PJ 91
CHAPTER 3
REC #3 HATONN

THU. MAR. 31, 1994 3:42 P.M. YEAR 7, DAY 227

THU., MAR. 31, 1994
THE DEATH OF CAMELOT
Ronn Jackson, Secret Service Agency
OK readers, we'll see how good you have become at facing FACTS, looking at the TRUTH of the way the "enforcers" and "security service agents" work and if you have the "stomach" to REALLY look at what goes down....

The following is so bizarre and violent that I do not ask Rick or another at the paper to offer it to you for fear you would simply think the staff of CONTACT has gone complete by "National Inquirer" loony.

As we move into the text I think I should give you some warning that this may well cause you to lose sleep, throw-up or worse and/or DENY it could happen. Since this is being printed BY REQUEST for as large a scattering as we can get, I will appreciate your bearing with us through the gore so that you can find TRUTH.

This is, of course, a subject which has been beaten into shreds by historians, liars and researchers--what actually happened to John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

We shall have to handle this as an ongoing series as the manuscripts are lengthy and, of necessity, hand written. The first volume was sold for a very large fee and was, or was intended, to be made into a motion picture. Therefore the material is written in "novel" format. Probably the best way of introduction is to reproduce that which was written for distribution by another "paper" in November 1992. Perhaps we can simply offer this as presented to us. You must realize that this IS the way of the intelligence services and Secret Service Agency--deadly and violent.

Why would I include the crude violence? Because you readers have got to come to grips with the fact that this is the way your world has become and often times "what really happens" is even worse than the too bloody and violent TV and motion picture renditions. I can clean it up for you into tidy packages with no blood-leaks but I think you need the whole of this story to bring into context what was and is going on in your world of "Camelot Hell". Rather than further discuss the disgusting, let's just move into the story as written by one WHO WAS THERE AND WAS A PARTICIPANT!

QUOTING:

THE DEATH OF CAMELOT
IN MEMORIAM: JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY.
1917-1963
by Ronn Jackson, SSA
Today begins a series on America. A series, not in the his­torical sense, but how events and occurrences were and are. Starting at the "mid-Kennedy era" and coming forward to the present, many situations in the series, you the reader are famil­iar with and how and why you have been systematically de­ceived, misled, and in some cases, lied to. This series is not anti-establishment, anti-government or "Anti" anything. It is intended to tell you something; give you additional information so that you can make an informed decision, and then decide how our country really IS. The series is based on the book THE DEATH OF CAMELOT by Ronn Jackson, and contains the full and un-cut version of volume one, of the four volume set. Some of the situations and language are graphic and will dispute what many noted historians and journalists have written. However, there is a difference. The book(s), for the most part, are written in first person singular BY SOMEONE WHO WAS THERE.

[H: Great, but why would we not just ask you to get the book(s)? Because the books are not published even though they were supposed to have been. AND, THE MAN WHO WAS PUBLISHING THEM--IS AS OF WEEK BEFORE LAST--SUICIDED QUITE DEAD!! Therefore, according to our efforts to protect writers of truth--we effort to spread the word and works as quickly and as widely as possible. Roan Jackson deliberately put himself into prison--JUST TO SURVIVE! Maybe that little explanation will help you un­derstand the seriousness of the subject and also see why we don't have time to "clean it up" for your viewing.]

Editorial: The author has chosen and condensed, two ex­cerpts, which will appear later, in their entirety, so that you, the reader, can understand what he is trying to say. He requests that YOU be the judge.

THE DEATH OF CAMELOT
I had just completed a sanction in South America. Eleven days prior I had landed at the north end of the continent, flown south, back north, back south and ended up in Brazil. When my task was completed, I was on my way to the airport. I was tired, hungry for some American food, and irritated because my subject had a couple of bodyguards that was not mentioned in my "information" package. One had cut me just before I grabbed him and snapped his neck. The other was so startled by my actions, he just stood with his mouth open. They were like most bodyguards, for show only. I dropped him with a crushing blow to the throat. I heard the shot and turned as the principal was falling to the floor. I agreed with his actions--it was easier that way.

When reporting that my task was complete, I was about to mention that I was heading home. My employer informed me that I was going to Europe. The ticket was at the Boarding Gate, not to bother with customs, and my information package was awaiting me at Orly. I had ten minutes to catch the flight. The line went dead.

I was all over the continent for the next thirteen days and, though I accomplished my objective, I was still down about a week in the sleep department. I decided to use a different tactic when I called in. After waiting almost two hours for the operator to put the call through, when she motioned for me to pick up the receiver, I picked it up and "he" was already speaking. He told me I had been working long hours and I needed to get some rest. I didn't say anything. I had a package awaiting me at Kennedy. I told him I was going into Dulles. He said to fix my watch as the flight left an hour ago while I was waiting to get through. How I hate a smart-ass. I could take a commuter to D.C. I asked if he knew my shorts size. He said, "thirty-six".

The Flight Attendant awoke me at the terminal. I looked to the rear of the 747 and it was empty. I didn't remember taking off in France. I think I felt a little better. I pulled my travel bag from overhead, felt for my wallet and left. I was glad for the silver passport. I was in no mood for Customs.

I was on the ground in a little over an hour. My home at the time was in McLean, Va., and that king-size water-bed sure was beckoning me, but I did have a stop to make. I was seeing a lady and had promised to stop by and see her, two weeks ago. She was a news reporter for one of the networks and on my way to the studio I was trying to think of an excuse not to go out that evening. I reached down and pulled out the package I had picked up in New York. I opened it and was thumbing through it when I noticed the cab driver eyeing me in the rear view mirror. I told him it was "counterfeit" and I was with the secret service. He refocused his attention on the road.

At the studio my lady was taping her weekly show. The receptionist told me that it could be an hour before she was through. I sat down in the reception area, picked up a magazine and was just dozing off when I heard the double doors behind the secretary come flying open. My lady was walking towards me and said I had an urgent phone call and that I could take it at the desk or in her office. As I walked to the desk, I looked to-wards the front entrance. A military police vehicle was pulling up in front. I took the receiver from the woman and the familiar voice said "priority one--A-one." I was awake. This was only the second time I had received those instructions. I kissed my lady, apologized, told her I would call her and was on my way to Andrews Air Force Base. As it turned out I had this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Wherever I was going it was in a military jet and I didn't like them.

The vehicle pulled up to the plane. Its engines were running and the ground crew pushed ladders up to both sides of it. I couldn't hear anything but a lieutenant gave me a manila envelope and pointed towards the back seat. I was strapped in and an oxygen mask was put on. It felt like we were going straight up for several minutes and then the pilot leveled off. A few moments later the sound just disappeared and it didn't take a mental giant to know we had just exceeded the speed of sound.

The jet taxied to a private hangar and shut off his engines. I still couldn't hear anything nor could I move. I saw the pilot moving around and as the canopy raised up he stood up.

He bent over and pushed a button on my straps, they released and I exhaled. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath. I looked down at my hands. Now those were white knuckles. This was the last time, I thought. But I had said that the last time. After considerable effort and with the pilot's assistance, I was able to get out. For that seat to fit me it would have had to have been twice as large. I looked down at it and it was hard to believe I had just traveled several hundred miles in it.

There was a rental car awaiting me at the side of the hangar. I got in and saw the keys were in the ignition. I leaned back on the seat to relax for a minute and then picked up the manila envelope to see why everybody was in such a big hurry. I glanced through the papers first and then read them in detail. My objective was an agent for an autonomous branch of the Federal Government who functioned in a similar capacity as I, only on like a local basis. Why was I chosen, I thought. But then, I knew the answer for that.

I destroyed the papers with the exception of the map. So it was "Extra's" time. I wondered how I would feel when my time was up. That was a foolish thought. No one was above me, that I knew of, although knowing my employers, there was a contingency plan, I was sure. So the other shooter, "the man on the knoll", had finally cracked. I still remember him from the photos in the hotel lobby in Los Angeles. I wonder who ran the investigation on Bobby Kennedy. He was and still is a prime candidate for one of the nurd movies. Well, there's a chance there was a cover-up. Naw, Hoover didn't like him; he just did his typical government job. If it suited them, okay. If not, just leave the taxpayers hanging.

The address was about an hour from the airport. When I arrived, I just drove into the driveway and parked. I walked to the door and it was open. When I stepped inside I knew it was too late. The door hit me. I walked to my right into the family room and the twisted and mutilated body of a man was on the floor. I walked around it and there was no question about a sick mind. Most of the damage was done after his death. There was no blood around most of them. I walked to the back of the house and found what I guessed to be the man's wife. Her condition was no better. Her skirt was up around her waist. This one--was one sick man. I was not prepared for what I found in the next room. It was a young girl, about twelve or fourteen. The side of her head had been caved in. A glass ashtray laid by the body. She had also been raped. I felt the bile coming up.

I got into the car and pulled out. Several blocks from the house there was a small shopping center. I pulled in and called. I advised my employer I had been too late but I would handle the situation. He asked if I needed any money. I said no and would keep him posted. I said somebody should clean up the mess. He was silent for a moment and then told me to get some distance between me and the house and he would advise the local authorities in thirty minutes. I started to say something and thought better of it. It wouldn't have done any good. I heard the click on the other end.

I'm not sure why but I headed for the airport. I was in a strange city, didn't know anyone, didn't want to attract any attention, and was looking for a rogue agent who could be very deadly. The little girl came to mind and I forced those thoughts from my mind. I saw a large hotel sign ahead and a plane landing. I might as well get some rest and make some calls as I couldn't do anyone any good on the freeway.

I checked in and went to the room. I wasn't sure what I was going to accomplish but I was going to do something. I made several calls and all promised to get back with me. I knew where he lived and that was a couple of states away. All I could do was wait. I laid down and closed my eyes. Five minutes later I was up pacing. I turned on the TV and finally found a channel with some news. They were reporting the deaths and something didn't sound right. I directed my attention to the program as the story was repeated. Two teenage girls had been brutally murdered. Reports were sketchy but the newsperson said they had been raped. Then another person came on announcing the scene I had just witnessed. I watched for about an hour and the program was definitely leaning towards a connection. My first reaction was to go to the other scene and decided against it. I could probably learn more right where I was.

I was on my second pot of coffee when the news coverage was interrupted by yet another person. A similar occurrence had happened in a city four hundred miles to the north. That was too much of a coincidence. I grabbed the phone book and looked up flying services. On my second try I found one with a Lear jet available. I reserved it, giving them my American Express number. I said to have it ready in a half an hour. I changed clothes, threw the room key on the desk and left. I had work to do.

The flight to the city was quick and it took more time to get to the crime scene than it did to fly to the city. The entire block was cut off and I walked up to the remote announcer who was broadcasting live. A statement was about to be issued by the officer in charge. In the distance I could see a gurney being pushed from the house. From the size of it I could tell--I knew it was "him" at work. I didn't wait around for the statement. I knew where he was going--there was no question in my mind.

Back at the airport the pilot was sitting at a lunch counter drinking coffee. I tapped him on the shoulder and said to get me to Stapleton and I wanted his foot in the carburetor all the way. He said two hours. I said a thousand dollar bonus in cash to him if it was an hour and a half. That Lear jet vibrated all the way. As we taxied to the terminal, he said he was five min­utes over. I was glad to be down. I put the ten one-hundreds in his pocket.

Aurora was to the east of the airport according to the map that I had checked on the way. My man lived off of Mississippi Avenue which was one of the main streets of the city. I had the map marked and when I pulled off the bypass, the number I was looking for was at the other end. I guessed it to be five or six miles. I started the drive and "Murphy" must have been busy that evening. I think I hit two or three red lights and almost missed the street I was looking for. I made a right turn and his street was six blocks down. I turned left and the street lights were dim. I couldn't see numbers. I drove slowly, looking for anything that was unusual or out of place. Ahead, in the middle of the block, a car was sitting in the driveway. The interior light was on and I could see the driver's side door. It was open. The front door was open, to the house. I slammed the car into park, shutting off the engine. I got out of the car and started walking towards the entrance. A couple of steps later I was running. I took the porch steps in one and stopped just inside. A strange sound was coming from the upstairs. I took the stair­way in three or four steps and the sounds were coming from my left. There was light coming from a doorway. I abandoned all caution. I went through the door and the sick agent was stand­ing beside the bed. He had his wife by the hair, holding her with one hand and was pounding her with the other. Her face was unrecognizable. His fist was drawn back, ready to strike again, when I grabbed his arm and hit him in the solar plexus. The normal reaction for someone who had just had the breath knocked out of him was to double over. This guy stood straight up, gasping, and he still had a hold of his wife. I hit him again in the same area, this time burying my fist and using all of my weight behind the blow. This time he collapsed like a rag doll. His wife fell against the wall and I tried to catch her but I was a fraction too slow. I looked around the bedroom and there was light coming from the partially closed door. I reached down and grabbed the unconscious agent by his shirt and dragged him to the bathroom. The room was small and contained a shower. The agent's arm laid across the base which was about six inches. I was looking at a very sick man and he started to come to. I made a rule a long time ago: number one comes first. I stepped over him and brought my foot down on his arm. I heard and felt it break. I pulled him away from the base and he was regaining consciousness. As I said, number one comes first. I put his leg across the lip of the shower and had to stomp it twice before I felt it break at the knee.

I returned to the bedroom and picked up his wife and laid her on the bed. She was one big mess. How one human being could do this to another, and especially a loved one, escaped me. I went back to the bathroom and took a towel off the rack and wet it. I looked down at the agent and had no pity for him. Sick or not there was no excuse for his actions. The wet towel didn't do much good and all I could do was try to make the lady a little more comfortable. He had hit her so hard I could see teeth through the side of her face. I could feel tears swelling up in my eyes.

I started to get mad. I have another rule where I try never to get emotionally involved and, sometimes, that is impossible. I reached down and pulled my knife from the sheath around my leg. I heard a movement from the bathroom. I walked over to it and the agent was trying to get up. As injured as he was, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I kicked him in the face and his head hit the tile floor. He started to move again. I said out loud, "You know what your problem is, pal, you haven't hurt enough." I dragged him around and broke his other arm and leg. By this time he was screaming. I asked him, "Do you know how much pain you've caused?" He continued to scream. I reached over and picked up my knife that was on the sink and he raised his head. He said "why?" I just looked at him and then I stepped over to him and un-did his pants. I pulled them down and I swear, he knew what I was going to do. Somehow he was moving away from me. He was trying to make his arms work to no avail. I stepped over and grabbed his genitals and, in the same motion, cut them off. I stepped back to the com­mode and told him to watch. He actually raised his head and started screaming again. I dropped the bloody mess into the toilet and flushed it. He passed out.

I looked towards the door and his wife was standing there. I looked down and she had a gun. It was being raised and to­wards me. I let the knife fly. It buried in her breast-bone, knocking her back into the bedroom and across the foot of the bed. She was dead before she hit. I walked over to her and pulled the knife out. I stood there for a moment and said the only thing I could, "Lady, I am so sorry."

CHAPTER 2

NUKES IN THE WAREHOUSE
I was in Cincinnati, Ohio. I had delivered a suitcase full of money. The leather bag weighed around a hundred and thirty to fifty pounds. When I looked into it all I saw was hundred dollar bills. I picked up a briefcase to be delivered to a college in Central Indiana and a manila envelope directing me to a city outside of Chicago. I knew the briefcase contained that funny white stuff and the envelope contained information on a gov­ernment contractor. He was on the wrong side of the wrong people.

I was driving north on highway three and stopped in a small town called New Castle. I had lunch and when I came out of the restaurant I looked over the area. Like so many towns in America, businesses boarded up and people out of work. You could see the look of desperation on people's faces. I wished I had some answers for them. Maybe, one day in the future, I can help.

The briefcase went to Ball State University. I delivered it to a woman. She was an assistant professor, about thirty-five, at­tractive and had on a wedding ring--not the kind of person that you would imagine having anything to do with this stuff and she showed no signs of using it. You had to hand it to my em­ployer, they sure knew how to run a business. My envelope had the usual amount. I just shook my head. I've heard the term "Recreational users". I thought to myself, "Recreational twits" is more like it. How many briefcases have I delivered? The total weight has to be several tons.

My trip to the windy city area was uneventful. I checked into a motel on the Indiana side. I didn't know the area as the majority of the time I was in and out of O'Hare. When I checked with the room clerk, I found that I had made a good de­cision. I was less than ten miles from the man's warehouse and five from his office. It was too late to do anything today. Tomorrow would be soon enough to start. I wasn't on a sched­ule.

I was up by six, showered, shaved, dressed and eaten by seven and was on my way to the warehouse. When I drove into the complex a man was walking up to an office that had a leas­ing sign across it. I pulled in an he saw me. I parked and walked up to him and represented myself as being interested in some space. That caught his interest real quick and after getting some coffee made we walked out of the complex. It was like any other with more vacant spaces than tenants. After walking down a couple of rows of buildings I saw the name that was on my information package. I asked if I could see some of the occupied spaces to get an idea of the owner's work and improve­ments. He said no problem, as I was walking towards the con­tractors space.

Inside, he spoke to the warehouseman and he told me to walk around. The space contained mostly crates with two offices in the center area. I walked around pretending to be interested in the construction and the real estate man stayed with the lone employee. I noticed they went to one of the offices and sat down. I continued walking and wanted a closer look at the wooden containers. I came upon three that were very large and were different than the others. For one thing, the wood was dif­ferent. It was hard wood. Another item, the supports were on the inside and there was no metal banding on the outside. All were screwed instead of nailed. They just looked out of place. I put my knee against one and it didn't budge. If all three had the same contents--there were several thousand pounds sitting in front of me.

I walked towards the offices and the agent saw me. I told him I had a couple of other places to see and had appointments. I did say this space would suit me fine and I would let him know.

The office was easy to find. It too had several vacancies and was unguarded. That was unusual for a business that made parts for the Government. Maybe the parts were not classified. Maybe it was by design. I drove back towards the warehouse.

I stopped by a restaurant across the street from the complex. I've found in the past that a good source of information was waitresses. For the most part, they were just repeating what they over-heard from their customers and many times that information was useful. This one was no exception. The owner stopped by often and was friendly. She said all of the employees ate there most of the time. I said I was by there earlier and only saw one man. She was sure two or more worked there plus a couple of drivers. She left to take care of another customer and I put a couple of dollars on the counter and left. Those crates were still on my mind.

I drove back to the motel. In the room I sat for a while and made a decision to do something that I never do. I called my employer during a job. He, I think, was surprised with my actions but listened. I gave an over-all estimate of the size and weight and his interest picked up. He told me to call back in twenty minutes. I did so and he asked if I thought it would be possible for me to get those crates to Lake Michigan. I said anything was possible. He told me to pick up some money at O'Hare and take care of the other matter later. I said it may take me a day or two and people--maybe a crane.... He said, "whatever".

I called a couple of rental companies and, without weights, most could only guess. I was nowhere near a solution. Most of what I was told was "a fork lift would be useless." Well, those boxes got in there--they were coming out.

The traffic to the airport was bad. It took me a couple of hours and of course the flight was late. O'Hare was as predictable as sun-up and sun-down. When it finally arrived it took another half an hour to get the package. I could tell I had stumbled onto something for there was a hundred thousand in the package. [Please realize, readers, that I, Doris, am just copying this writing to the best of my ability and I don't know WHAT the "hundred thousand" refers to either.]

I stopped and had a couple of drinks. I didn't want to fight that traffic. When I came out of the lounge, it was getting dark. This would be a good time to go back to the motel and just kick back. I couldn't get a truck until the morning and I don't work if I've been drinking. That causes too many problems.

There was a restaurant down the street from the lounge and I walked to it. The food was good and I ended up sitting at the bar talking politics and the economy. How many times had we all done that? Nothing was settled but sometimes that helps. Of the other four men involved in the conversation, only one had voted. That tells you something. I went back to the motel.

Driving in the direction of the rental agency, I saw a Union 76 truck stop. I pulled in and thought it wouldn't hurt to check around. I saw a big diesel wrecker out in front and I thought to myself that that was what I needed. How to use it would be the problem. I doubted if I could drive it. I went inside and went to the fuel desk and explained what I needed to the guy behind the counter. He just had a blank look on his face. A driver overheard my conversation and suggested I walk out back and talk to some of the drivers. Most of them were empty and just waiting for loads. Somebody could surely help me.

I walked around for a while and didn't see any rig that could help me. I came upon an older guy and started talking to him. He asked if I was the guy looking to have some boxes hauled. I gave him the rundown and to my surprise he said no problem. He motioned for me to follow him and at the back of the lot was his truck. It was loaded with one of those earth moving machines. I asked him how much it weighed and he said "forty tons". That part was fine but I asked about getting the crates out of the building and onto the truck. I would have to hire some people. He looked at me and asked about how legal this thing was. Completely, I said, pulling an "ID" from my pocket and representing myself from the Government. He then asked what it paid and I asked, "What's it worth?" I expected a pretty high figure. He said, two thousand cash and he didn't need any help. It would take about four hours . I gave him the address on Lake Michigan. I countered with five thousand cash and I was holding him to the four hours. I've never seen such a large piece of equipment move so fast.

He followed me to the front and I stopped to make a call. I was betting the driver knew his business and told my employer to have a crane ready in four hours at the docks. He said to get them there.

I told the driver to follow me and stay behind me until I gave him the sign to pull up to the facility. He nodded and we were on our way.

When we arrived I pulled directly in, not stopping at the office. I put the car close to the building and waved to the driver. I went into the warehouse and two men were standing talking by the offices. The one that was there the day before recognized me and came towards me. The other went into the office. We talked for a minute and I asked if I could speak to him privately. He motioned to the other office and when he went through the door I chopped him across the neck. He fell across the desk. I went to the other office and told the other employee something was wrong with the other guy. He looked up at me funny, hesitated for a moment and came flying at me with a knife in his hand. I waited until the last second, side stepped him with the knife going into the plaster board wall. I locked my hands together and brought them down on the man's neck. I felt it snap. I turned around and the driver was standing looking at the prone figure. He said the guy on the floor didn't look like he was going to get up. I told him that that's what you get when you try to pass yourself off as a warehouseman. He pointed in the direction of the crates and asked if those were the ones? I nodded and he was heading in the direction of the truck.

I found some nylon filament tape. As I was rendering the first gentleman useless I heard the truck being backed in. By the time I had finished the driver was pulling cable from a winch. I didn't lift a finger and he had all three crates loaded in fifteen minutes. I told him no weigh stations and he said he was driving this area with horse and buggies. He said he wouldn't use the toll roads into Chicago. I told him to pull into the truck stop and go to the back. I was curious.

The first board revealed a four by four. This thing was heavier than we both thought. I was glad for him having a reversible drill. It would have taken hours to take all those screws out. When the container was open he said , "A new fangled torpedo?" I just nodded. I told him to put on the slats and pull up front. I would call and tell them to expect us.

I let him lead and when we arrived at the dock a crane was there. So were several people in protective clothing. They ran Geiger counters over both of us and the crates. When they pulled their hoods off I breathed easier. The driver asked what was in them. I said nothing, they were just making sure. I paid him. He said it was the easiest money he had made in years. I gave him ten thousand and said to forget what he just hauled. He said he had that office equipment to deliver and then he was going to "hoot and holler" for a while.

I killed a few hours and when I arrived at the office complex most of the cars were gone. My man had a reputation for working long hours and I didn't relish the thought of going to his home. I opened my travel bag and took out the nine millimeter and put the silencer on it. I put a fresh clip in it and injected a shell into the chamber. I locked the door. I was hoping there were no gung-ho employees still at that office.

When I went in, I heard someone on the phone in an office to my right. My subject's name was on the door. No one else was in the office. This was one time the Boss didn't have the ad­vantage. I went into his office and asked if he was who he was supposed to be although I recognized him from my package. He was off the phone in a couple of minutes and when he was, the conversation went something like this:

"Mr. Cullen, I represent a group of people who didn't like what we found in your warehouse this afternoon." I removed my weapon and pointed it at him.

He said nothing and I think what I said had more impact than the gun. I continued with, "We have more problems with other countries. For our own people to turn against us is inex­cusable."

"But you don't understand...."

"I understand that I don't have much faith in the people who control them now, why would you be an exception?"

"I' m just the middle man."

I emptied the clip into him.

I walked to the door to the office and locked it. I doubted anyone was coming in but I wasn't taking any chances. I went through some of his drawers and found several invoices in sev­eral languages. Several with the "R" reversed. I couldn't read them but I knew where they came from. I threw the Gentleman from his chair and started to set in it until I saw the blood. I sat on his desk and dialed my employer's number. When he an­swered the conversation went something like this:

"They were thermo-nuclear, weren't they?" "Yes."
"How large were they?"
"Twenty mega-tons."
"Were they armed?"
"Yes, but they were being air-lifted tonight."
"Where to?"
"Middle East."
"I don't understand."
"We don't either. We knew of the devices and they weren't to arrive until next week. Only your observation kept them from being delivered."
"Who's behind it?"
"We don't know but it's being taken care of now. Is your sanction completed?"
"Just before I called you; I'm in his office now."
"You will have a bonus when you arrive home."

Oh yes, my employers now have those three items: one is placed in the reinforcing steel in the base of a transmission tower between the Capitol and Andrews. One is encased in lead, steel and concrete beneath the University of Texas at Austin. The third is five hundred feet inside a mountain overlooking Colorado Springs. [H: How interesting that any one or all can be detonated at the mere touch of a pulse wave.]

Maybe John and Robert Kennedy can rest a little easier now. By the end of this series there will be no more speculation about many things.

[END QUOTING OF PART ONE]

* * *
Don't for one minute misinterpret my presenting this informa­tion as offering blessings on such a life-sport as is practiced by the "James Bond" killers. However, I don't think you get the picture if I leave out the FACTS. Can you trust this man as to telling "truth" NOW? Unfortunately, yes. He "checks" out. As long as your world is run by and through these types of indi­viduals how much hope is there? How can you tell a "right" murder from a "wrong" murder? What can be left in the souls of these men who are trained to kill without question? They don't even get a verbal description--just a manila envelope and afterward they are judge, jury and executioner. But, does this make truth--untruth? No--it points out brilliantly the degradation of your world in all levels of despicable behavior and corruption and the EASE with which it is smeared all over you-the-people! Good evening.
PJ 91
CHAPTER 4
REC #1 HATONN

FRI., APR. 1, 1994 4:36 P.M. YEAR 7, DAY 228

FRI., APR. 1. 1994
FOOL'S DAY?
I surely am glad that YOU can choose up only ONE DAY to celebrate as "Fool's Day!"--because I cannot tell one from an­other.

The more pertinent problem facing Dharma and me at this mo­ment is which of the terrible presentations shall we type this af­ternoon--more of Stich or more of Jackson? I think perhaps we will simply continue with "Jackson" because we really haven't said much YET. The Part 1 was to set a tone of operations that would allow YOU to relate to that which will be coming for de­nial is no longer an acceptable alternative in your world crum­bling down around you. Things are going to be happening that will stretch your imaginations a lot further than the assassination of a president in 1963. In fact, there were major plans to take out Clinton while a candidate--and frankly, there appear to be possibilities of his shortened experience as we write. These are things, however, that I do not want my scribe to know, much the less write. We only have an hour or so left for writing today so let's just go with--

DEATH OF CAMELOT, Part 2
By Ronn Jackson
AUTHOR'S NOTE:

The Death of Camelot is not intended to be a second EN­QUIRER, nor is it intended to be an exposé. It is written in plain, simple, and understandable English with the following purposes in mind. First, I'm tired of Government talking out of both sides of their mouths; of forcing our people into and onto the streets; of partisan politics benefiting only a select and wealthy few; of special interests dictating what I eat, drive, see, hear, feel and buy; of attorneys making laws and spending more time in the dictionary than the drafting of the laws; of physicians telling me how sick I am and their wallets being the primary motivation; of our children coming out of school without the ability to sign their names; of the wanton destruction of the air we breathe, the water we drink, the land we live on, the trees, wild-life and natural resources. I am reminded of the saying, "The failure of civilization can be detected by the gap between public and private morality. The wider the gap, the nearer the civilization is to final dissolution."

Finally, my former employers--by the end of the series you will fully understand and comprehend the true meaning of the world "conspiracy". You will also be introduced to the term "Darien Socialism". These two words will be the most significant words of our language. No, I am not a soothsayer and I am not predicting Armageddon. What I am saying is that since our beginning this country has been "slapped around" many times and dumped on a large number of times. This time we have been caught with our pants down. Those who are doing the slapping and dumping come from within. We have always risen to the occasion and will do so again. When judgement day comes--you know who you are, so do I, and so will "they". You have been warned.

Ronn Jackson

THE BEGINNING....
She was sitting across the desk from me organizing some papers in her brief case. She had just arrived and it was my guess that she was about forty. She was very attractive, well groomed and looked much better in person than she did on television. She also had a trait that was very prevalent in our society today, "an attitude". I didn't say anything to bring it on as I had just met her and wasn't going to give her an excuse for her to get any more surly. I wasn't into the battle of the sexes and I genuinely liked and respected women. Those with whom I associate I treat as equals, listen to what they have to say and am still looking for the "right one".

She looked up from doing whatever she was doing and said, "You have quite a bit of juice."

"I don't know about quite a bit, but there is some in the refrigerator under the bar," instantly regretting my words.

There was fire in her eyes and she responded with, "I was called into the president of the network's office and requested to interview you personally as a result of a call from the President of the United States."

"I met him a couple of weeks ago. He seems like a very nice person."

"And

"We made an agreement."

"How does your agreement affect me?"

"The agreement doesn't affect you. I requested you." "What for?"

"For a story that you can't run for a few days and because I owe you an apology."

"I don't understand. I don't know you and I don't remember talking or interviewing you."

"You haven't."

"What story?"

"In a minute I have one to tell you and it is the reason you are here." I could tell from her expression that she thought I was a prime candidate for the "Rubber Ducky" award. I continued with, "Many years ago I used to get up early and watch this particular news program. I felt that based on looking at the other early morning shows that this one was objective, entertaining and reported the news. One day the host announced that a woman was coming on board, as a member of the staff. I still remember my initial reaction."

"What was it?"

I hesitated a minute and replied, "Oh shit."

That brought a little smile to her face as I went on with, "She came on with a fresh perspective and after a few days I found myself looking forward to her part of the program. Her participation was expanded and she was a co-anchor. The program was certainly the best in the morning and everything was fine until one day she announced that she was leaving--going on to bigger and better things. Then I read in the paper that one of the producers of the show didn't like her and it was his decision to replace her. I didn't like it but there wasn't much I could do about it. And then to add insult to injury, when her replacement came on she had the very same hair-do and in my mind she was trying to be a duplicate. I made up my mind that was the last time for me and that program. I felt so strongly about it that I sat and wrote a letter to the network voicing my opinion and for years didn't watch that network. In case you are interested, I'm giving you a little insight to your viewing public. Anyway, a few months ago I just returned from Europe and it was in the afternoon when I arrived home. I poured myself one, kicked off my shoes, and turned on the television. "Donahue" was just coming on. I didn't pay any attention to it at first and then I heard this "a name". I put down the paper. He had three women on and the topic was about their parts in the early morning shows and the difficulties they were having in a male dominated profession. I listened to the show in its entirety and it became very clear to me that I had made an error in judgement. One of the women demonstrated more style and class than I previously thought possible...so, I apologize...and would like to say, in my opinion, "You have reached a level of professionalism of the person you replaced."

She had a very nice smile on her face and wasn't nearly as tough as she was a few minutes before. I wanted to say the women's movement wasn't working. But a problem I have is with my mouth so I kept it closed. She sat [D: I'm sorry but the next page was only half copied. The entire left side of the page is missing but as nearly as I can piece the story together it only revolved around a pretty "nothing" conversation about restaurants and lunch. I do ask you to bear with me because the next couple of pages are charts which seem to be important but I can't discern what the headings are. I believe, however, that the two pages represent only one "organizational" chart but many of the names "I" recognize so I'll turn them over to the editors and perhaps they can piece them together some way. I am not being a very "good sport" about writing this because I can hardly decipher the writing much less keep continuity. 'There are, I'm told, nearly a "foot" of manuscript pages exactly as the first draft was, hand written. I apologize but some of this is just not going to have continuity, I fear. The story jumps to the next written page but I don't know with whom Jackson is speaking as the writing itself takes up at this point on a different writing date and the page numbers are out of order. I believe the last page I couldn't decipher may have ended that little interview with the newscaster...so, I'll pick up exactly as it reads....]
"Have you all the necessary details?"

"Yes sir. I'm to meet him in the lounge and strike up a conversation. I'm to represent myself as a speculator and investor. After we get to know one another I am to suggest that I might have a part time position available. My former employee recently married and is returning to school."

"Don't be really insistent, he might become suspicious."

"Make him believe he played a part in my request."

"Exactly...lead him or let him lead you but do not under-es­timate him. Watch his eyes and keep contact with them. He is perceptive and a very good listener. Be careful of what you say and do not get your wires crossed."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Don't contradict any of your statements."

"He and his wife are separated."

"Yes, and she is with relatives in another state."

"Any reconciliation in the future?"

"Unknown. Doesn't appear to be anyone else. Incidentally, we have only forty two days remaining, unless the schedule is changed."

"Yes sir, I have been briefed on the security...."

"Excuse me, let me take this call."

"Yes, your honor."

",...it has been re-scheduled to November twenty second."

"That isn't a problem, sir. The Dallas police are on a twenty-four hour notice. The parade route is covered. There are two thousand additional patrolmen downtown. The hotel reservation has been prepaid and a deposit made for all expenses to be on the room with "number" only, per your instructions."

"I have a feeling about this young man, the information pro­vided to him will be sufficient."

"Tell me, sir, did we sustain any losses in Cuba?"

"No, however that entire operation was mismanaged from start to finish. We made an error allowing others to have a free hand in the planning and execution of it. We won't make that error in the future. We have taken care of the leak to the Presi­dent."

"As in...."

"He has been transferred to another agency."

"Both Secret Servicemen have their instructions."

"We must be careful with them. Do they suspect anything?"

"They believe that it is to be an attempt only."

"Excellent."

"Both have their advance payment as we agreed."

"The files?"

"Each receive them upon completion, with final payment. The project went 'up in smoke' is to be the explanation given them."

"Then it won't make any difference. Oh yes, is one in the car?"

"Driving."

[D: Good grief, I don't know about this conversation but I do know that one of the killers of Kennedy DROVE THE CAR SO THIS HAS TO BE RELATIVE TO THE KENNEDY ASSASSINATION. Ronn Jackson WAS THERE as I have been told and I guess that before I wade through all this manuscripting we will know the answers. Thank you for dragging along with me because I am trying to make sense as well as put in obviously missing words, etc. I am NOT, however, changing anything...!! I can see that "Sir" is someone in a high-ranking position--probably judicial. The one speaking to "sir" is not, I believe, "Jackson". Thank you Sherlock and Dr. Watson....]

"And the other walking?"

"Yes."

"Make sure he is at the rear of the passenger's side."

"I understand, sir. You do know that our subject's brother is going to be a problem?"

"Not any more than the rest of the family. That situation has been addressed. His entire family has attempted to give the im­pression that they were running something. I have always ques­tioned the motives of a family of wealth and position so affili­ated with the labor movement."

"How many Scotch drinkers are in the AFL-CIO or the UAW?"

"My point exactly. It is a feeble attempt to play both sides. That was the father's influence and he didn't give people the benefit of the doubt. By virtue of him having money he felt that all people with less had to be subservient--or should be. His at­titude was also reflected when he was ambassador. Countries complained of his attitude. He was so arrogant; he ignored them."

"There will probably be the most thorough investigation in history."

"We have anticipated that. That is why I will be appointed to be in charge of the investigation. [D: Oh my goodness, guess WHO this one is? Do we dare guess, after all commander's lessons--WARREN?] The Commission shall seek only the truth. You are going to have to excuse me as I have a decision to deliver for the court. Good luck--and success."

"Thank you, Mr. Justice."

Author's note: This conversation was repeated to me in 1974, over ten years after it took place. The entire con­versation is in book two along with the location and circumstances. That should interest Mr. David Belin and Senator Stokes. I don't take into account Senator Spec­tor, he was, and is, insignificant.