as a bullet screamed past his left ear. Coming to rest on his behind, Sam knew he had to act.

In one fluid movement, he yanked the Locklier out of his jeans and pulled the trigger. The frozen hydrogen projectile blew a deadly hole in Dmitriy’s chest.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

12:39 PM – CST

Several blocks from his burlesque club, Jack Ruby sat in John Newnam’s office in the second-floor advertising department of the Dallas Morning News. He had grudgingly decided to heed Bick and Dee’s advice to resume his ordinary business and not get involved. While chatting with a couple of employees to establish his whereabouts, he hinted that he’d been at the newspaper headquarters longer than he’d been there in reality.

The Carousel proprietor had scarcely finished drafting the copy for his regular weekend ad—ostensibly the purpose for his visit—when a worker charged past hollering that a sniper had struck JFK. Ruby felt the blood drain from his face. How could this happen? Confusion reigned as citizens called the paper seeking information, while nervous advertisers phoned to cancel or change ads.

Without speaking, Newnam got up and rushed toward a corner area where people were congregating around a small television set. Groaning, Ruby followed; his entire frame ached from being dumped on the floor by that scumbag, Oswald.

Ruby jolted with recognition as he saw his favorite daytime programming flickering across the TV. Apparently ignorant of the newsflash, the network was continuing its live broadcast of As the World Turns, a modern-day soap opera with doctors and lawyers featured as the protagonists. If today had been a run-of-the-mill Friday, Ruby could have spent it sprawled across the couch in his darkened Oak Cliff apartment, enjoying the shows with a hot-water bottle to nurse his pain. He perched on the edge of a nearby desk.

On the screen, character Bob Hughes informed his mother Nancy that he was inviting his ex-wife Lisa and son Tom to their home for Thanksgiving dinner. Ruby tilted forward in outrage. How could they continue this while all hell was breaking loose? The actress playing Nancy sat down with her father-in-law to discuss the potentially volatile reunion. Then the melodrama suddenly disappeared.

A CBS News Bulletin logo appeared on a grainy gray background to introduce an audio-only transmission. The instantly recognizable voice of veteran journalist Walter Cronkite emanated from the box. “Here is a bulletin from CBS News. In Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy’s motorcade in downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting. More details just arrived.” The anchorman paused. “These details about the same as previously. President Kennedy shot today just as his motorcade left downtown Dallas. Mrs. Kennedy jumped up and grabbed Mr. Kennedy. She called, ‘Oh no!’ The motorcade sped on. United Press says that the wounds for President Kennedy perhaps could be fatal. Repeating, a bulletin from CBS News, President Kennedy has been shot by a would-be assassin in Dallas, Texas. Stay tuned to CBS News for further details.”

Ruby almost fell off the desk as his numb body quivered in shock. His back contracted in a spasm. As the World Turns recommenced its episode, still in progress. The actors clearly had no clue about the tragedy unfolding in America.

Son of a bitch! Oblivious to the noise and turmoil, Ruby set his features in an unfocused stare.

They had killed his president. They would pay.

12:40 PM – CST

Elderly passenger Mrs. Mary Bledsoe was riding on a Dallas Transit Company Bus on Elm Street, traveling toward her residence in Oak Cliff. She had watched the parade from the corner of St. Paul and Main Streets, well east of Dealey Plaza. Unaware of the violence, she remained in high spirits, happy to have had the opportunity to witness JFK in person.

After the motorcoach lumbered across Field Street, a passerby beat on the door until the driver opened it. As the rude individual paid his fare, Mrs. Bledsoe realized he was familiar to her. Lee Harvey Oswald. Lord have mercy! She had rented him a room for a dollar a night, oh, about a month and a half ago. The boarding house at 621 North Marsalis Avenue doubled as her home. Well, if this wasn’t the big shot now. He still sported a bad attitude, even though he was a nobody. It hadn’t taken the landlady long to decide she didn’t like him and didn’t want him around. She had kicked his hide out of her house before the end of a week. She simply refused to rent to him a minute longer.

This afternoon, her former tenant seemed like a maniac, with his brown-collared shirt unbuttoned and hanging out of his trousers. He was dirty, and there was a hole in his right sleeve. She stole a sneaky glance at him and pursed her lips. He looked so bad in his face, and his face was so distorted. She averted her eyes as he went by her and plunked down halfway to the rear of the bus. Mrs. Bledsoe muttered to herself, “I don’t want to know I even seen him.”

The ride continued in jerky starts and stops as the traffic became snarled near Dealey Plaza. Mrs. Bledsoe overheard a passing motorist explain the delay to the transit driver through the open window. Lord have mercy! The president had been shot. People surrounding her began buzzing about the dreadful revelation.

Meanwhile, the bus approached Lamar Street. Oswald abruptly got up and exited, four minutes after his grand entrance. Mrs. B. sighed. That’s good riddance. She turned to her fellow commuters and joined in their excited babble.

12:46 PM – CST

Bick throttled the engine of the black and chrome Harley DuoGlide as he cruised along Stemmons Freeway tailing Tolson. He had almost lost him near Dealey Plaza when the G-man hopped into his dark sedan. Bick had recalibrated his strategy and raced back to the bike, his intuition telling him Tolson’s probable destination. His only lament was that Dee was nowhere to be found, despite his strident admonitions that she return to the motorcycle. His stomach twisted with worry, but he had little recourse at the moment. He grimly rode on, noticing with frustration that major congestion loomed ahead.

Dammit. Tolson gained ground as the officials granted his government auto preference over the myriad of vehicles swarming near Parkland Hospital. Bick reduced speed as he observed the scene with trepidation. Cops, ambulances, reporters, and spectators converged on the medical compound. Someone important in the entourage must have been hit. He hoped to God it wasn’t Jackie. Whoever it was, he couldn’t help them now.

Bick leaned out, swerved the bike, and began splitting lanes.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

12:48 PM – CST

Dallas City Transportation employee William Whaley dropped off a fare in front of the Greyhound Bus Terminal at Lamar and Jackson Streets, a quarter mile southeast of Dealey Plaza. He turned off the ignition of the 1961 Checker Cab. Feeling like having a butt, he got out, intending to buy a package of cigarettes. Then he spied a potential passenger walking toward him from the direction of Commerce. Perhaps the smokes could wait.

Squinting his small, inset eyes, the cabbie scrutinized the guy. Thirty-seven years of experience had taught him to look at a man and be able to tell whether he could be trusted or not. You had to be able to judge people. If a man asked you to wait while he entered a building, you had to know whether to agree, or to ask for a five-dollar bill as insurance. This particular individual wore faded blue khaki trousers with a brown button-down shirt. Disheveled, but maybe okay.

“May I have the cab?”

“Sure you can.” Whaley nodded warily. “Get in.” He observed the loner climb into the front seat—unusual, but allowable. He began to second-guess his decision. The guy looked like a wino who had been off his bottle for about two days. He must have slept in his clothes. Shoot. These winos, they get in and ride with you and don’t pay, and there isn’t nothing you can do about it. Sure, you can call the police, but the city gets the fine and you get nothing.

The taxi driver eased his stocky frame into the car. “Where to, buddy?”

The man stared straight ahead. “500 North Beckley.”

As Whaley started the vehicle, he furrowed his brow at the commotion. Sirens screamed, with police cruisers crisscrossing everywhere. Just a big uproar in that end of town. “What the hell. I wonder what the hell is the uproar?”

His customer never replied. Huh. Must be one of those people that don’t like to talk. Whaley refrained from speaking for the remainder of the journey, noticing that the din faded as they vacated the downtown area.

Six minutes later, they reached the 700 block of North Beckley Avenue near the corner of Neely Street. The passenger scanned the neighborhood. “This will do fine.”

Whaley immediately pulled over to the curb, where his rider paid him a one-dollar bill for a ninety-five-cent fare. Cheapskate.

Whaley sighed. At least he hadn’t been stiffed. After the man exited and crossed the road, he put the car in gear and moved on.

12:59 PM – CST

“Come on, let’s go. I’m driving.” Having overcome her initial shock, Iggy tried to get Dee to pick up the pace. She unlocked the door to the pink and black Ford, still parked in the alleyway behind the Carousel.

Dee shambled toward the car and slid into the front seat. She and Iggy had frantically searched Dealey Plaza for signs of Bick, Quin, and Sera, while circumventing the police. Their friends were nowhere to be found. With both the Chevy and Bick’s bike gone, they presumed that the team members were chasing the presidential killers. Sam was simply MIA. “What if Bick’s in danger?” Dee felt physical pain shooting through her body at the thought. “Or Quin and Sera, for that matter?”

“Everyone is going to be okay. You have to have faith.” Iggy drove out to Field Street.

Dee slumped. “What’s the point? I had faith in the mission, and look where that got us. We failed cataclysmically.”

Iggy stopped the car on the side of the road and turned to Dee. “Don’t go into a tailspin on me now. We must stay focused. The first order of business is to obtain information. We have to go home and see if anyone has returned. If J.D.’s not there, we have to locate him. Those assassins could still be at large.”

1:00 PM – CST

Mrs. Earlene Roberts adjusted the rabbit ears on the television set at 1026 North Beckley Avenue where she lived and worked as a housekeeper. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t shirk her duties. A diabetic, she needed her job so she could pay her doctor bills and buy medicine. She hadn’t always worked. Her husband had made her a good living, but he had passed. Her only regret was having married so young. To her sorrows, she had left school in the ninth grade to be wed.

However, today a friend had called to report the news that President Kennedy had been shot. Mrs. Roberts thought the woman was pulling her leg. Now, she was trying to clear up the TV reception to find out. She could hear them talking, but couldn’t get the picture to show.

At one o’clock pm, a boarder entered the residence walking unusually fast. Mrs. Roberts knew him as Mr. O.H. Lee, the name he had registered under five weeks previously. That’s when she’d rented the room to him for eight dollars a week. Although Mrs. Johnson owned the place, Mrs. Roberts kept track of the vacancies and collected rent.

Funny, Lee had never come home last night, which was unusual. He typically disappeared over the weekends, not on weeknights. She watched him making tracks pretty fast. “Oh, you are in a hurry.”

The tenant didn’t respond as he scurried into his room, right on the other side of the little wall from the housekeeper’s quarters. She wasn’t muchly surprised. The man wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t say nothing. Sometimes she would say, “Good afternoon,” and he would give her a dirty look.

Three minutes later, the renter emerged, zipping up a lightweight gray jacket over his brown-collared shirt. He never said a thing; not nothing. He strode out the door and crossed the street. Mrs. Roberts frowned at his rude behavior. It was to her sorrows she had ever rented to him in the first place. She returned her attention to fixing the TV, since they was broadcasting about President Kennedy. She was more interested in that.

1:11 PM – CST

J.D. Tippit was coasting along West Jefferson Boulevard, beyond his normal district, number 78. All downtown patrol squads had been ordered to report to the Book Depository at Elm and Houston, code three, meaning lights and sirens. Since the general Oak Cliff area would be drained of officers, the dispatcher had instructed Tippit to cover central Oak Cliff and remain at large for any emergencies.

Something had gone horribly wrong with the plan to protect the President and First Lady. J.D. moved through the motions of his beat, but felt as if he were surveying his actions from the outside. Had the KGB escaped? Would it have made a difference had he been there?

With questions flooding his mind, J.D. parked squad car number 10 in an angular space along the Boulevard near the corner of Bishop Avenue. He entered the Top Ten Records Shop. Nodding to owner Dub Stark and clerk Louis Cortinas, he asked if he could make a call. J.D. grabbed the receiver from the phone mounted on the sales counter, dialed seven digits, and waited while it rang. And rang. And rang. Frustrated, he hung up and jogged out of the store without uttering another word.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

1:12 PM – CST

Keys crashed to the porch floor as Iggy mishandled them in her haste to enter home base at 429 East Tenth Street. The phone had been ringing, but ceased before she could slot the key into the lock.

“Dammit!” Dee kicked the door. “That could have been a team member who needed us.”

Iggy finally managed to open the door.

“Or maybe it was J.D.” Dread balled up in Dee’s gut. “How are we going to explain this to him?”

1:13 PM – CST

Viktor gazed out the window of the Rambler and saw the same dilapidated barbecue joint whiz by as they fled past. He recognized its memorable plastic cow on the roof above a sign advertising Real Pit B-B-Q!

They were driving in circles.

Viktor whipped his head toward Kon. “Are you insane? We have to reach the rendezvous point before it’s too late.”

“In case you hadn’t been paying attention, the Americans are still on our tail.” Kon gestured behind them with a quick upward jerk of his chin. “It wouldn’t be wise to let them know where we are going. We have to shake them first.”

Viktor braced his hand on the roof as they careened around another corner. “Leonid is a man of stature. A significant man.” His voice was strained. “He won’t risk exposure by waiting around for a couple of worker drones like us.”

Kon knew the section chief couldn’t afford to leave any loose ends. “Trust me. He’ll wait.”

1:14 PM – CST

Officer Tippit motored east along Tenth Street, a largely residential neighborhood in Oak Cliff, burning for resolution to his questions. He had just reached the cross street of Patton Avenue when he noticed a man stalking ahead of him in the same direction on the right-hand sidewalk. The time-travelers’ residence stood a block down, on the near-left corner of Tenth and Denver. The guy was hurrying along, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. What was his purpose?

The on-duty cop rolled through the intersection and continued one hundred feet to pull up alongside. He ticked off the subject’s characteristics in his mind: male, slender build, light-colored jacket, Caucasian. As the man stopped to gawk back, J.D. peered at his face. Recognition dawned. Maybe this pathetic miscreant had some information.

J.D. engaged the parking gear and called out through the open vent window on the passenger side, “Come here, son. I want to have a word with you.”

Lee Harvey Oswald hesitated, and then approached squad car number 10.

1:15 PM – CST

Iggy and Dee returned to the front porch to wait for the reunion of the team. They had come to the conclusion that there was nothing else they could do at the moment.

Dee glanced to her right. A parked police cruiser faced them down the block near Patton Avenue. Could it be? The cop sat in the driver’s seat while a man leaned onto the passenger doorframe from the outside. They seemed to be having an amicable conversation through the open window. She watched in confusion as the patrolman got out and headed toward the front of the vehicle.

It was J.D.

“Look!” Dee pointed to alert Iggy.

The citizen straightened and moved away from the car. His self-satisfied smirk exposed his identity. Oswald.

Primal panic consumed Dee. “Granddad!” she shouted, hoarse with terror.

Startled, J.D. turned toward the sound of her voice as he came abreast of the driver’s-side front tire. His face registered shock, and then realization, followed by pride.

“No! He’s one of them!”

J.D. was distracted for a fraction of a second too long. He reached for his firearm, but Oswald had already drawn the revolver from his jacket pocket, giving the policeman scant time to defend himself.

Bang! Bang! Bang! In a cowardly act of heinous violence, the sociopath shot J.D. point-blank in the chest, shattering the placid calm of the sunlit neighborhood. The thirty-nine-year-old dedicated law enforcement professional clutched his abdomen and crumpled forward, falling to the pavement in a pool of spreading blood. His cap fell and skittered away, landing several feet from his prone body.

Dee howled in heart-wrenching anguish as Oswald stepped closer and fired once more into the slain officer’s head.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

1:16 PM - CST

Dee gasped. This is not happening. This is not happening. This cannot be happening. She stared down the street as Oswald turned his attention toward her and Iggy, pointing the gun in a menacing fashion. On the far corner of Tenth and Patton, a woman who had witnessed the savage murder began wailing and sobbing in hysterics.

“Oh, my God.” Iggy grabbed Dee’s arm. No time to think, no time to cry. She hauled her friend off the porch, dragged her over the lawn, and darted straight across Tenth Street. They ran for their lives south down Denver, the road parallel to Patton, attempting to put as much space as possible between themselves and the gunman. He would surely follow.

1:17 PM – CST

William Scoggins crouched low outside the driver’s-side door of his taxi in Oak Cliff, trying to hide. A cabbie for less than two years, the forty-nine-year-old had held many jobs since leaving school after the eighth grade. He called it kind of a mixed-up life after having been around quite a while in different places and things. None of it would prove as dangerous as today.

On lunch break, he had driven to Patton Avenue, where he belonged to a gentlemen’s domino-playing club. He’d had to go plumb up to the corner of Tenth before finding a parking spot, facing north, right close to where the stop sign had been knocked over in a wreck previously. As he passed by the domino parlor, one of the guys had hollered out that the president had been shot. At the time, he’d thought it was some kind of joke. But after entering the establishment, the club member told him the facts about it, and he watched the deal on the television. The deal about the president.

Returning to his taxi to eat lunch, Scoggins had seen the police car cruising east on Tenth, and the pedestrian with the light-colored jacket. He didn’t pay too much attention. After taking one or two bites of his sandwich and drinking a couple of swallows out of his Coke, he heard the shots—three or four, in that neighborhood. They was fast. He saw the murdered officer fall. Then the killer was coming around, so he decided to get out of sight. Any time that there was something going on, that was the one thing the cab driver wanted to do. Get away from the cab. Because the man was going to try to jump in the cab and ask to be taken somewhere, or even shoot the driver, too. Scoggins got out and started to cross the street, but realized he didn’t have enough time. So that’s how he ended up hunkered down next to the taxi.

In his whole life, this was the first time he ever seen anything like that happen, and he was pretty well excited and mixed up. Not knowing what to do or what not to do. He peeked through the car windows at the gunman, who cut across a yard on the corner and crashed through an opening in the shrubbery. The criminal held a pistol in his left hand with the barrel straight up, ejecting spent cartridges and reloading bullets with his right hand. He loped forward, kind of trotting closer, not seeming to be in too big of a hurry. Thankfully, he passed the taxi without incident.

Scoggins jumped back into the cab and radioed his dispatcher to report the violent crime.

1:18 PM – CST

When Iggy and Dee reached East Jefferson Boulevard, Iggy pelted toward the right. However, Dee hesitated. That direction led back toward Oswald.

Iggy stopped to breathlessly explain, “No. Logic dictates he followed us from Tenth and will come south down Denver, just like we did. He’ll expect us to veer left, away from the scene. We’ll outfox him by heading toward the business district. Besides, it will be more crowded, and there’s safety in numbers.”

Dee nodded uncertainly. They bolted right on Jefferson, charging west past a used-car lot.

1:19 PM – CST

At Dootch Motors, 501 East Jefferson Boulevard on the corner of Patton Avenue, used-car salesman Ted Callaway had been standing on the front porch of the office when he heard what sounded like a series of pistol shots. They seemed to have come from the back of the lot over toward Tenth Street. Running out to the sidewalk on Patton, the forty-year-old observed a man in a light gray windbreaker jacket cutting from the east side of Patton to the west. He was coming at a good steady trot, not real fast. He held a gun high in his right hand in a manner Callaway recognized from his years in the Marine Corps—a raised pistol position—with the muzzle pointed upward, and the arm bent at the elbow. The gunman’s face looked pale, deathly white, as he passed Callaway on the opposite sidewalk.

Perplexed, Callaway hollered, “Hey, man, what the hell is going on?”

About five-foot, ten-inches with dark hair, the guy slowed his pace and almost halted. He looked right at Callaway and said something unintelligible. Then he kind of shrugged his shoulders and kept on going.

Callaway turned to find his colleague behind him. “Keep an eye on that guy. Follow him. I am going to go down there and see what is going on.”

B.D. Searcy could sense the static electricity of danger prickling in the air. “Follow him? Hell, that man will kill you. He has a gun.”

The salesman shook his head. Why wouldn’t Searcy just follow that man? You could follow fifty yards behind him and keep a guy in sight. Chances are you wouldn’t get killed fifty yards away.

The simple sanity and common sense in Searcy’s attitude were lost on Callaway.

As the suspicious individual turned right on Jefferson, Callaway broke into a good, hard run in the other direction, toward the corner of Tenth and Patton.

1:20 PM – CST

Kachung! The turquoise Chevy Impala slammed into a pothole on Lemmon Avenue, bottoming out and bouncing Sera and Quin off the three-tone bench seat.

Sera white-knuckled the steering wheel as they sped back toward downtown again. This endless chase was shredding her nerves. Something had to give. She eased up on the gas pedal and let the green Rambler gain ground.

Quin leaned forward on the passenger side, using body English to will her to accelerate. “Step on it!”

Without warning, the KGB made a screeching right onto Wycliff Avenue, while Sera followed at a more moderate pace. When they rounded the corner, their quarry had disappeared. She continued in a straight line, apparently unperturbed.

Quin swiveled his head wildly at the cross streets on either side. He saw the Rambler’s ass zooming down Rawlins. “That’s them! Go! Turn right!”

Sera feigned deafness as she sailed past the intersection.

“You lost them! It is inconceivable you lost them after all this time. What the hell were you thinking?” Quin smacked the dashboard with his open palms. “I told you, you shoulda let me drive.”

“Will you shut up about who’s driving? I was thinking we can’t circle around Dallas until we run out of fuel. I know what I’m doing. And I’m pretty sure I know where they’re going.”

“Pretty sure? Pretty sure?”

“Don’t worry. I have a hunch.” Sera gave him a smug smile. “And my hunches usually turn out to be correct.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

1:22 PM – CST

Ted Callaway, the used-car salesman, arrived at Tenth and Patton a few minutes after the shooting, but chaos had overtaken the scene of the crime. Witnesses and curious bystanders milled about in confusion, speaking over each other to be heard.

Callaway had seen the officer lying motionless in the road, and realized he’d been shot in the head. Not knowing if anybody had reported it, he hustled over to the squad car and got on the police radio. He felt honor-bound to call them and let them know a policeman had been shot and he might be dead.

At that moment, William Scoggins ran over to the intersection from his cab as sirens wailed from an approaching ambulance. It had taken some doing to get through to his garage and tell them about the shooting. He’d had to holler three or four times to get his dispatcher’s attention before they went to talking to him. He sure didn’t have any way of knowing if the ambulance came as a result of his call.

Scoggins listened to Callaway—a person he had never met—shouting on the police radio that a patrolman had been shot, as a number of people come running over from everywhere. He saw Callaway pick up the officer’s service revolver resting partly underneath the body; the cop had apparently reached for it to defend himself before he fell. The stranger placed the gun on the hood of the blue and white cruiser and then helped carry the stretcher bearing the lifeless lawman to the waiting ambulance. The taxi driver came to a hasty conclusion. This guy must be a kind of police. Secret Service or something. He had to be connected with the Police Department in some way.

Finished assisting the emergency workers with the body, Callaway seethed with anger that an officer of the law had been mercilessly gunned down in his own neighborhood. He could not sit still while an assassin ran amok in Dallas. He retrieved the officer’s weapon and turned to the cabbie. “You saw the guy, didn’t you?”

A thrill of mixed-up excitement pulsed through Scoggins. “Yes.”

“If he is going up Jefferson, he can’t be very far. Let’s see if we can find him.”

The two strangers hopped into Scoggins’s nearby taxi and took off in a futile attempt to pursue the cop killer.

1:35 PM – CST

Inside Hardy’s Shoe Store at 213 West Jefferson Boulevard, twenty-two-year-old manager Johnny Calvin Brewer had been listening to a transistor radio when they broke in with the bulletin that the president had been shot. Horror struck, Johnny turned up the volume as the broadcasters kept reconstructing what had happened and what they had heard. They didn’t have all the facts, but kept repeating them mostly. One of the Secret Service men said the president had died, but the press admitted it was just a rumor. Then came the shocking news that a patrolman had also been shot in Oak Cliff, in the vicinity of the store. As if on cue, a police siren squealed along East Jefferson coming toward West Jefferson.

Agitated by the disturbing story, Johnny straightened his narrow tie and smoothed his dark blue suit lapels. From behind the counter, he peered out of the solid glass doors and saw a man step into the vestibule in front of the store. It was a recessed expanse of terrazzo extending fifteen feet between the sidewalk and the front door, surrounded on both sides by show windows filled with shoes. A little guy in comparison to Johnny’s six-foot, three-inch frame, the brown-haired suspect wore a brown sports shirt with a couple of buttons undone and the tail hanging out. He stood there staring with his back to the street as the sirens grew louder. He looked funny. His hair was sort of messed up, and he looked like he’d been running. He looked scared. What was he afraid of?

The man lurking in front of Hardy’s peeked over his shoulder back toward the street. He sure acted like he was hiding from the cops. Johnny didn’t like this; not one bit.

1:36 PM – CST

Iggy and Dee watched helplessly as a squad car abruptly made a U-turn at Zang Boulevard and sped away, lights flashing and sirens blaring. With no chance to flag it down, their hope of salvation dissipated like a wisp of vapor.

Contrary to Iggy’s logic, Oswald had not followed them along Denver. He had gone straight down Patton Avenue and chased them west along Jefferson in a deadly game of cat and mouse. He’d mysteriously disappeared when the Dallas PD vehicle had approached.

“We have to get off this street before Oswald resurfaces.” Iggy desperately scrutinized the businesses along the wide thoroughfare.

Dee turned around. They were standing in front of a retail establishment called Thomsen Furniture Mart. “In here!”

Iggy glanced through the plate glass windows covered in Sale! signs. She observed a showroom filled with cheap dinettes and early American sofas. “No, we’d be too exposed in there. Let’s go next door.” She bobbed her head upward.

Dee trained her eyes on what she thought would be another storefront. Curving out in a half-moon from the upper facade were large blue letters in three-dimensional, red and yellow blocky stars spelling TEXAS. An angled marquis jutted out below, with bold red letters forming three rows of words: Cry of Battle / Van Heflin / War is Hell. The Texas Theater was playing a double feature with actor Van Heflin starring in the first film.

They hurried to the freestanding ticket booth within the inset entrance of the movie house. Iggy shoved a couple of dollar bills through the slot to pay the ninety-cent admission price each. “Two tickets, please.”

The cashier rooted out change from the drawer with excruciating slowness. “Y’all know the picture already started?”

“Yes, it’s fine.” Iggy wanted to wrest the tickets from her hand. “Hurry up!”

The woman glared as she doled out the passes with a couple of dimes. “Uh huh.”

Iggy and Dee dashed through the right-hand pair of twin double doors, praying they would be safe from the madman.

1:38 PM – CST

About an hour before, Mrs. Paine had been preparing lunch when the announcement came over the television that the president had been shot. The revelation blasted her senses like a bolt of lightning. What had happened to the time travelers after their late-night encounter?

Thinking JFK might need spiritual help, Mrs. Paine had gotten out some candles and lit them. Also upset, her little girl lit another.

Marina Oswald noticed her actions. “Is that a way of praying?”

Mrs. Paine had nodded. “Yes, it is, just in my own way.”

Now, Mrs. Paine and Marina huddled together on the sofa, eyes transfixed on the CBS broadcast from New York.

Venerated reporter, Walter Cronkite, somberly chronicled the events. He sat at his desk in a white shirt and dark tie, but without his usual suit jacket. At 1:38 pm, an editor handed him a bulletin from the newsroom’s Teletype machine. Cronkite read, “From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official. President Kennedy died”—Cronkite removed his black horn-rimmed glasses, signifying his respect—“at one pm Central Standard Time”—he studied the wall clock for confirmation—“two o’clock Eastern Standard Time, some thirty-eight minutes ago.”

Mrs. Paine put her hand over her mouth. My God, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen. Marina tugged at her sleeve, begging her to translate. Ruth held her housemate’s hand tightly, but did not reply.

On TV, the anchor replaced his glasses and paused, seemingly overcome with grief. He forged on, “Vice President Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas, but we do not know to where he has proceeded. Presumably, he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the thirty-sixth president of the United States.”

Mrs. Paine cobbled together a sparse sentence in Russian, explaining what had happened.

Marina replied in her native tongue, “What a terrible thing this is for Mrs. Kennedy and for the two children. Now the two children will have to grow up without the father.”

Despondent over the twisted turn of events, Mrs. Paine began to cry. She spared a glimpse at her friend to commiserate. Marina didn’t seem to be any more upset than she would be upon hearing about any remarkable news item. Mrs. Paine felt a surge of anger as she studied her reaction.

Marina did not actually cry, but she appeared to be physically ill.

1:40 PM – CST

Seated in the Texas Theater, Dee trembled as a burning sensation stung at the corner of her eyes. The tears came suddenly, sliding down her cheeks, one after the other. Granddad was gone. She couldn’t bear to let the enormity sink in; it was all her fault. On the silver screen at the front, a battle raged in the war-themed attraction. Engrossed in her thoughts, she hardly noticed the brutal images.

Iggy sat next to her on high alert, blotting out the gunfire and explosions coming from the elaborate sound system. The theater’s vintage décor exuded the elegant charm of the 1930s, rather than the plastic kitsch of the 1960s. With its vibrant designs, decorative wood railings, and star and cloud painted ceilings, one could imagine the venue in its heyday, with Clark Gable seducing starlets on the celluloid.

Three main aisles separated four sections of seating, which were sparsely populated in the middle of the afternoon. They had chosen a spot about halfway down the center right section, facing the stage. The aisles inclined directly into a lobby that doubled as a concession area, with no walls acting as barriers. Weighty black velvet curtains blocked any light that would have intruded from the other side.

Slouched low, Iggy swiveled back and forth to keep a vigilant watch over the three entranceways, making certain they hadn’t been followed. Hiding in the movie house had been an inspired idea, although it gave her ample opportunity to reflect. Thinking of their escalating failures, waves of regret rippled across Iggy from head to toe. She could offer little comfort to Dee, who wept silently beside her.

As Iggy continued her surveillance, she spied a man standing at the top of the right aisle. For a brief second he was backlit. But as he sidled in, bright footage from the film illuminated his face. Oswald. God help us!

The murderer sauntered over to the third row from the rear and took an aisle seat ten rows directly behind them.

Iggy hooked Dee’s elbow and yanked her down to the floor, easing up the theater-style retractable seat bottoms so they wouldn’t audibly snap closed.

Dee swiped at her wet cheeks, mouthing her words in a faint whisper. “Did he see us?”

“I’m not sure.” Iggy shrugged.

Thunk! Both women froze as a seat bottom popped up from Oswald’s direction—the very sound they had judiciously avoided. Without another word, they crawled toward their left, traversing across a filthy surface tacky from spilled soda pop and gritty from stray popcorn kernels.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

1:43 PM – CST

Crouched low, Quin and Sera darted amongst the private aircraft at Love Field. When the limited cover ran out, they sprinted across the flat expanse to hide behind a cavernous maintenance hangar. Quin skidded to a stop and slammed his back against the outside wall.

Sera halted more gracefully and leaned her hands on her knees, panting. “Do you think they know we’re here?”

“Nah. The Ruskies figure they lost us, and they’re dead set on their great escape. Too bad they ain’t at that end of the airport.” He gestured toward the far side of the tarmac. Swarms of concerned citizens, reporters, and officials were loitering around Air Force One, waiting for the return of the presidential party, or what was left of it. “Dammit, but if it isn’t deserted down here.”

“At least nobody will notice us.” Sera considered the implications. She shook herself. “What are the subjects doing?”

Quin angled his head around the corner of the building. Kon and Viktor were hurrying forward with a purposeful gait, not bothering to conceal themselves. “Looks like they’re aiming for that painted-over Dakota.”

Sera crept up next to him to take a peek. “See? They’ve got to get out of town. I knew my hunch would pan out.” She gave him a dazzling smile.

Quin brightened. “Yes, one might even say it was . . .”

“Don’t!”

“Serendipity,” he finished with a grin.

Sera twisted up her heel and back-kicked him in the butt.

“Cut it out, will ya?” Quin’s playful laugh faded as he drew his Remington from the waistband of his jeans. “Come on. Let’s go get ‘em.”

“Who do you think you are? John Wayne? You want to swagger out there, guns ablazing?”

“We can’t give up now. We can’t let the bad guys go free!”

“I’m just saying if we waltz out there in the open, we’re nothing but target practice.”

“We’ll find a way. Never give up!” Quin planted his left leg out and pointed his revolver skyward in a hero pose. “Never surrender!”

1:44 PM – CST

On the Jefferson Avenue sidewalk, ticket seller Mrs. Julia Postal craned her neck west to see the squad car stopping up the street quite a ways. Something was about to bust. The police was racing back and forth. She turned around to find Johnny Brewer from the shoe store standing behind her.

“Mrs. Postal, did that man who was wearing a brown shirt buy a ticket from you?” Johnny politely asked the question, although he already knew the answer. He had followed the suspicious individual the sixty-yard distance from the shoe store, and would have seen the transaction.

“No, by golly, he didn’t!” Mrs. Postal remembered the man with a panicked look on his face who had come flying around the corner. He had scooted into the vestibule of the movie house with his shirttail kind of waving from the breeze. She turned toward the entrance, as if expecting to see the fellow. “He must have ducked in while I was facing the other way.”

“He hid down by Hardy’s, too.”

“Uh huh. Go in and see if you can see him. Isn’t too much people in there. Have Butch go with you and examine the exits and check real good. Check the lounges. I know he’s in there. Well, he just has to be.”

Johnny flung open the door and was hit with a blast of cool air and the stench of stale popcorn. He rushed inside to check with usher Warren Burroughs, known as Butch, who ran the concession stand in addition to tearing tickets.

Mrs. Postal stayed outside, wondering what it meant. She had worked in entertainment for most of her adult life, as a cashier and an office worker in connection with motion picture companies. This Sunday would mark eleven years at United Theaters, Inc. Previously, she’d even spent twelve years in California, employed by the famous ones: Paramount, Grauman’s, R.K.O., and the Wilshire. But she’d never seen the likes of a day like today, in her hometown.

A short time later, Johnny emerged to the sound of staccato machine-gun fire from the powerful movie speakers. He told Mrs. Postal they couldn’t locate the shifty man in the dark, but he couldn’t have escaped. He and Butch had checked the exit doors and found their rods snugly stuck in the floor. They both knew the rods could be reset only from the inside.

Mrs. Postal told Johnny the president had been assassinated. She commanded in a stern, maternal voice, “I don’t know if this is the man they want in there, but I summarize that he is running from them for some reason. I am going to call the police, and you and Butch go get on each of the exit doors and stay there.”

Impressed by her tone, Johnny complied.

The ticket lady picked up the phone receiver in her booth and squinted at an index card of emergency numbers. She quickly spun seven digits on the dial with the end of a pencil, and then twirled the cord around her finger while the phone rang. She hoped to be connected with the homicidal department.

“Yes, hello. My name is Julia Postal, and I am calling from the Texas Theater at 231 West Jefferson Boulevard. I know you men are very busy today, but I have a man in the theater who is running from you for some reason.”

She listened intently as the sergeant asked her why. “When the police drove by, he ducked into the theater.”

As the inquiry continued, she rolled her eyes. “No, he did not buy a ticket.” Why did everyone want to know that?

As he asked the next inane question, her impatience mounted. “Uh huh. I know he’s in there because he couldn’t have gotten by me. Call it women’s intuition or whatever you like, but that man is in there. I heard on the radio that the president has been assassinated. I don’t know if this has anything to do with that or not, but he is running from you for something.”

The officer asked if the man fit the description of the suspect.

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard any description.” She sighed as she sensed his irritation. This youngster better not start in with the profuse language on her. After all, Mrs. Postal was only trying to help. “Let me tell you what he looks like and you take it from there. He has on this brown sports shirt and I can’t tell you what design it is, and medium height, ruddy-looking to me.”

She listened as the lawman said they’d be right over. “Uh huh.” She hung up, nodding in satisfaction.

1:46 PM – CST

The instant Viktor began boarding the retractable stairs to the nondescript aircraft, Sera and Quin circled around to approach from the tail section. They reasoned no one could see out of the back of a plane. They agreed on this strategy, although regarding the plan to deal with the KGB, they remained at an impasse.

The argument continued in strained whispers as they advanced on the Soviets’ getaway vehicle. Kon ascended the stairs directly behind Viktor.

“Don’t be an idiot, Quin. It’s the best solution. We slash the tires. Swish!” Sera swooped her hand through the air like a knife. “Simple. Easy. Effective. The authorities can sort it out later.”

“No! We gotta nail these guys. If we storm the plane now, we get ‘em by surprise.”

Sera shook her head vehemently. “You have no idea who’s in there or how many reinforcements they have. If we try an ambush . . .”

Kaboom! A gunshot resonated inside the fuselage, silencing her in mid-sentence.

Experiencing the same epiphany, both Sera and Quin bolted for the stairs, climbing two at a time, with Sera in the lead.

She catapulted through the open hatch, soaring into Kon and tackling him to the floor. A gun discharged. The bullet whizzed over their prone bodies.

Kon glanced over his shoulder to face his attacker. Sera. “Not you again!”

Quin leapt over them and stopped in his tracks. “What the hell is going on here?”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

1:47 PM – CST

For the past hour, FBI Special Agent Robert M. Barrett had raced around Dallas, trying to keep ahead of the bedlam and bloodshed plaguing the heart of the city. From the shooter’s roost at the Book Depository, he’d been summoned to the killer’s crossroads at Tenth and Patton. Now he had to fight his way through the frenzy outside the Texas Theater before bursting through the open pair of blue double doors.

He felt his peripheral knowledge coming together in a resounding hunch. He was following in the wake of destruction left by a prime suspect—who was currently being surrounded.

Inside the lobby, the first person Barrett encountered was a short guy with a tall shotgun going into the doggone theater. Barely over five feet, the fellow appeared even more puny next to his towering 12-gauge. This scenario spelled disaster. “What are you doing in here?”

“I heard on the CB they got that hoodlum corralled in there like a pig in a pen. I’m gonna get me that bastard.”

Ordinarily, Barrett believed Texans teemed with southern hospitality. However, when the locals got riled up, praise be if they didn’t crawl out of the cracks with their weapons. And they weren’t shy about waving ‘em around. “Hold on there, cowpoke. FBI.” The agent flashed his badge. “Why don’t you stay right here and don’t let a single person out until I say so.”

“Yes, sir. You can count on me, sir.”

At least this yahoo wouldn’t be blasting anyone. As Barrett hustled past, he made a mental note to dismiss the vigilante later, or he’d probably stand guard all day.

1:48 PM – CST

Quin thought time had stopped. The standoff felt like an eternity, although it couldn’t have lasted more than a minute. The surrealistic tableau on the aircraft remained the same.

On the floor behind him, both Sera and Kon struggled as they sat up and gawked in astonishment. At Quin’s feet, Viktor lay dead, his blood spilling onto the opulent carpet from a hole in his chest.

Frozen in position before them, Bick was pointing his gun at a man instantly recognizable as the first director of the FBI. J. Edgar Hoover was aiming back at Bick in retaliation.

Adding to the bizarro factor, a dandy in a double-breasted suit was holding Jay in a headlock with a .45 caliber pressed against his temple.

Life or death stuff.

Quin delicately lowered his Remington.

1:49 PM – CST

Oswald had Iggy and Dee trapped. Each time they crawled across the grimy floor toward an aisle, he matched their movements from side to side ten rows behind them. Iggy grimaced. The exercise was akin to the futile game of chasing your kid brother around a table. Adding to their predicament, the old-time theater’s downward slope toward the screen pitched too steeply for them to stay hidden from view. A fire exit to the left of the stage almost promised salvation, but they didn’t dare make a run for it lest Oswald simply picked them off.

Suddenly, a bright flash of sunlight flooded the venue. Iggy peered over the seats in front. A young man in a navy blue suit had opened the fire exit—the very door they had considered using for an escape—and several uniformed police officers entered from the back alley.

They were saved.

Iggy nudged Dee and whispered as she maneuvered into the seat, “Pretend we’re ordinary patrons.”

They both sat upright, eight rows from the front, on the right side of the center right section facing the screen. Not a moment too soon. The house lights came up, rendering the ornate interior in stark relief.

1:50 PM – CST

A man in civilian clothes met Patrolman M.N. McDonald of the Dallas Police Department as he entered the Texas Theater from the back alley. The tall gentleman in the suit told McDonald that the suspicious man who had ducked in without paying was sitting downstairs in the orchestra seats. And he was alone. McDonald would later learn that the informant, Johnny Calvin Brewer, worked as a manager down the street at Hardy’s shoe store.

From the stage where the movie flickered behind him, Brewer pointed at an individual in the third row from the rear, second seat from the aisle.

In full uniform, McDonald strode up the aisle nearest the suspect, while three other officers veered around to the next aisle in order to prevent the guy from fleeing. McDonald passed two women sitting mute, with expressions of fear plain on their faces. He then detoured into a row behind a pair of men. He wanted to make sure he didn’t overlook anything or miss anybody. You had to weigh information of that sort to make sure you got the right person. He told them to stand. He frisked them, all the while glancing over his shoulder at the main target, who sat immobile with his hands in his lap, watching.

Satisfied these two men were not concealing any weapons, McDonald exited the row and continued at a normal gait. Upon reaching the designated row, he stopped abruptly and barked an order. “Get on your feet.”

Wearing a dark brown shirt and dark trousers, the man rose immediately, bringing up both hands to shoulder height. “Well, it’s all over now.” His mouth twisted into an arrogant smirk.

McDonald instinctively reached forward to search the perpetrator’s waistband for weapons.

The man hauled back and punched the officer between the eyes with a cocked left fist. He simultaneously drew a Smith & Wesson .38 Special from his pants with his right hand.

The unexpected blow knocked McDonald’s cap clean off his balding head. He struck back with a swift right to the face while grabbing the offensive gun with his left hand. The lawman clutched the cylinder, holding fast to prevent it from rotating enough to fire. He felt the hammer snap against his left palm. Both men tumbled into the seats, grappling with each other.

McDonald jerked the butt of the pistol free. As he pulled it away, the firearm wrenched across his own cheek, gouging a four-inch gash in the skin.

“I got him!” As soon as McDonald hollered, he was swarmed by patrolmen, who helped subdue the suspect from all sides.

1:51 PM – CST

Quin stoically faced Hoover, flanked by Sera and Kon. Bick stood nearest the FBI director, while Jay remained secured in a headlock by the suited man, now known by all as Clyde Tolson. Hoover had ordered them to relinquish their weapons, or Jay would suffer the same fate as Viktor. The armed combatants had obeyed, knowing there was no choice but to comply.

Hoover targeted his pistol at Quin and Sera and made an assessment based on Jay’s intel. “I’m presuming you must be rebel astronaut Quin Dylan and redoubtable astrophysicist Sera Banks, our would-be heroes.”

Sera hissed, “Anti-Matter physicist, you has-been bureaucrat.”

Hoover ignored her as he aimed at Kon. “But you. You don’t look like any of the photos I’ve seen of the KGB cell. Who might you be?”

“I”—Kon spread his feet apart and crossed his wrists behind his back—“am Konstantin Davidovich, sent by the premier himself.” His spine straightened, as if from an involuntary manifestation of pride.

“Ah, the elusive Kon. I heard you were myortve.” Hoover sarcastically used the Russian word. “I mean dead. Pity it isn’t true.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, J. Edgar. But you have the advantage over me, I’m afraid. I expected to find Section Chief Leonid here, ready to whisk us away to freedom.”

“Yes, yes, your Leonid. A wellspring of information. He is unquestionably dead.”

“Now it finally makes sense.” Kon nodded. Frankly, he hadn’t thought the FBI had the balls. “Your audacity is impressive, Comrade Hoover.”

Quin brazenly stepped forward, spreading his arms wide. “What? What makes sense?”

“Don’t be thick, Quin.” Sera jabbed him with her elbow. “Hoover’s been posing as Leonid and calling the shots all along.”

“Excellent powers of deduction. Maybe you are a rocket scientist after all.” The FBI director guffawed.

While Hoover chuckled at his lame joke, Quin murmured out of the side of his mouth, “Keep up, babe, just trying to stall here.”

She scowled. How could you tell with Quin?

Tolson noticed the exchange and tightened his grip on Jay, who gave out a gurgling rasp.

Meanwhile, boiling anger was frothing up inside Bick, reaching his throat in a white-hot eruption. “You bastards! You promised to help us prevent the assassination.” As his emotions spewed forth, Bick checked himself. He had to remain detached. His mind started working furiously on a way to cause a diversion.

Hoover caressed the barrel of his gun. “I can’t help it if you jumped to your own conclusions. I said we would put the proper measures in place. And we did. Recognize that this is my time. My era. My decade, not yours. And my communications network has confirmed that I have succeeded.” Hoover arched his brows. “John F. Kennedy has uttered his last antimetabole.”

“Anti-mah-wha-boh-lee?” Quin slumped. “Jay, what the hell is he talking about?”

Sera held her breath, knowing Quin was putting on theatrics. However, they were all in the dark. Even Tolson eased up on Jay.

“It’s, um, an oratorical device where you repeat the same words or phrases in a juxtaposed manner that is seemingly contradictory to, as it were, emphasize a point.”

“Huh?” Quin dropped his guard.

“You know, like JFK’s most famous quotes.” Jay affected a phony New England accent. “‘Mankind must put an end to wah or wah will put an end to mankind.’ Or, ‘Let us never negotiate out of fee-ah, but let us never fee-ah to negotiate.’ And the legendary inaugural line, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you—’”

“Will you shut up, Thesaurus Rex?” Kon couldn’t believe they were discussing obscure English linguistic devices. “He means Kennedy’s dead.”

“Correct.” Hoover smiled in triumph. “And now I’m best friends with the president of the United States.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

1:52 PM – CST

In the Texas Theater, thirty-four-year-old Gerald L. Hill, a sergeant in the Dallas Police Department, deftly manacled the suspect’s wrists with a pair of handcuffs. His cohorts formed more or less a wedge around the cop-killer, with an officer in front, one on either side, and Detective Paul Bentley next to Sergeant Hill bringing up the rear. They began marching him up the aisle toward the exit.

Hill scoffed in disgust as the shackled man put on a big show.

“I want a lawyer. I know my rights!” He raised his head to display his injuries. “Typical police brutality!”

Hill saw Bentley clench down on his unlit cigar as he grimly followed the entourage. The tiny abrasion and bruised eye had been unequal recompense for assaulting Officer McDonald and drawing a weapon on him.

“I am not resisting arrest!” The suspect shouted impotently as the onlookers glared. He tried again in vain, “I am not resisting arrest!”

They left the theater in quite a bit of excitement, with Hill feeling fat as he huffed and puffed from the little scuffle. But he wouldn’t have missed this event for the world.

They burst out of the double doors into the bright sunshine, where a hostile crowd had gathered. He estimated two hundred citizens were split up on each side of the entrance, kept at bay by policemen who were covering the facade of the building. How had word spread?

The rubberneckers jeered, making threats and calling out epithets. “That’s him! Murderer! String him up! Hang him!”

Too bad they couldn’t let the folks light torches, grab pitchforks, and have done with it.

Quite a bit of confusion reigned, but they kept moving rapidly to get him into the squad car waiting on West Jefferson. When the suspect was asked his name and address, he didn’t answer. He just sat there.

Hill knew this was not unusual immediately after an arrest. Because when a man is apprehended, he is keyed up and probably thinks that the best thing he can do is keep his mouth shut.

However, the scrawny guy disproved his theory by whining, “I don’t know why you are treating me like this. The only thing I have done is carry a pistol in a movie.”

From the middle of the front seat, Sergeant Hill whipped around to deliver a scornful retort. As his eyes grazed across the movie house, he noticed a poster advertising War is Hell! The tagline gave him pause.

There are some things that only the people that do them understand.

1:53 PM – CST

During the protracted silence following Hoover’s explosive comment, he had stepped aside to take a call from a brick-like air phone attached to the wall.

After he calmly hung up, the man appeared more elated than before. Sera observed his conceited smile. “You bastard, son-of-a-bitch psychopath. How dare you inflict your egomaniacal version of history on the rest of humanity? You’re mentally unstable.”

“I assure you, I am perfectly sane. However, you might want to question your own sanity. After all, what makes your revision of the future more correct than mine?”

Sera closed her eyes and turned away at the obvious flaw in her logic. “We’re fighting for a peaceful existence!”

Hoover leered at the contradiction. “My path is preordained. I have cultivated my empire for forty years, working alongside six administrations through ten presidential terms. Politicians come and go, but I remain the most powerful man in Washington. When JFK conspired to dethrone me, he sealed his own fate.”

Hoover nodded at Jay. “Thanks to the insight into the future your team provided, I discovered the KGB were inept. I wouldn’t have expected them to miss their target. So, I put the proper measures in place. Now, the First Lady lives on, Kennedy is dead, and there will be no nuclear war. I even conjured up a disposable scapegoat. After I take care of the loose ends, no one will ever connect me to this distasteful business. J. Edgar Hoover always wins.”

Quin watched in revulsion. Rather than being unnerved by the threats, his attention span had waned. “What the hell is this? Is this supposed to be the bad-guy soliloquy where he justifies his actions in a long, boring speech before shooting us all dead?”

“You’ve got more brains than you let on.” Hoover used his free hand to motion to Tolson.

The associate director shoved Jay to the floor.

“Hey!” Quin complained.

Bick started forward, as if to assist Jay, then changed his mind. “Sera, why don’t you give Jay a hand?”

Sera stared at Bick. It was out of character for him to put two civilians at the forefront. Nevertheless, she bent down to help Jay.

“I thought we could discuss this situation like civilized people. But Hoover here seems to be delusional.” Bick gazed at the director. “He’s under the false impression he’s going to be a legend.” Bick deliberately turned to Quin, and spoke his next words with heavy emphasis. “He thinks he’s of the same caliber as Kiffin.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

1:54 PM – CST

Sera squelched the instinct to gasp as the name Kiffin echoed in her memory, flashing her back to Sam’s boathouse in 2013. She could see Quin’s hands demonstrating Bick’s aerial combat maneuver—the two leads drop while the wingmen rise. Her arm already around Jay’s shoulders, Sera pushed him back down. Jay fell to his knees with a grunt as she crouched beside him.

Bick and Quin both leapt high.

On cue, Hoover and Tolson were sucked into the Kiffin trap, not knowing what the hell was happening or where to aim their weapons.

Bick had launched himself at Hoover with a tackle that landed the FBI tsar on his butt. Bick tumbled off. Out of nowhere, Kon came sailing in like a missile, careening into Hoover as he sat up and pulled his trigger. The shot went wild, with the bullet punching a hole in the fuselage.

Quin had simultaneously hurdled over Sera and Jay, kicking his right leg out in a sideways kung fu maneuver. “Heee-waaah!” He added the obligatory high-pitched sound effects to his half-baked plot to knock the pistol out of Tolson’s hand.

Having never practiced the martial arts, Quin lost his center of gravity and plowed into Tolson with a right shin. They both thudded to the floor while the gun bounced away.

Kon wrestled Hoover’s firearm from the furious director and handed it to Bick.

Quin retrieved Tolson’s six-shooter and trained it back on him in a James Bond stance, clutching it with two straight arms. He proudly acted as if every move had gone according to plan.

With the FBI men secure, Sera got up from her stooped position and slipped behind Kon. She wrenched his right wrist up his spine as high as it could go.

“Wait! What are you doing? I am helping. I am on your side!”

Bick took several steps back and aimed. “Shut up!” He covered both a sullen Hoover and a flabbergasted Kon with the revolver.

2:10 PM – CST

Seated in the living room at home base on Tenth and Denver, Sam willed himself not to blink. But he could tell Iggy wasn’t buying it. She could not comprehend his reason for leaving Ruby alone with the KGB at the Carousel. Sam reiterated his stated purpose—he could effect more good by going to Dealey than by hanging around baby-sitting the Russians.

Iggy spoke evenly, without judgment. “So, Dmitriy is dead.”

“I had no choice. It was self-defense.” His expression implored her to believe him as he offered an edited version of events. Arriving at the plaza, he had been stunned when Dmitriy surfaced, skulking around the stockade fence. After chasing the KGB man onto a moving train, he had been forced to kill him, or be killed.

Sam plucked his damp shirt from his chest. Not only was the president history, but he’d seen the police activity outside. The bombshell news that Dee’s grandfather had also been slain blinded him with regret. Stricken with grief, she was recuperating upstairs. Sam couldn’t bear it if everyone knew the gruesome part he’d played in this Greek tragedy.

Iggy prompted him. “You chased Dmitriy through the parking lot behind the fence.”

“Yes.”

“Before that, did he get off any shots at the president?”

“No.” The lie came easily, in Sam’s denial.

“I see.” Iggy focused beyond him. “Dee and I both agree we heard shots coming from the direction of the schoolbook warehouse. However, watching the motorcade, it looked as if JFK’s head jerked back and to the left as it exploded. Like a sniper fired from somewhere in the front.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. Be serious. You’re a scientist. You know as well as I do you can’t tell how a body will react when hit by a projectile.” Sam felt grateful that the frozen hydrogen pellet would have evaporated, leaving no trace. “Besides, the acceleration of the vehicle could have thrown him back.” He realized his babbling rang out like excuses.

Iggy pressed her lips into a thin line.

Sam said no more, resolving to protect his secret until his dying day.

2:12 PM – CST

Quin, Sera, and Bick had restrained Hoover, Tolson, and Kon using electrical cord Jay pulled from the plane’s communications devices. Both G-men were gagged with their own narrow neckties, while Kon was muzzled with a spare tie they had found in a storage cabinet. Bick had respectfully covered Viktor’s body with a cloak.

The team left their captives in the rear command center and retreated to the front compartment.

Quin slammed the door between the two sections of the aircraft. “Now what?”

“We turn them in.” Sera lifted her chin. “It’s the right thing to do. We have to make them pay for destroying our future.”

Bick flopped onto one of the couches, sighed, and slowly summed up the suggestion. “So what you’re telling me is you want us to go to the authorities and explain that we are”—he lowered his voice—“from fifty years in the future. We came to 1963 on a mission to prevent the KGB from murdering Jackie K. We failed, they got JFK instead, and oh, by the way, J. Edgar Hoover masterminded the assassination.”

Quin leaned back and folded his arms. “Yeah, that’ll fly.”

“What are you saying?” Sera’s eyes roamed about the cabin. “We leave them here in charge of their federal kingdom? Let them get away with it?”

“That’s not half bad.” Quin pointed at Sera as she gaped. “You may be onto something. We leave them here for now, then we go back and, you know, fix the damage.”

“Maybe. We would probably wind up doing that anyway,” Jay mused. “So in the end, what’s the difference?”

“That could be our most sensible option. But we need to do it in a way that ensures the guilty face justice. Besides”—Bick glanced at Sera—“this needs to be a team decision.”

Sera squeezed her eyelids together, feeling the pain of her own lost childhood being magnified by the thousands that could potentially suffer the same fate. However, she nodded her head a fraction of an inch.

“Whatever we decide, we have to hurry.” Jay trotted over to a window. “Hoover ordered the pilot to leave us, but he’ll be back anytime now. We can’t have him finding us with this, um, incriminating evidence.”

“What about our KGB friend?” Quin cocked his thumb at the bulkhead. “If we leave him, boom! He’s a goner, just like poor Viktor.”

“In that case”—Bick shrugged—“I guess we have a new comrade.”

2:15 PM – CST

After returning to Dallas Police Headquarters from the theater, Sergeant Hill helped manhandle the suspect into the third-floor interrogation room of the Homicide and Robbery Bureau. Located at 106 South Harwood, the station house straddled the block between Main and Commerce Streets, one-half mile from Dealey Plaza. Already, reporters from various city news organizations were swarming the building.

He left an officer standing guard inside the windowed booth with the suspect. Meanwhile, the press clamored to see the murder weapon. Hill briefly displayed the pistol that had killed Officer Tippit. He then got involved in an earnest discussion with several detectives to determine who would make up the offense report and who would get all the technicalities out of the way.

The enormity of slaughtering a fellow lawman warranted the utmost reverence and attention to detail.

During their discussion, Captain J.W. Fritz returned from his investigation at the Texas School Book Depository. He hustled through the crowded corridor, removed his white cowboy hat, and peered at the detectives through his horn-rimmed spectacles. Fritz issued his command in a gravelly tone. “Go get a search warrant and go out to 2515 West Fifth Street in Irving. Pick up a man named Lee Oswald.”

Wait. Hill realized that name and address sounded familiar. They matched one of several identification cards found in the suspect’s billfold. As the coincidences weaved together into a thread of continuity, Hill dragged his gaze toward Fritz. “Why do you want this Oswald?”

“Well, he was employed down at the Book Depository, but he was not present for a roll call of employees.”

Hill raised his eyebrows. “Captain, we will save you a trip”—he pointed through the window at the suspected cop-killer and probable assassin—“because there he sits.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

2:16 PM – CST

Quin drove the turquoise Chevy out of Love Field, feeling deflated after the adrenaline rush.

Jay rode shotgun, while Kon sat jammed in the back between Bick and Sera. Bick had been obliged to leave his cherished Harley behind in order to guard their captive. He covered the prisoner with his revolver, although the culprit was bound and gagged.

Restraining him, however, didn’t satisfy Sera. “I wanna hear what this son of a bitch has to say for himself.” Shoving Kon forward, she worked at the knot in the necktie that muzzled him.

As soon as the gag came loose, he gyrated his jaw to dislodge it. “You misfits! I had everything under control until you came along. You kept interfering!”

“Too bad about it, pal.” Quin flicked his hand toward the backseat.

“Shut up! I’m conducting this interview.” Sera studied Kon’s face, noting his weary, bloodshot eyes. “Why aren’t you dead?”

“I faked it.”

“Thanks for the clarification, Captain Obvious. Your Desoto was a blazing inferno. How? Why?”

“Simple. I jumped out and threw in a grenade.”

Sera wound her hand forward. “And?”

“And I had to do something to get you people off my back”—Kon spat his words—“so I could try to prevent the assassination.”

The entire entourage burst out laughing, with Sera hooting the loudest. “Prevent it? Prevent it? Classic.” She wiped her eyes with a sleeve. “Cut the crap, Kon. We both know I caught you in the act. You would have shot the president yourself if I hadn’t pulled you down from the Pergola.”

“Look, I thought you had gotten rid of the other KGB. I reasoned you could achieve at least one goal, but you proved yourselves inept at every turn. I climbed on top of the Pergola for a good vantage point to keep tabs on the infield. When I saw Dmitriy materialize behind the fence, I was prepared to shoot the weapon from his grip. But you plucked me from my perch! You ruined everything.” Kon sighed plaintively. “Like I said, we are on the same side.”

Bick stared at him, admiring his audacity. “Same side?” He jabbed his pistol into the commie’s ribs. “The other night in Dealey Plaza, you fired at us!”

“No, I was targeting a boxcar on the train tracks to snap you out of your stupor. Viktor and Dmitriy were right on top of you. You would have been kidnapped and killed if I hadn’t had a plan.”

“Plan?” In the front seat, Jay tilted his head. “You act as if you knew we were coming.”

“I did.”

The Team Orbis members gaped at him.

“You Yankee heroes are so naive. That bipedal refuse Oswald sold you out. What did you expect?”

“Course. That bucket of slop was working with you.” Quin nodded. “I knew it wasn’t Bring Your Rifle to Work Day.”

“Rifle? What rifle?” Kon appeared bewildered. “Oswald isn’t a player. He is nothing. A tumbleweed.”

“Don’t go actin’ coy. You’re a ruthless traitor. You tried to nail us at Trinity, man! And gun down an innocent housewife.”

“No!” Exasperated, Kon dropped his perfect American accent. “I shot out mirror and back window. I am excellent shot.”

“You deliberately hit my car? You red bastard!” Quin twisted around to glare at him, momentarily swerving over the yellow line. “I had to save all our asses by blowing out your tire.”

“No. I blasted tire to let you escape. You are no marksman, my friend.”

Despite the tension, Bick chuckled.

“What’s so funny, Navy?” Quin’s pupils locked onto Bick’s in the rearview.

“If I remember correctly, you said you were aiming for his radiator.”

2:33 PM – CST

Kon sat in the living room at 429 East Tenth Street, observing as the incompetent troop debriefed each other on the missteps and blunders that had resulted in unintended death. The crew from Hoover’s plane outlined Kon’s assertions that he, too, had tried to protect the president. Nobody believed a word. Kon kept his mouth shut, realizing they would not be swayed. It took superhuman effort to remain mute while Sera bragged that she had saved his life. She boasted about tackling him on the aircraft and helping him dodge a bullet. Self-righteous shrew.

He’d watched them before, but now he catalogued each utterance, gesture, and expression. He needed an advantage. Information. A way out of here. Kon practically held his breath trying to get them to forget he was present. It worked. They spoke about him in the third person while showing a decided lack of respect for his talents. Feeling subjugated, he nonetheless bided his time waiting for a particular nugget of intel. They had it. They’d obviously used it. Where the hell was it?

After they were finished with their Canterbury tales, Iggy—their purported leader—stood. “Okay, to recap our colossal failure, four men are dead. Two innocent, two guilty.” She slumped. “We have to decide what we are going to do to salvage this situation.”

Jay perked up. “We have a technological advantage. I suggest we use it.”

Kon snapped his attention toward Jay. Now they were getting somewhere.

Catching the movement, Jay focused on the Russian. A single detail had nagged at his logic since the altercation at Love Field. “Kon, I mean, Comrade Davidovich, the facts don’t seem to add up. How did you . . . how could you possibly know to follow along when we ambushed Hoover?”

Kon’s interminable patience broke. “I know Kiffin maneuver! Every Soviet operative is trained on this tactic. We have defeated it in battle many times.”

Kiffin. The name vibrated in the air like a corporeal entity. The team riveted their gaze on the spy.

“Um, yeah. The thing is . . .” Jay pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “. . . is that Bick won’t deploy it for another twenty-five years. There is no way you could comprehend our intent.”

“The arrogance! You think you alone are omniscient. But I know everything. I know you and Iggy and Sera. I have known about your mission all along.”

“What are you trying to tell us? Your espionage skills go beyond normal sensory input?”

“No.” Kon closed his eyes. This could be his salvation or his termination. “I am also from 2013.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

2:35 PM – CST

Kon explained to his dumbfounded companions that he was a 2013 KGB operative assigned to spy on the Secaucus Research Installation. After Iggy and Sera had escaped, he’d taken advantage of the chaos to infiltrate the facility and appropriate their AM weapons research. Knowing it was a high-level project, he pilfered the detailed schematics from the computer belonging to Colonel Zimmerman, the forced intellectual labor camp commandant.

Iggy winced as he mentioned the warden’s name. That miserable chapter seemed a lifetime ago.

Kon related how the Soviet scientists had promptly deduced the staggering side effect of Anti-Time. The Russian military leaders experienced an identical epiphany to the team’s: an AM device could be used to change a pivotal moment in history. They unanimously chose November 22, 1963. Although the original failed attempt to assassinate Kennedy had not been ordered by the Kremlin, they hypothesized that the death of the US warmonger would benefit the wintry superpower. The premier handpicked Kon’s elite team and sent them back to 1963 to kill JFK, without implicating the KGB.

The secret agent paused, as if anticipating questions, but none were forthcoming from his speechless audience. “Sadly, the rest of my crew perished when we crash-landed in the Pacific. And they were good men. I knew their families.” He bowed his head. “I, myself, barely survived. Alone, I chose to end the violence and save both Kennedys. I vowed to stop the ’64 Nuke War before it started in order to guarantee a more peaceful future for my one and only son.”

A single tear slid down Iggy’s face.

“I journeyed to Mexico City, where I found the unwitting mission leader, Ivan Grekovich. I orchestrated events to have him arrested for counterfeiting, and I stepped into his shoes. Arriving in Dallas, I encountered your group at the Carousel and realized we had the same goals. I had a foolproof plan. Evidently, I underestimated your level of foolishness.” He gave a wry smile. “I approached you at the Paine house. But the Zeus 5 Commander here”—Kon squinted shrewdly at Quin—“who also faked his own death, shot at me. Typical Americans. Bunch of cowboys!”

2:38 PM – CST

Hoover’s faithful pilot had returned to the preposterous scene on the plane. A body lay in the entrance, and the director and his associate sat bound and gagged in the conference room. After freeing them and pledging undying secrecy, he was banished to the confines of the cockpit.

Hoover fumbled with his mangled tie, shaking with fury as he tried to coerce it into a dignified knot. Failing, he glared at Tolson and pointed at the offending article.

The underling leapt to his boss’s assistance. “What now, J. Edgar? We can’t let those hooligans run rampant.”

“Of course not, Clyde. But first, we must lay some groundwork. You’re forgetting the details, as usual. Hand me the air phone.”

Tolson passed the bulky device.

“Hoover here.” He sat down at his humongous desk, grateful his position allowed him an instantaneous connection. “Patch me through to Vice President Johnson immediately.” He tapped a pen as he listened to the static-filled line. “Whatever.” He glanced at his aide-de-camp. “I’m on hold. I have to wait because the new president is taking the oath of office on Air Force One. Not even sworn in, and Johnson’s ego is already inflating. I’m surprised we can’t see his swelled head at the other end of the tarmac.”

“What are you going to tell him, Chief?”

“The truth, as it will be known from this day forward. Dallas police caught the culprit responsible for all the shots. Just some lone nut named Lee Harvey Oswald.”

2:40 PM – CST

“Well, that is quite a tale.” In the living room, Iggy stared at Kon with new perspective. He had elaborated on his adventures and then taken staccato-fire questions. “We know firsthand how difficult it is to convince people you are from the future. There is no plausible explanation for your knowledge other than the truth. Therefore, we believe you.”

Kon triumphantly held up his bound hands.

Iggy nodded toward Bick, who pulled a jackknife from his pocket and freed Kon.

“So, now the eight of us”—Iggy’s gesture included Kon—“must decide on a course of action. Options?”

Eyes still swollen from crying, Dee jutted her chin out. “It’s obvious. You guys said we can time travel only in one-year intervals. We go back twelve months to rescue J.D. and JFK.”

Kon felt his shoulders relax. He knew they had a ship; thank God it was still viable.

“I think we all agree that we must fix our mistakes. I suggest we get moving.” Bick gazed at the front door, as if expecting it to burst open any minute. “Hoover’s tracking us now. Remember, he has the entire FBI at his disposal.”

“I concur.” Kon flexed his fingers to regain circulation.

Everyone murmured their agreement except Sam, who sat on the side, brooding. He hadn’t uttered a single word.

“But if we jump back to ’62, and begin again”—Quin scratched his noggin—“wouldn’t we end up bumping into ourselves? Doesn’t some science-y mumbo jumbo nix that?”

The question startled Jay. Of the many conundrums associated with time travel, meeting oneself would be a minor problem. They were experiencing a major problem: the grandfather paradox. Or at least Dee was. The conjecture was initially posited by science fiction writer René Barjavel in his 1943 novel, Le Voyageur Imprudent. He explored the possibility of voyaging back in time to kill your own grandfather, which by definition meant you would never have been born to travel back in the first place. Each outcome negated the other. In deference to Dee’s current predicament, Jay didn’t dare mention the speculation. He noticed that the room had gotten unnaturally quiet, and looked up to see everyone gawking at him. “What?”

“Come on, Jay.” Sera spread her arms. “You must have a theory.”

“Gimme a break! I don’t know. We’re in uncharted territory.” Jay desperately searched for a way to change the topic. “What I do know is this. If we go back one year, we’ll have to kill time until November rolls around again. With the Gadolinium-146 half-life of forty-eight days, we wouldn’t have enough to make any more time-jumps. We’d be stuck in the past.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

10:50 PM – CST

Team Orbis, plus one Soviet operative, had made their decision in democratic fashion—through a majority vote. The ensuing eight-hour drive seemed to last twice that long, with the turquoise Chevy Impala and the two-tone Ford Coupe caravanning the distance as fast as local speed limits allowed.

They finally arrived at North Padre Island off the coast of Corpus Christi, Texas.

Traversing the beach, Quin snapped his fingers. “Hold on a sec. I gotta go lock the car.” He turned toward the dunes where the vehicles were parked.

“Don’t be a putz, Quin.” Sera caught up with him and squeezed his forearm. “It doesn’t matter what happens to the Chevy. We have to go. Now.”

Bereft, Quin inhaled his last vision of the car’s beauty. “I hope your next owner takes good care of you.” He bowed his head and straightened out his hand as if giving a blessing. “Long may you run.” Raising his chin, he broke into the signature whine of Neil Young, lamenting the loss of his first car.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Sera steered him back.

Quin shuffled forward, singing over his shoulder about the car’s “chrome heart shining in the sun.”

The rest of the troop dug up the raft and gear from their secret hiding spot on the ranch. Sera and Quin helped carry the paraphernalia to the water’s edge, while Sam lagged at the rear, silent. Glistening in the dim glow of a quarter moon, the surface of the Gulf of Mexico rippled. Waves lapped up on shore with a quiet splash.

Bick, Kon, and Iggy inflated the rubber boat. Meanwhile, Jay stripped down to his boxer shorts and donned his wetsuit. He blew into the regulator of his scuba apparatus to clear out the sand.

Bick watched Jay getting ready and realized Dee wasn’t following suit. She was standing on the beach, brooding at the ocean’s muted horizon. Perhaps a gentle nudge. “How does your equipment look, Dee?”

She slowly spun and frowned at him, as if his presence surprised her.

“We want to shove off soon, so maybe you should get ready.”

“No”—she shook her head thoughtfully—“I don’t think so.”

The dreamlike quality of her tone rang alarm bells for Jay. “Dee, he’s right, we need to move.”

“Yeah. You do.” Her consciousness alighted at the present. “What I mean is, I’m not going with you.”

The remaining crewmembers jerked to attention.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re going.” Iggy returned to her work on the cumbersome raft. “We all are.”

Dee took a huge breath. “I’m sorry, Iggy. I’m not.”

Iggy flinched.

“Please understand this is an insanely difficult decision for me. We’ve been through so much together and all of you are like family to me. And it hurts to say good-bye. But the thought of going back to 2013, to a world where my mom was never born, and my dad may have married someone else . . . to a place where he won’t love me or recognize me . . . well, that pain cuts even deeper. I know in my heart I’m meant to stay.”

Bick glanced down, a lump in his throat. He knew Dee had been thrilled to reunite with her granddad, only to be devastated when he treated her like a stranger. Now he was gone.

Kon, the dispassionate observer, rolled his eyes. After this episode, didn’t the Americans comprehend how time travel could change history? “You are having an emotional response to a rational issue. Realize that your future is not inscribed permanently in ink. We will return to the past to erase your errors, so it will be as if these events never occurred.”

“My mind is made up. Emotional or rational, or whatever, my gut is telling me to stay. Besides, I’m not even supposed to exist in the new reality.”

Iggy approached as the others formed a semi-circle around Dee. “Don’t talk like that. There’s not a shred of empirical evidence.”

Dee impulsively embraced Iggy as she felt her eyes flood. Releasing her, Dee swiped under her lashes.

“Yeah, little Miss Reporter. This ain’t some fictional book or movie, where—poof—you’ll disappear in the new timeline.” Quin gave his familiar sideways grin. “Everything will be hunky-dory, as long as you’re with us.” He hugged her. “Aw, kid.”

“Come with us.” Sera placed a palm on Dee’s shoulder, bowled over by her blossoming affection for the feisty red-haired survivor.

Dee pulled her in for a brief, fierce clinch. Sera sniffed.

Next in line, Kon gripped her wrist in a manly handshake. Shrugging, he gave her a quick kiss on each cheek. “Good luck, comrade.”

Dee nodded at Sam. He didn’t say a word, but gazed back forlornly. Holding out two stiff elbows, Sam clamped her to his chest, patted her hair, and let go.

Jay studied his childhood companion, the compassionate girl who had befriended a lonely geek. “You know we need you.” He enfolded her in his arms with the sharp intake of a sob. “Without you, our team is incomplete.”

As they disengaged, tears streamed down Dee’s face.

“Please?” Bick clasped her small paw in both his big hands. “It’s the only way I can be sure you’re safe.” He crushed her in a bear hug.

Seconds ticked by; he could not let go.

She whispered in his ear, “Come back and find me. When everything is, you know, better.”

Bick straightened up so he could lock his eyes on her. “No, you belong with us.”

Dee tried to form her mouth into a brave smile. “I belong here now.”

11:30 PM – CST

Half an hour later, Jay was kicking his scuba fins hard as he tried to break free of the gloomy depths. Even with a waterproof flashlight, it was nearly impossible to determine at what point the water ended and the air began. He sorely missed Dee. These night dives remained a source of trauma to him.

Why did she have to stay behind? All that nonsense about belonging in 1963. He searched for sanity, for reason. Then the harsh truth descended like a weight threatening to plunge him farther down. He was entirely to blame. Dee wouldn’t be here at all if he hadn’t involved her in the first place. He would have to bear the burden of his regret.

With a start, Jay erupted through to the atmosphere. Good thing that was over. He had used sonar to find the Tempus Orbis before diving down to pump the brine from the ballast chambers. Now, he shivered from the cold. Although fewer than twenty yards deep, the intertidal shelf never saw sunshine. He scanned the Gulf and found the rest of the party waiting in the rubber dinghy.

Still shell-shocked from Dee’s defection, Quin rallied, trying to sound impatient. “Aren’t you forgetting something there, Jay?”

Gauging the approximate interval, Jay swished his lamp in a flourish to where he expected the ship to rise.

Nothing happened.

Assuming his estimate was off by a few seconds, Jay churned his fins and flourished again.

Still nothing.

Jay slumped in defeat. With a resounding splash, the mammoth sphere bobbed up, liquid running in rivulets down its convex hull.

“Ta dah!” Jay finished lamely. He grabbed a protruding handhold while Bick and Kon paddled closer.

Jay tied the raft to the Tempus with a tether. From the water, he illuminated the team as they climbed up to the hatch and dropped into the core of the chilly submersible. Nobody spoke. All of them were mourning Dee’s departure.

Finally, Jay heaved himself out of the ocean into the rubber craft and paused. A low rumble seemed to issue forth across the sea. He tilted his head from side to side to clear the water out of his ears. The noise abruptly ceased. Perhaps he had imagined it. Jay slipped off his mask and tanks, and tossed them into the boat as he prepared to board the ship.

Quin dangled out of the hatch of the Tempus and cut the tether to the raft.

Suddenly, a bright searchlight cast Jay’s shadow across the metallic hull. What the? He turned to find its origin and immediately brought his forearm up to protect his eyes. Before he could think of his next move, a deafening gunshot obliterated the tranquil night.

Hiss.

The inflatable was hit! Astounded, Jay loosened his grip and the lamp escaped from his fingers. He leapt onto the time-travel vessel, the raft listing beneath him. Quin grasped Jay’s arms to hoist him up as he scrambled over the smooth curvature. Before falling into the hatch, Jay turned, hoping to see his attacker, although he could lay odds on his identity. The spotlight rotated to shine on the cockpit of a twenty-foot speedboat. Oh, good God.

Dee stood prisoner on the deck with her hands held high, while Tolson aimed a weapon at her temple. Hoover gloated at his side.

11:40 PM – CST

Jay tumbled into the fluorescent interior of the Tempus Orbis. “They’ve got Dee! They’ve got Dee!” He landed on the floor with a thud.

Sam froze in horror and mute self-loathing. How many more would have to suffer?

Pandemonium ensued. Everyone shouted at once, wanting to know what had happened and who had Dee. Bick howled like an injured animal.

In answer to their questions, a voice boomed out, amplified by a megaphone. “Attention, time travelers. If you haven’t figured it out by now, I have your companion. I need you to surrender yourselves and that ship to me.”

“Hoover!” Bick uttered an odious expletive while rummaging around for his gun.

Jay stood up, dripping water. “Yeah, and Tolson’s got a pistol trained on Dee.”

“How did he find us?” Kon asked in an accusing tone. “Are you Americans so incompetent you told him the coordinates?”

“Don’t be absurd! There has to be a logical explanation.” Jay’s mind calculated. “I’ve got it. They must have tracked us down through vehicle registration and had our cars tailed since Dallas.”

“I knew those ludicrous hot rods were a bad idea.” Sera stalked over to a porthole—which hovered above sea level—and strained to see in the darkness.

The disembodied announcer spoke. “Come out now, or someone will get hurt.” Punctuating Hoover’s threat, a bullet clanged against the brass shell.

“I have to get out there and rescue Dee.” Bick’s heart wrenched in despair as he darted toward the ladder. “I can’t leave her at the mercy of that madman!”

Quin sidestepped into his path. “Whoa there, fella. You can’t burst out there willy-nilly.”

“No, Bick!” Iggy positioned herself to reinforce Quin’s barricade. “It’s too dangerous.”

“All of you, halt right there!” Sam reached into his coat and brandished his Locklier H_2 2011.

Everyone crouched low in terror, while a high-decibel shriek emanated from Jay’s throat. “What the hell are you doing, Sam?”

“I set an unspeakable chain of events in motion by transporting this technology from 2013 and bringing it to its ultimate destination, Dealey. All along, I had every intention of assassinating Kennedy.”

They gasped.

“Please tell me you didn’t kill the president!” Iggy clutched her chest, realizing this would explain the holes in his story.

“In the end, I didn’t. You were right about me. I’m not a murderer.” Sam hung his head. “But that bastard Dmitriy attacked me behind the stockade fence, snatched the Locklier, and blew away Kennedy. I’m as guilty as if I had pulled the trigger myself. I won’t have yet another death on my conscience.”

“Wait! We need a plan. If any of us leaves this ship”—Iggy lifted her palms in a beseeching manner—“we’re nothing but target practice.”

“Not all of us.” Sam set his jaw. “Just me.” He swept the weapon in an arc to keep the stunned team at bay, and clambered up the ladder.

11:50 PM – CST

Sam perched partway out of the hatch, raising his arms in surrender. When the searchlight blinded him, he flung the 2011 from his right hand, plunking it into the Gulf. He removed his shoes left-handed, climbed out, and slid into the tepid water.

Swimming the fifty-foot distance to Hoover’s speedboat, he kept surveillance on the G-men, trying to develop a strategy. Save Dee. Save Dee. Save Dee. A bolt of electricity went through him when he recognized her captor as the man in the double-breasted suit from Dealey. Tolson! He hadn’t been rendering aid at all, and in fact was probably responsible for bashing Sam in the skull.

Hoover pointed his firearm at Sam as he ordered Tolson to help him on board. The associate director put his gun down and started to haul up the new hostage.

With their focus diverted, Sam bellowed, “Go!”

Dee seized her opportunity and dove in.

Tolson unceremoniously dumped Sam onto the deck, as Hoover commanded, “Stop her!”

Both Feds fired into the waves folding into Dee’s wake.

11:55 PM – CST

“That’s it.” Inside the Tempus Orbis, Bick shoved Iggy and Quin aside. He vaulted up the ladder to the hatch, wielding his weapon. Dammit! He knew he should have been the one to rescue Dee.

Jay and Sera had observed Sam’s latent heroics and provided a play-by-play of the action. Now they joined the others who were yelling and screaming for Bick to abandon his suicide run.

Bick paid no heed. He popped out of the hatch, toting his revolver in a menacing posture. A barrage of bullets whizzed by his exposed torso. He kept trying to retaliate, but the volley of fire continued. After several unsuccessful attempts, he ducked inside, hunting wildly for any sort of protection. But every component of the ship was bolted or welded into place for Zero G. Time was betraying him. “Help me! I need a shield!”

From inside, the others had been monitoring the situation.

“Bick, man.” Quin’s voice croaked. “It’s no use.”

“What do you mean? We’ve got to try!”

Iggy reached up and gently tugged his ankle. “If she hasn’t surfaced by now, it’s too late. She’s . . . she’s gone.”

Bick opened his mouth to argue, to prove her wrong, but no speech came. The undeniable truth hit him between the eyes like a sledgehammer, and his stoicism faded away. His entire body shook with heaving, uncontrollable sobs.

Quin and Kon half carried him down while Iggy discreetly went up and closed the hatch.

11:59 PM – CST

On the speedboat, Hoover brought Sam to his knees with his hands clasped behind his head. Tolson pressed the megaphone to Sam’s lips while Hoover aimed his gun at the engineer. “Order them out of that ship now, or you’re a dead man.”

A blinding flash of light incapacitated Sam, Hoover, and Tolson as a thunderous boom reverberated across the ocean.

“Ship?” Sam blinked at the FBI director several times. “What ship?”

2013 AGAIN

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 2013

12:30 AM – CST

1:30 AM – EST

Iggy woke with a throbbing headache. These time-jump hangovers were for the birds. Floating against her restraints in Zero G, she scanned her companions. “Everyone okay?” General groans greeted her in response.

Bick rubbed his swollen eyes. Although he was groggy, his pain at losing Dee still sliced through him like a knife. “Hold on.” His gaze darted around the spherical submersible. “This isn’t our ship! Everything is brand new.”

“Yeah, the seats match each other. And why are we wearing these?” Sera’s pulse raced. Instead of the cobalt blue flightsuits they had donned, they now wore vivid orange ones.

Quin scrabbled at the buttons and switches on the pilot’s console. “Hey, what gives?” He bolted upright. “These flight controls. They look kinda NASA-ey.”

“I’ve got it!” Suddenly alert, Jay snapped his fingers. “Well, one possibility anyway. If we have indeed arrived in 2013, we have to remember our mission originated from a different future. Perhaps the government in this timeline sent us back to fix the past.”

Kon cocked his hand into a gun and pointed it at Iggy. “If that is so, they will not be happy with your stupendous failure.”

3:00 AM – EST

Ninety minutes later, Sera started heaving great, shuddering breaths. She was flabbergasted they hadn’t bought the farm. “What the hell was that, Quin?” After the ship had screamed through a burning atmospheric reentry, massive parachutes had yanked it upward. Retro-rockets had then buffeted the ship into position before they slammed into the ground.

Pilot Quin wiped sweat from his forehead. “No problemo. Any landing you can walk away from . . .”

Ashen, copilot Bick turned to him. “Is a good landing.”

As the overhead hatch began to creak open, the crew exchanged glances. In space, they had verified the year as 2013. Who or what lurked outside?

Kon, however, didn’t hesitate as he unbuckled himself. “Let’s go.” He clambered up the ladder and out the hatch. Although the middle of the night, floodlights blazed across the landing zone like daytime. Vans, trucks, and ambulances swarmed, while scores of people meandered about. Kon alighted on the ground and planted his fists on his hips.

One by one, the Team Orbis members stumbled out into the humid, sixty-degree temperature.

Goggling at the chaos, Quin watched a man wearing a white dress shirt and blue-emblem tie approach. A fringe of brown hair crowned his otherwise bald head. His face sported a close-cropped goatee and tortoise-shell bifocals. Quin seized the guy’s shoulders. “Dude! You made it. You’re not dead!”

Frank Thomas extricated himself and straightened his NASA-logo tie. “Uh, good to see you too, Quin.”

“Guys, c’mere!” Quin hoisted his arms forward. “Look who it is!”

Sera embraced Frank. “Thank God! We thought we lost you in Eureka.”

“Eureka?” What was she talking about? Frank had known something was wrong from the moment they lost radio contact with the ship.

Iggy gave Frank a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for saving our skins.”

Jay gawked at Frank, admiration blooming. He had helped them escape Lehigh University, brought them to Quin and Sam, and attacked the warden so they could jump to 1963. “You know, in hindsight, you’re the only one of us who did anything right. Thanks.”

Frank stared. “Well, it was a team effort.”

Bick slapped him on the back. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Kennedy? My job.”

“About that.” Quin drooped his features into a hound-dog apology expression. “We screwed up.”

“What are you talking about?” Frank hunched his shoulders. “I watched the live feed from here.”

Quin whispered, “No. You know, nailing Kennedy. We’re responsible.”

“Sure, sport.” Frank spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Good job landing here at Kennedy Space Center.”

Quin observed the marshy terrain. “Huh? I thought this was Cape Canaveral.”

Frank flinched. Was he joking? “Anyway, I meant how you rescued Cosmonaut Kon and his team.”

Kon tottered back. “Team?”

“Iggy, Sera, and Jay. Remember?” Alarmed, Frank studied the astronauts. If they were space-lagged, he might need to jog their memories. “You were conducting science experiments on the International Space Station when an oxygen tank blew.” Frank relived the harrowing details. Not only had they lost reserve O_2, but the blast had punched a gaping hole in the hull. “Cosmonaut Kon saved the crew by herding everyone into a storage module. He sealed it off to conserve dwindling resources. Meanwhile, Quin and Bick mounted a rescue effort in the Orbis. If not for their EVA, you’d all be dead.”

Jay lifted his chin. “Told you we needed those space suits for an Extra Vehicular Activity.”

“Okay.” Frank frowned in concern. “I think it’s obvious I need to get you people to your medical evaluation. Standard procedure, of course. But first”—he gestured beyond Sera—“here’s someone who wants to congratulate you in person.”

Sera turned and found herself face-to-face with the unmistakable brawn of Drew Sutherland—the officious traitor who had betrayed her in Eureka. She heaved her elbow back and socked him in the chops. Sutherland wobbled in surprise and fell backward. Whump!

Frank flailed his arms. “Are you out of your mind? Why on earth did you slug the director of NASA?”

8:00 AM – EST

After daybreak, the physicians discharged Bick from his medical exams first. Melancholy and exhausted, he was ushered into NASA’s executive dining room for a welcome-back reception. Not knowing what to do, or who would be welcoming him back, he clung to the wall. High-ranking officials milled about, eating breakfast hors d’oeuvres and sipping drinks. A fully recovered Sutherland chatted with colleagues at a linen-covered banquet table. Bick overheard snippets of their conversation. Luckily, they had chalked up Sera’s assault to Space Adaptation Syndrome. Nobody seemed to be aware of the true purpose of their mission or the horrific casualties they’d encountered.

When a uniformed waiter drifted nearby with bubbly mimosas, Bick grabbed one. Now what?

Bick saw Jay enter, the next one released from medical bay. He blinked at the subdued lighting as if trying to figure out what to do. Without warning, a middle-aged couple wearing business casual clothing and NASA employee badges rushed over to him. With tears in her eyes, the woman smothered Jay in hugs and kisses. Ah, Jay’s parents. They must work here. Good for him.

Shortly after, Quin sauntered in. When he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, Bick realized he’d probably been the guest of honor at these parties before. Within seconds, a gaggle of children sprinted across the floor and pounced. Quin bent down on one knee as they climbed him like a tree, giggling. His nieces and nephews obviously hero-worshipped their uncle. Chuckling, he stood up and dangled the youngest boy by his ankles. At that moment, their moms—presumably Quin’s sisters—arrived and administered a mock lecture. Then the happy family embraced.

Bick sat down and examined his shoes.

Sera banged through the reception door next. She spotted Sutherland and hustled over to the opposite side of the room to inspect the buffet. A couple in their fifties followed her movements in bewilderment. Both clad in faded jeans and fleece jerseys, the woman had chin-length hair streaked silver and black, while the man had buzz-cut hair complemented by a salt-and-pepper beard. They dashed over to Sera and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and staggered back, bumping into the table. The woman brushed Sera’s bangs aside and gave her a motherly hug. Oh, my God. Sera’s parents were alive.

Bick checked the door to see who would be next. Iggy plodded in, canvassing the various reunions in progress. She wistfully observed Sera’s good fortune. Suddenly, a gangly teen in a hooded sweatshirt loped toward her. He had black razor-cut hair styled haphazardly with gel. The kid yelled, “Mom!” and reached out. Iggy snuggled him to her chest, swaying back and forth. Looking past his messy head, she spied a bespectacled man with a thick, wavy mane. He beamed. Iggy broke down and cried as he joined them. Wow, her husband, Nick, also alive in this timeline.

Bick slumped as he witnessed another, similar homecoming. When Kon emerged, a younger boy, maybe ten, zoomed across the parquet floor. “Papa!” Lagging by several paces came a slim woman with a coiffed updo and a designer dress. Kon’s wife.

Bick drained his glass. Perhaps he should consider eating some grub. The aroma of those bite-sized sausage-and-egg muffins made his stomach growl. As he rose, a woman in her late forties entered. She tossed her coat onto a chair, revealing green hospital scrubs. Rooted in place, Bick watched as she galloped toward him. Naturally beautiful, the woman had a dark blonde ponytail gathered at the nape of her neck. She seemed familiar. As she catapulted herself at Bick, a name hovered at the edge of his consciousness. Julie. What the? She barreled into him as her joyous laughter pealed out. On autopilot, Bick swung her around. He marveled at her emerald eyes as she planted a kiss on his lips. “I missed you!” When she drew back and cupped his hands, he saw the diamond ring. Holy smokes! Was he married?

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 2013

12:00 PM – EST

One week later—in New Hope, Pennsylvania, Iggy bounded up the front steps of the Logan Inn. It stung to leave her husband and son home for the afternoon, but at least they were together again as a family.

She entered the vestibule to wait for Sera, Jay, Bick, and Quin. In her timeline, only a couple of months had elapsed since her last visit to the inn. However, the revision in history had changed the venue. The décor boasted colonial paintings in the lobby and heavy draperies on the windows. At the heart of the lodge and saloon, original stone walls surrounded polished wooden floors, making for a quaint weekend destination. She made a mental note to ask Jay if he’d spotted the metal cutout sculpture of the Indian chief still standing outside.

Within a few minutes, her friends began to arrive. Although only a week had passed since they’d returned to 2013, they greeted each other like long-lost relatives.

After being seated for lunch, Iggy took a deep breath.

Before she could speak, Jay blurted out, “Did you notice the sculpture of Chief Logan outside? It was like a familiar face welcoming us from the past.”

Iggy suppressed a smile.

“That’s your opening?” Sera spread her arms theatrically. “After all we’ve been through, that’s the best you can come up with for our team reunion?”

Jay propped his chin on his palm. “Well, I still can’t get over the fact that I’m an astronaut. I mean, me!”

“I can’t quite believe it, either.” Quin widened his eyes.

Jay tittered. “I feel really lucky.”

“Me, too.” Quin draped an elbow across the back of his chair. “Ahhh.” He winked at a passing waitress. “No longer playing possum.”

“I know what you mean. I’m lucky my parents are alive.” Sera frowned. “But I also feel guilty.”

Quin clasped her hand. “Come on! Let yourself be happy, for crying out loud. Enjoy it. Your mom and dad are proud of you.”

“No, I agree with Sera. My happiness came at the expense of others.” Iggy sighed. “I didn’t realize until I saw him that I’d been hoping my husband Nick would be alive.”

“Bizarre.” Bick tilted his head. “We screwed up royally, but we each got everything we ever wanted.”

“Even you, Bick.” Iggy flashed her brows.

“Yeah, my wife, Julie. It’s weird. I’m a bachelor, but I’m also a husband. I remember history both ways.”

“I remember both ways, too. And I’m liking this version”—Quin gave Sera a sidelong glance—“a lot better.”

From a slouch, Iggy sat up and drew her shoulders back. “Regardless of our personal gains, we must return to 1963 to fix the past. No matter what the risk.”

12:10 PM – EST

After the server plunked down their beverages, Jay held up his glass of River Horse Hop Hazard Pale Ale. In the previous timeline, the brewery owner had been a helluva guy to help them escape Lehigh University in his delivery truck. “Did you know this beer is now what they call a high-end microbrew? I stopped by their facility across the bridge in Lambertville this morning.” He had enjoyed the sunny day by strolling through the riverside towns along the Delaware and noting differences from his previous visit. “I also stopped at an antique shop—‘A Stage in Time.’ They sell Mission furniture.” Jay caught his own error. “I mean Arts and Crafts, just like Sam had back in Eureka.”

Bick bowed his head. “In the end, Sam found redemption when he sacrificed himself to save us.”

No one spoke.

After a respectful moment of silence, Jay pulled a magazine out of a shopping bag. “I bought this vintage Life magazine at the same place. It’s the issue chronicling the assassination.” The cover depicted a grieving Jackie Kennedy and her children waiting for JFK’s funeral procession. “I wanted to let you know they didn’t ignore J.D.; there’s a story on his funeral as well.” He opened the brittle pages to show them a picture of the officer’s widow and children in mourning.

Iggy sniffed. “It’s so sad.”

“Those sons of bitches!” Bick jabbed the magazine. “They have a photo of the Oswald funeral on the opposite page.” He peered closely. “Whoa, they combined one article on both of them: ‘In Texas, a Policeman and an Assassin are Laid to Rest, Too.’ What a colossal insult to J.D.’s memory.”

“Now, don’t get me wrong here. I mean Oswald was rat dung.” Quin snorted. “He deserved to die. But why the heck did Ruby go and kill him anyway? That doofus waltzed into police headquarters and blew Oswald away in front of live TV cameras.”

“Officially?” Sera shrugged. “I read he wanted to spare Jackie K. from the trauma of testifying at Oswald’s trial. But we know Ruby was just a hothead. He was pissed that Oswald tied him up. Frankly, I’m surprised he held out two full days before shooting him.”

“What irks me”—Bick wagged his finger—“is that the real mastermind got away scot-free. Hoover kept his director position with Tolson by his side until his dying day. There was no justice.”

“Polls consistently show that two-thirds of Americans believe in a conspiracy.” Jay whipped off his glasses. “That Oswald did not act alone. And they’re correct, but nobody can ever prove it.”

“The people”—Sera swished her hand—“deserve to know the truth.”

“The point is moot.” Iggy glowered at her companions. “The people won’t need to know the truth after we go back and fix the past.”

Jay contemplated the ceiling. “But should we? That is to say, should we go back and fix the past?”

Bick gasped. “How can you say such a thing? My God, we have to rescue Dee. And J.D. and Kennedy. Even Sam. It’s our fault they died.”

“I know, I know. I sound like a heartless bastard. But look at the outcome.” Jay began counting on his fingers. “No ’64 Nuke War. Our cities are intact. The capital is in DC. We’re friends with Russia. JFK is regularly voted one of the greatest American presidents, in league with Washington, Lincoln, and FDR. I mean, Idlewild Airport was renamed after him. It’s the busiest international airport in the country. Cape Canaveral is now Kennedy Space Center. And hundreds of schools and streets in towns across the nation bear his name. I read it on the Governet.” He shook his head. “I mean the Internet.”

“A legacy in death”—Iggy raised one shoulder—“he probably didn’t earn in life.”

2:00 PM – EST

After lunch, Jay rang the doorbell at 295 North Main Street in New Hope. Covered in weathered cedar shingles, the house stood on stilts on the bank of the Delaware River. A two-story addition hung out near the water’s edge with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides.

Quin shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m dang sick and tired of these interviews.”

“That’s a hoot.” Bick feigned shock. “Aren’t you supposed to be a media hound?”

Sera snickered.

“It’s a bore-fest.” Quin pantomimed a yawn. “Same questions, over and over.”

Iggy sighed. “Last one. Let’s just get this over with.”

As the door opened, Jay consulted a scrap of paper. “We’re looking for a reporter. A Mrs. O’Neill.”

A seventy-five-year-old woman with volumes of curly white hair beamed at them. “I’ve waited a long time to see all of you again.”

“No!” Bick scrutinized her comfortably wrinkled face. “It can’t be. Can it?”

She nodded.

Bick gathered her in a fierce clinch. He began to sob.

Jay gaped. “What? What’s going on?”

The stranger released Bick and held out her arms. “It’s me! Dee.”

“Oh, my God.” Jay dazedly embraced her.

In seconds, the entire team was crying as they took turns hugging her.

Five minutes later, Jay settled into a squishy armchair in Dee’s living room. He took in the ambiance, admiring the lush greenery of several potted plants. Warm lighting and muted earth tones were interspersed with bright peach and teal accents in the form of plump pillows and decorative candleholders. Bookshelves lining two walls were bursting with hardcovers and paperbacks ranging from thrillers and mysteries to reference tomes and research periodicals. The dustless table surfaces were cluttered with notepads, binders, and files—all current works in progress. A space well lived-in and well utilized, Jay realized it mirrored Dee’s old garden apartment perfectly. He grinned at her. “How did you survive? We thought you were, you know, history.”

“Simple. You dropped the flashlight in the Gulf. The water’s shallow enough that I could see it shining on the floor of the ocean. And the scuba equipment was sinking with the raft. I dove down to get the regulator and tank. Then, I waited out Hoover. He left right after you time-jumped.”

Bick couldn’t stop staring. “And now you’re older than me.”

“Don’t forget wiser, young man.” Dee smirked.

“So tell us, Dee.” Jay perched forward. “What’s it been like for the past fifty years? What have you been up to? Wait a minute.” He touched his temple. “I guess you’re a reporter. Unless you concocted that story as a ruse to get us here.”

“No.” Dee laughed. “I am a reporter. I even got to interview Jackie.” She gestured to the mantelpiece over the brick fireplace, where they saw a framed photo of Jackie K. with her arm around a young Dee. Next to it was the shot of the former First Lady jumping her horse over a fence, hair flying in the breeze. On the other side rested a picture of a handsome police officer in an old-fashioned uniform—J.D. “I married and had two children. My husband has since passed on, but I’ve had a good life.” A contented expression crossed her features. “And I’m sure you know that our actions altered the timeline. We never went to war with Russia.”

“We were just discussing that. Remembering both timelines.” Bick swiped his bald scalp. “To be honest, the whole episode is fading from memory. I was starting to think it hadn’t happened.”

“It happened all right. And I have the proof.” Still spry, Dee leaned down and rummaged under the sofa. “See?” She brandished a hefty scrapbook.

They clustered around Dee to ooh and aah as she leafed through the weathered snapshots and yellowed news clippings from their mission. When they got to the pictures of the vehicles, Quin clutched his gut like someone had stabbed him. “Sheesh, I miss the cars. Especially the Chevy.”

Sera rolled her eyes.

They continued recapping their adventure, each trying to surpass the others with stories and anecdotes.

When they’d finished, Iggy stood. “Now that we’ve completed our dress rehearsal”—she motioned to the scrapbook—“we can go back and do it right the second time.”

“I don’t think so.” Dee crossed her arms. “Unlike you, I’ve had fifty years to think about the mission. I’ve come to the conclusion that you shouldn’t go back. I am absolving you of the responsibility because I alone have the authority to make that decision.”

Iggy sagged into a chair. “People died because of us.”

“Millions more would have died if we’d gone to war with the Soviets. Humanity isn’t teetering on the edge of destruction. The world is in a better place. Besides, no one will ever know. Mrs. Paine and I never told anyone the truth.”

“What about J.D.?” Bick hesitated. “And your mom?”

Tears welled in Dee’s eyes. “I believe J.D. and my mom would have made the same choice.”

Iggy weighed the pros and cons. She pictured intact metropolitan centers and pollution-free skies versus urban wastelands and millions of tombstones. Dee was right. As the burden of guilt washed away, Iggy nodded.

“It’s settled then.” Dee rose. “Now, I have something else to show you.”

2:15 PM – EST

Dee led them out to the driveway, where a tarp covered a boxy, lumpy shape. “Jay, will you do the honors?”

He puzzled his brows together and yanked the tarp like a magician doing the tablecloth trick. The weight of the material cascaded down in rippling folds as it showered onto the macadam.

The violently turquoise ’58 Chevy Impala with shiny chrome accents proudly posed in the driveway. Freshly polished, the sleek, angular auto glittered in the sun.

“Woo hoo!” Quin leapt up and punched a fist in the air. “You kept my car. Awesome!”

Dee lobbed him the keys.

Quin grabbed Dee around both arms in a tight bear hug, picked her up, and spun her three-sixty. “Yee-Ha!”

She giggled, sounding exactly like the Dee they knew.

Smiling, he gingerly placed her on the ground. “Hey, where’s the Ford?”

Sera smacked him playfully on the chest.

Quin snatched Sera’s wrist. “Come on, babe, let’s go. We have work to do.” Pulling her close, he bent her in a passionate kiss. Iggy, Bick, Jay, and Dee whooped and cheered.

He released her, revealing Sera’s flushed but happy face. She glowed as they climbed into the car.

Quin cranked the engine and the 280-horsepower machine thrummed to life. Resting his arm across the seatback, he reversed out of the driveway. “Did you hear about that Twin Tower thing?”

“Huh?” Sera furiously waved good-bye to her surrogate family. “Yeah. 9/11. It was awful. That Bin Laden guy.”

“Well, you remember how to time travel, don’t you?” Beep, beep! Quin tapped the horn in farewell as he shifted into drive.

Sera nestled under the crook of his arm. “Yes, I remember. What do you think you’re going to do? Go back and make sure he was never born?”

“No.” Quin accelerated. “I’m gonna go back and make him wish he was never born.”

*****

Dedicated to law enforcement officers worldwide.

Table of Contents

Destination Dealey

Copyright

2013

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

1963 and 2013

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

1963

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

November 22, 1963 Daybreak

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

2013 Again

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five