The Warren Omissions (27 page)

Flynn allowed Sydney to go first. Crawling on her hands and knees wasn’t easy, given her injury. Every few feet, she winced with pain. Flynn felt sorry for her on one level, for he was the one who inflicted such misery upon her. But on another, no remorse. Sydney made her own decisions, one of which was to align herself with an extremist group of communists bent on causing destruction to the world in an effort to establish communism worldwide. It went against everything Flynn believed, even if a more cooperative humanity seemed like a better world. He just knew such ideals rarely escaped the incubation of the mind’s inception. The real world contained vile agents of corruption, distorting good ideas and turning them into the seeds of hatred and violence. True peace would never be obtained through the violent will of a few being imposed on the rest of the world. Yet Sydney once believed this—whether she still did or not made no difference to Flynn. He simply wanted her out of there so she could have a chance to decide for herself.

For fifteen minutes they crawled. Flynn continued behind her, dragging his pack with his foot. They edged their way down the chute until they finally arrived at the doorway to the outside. It too had a keypad, requiring a retinal scan.

Without a word, Sydney put her eye in front of the scanner and waited. The scanner whirred and hummed for a few seconds until finally—
 
click!
 
The door lock released and opened slightly into the woods. Sydney crawled out first and stood up before collapsing. Flynn followed, scrambling over to where she had fallen on the forest floor.

Flynn’s eyes struggled to see in the cold darkness. He located a small light in his pack to be able to examine Sydney more thoroughly. He then dug out a tightly packed emergency blanket for her. During the day, the blanket’s silvery shimmer would reflect light and make them a target. But at night, it was safe. And Flynn knew if they wanted to stay alive, they needed to get out of the Urals as soon as possible.

Noticing a few more spots where Sydney’s wound began to ooze, Flynn administered some more pain medicine after re-cleaning the area with an anti-septic wipe. Sydney remained calm and quiet, refusing to say the first word to Flynn. After ten minutes of him fussing over her, Sydney finally uttered something: “Thank you.” She then fell back down onto the forest floor in search of some much-needed sleep.

Flynn wanted to call Osborne again, tell him what happened. But it would have to wait until the morning, until he and Sydney were safe, until they both escaped Russia without being detected. He looked around and found a cave nearby where they could seek shelter for the night. They would have to leave early in the morning, as the area would likely be crawling with Russian soldiers looking for the cause of such blasts in the middle of the night.

In the cave, Sydney nestled next to him in an effort to keep warm. She cried quietly, saying nothing. Flynn decided to let it go—let her purge whatever pent up emotions she had built for the past fifteen years.

As he lay down on his back, he heard the distant cry of a wolf. Flynn didn’t even jump. If he’d made it through this mission successfully without getting killed, he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over wolves.

CHAPTER 66

THREE DAYS LATER, Flynn awoke in his familiar Washington hotel. The Liaison always provided him with superb customer service and a good night’s sleep. His stay this time was no different. It was imperative that he received a good night’s sleep and why he insisted on the CIA putting him up there. Flynn wanted to look his best when he met President Briggs.

In the downstairs lobby, Osborne waited for him. Flynn chuckled when he thought about how this was as it always was—Osborne sitting around while someone else did real work. But Flynn needed Osborne along with all the intel and gadgets to help him achieve a successful mission. Without the proper equipment and devices, Flynn would have failed. Yet he didn’t. And Osborne came off looking like the smartest man in American intelligence.

During the drive to the White House, Flynn stared aimlessly out the window from his backseat position. He noticed the people marching to jobs, some of them undoubtedly spies, agents and operatives. It wasn’t easy protecting the world from chaos and mayhem. It took training, skill, and sometimes luck. Flynn considered just how much good fortune he had on his latest mission, concluding it was equal to his misfortune. In the end, the balance of the scale didn’t matter—only the results did. Millions of people would not die and neither would the President.

***

AWAY FROM THE AUSPICES of the press, President Briggs welcomed Flynn and Osborne into his office for a private meeting. A debt of gratitude this big needed to be paid in person.

“Mr. Flynn, I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me and this country,” Briggs began. “I know you may have felt like we turned our back on you in the past, but what you just did for the United States—for me—you deserve an apology for how you were treated.”

Flynn nodded. “Thank you, Mr. President. I appreciate the sentiment. I’ve never had anything but pride in my heart for this country. If that wasn’t evident before, I think you know that. It was that same pride that made me ashamed when some of our men weren’t honoring this great nation the way they needed to.”

“I understand,” President Briggs responded. “I’m going to have your file expunged and make sure you get the Intelligence Star—and your former boss will be the one to present it to you in a ceremony in front of the entire agency.”

Flynn laughed nervously. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Mr. President. I appreciate the sentiments, but I was just doing what I was asked. I don’t really want any attention over all this.”

“Very well, then,” President Briggs answered. “But there’s someone else in this equation who needs to be rewarded—and that’s you, Mr. Osborne.”

Osborne politely nodded and thanked the President.

Before the meeting concluded, Osborne was informed that he would be given full command of a special black ops unit with unlimited funding, and completely autonomous from the CIA. He would have the authority to investigate and pursue anything he deemed necessary within the country’s national security interests. Osborne confessed to Flynn that he hoped for a promotion—but this was far better than anything he could’ve imagined.

As their time drew to a close, Flynn spoke up.

“Mr. President, there’s just one more thing I want to talk to you about,” Flynn said.

“Oh, what’s that?”

“It’s about your Vice President, Gerald Sandford. I’ve heard rumors that he might be indicted for his actions.”

President Briggs nodded, affirming the rumors.

“I’m just going to ask that you don’t do that—as a special favor for me.”

“And why should I overlook his treasonous acts? For goodness sake, he almost launched another world war while I was incapacitated—and he did it against my wishes.”

“I understand how you might feel, Mr. President, but I think you might want to consider just what a difficult situation he was in and how terrorists blackmailed him. I’m not a parent myself, but I can empathize with a parent who was pushed into a corner and felt compelled to do whatever it took to save his or her child. Can’t you?”

The President dropped his head and stared at his feet for a few moments before speaking.

“Mr. Flynn, your objection has been noted. I’m not sure how it will play out, but you’re a bigger man than I am—a man to whom I owe my life. Thank you for your service.”

Flynn and Osborne thanked the President again and exited the room.

On their way out, Flynn filled Osborne in about the CIA’s leak—a Mr. Livingston. Osborne promised to look into it and told him not to worry about it any longer.

Then Flynn excused himself. He needed to make a phone call.

“Hello? Is that you, Flynn?” Natalie asked.

“Yes, I made it back alive.”

“And you’re a national hero—though I doubt anyone will know about it.”

“Not unless you tell them.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“And how are you?”

“I’m good—I’m alive. I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this spy life. I think I’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime.”

“Well, I’m just glad everything worked out all right. Now it’s time to celebrate.”

“Let me guess, Georgia Brown’s tonight at eight?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Flynn hung up and smiled. At least there was one sane woman in his life.

***

FLYNN REMAINED IN WASHINGTON for two more days. He performed a few follow-up interviews for a story his editor Theresa demanded and sought to bring closure to the harrowing turn of events that led him to discover one of the darkest secrets in American history: the group responsible for the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Yet that story seemed like a simple tale compared to the one he just lived.

Between interviews with officials at the U.S. State Department, Flynn walked by an office with a news program running. On the screen was Gerald Sandford with his wife, sitting next to their daughter, Sydney. The type across the bottom portrayed a far different story than the one he knew to be true: Vice President’s Daughter Escapes Russian Terrorists in the Ural mountains.

All three of the Sandfords were crying—an emotion that even affected the interviewer. The staffers gathered near the television also appeared moved by what they saw and heard on the screen.

Flynn shook his head and marched on. It was a happy little ending, but it wasn’t the truth—the thing he cared the most about. The Sandfords’ version only masked the reality of what happened. Eventually, the truth would come out. But someone else could do it. He had other stories to tend to.

Flynn’s phone buzzed with a text message. It read:

Call the office ASAP. Big lead on a story in New Mexico.

Flynn smiled. “It never ends, does it?” he muttered to himself.

THE END

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

NO WRITER CAN EXIST in a vacuum. And this project proved to be one that required the assistance of plenty of people.

For starters, without readers who have found my work—and enjoyed it—I never would have trudged on with the arduous task of writing a novel. Just knowing that you’re all out there and enjoying the diversions created by my books inspires me to press on and work diligently to refine my craft.

None of this novel could have been fleshed out the way it was without the guidance of Steven Hamilton, who steered me in the direction of one of the most fascinating characters who emerged from the JFK assassination investigation. His help along with that of fellow archives employees, Amy DeLong and Mary Kay Schmidt, proved invaluable in helping mix fact with fiction.

Pieter VanBennekom provided excellent fodder as someone who actually pursued some of the more mysterious elements of the JFK assassination as a journalist. His stories are deserving of a book.

Jennifer Wolf’s editing helped make this a better story. Without her, this novel might be more confusing, not to mention full of female characters wearing horribly matched clothes. Jessica Nelson also helped with the copy edits.

Former U.S. Air Force fighter pilot Darrell Chatraw helped craft some of the aviation scenes, lending credence to dogfight descriptions from a veteran of the cockpit.

Though my Russian is all but non-existent, Lesy Chatraw helped me craft some strong phrases throughout the book.

Dan Pitts crafted and conceived the cover, which exceeded any expectations I had in stealing design elements from the original Warren Report. It’s sheer genius.

Bill Cooper continues to produce stellar audio versions of all my books—and have no doubt that this will yield the same high-quality listening enjoyment.

And last, but certainly not least, I must acknowledge my wife and her gracious soul for allowing me to travel across the country and obsess about the JFK assassination for nearly a year as I wrote this book.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JACK PATTERSON
 
is an award-winning writer living in southeastern Idaho. He first began his illustrious writing career as a sports journalist, recording his exploits on the soccer fields in England as a young boy. Then when his father told him that people would pay him to watch sports if he would write about what he saw, he went all in. He landed his first writing job at age 15 as a sports writer for a daily newspaper in Orangeburg, S.C. He later earned a degree in newspaper journalism from the University of Georgia, where he took a job covering high school sports for the award-winning
 
Athens Banner-Herald
 
and
 
Daily News
 
.

He later became the sports editor of
 
The Valdosta Daily Times
 
before working in the magazine world as an editor and freelance journalist. He has won numerous writing awards, including a national award for his investigative reporting on a sordid tale surrounding an NCAA investigation over the University of Georgia football program.