The pegasus directive, p.1
THE PEGASUS DIRECTIVE, page 1
Other books by Ian A. O’Connor
FICTION
The Twilight of the Day
The Seventh Seal
The Barbarossa Covenant
The Wrong Road Home
Point Option
The Pegasus Directive
NON-FICTION
Co-author:
SCRAPPY: Memoir of a U. S. Fighter
Pilot in Korea and Vietnam
Pegasus Publishing & Entertainment Group – USA.
First Edition: June, 2023
Copyright © 2023 Ian A. O’Connor.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Brief passages may be quoted by reviewers to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or online review site.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Library of Congress Control Number has been applied for.
O’Connor, Ian A., 1944-
THE PEGASUS DIRECTIVE – The Top Secret Kennedy Assassination File
Fiction - Novel
Thriller – Political – Mystery – International Intrigue
ISBN-13: 978-1-7374229-2-1 – Hardcover edition
ISBN-13: 978-1-7374229-4-5 – Trade Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-1-7374229-3-8 – ebook edition
Cover & Interior Design by Glen M. Edelstein, Hudson Valley Book Design.
Visit the author at: www.ianaoconnor.com
Contact the author at: ianaoconnor@ianaoconnor.com
This is a work of fiction.
Printed in the United States of America
LSC-C
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
This book is for my wife and best friend,
Candice Myers O’Connor.
Contents
PROLOGUE – The Present
1. Washington D.C. – May 8, 1972
2. Washington D.C. – May 8, Evening, 1972
3. Moscow – September 1963 - Nine Years Earlier
4. China – November 1970-Febuary 1972
5. Washington D.C. – March 11, 1972
6. Washington D.C. – 1963
7. Washington D.C. – May 9, 1972
8. Washington D.C. – May 9-10, 1972
9. Dallas, Texas – November 22, 1963
10. Washington D.C. – 1963
11. Moscow – 1963
12. Moscow – April 1964
13. China – 1964
14. Washington D.C. – March-November 1964
15. Moscow – 1964-1967
16. Moscow – 1967
17. China – 1967
18. Moscow and China – 1967
19. China – 1967
20. The U.S. and Canada – 1967
21. Washington D.C. – 1967
22. Washington D.C. – January 1968-January 1969
23. Moscow – 1969
24. China – 1970
25. China – September-December 1971
26. Washington D.C. – May 12-13, 1972
27. Washington D.C. – May 13-14, 1972
28. Washington D.C. – May 13-14, 1972
29. Pasadena, California – May 14-15, 1972
30. Washington D.C. – May 15, 1972
31. Moscow – May 22–30 1972
32. Wyoming – June 1974
EPILOGUE – The Present
Author’s Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
I owe a particular thanks to Margaret Datzman O’Connor who undertook the task of editing my work.
A very special thank you to my friend of over fifty years, John Siniscal, of Carlsbad, California, for his invaluable advice, suggestions, and corrections in getting the final copy of this thriller into print.
PRESIDENT LYNDON JOHNSON’S THOUGHTS ON THE POSSIBILITY OF AN INTERNATIONAL CONSPIRACY THEORY
During a filmed interview with CBS journalist Walter Cronkite at his ranch in Texas in September, 1969, President Lyndon Johnson was asked whether he was satisfied there was no international conspiracy in the Kennedy assassination:
“ I can’t honestly say that I haven’t been completely relieved of the fact there might have been international connections . . .
I don’t think that me, or anyone else, is absolutely sure what motivated Oswald or others.”
A Documentary Film – Kennedy: A Legacy In Blood
* * *
GOVERNOR JOHN CONNOLLY’S THOUGHTS ON THE CONCLUSIONS OF THE WARREN COMMISSION REPORT
Texas Governor John Connelly who was in the limousine with President Kennedy the day he was assassinated, said during an interview in 1982:
“I do not for one second believe the conclusions of the Warren Commission.” Pressed as to why he had not spoken out at the time, Connelly replied, “Because I love this country . . . and we needed closure at the time.”
A Documentary Film – Kennedy: A Legacy In Blood
PROLOGUE
THE PRESENT
“HELLO, ORION. This is Pegasus.”
Justin Scott froze. Pegasus? It was a name and a voice from fifty years earlier. A lifetime ago.
But Pegasus has been dead for years! he told himself, heart racing, eyes glued to the computer screen and a still-life rendering of the winged horse from Greek mythology.
“Because you’re now listening to this message, Orion, it means I’m dead.”
Justin hit the pause button on the CD drive and sat back, his mind overloading on memories. But Pegasus has been dead for years, he told himself again, then silently added, hasn’t he? After a few minutes, he was ready to resume. He pressed start.
The voice continued. “I will explain everything in due course, but first, I need you to make sure you have three discs and a key. That key is important. Guard it with your life.”
Justin heard the garage door opener engage, signaling his wife was home. He stopped the disc and shut down the computer, as much to take time to further gather his wits about him as to greet Paula. His thoughts harkened back to earlier in the day.
“Excuse me, are you Justin Scott?”
Startled by the unexpected sound of a woman’s voice coming from so close behind him, Justin Scott wheeled to confront the unknown. The UPS driver smiled, her familiar brown uniform crisp and professional looking, her “package car” with its large brown and gold shield logo idling at the curb. She held an overnight envelope.
“I’m Justin Scott. You caught me by surprise,” he added sheepishly, holding up his iPhone. “Trying to text my golfing buddies to tell them I’m running late.”
As he reached out, she brought up her other hand holding an Apple Tablet. “I need your signature, you know, to verify receipt.”
Justin did the honors, thanked her, took the padded envelope and studied it for a long moment, noting the return address in Washington, D. C. He shrugged, turned back to the house and entered through the open garage door.
“Honey, it’s just me,” he called out. “I’m leaving a delivery package on the kitchen counter. Don’t know who it’s from, but I’ll open it when I get back from golf. See ya.”
Five hours later, Justin was in the kitchen with a cold beer close at hand to celebrate another lousy golf score when he spied the overnight envelope. Lying atop was a hastily scrawled note from his wife saying she had gone shopping and would be back before dinner.
Justin tore open the envelope’s perforated flap, thinking the contents were rather light. He reached in and pulled out three CDs encased in separate white paper sleeves, each clearly marked 1,2, and 3. He then held the envelope facedown and gently shook it. A small key tumbled onto the quartz countertop. This is getting interesting, he thought, his curiosity piqued. He began walking over to his wife’s computer station by the pantry but stopped, gave a quirky little shake of his head, pivoted, and instead, headed down the hall to his own office computer.
Justin put the disc marked 1 into the open CD slot, punched the start button and listened as the soft whirling sound intensified, signaling the disc’s imprinted information was being transferred to his hard drive. Two minutes later as the screen came to life, he found himself genuinely startled for the second time that day.
“Hello, Orion. This is Pegasus.”
“No wine with dinner tonight?” Justin’s wife asked, surprise evident in her tone. “Not feeling well?”
“No, no, I’m fine. I’ve got some work to do later, and I’ll need a clear head.”
“Does the work have anything to do with the package that came this morning?”
Justin nodded. “Yeah, and it’s right out of the Twilight Zone,” he said, “because from what little I know so far, it’s about something going back to my days in the Nixon White House when I was still a newbie FBI agent.”
“Well, no need to help with the dishes,” Paula said, rising from the table. “Sounds like something interesting, hon, so have at it, but don’t stay up too late.”
Ten minutes later Justin was seated in front of his computer, eager to uncover the disc’s remaining information. The earlier screenshot had been replaced with a video of Pegasus, the man. He was propped up by multiple pillows in what appeared to be a hospital bed and tethered to several machines with blinking lights, intravenous drip lines, and an untold number of wires disappearing beneath blankets.
Justin unconsciously leaned closer to the screen for a better look. His boss of fi
“Justin,” he began, “as you well know, this year, 2023, marks the sixtieth anniversary of the assassination of President Kennedy. Most of the last of the classified files held in the Kennedy Assassination Records Collection at the NARA Archives at College Park, Maryland were released by President Biden in December 2022, and the world was told at the time, that’s it; there are no more, for now. At the same time, we were reminded that The Warren Commission Report is still the definitive document on the subject, just as it was when first published in September 1964.” He paused, and Justin watched as the man struggled to cough. It was heart-wrenching. An arm appeared on-screen and gently wiped the patient’s mouth. After a few seconds, Pegasus waved the arm away, took several shallow, preparatory breaths, and began speaking again.
“You are now the only man left alive who knows what really happened in Dallas that terrible day in 1963, and how the Warren Report got it so wrong in their orchestrated rush to judgment. Had the truth come to light at the time, or even in the years immediately following, it would have in all likelihood triggered World War III.
“The cover-up must finally come to an end. Sixty years ago the American people had a God-given right to know the truth and the information on the three discs will do just that.”
Pegasus closed his eyes. After watching the recumbent figure for almost three minutes, Justin saw his friend shudder, open his eyes, then stare into the camera lens.
“What you are about hear, Orion, will awaken memories of the information we uncovered from the three major players during those dark, desperate days in May 1972. And you will also see that all of our original recordings have been faithfully copied onto the third disc.
“I never told a soul that I made duplicates of everything before depositing the originals in the Roosevelt Presidential Vault at Fort Knox, on orders from President Nixon. I labeled that package The Pegasus Directive, and now, I’m handing-off this electronic copy to you. Good luck, Orion, and I’ll speak for the last time at the end of disc number three with my final instructions.”
As Justin pressed the stop button, he was struck with an epiphany-like moment. Something his long-ago mentor had said made him realize he should not listen to the discs alone, but with the one person he trusted implicitly to give him the sound advice he knew he would need when finished.
Her name was Paula.
CHAPTER 1
Washington D.C.
May 8, 1972
ANDREW ST. JAMES nodded a silent greeting to the Secret Service agent on duty as he stepped through the doorway and into the Oval Office. A visibly impatient President Richard Milhous Nixon beckoned him forward with a wave of his right hand, while holding out a single sheet of paper in his left.
“This just came from Ottawa,” the President said. “It was sent to Mel Laird at the Pentagon, and he forwarded it to me over that newfangled ARPANET gadget.”
St. James took the message that had him dropping everything to report post-haste to the President.
FLASH (Z) TOP SECRET
FROM: Canadian Intelligence Service Ottawa 8 MAY 1972
TO: U.S. Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird
MESSAGE: Soviet defector en route to Ottawa from London. Requests meeting on landing with American code named Pegasus. Seeks asylum in the U.S. in exchange for information he claims critical to America’s immediate security. End message.
St. James was visibly stunned. How is it possible an unknown Soviet walk-in knows about Pegasus?
“You think this defector might hold the answer to our prayers?” his titular boss, Dr. Henry Kissinger, wondered aloud, in his distinctive monotone.
“I do; but then again, he could be a Trojan horse,” cautioned St. James. He turned to the President. “We don’t have a choice, sir, I must follow-up.”
“How will you determine that he’s legitimate?”
“I’ll know within seconds with his correct answer to just one question. If he is indeed the real deal, then I’ll need your authorization to bring him home.”
Nixon replied by plucking a fountain pen from inside his jacket and writing rapidly on a sheet of White House stationery. Finished, he scanned it once, nodded a silent approval, added his signature, and handed the note to St. James.
“This presidential directive is all the authority you’ll need,” Nixon said. He rose and held out his hand. “Good luck, Pegasus.”
St. James shook the proffered hand. Pegasus was a name given him three years earlier by the only person from whom he took orders: this President of the United States.
St. James stopped by his office in the bowels of the White House long enough to retrieve his red diplomatic passport, then sprinted to the parking area. Within five minutes he was headed to Andrews Air Force Base, where a flight suited major stood waiting on the ramp. St. James held up his White House security badge for inspection. “No luggage, but possibly a passenger on our return. The flight plan filed?”
“We’re cleared direct to Ottawa, sir.”
St. James fell into step beside the major. To this officer—or anyone else—St. James was just another government worker toiling for Dr. Henry Kissinger. Invited to sit in the cockpit jumpseat of the T-39 Sabreliner, he followed with interest as the two-man crew worked their way down the checklist through engine startup to taxiing. The tower cleared them for takeoff; and after reaching their assigned altitude, St. James retreated to the cabin, plopped himself into a large leather seat, and promptly fell asleep.
The next thing he knew he was being nudged awake by the copilot. “Time to buckle up for landing, sir.”
Seven minutes later they were parked in front of a Canadian Forces hanger. Two men in civilian clothes introduced themselves as Canadian Security Intelligence Service inspectors from the covert division. “The subject will be here in ten minutes,” said the taller man.
After the jet from London landed, and a mobile ramp affixed to its forward door, the Canadians climbed up followed by St. James who had asked them to say nothing that could identify him to the Soviet citizen. He wanted to see if he would be recognized without prompting.
He did not have long to wait. There were four passengers seated together in the center of the spacious cabin. A rumpled figure heaved himself up and lumbered forward, his eyes riveted on St. James. He thrust out his right hand. “So, I finally get to meet the mysterious Pegasus,” he said in English, while sizing up the American.
Late thirties, early forties, athletic, but not muscle-bound. About six foot, lean, maybe one seventy-five, good-looking, used to making important decisions, and doing so on the spot. He carries with him an aura of self-confidence, that certain something often described in a military officer as having a command presence. Not a person to be trifled with.
St James likewise took inventory. Early fifties, average height, stocky build, hair more gray than black, and colorless eyes exuding as much warmth as the Arctic Ice Pack.
St. James ignored the outstretched hand and answered in flawless Russian. “I will ask you one question. If you give me the right answer, then I’m authorized to take you to Washington. You will reply in Russian. Understood?”
“Da.”
“I’m interested in a specific, unique piece of film. There are only two people in it. I want you to tell me who they are, and where and when it was shot.”
For several seconds the Soviet said nothing, his unblinking stare boring into St. James. Slowly, a hint of a smirk appeared. “I congratulate you. You obviously know more than I would have dreamed possible. As for the film in question, it shows your then-Vice President Lyndon Johnson and my Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin. It was shot inside our Soviet Embassy in Washington on November 18, 1963.”
“And that same Washington will be our next stop,” replied a stone-faced St. James.
Thirty minutes later they were flying south in a cloudless, azure sky. The Soviet was fast asleep while St. James remained awake, his mind a million miles away as he stared down at the earth, reminiscing on the journey that had taken him to this moment in time.
