Chapter 331: Revenge Never Waits Overnight
When Lin Ran met Lyndon Johnson at the Cape Canaveral Launch Complex, he finally understood what Jenny meant when she said she had never seen Johnson so haggard.
From winning the party primary to being nominated as the Donkey Party’s 1968 presidential candidate, this was a victory for Lyndon Johnson himself, and it also boosted morale for his supporters.
By all rights, he should be happy.
But Lin Ran saw not even a hint of happiness on Lyndon Johnson’s face, only endless exhaustion and bewilderment.
Yes, bewilderment, an emotion almost impossible to see on a veteran politician’s face.
Who was Lyndon Johnson? He represented Texas in Congress for over 20 years, starting as Donkey Party party whip from ’51, serving as party whip for a full decade—a politician as senior as they come.
The famous Johnson treatment also spoke to his toughness and cunning.
When he first became president, he had nearly total support domestically.
Compared to Lyndon Johnson, Fred was a complete rookie, and Lin Ran had never imagined seeing such an expression on his face.
“Mr. President, good evening.” Lin Ran greeted Lyndon Johnson as he stepped down from Air Force One.
The other man had come to Cape Canaveral to view the Burning One Rocket launch this time; the plan was to send two GPS nuclear-powered satellites to 20,000 kilometers altitude, further perfecting the GPS network, as the Star Wars Program gradually became reality.
These two satellites were equipped with automatic explosion modules and communication modules from the 2020 spacetime, which were also the cornerstone of Starlink.
After shaking hands with Lin Ran, Lyndon Johnson said, “Professor, good evening.”
As the two walked side by side toward the presidential lounge, Lyndon Johnson brought up the assassination case: “Professor, according to the Atlanta investigation committee’s findings, the assassination was the act of an individual.”
Lyndon Johnson paused for a moment before saying, “Of course, I know you don’t believe that outcome, because I don’t either.
The deep investigation shows the assassin was named Sergei Viktorovich Petrov, a Russian language translator at the United Nations, who single-handedly carried out this assassination.”
Lin Ran turned to look at Lyndon Johnson, revealing a playful expression: “Russian language translator? Looks like he was sent by the Soviet Union?”
Lyndon Johnson nodded: “High probability, but the Soviet side insists it wasn’t their assassin.
They say it was the assassin’s spontaneous action.
Regarding your condemnation, the Kremlin also claimed at a press conference that it was spontaneous behavior; we found no evidence.
Right now, the White House and the Kremlin can only trade barbs; the White House still needs the Kremlin to rein in North Vietnam, but we’re planning some sanctions in diplomacy and the economy for now.”
Lin Ran didn’t dwell on it, because he knew the Soviet Union would eventually disintegrate someday; in this spacetime, that day might come early or late, but it would come.
Lin Ran then asked, “Interesting, how did a Russian language translator infiltrate the security team? How did he manage that?”
Lyndon Johnson said wryly, “That’s the interesting part. The investigation shows the BI lent assistance, but the FBI official who handled it has committed suicide, and Edgar Hoover has submitted his resignation to the White House.
We strongly suspect Edgar Hoover is involved.
Professor, this is terrifying, absolutely terrifying—Edgar Hoover cooperating with the Kremlin; just thinking about it keeps me up at night.”
Lin Ran finally understood the source of the other’s haggardness and bewilderment.
It wasn’t just party infighting or Robert Kennedy turning against him—those were understandable; more crucially, it was Edgar Hoover’s betrayal. As a major driver of McCarthyism in the ’50s, as anti-communist as they come, with surveillance and crackdowns on anyone suspicious.
Any hint of communist leanings, and Hoover would surveil or even detain you for investigation; the infamous COINTELPRO was his brainchild. For such a man to be tied to the Soviet Union, cooperating with the Kremlin to assassinate a White House senior official.
This somewhat upended Lyndon Johnson’s worldview.
Lin Ran said softly, “Mr. President, nothing in this world is impossible. Maybe both of us are commies.”
Lyndon Johnson, whose nerves had been taut, finally relaxed at this “joke”: “Professor, haha, that’s not a funny joke.
If both of us were commies, this country would be doomed.”
Lin Ran neither confirmed nor denied, then asked, “So, Mr. President, how do you plan to deal with Hoover?”
After a moment of silence, Lyndon Johnson said, “If I had another four years, I would definitely launch an investigation into Edgar Hoover, no matter how many Washington politicians’ dirty secrets he holds—I’d get to the bottom of it!
But if I don’t win this election, I’m not sure Nixon would dare; Edgar Hoover is too terrifying—he holds too many secrets, especially if he has a cooperative relationship with the Kremlin, then the intelligence he holds is likely far more than we guess.”
Lin Ran immediately understood: such a earth-shattering scandal couldn’t be exposed now. America’s 1968 was a stormy 1968, rife with too many failures and scandals.
Assassinations from Martin Luther King to Lin Ran to Robert Kennedy never stopped; the Spring Offensive from North Vietnam turned them into Muggles, forcing a ceasefire; the only bright spot was the Star Wars Program progressing faster than expected, with reusable rocket footage proving America’s strength.
But if Edgar Hoover was tied to the Kremlin, even just a cooperative relationship, it would destroy the White House’s trustworthiness in the public’s eyes.
The current odds of winning were 10%; exposing a scandal at Hoover’s level would drop the win rate to 0%.
Even though Edgar Hoover wasn’t appointed by Johnson—the man had been FBI director since 1924.
But the problem erupted on your watch.
And if Edgar Hoover went down fighting, exposing all the dirt he knew, the situation would spiral out of control.
The Kremlin’s choice to assassinate a scientist was a loss; exposing Washington’s dirt to the public would be an even bigger scandal.
And Lyndon Johnson saying that if elected, he’d investigate Edgar Hoover in his final four years was because he’d have no reelection pressure and could act justly.
But could he really?
Lin Ran was skeptical.
If they couldn’t even crack Kennedy’s death, the Edgar Hoover case probably wasn’t any easier.
Lyndon Johnson said, “Professor, I need your support. Only if you back me will Edgar Hoover possibly face legal judgment.
Nixon couldn’t do it.”
Lin Ran said with a wry smile, “Mr. President, I’ve refrained from taking a stance in the presidential election to this day—that’s already my greatest support for you.
Think about it: if I publicly backed Nixon, what would happen? Nixon and I met back in 1962 when he lost the California governor election; when he wanted to quit politics and just be a lawyer, I gave him advice.
You know about that.
Even before this election, he came to me seeking support, but I never agreed.
Not even up to this point.
Once I announce support for Nixon, his win rate hits 99%. Mr. President, that’s rare loyalty, isn’t it?
If I back you this year, I’ll have to pick someone to support in the presidential election four years from now.”
After a pause, Lin Ran’s voice sounded in Lyndon Johnson’s ear: “Whenever you bet, there’s always a day you lose.”
Lyndon Johnson asked, “Professor, didn’t you say you’d never fail?”
Lin Ran laughed: “Right, so I don’t bet—no bet, no failure.”
He then added, “One more thing: I can wait. As long as I’m in Washington, Edgar Hoover will eventually face legal judgment at my hands.”
Lyndon Johnson got it immediately: Lin Ran had always been in Washington, his influence and power only growing; at just 30, he could work in Washington for at least thirty years.
Tired of being NASA director? He could run for congressman; tired of that? Become a minister. No president would mind giving Lin Ran a position—that was determined by strength.
As for Hoover? Without the FBI director position, his power would only shrink, and keep shrinking.
Settling scores was inevitable someday.
The night at the Cape Canaveral Launch Center fell into silence. Lin Ran looked at the distant Burning One Rocket, thinking: Why wait for that day? A gentleman takes revenge—do it right now.
1125 16th Street NW, Washington D.C.: In January 1964, after Lyndon Johnson signed the executive order appointing Lin Ran as NASA director, Lin Ran’s first act wasn’t NASA work but calling Dobrynin as V.
From then on, the Kremlin had a leash on Edgar Hoover.
Late that night, a knock sounded at the door: bang bang bang~ bang bang bang~
At the Soviet Embassy, even the dogs were brought from Moscow; the gatekeepers were too.
Sakharov was dozing in the gatehouse, though by rules he had to stay until 6 a.m. the next morning for shift change.
But on quiet nights, even napping wouldn’t draw ire from Dobrynin, so post-2 a.m. naps at the desk became habit for night shifts.
Now just ten minutes to 2 a.m., Sakharov was already asleep ahead of time.
The knocking shattered the night’s silence and Sakharov’s sleep.
So late—who would come here?
Sakharov was full of questions inside; he opened the door and jumped, as the visitor wore a black robe and V mask on his face. “I’m V. I need to see Ambassador Dobrynin. Just tell him the January 16, 1964 call was from me.”
Sakharov whispered in surprise: “V?”
It was indeed V’s mask; gatekeepers killed time with newspapers, and he’d seen this mask more than once.
Star of conspiracy theories: tabloids without stories would drag V out, fabricating tales. In papers, V was like 007—flying, invincible.
Of course, whether hero or villain depended on the tabloid: conservatives called V a Soviet-trained assassin; civil rights papers portrayed him as a chivalrous hero righting wrongs.
But whatever the image, Sakharov scoffed at claims V was a Soviet-trained assassin.
If V were really tied to the Soviet Union, how had he never seen him?
Now he had.
Moments later, Sakharov snapped to: Damn, V spoke fluent Russian more standard than this Moscow native. He grumbled inwardly: Kremlin bigwigs are better liars, not even blinking.
Clearly V was one of their own, yet they denied it in public interviews.
This even made him doubt if the professor’s assassination was really Kremlin-ordered—after all, they had motive and ability.
Only when V tapped the table did Sakharov shake off distractions: “Sir, I’ll notify Dobrynin right away.”
Yuri was jolted awake by the phone: “Counselor Yuri, a man claiming to be V is at the gate, waiting to see Ambassador Dobrynin. He added that the January 16, 1964 call was from him.”
In 1964, Yuri was first secretary; now promoted to counselor. Sakharov couldn’t reach Dobrynin directly—he had to go through him.
Yuri woke instantly; with his promotion, he knew Dobrynin was linked to V, but not if V was Kremlin or specifics.
He said hurriedly, “Have him wait at the gate. I’ll notify Ambassador Dobrynin now.”
Such precise info meant the man was V or some sensitive figure.
In the embassy basement, Lin Ran met Dobrynin.
The man had a cigar in his mouth, vodka in hand, apologizing: “V, this is our first meeting. Sorry, an old man needs this to wake up fast for our talk.”
No questions, no doubts—just the date and vibe convinced Dobrynin it was V.
Intuition was uncanny; as ambassador, Dobrynin had seen everyone from Moscow to Washington to New York. (He’d been UN deputy secretary-general in 1957.)
He sensed the aura of a superior on the man, so obvious countless guesses flashed in his mind.
“Robert Kennedy, Hubert Humphrey, General LeMay, Nelson Rockefeller.”
His mind flashed silhouettes of similar height and build.
Of course, Dobrynin never guessed Randolph Lin—the morning paper said President Lyndon Johnson was heading to Florida’s Cape Canaveral Launch Center to watch tomorrow’s Burning One Rocket launch with the professor.
He’d even mocked Lyndon Johnson for a desperate fight, reminding the public of his aerospace achievements.
The professor was in Florida—how could he be in Washington?
He took another deep breath of the vodka-and-cigar mix in the air, then asked: “Mr. V, what brings you here?”
Voice control was basic for Lin Ran; since becoming V, his voice differed from his real one: “I need two pistols, Edgar Hoover’s exact location, and a car.”
Dobrynin’s eyes narrowed: “You going to kill Hoover?”
Lin Ran nodded: “Correct. Perfect time to kill.”
Dobrynin scrutinized the masked intruder, ideas swirling: the Kremlin hadn’t squeezed Hoover’s remaining value—how could they let you kill him.
Whether V could do it didn’t cross his mind.
Any possibility, and he wouldn’t allow it.
“Sorry.”
Before “sorry” finished, Lin Ran cut in: “Dobrynin, if you won’t give them, I’ll just clear out every Soviet person in this embassy top to bottom.”
He drew a pistol from the black robe, aiming at Dobrynin.
Lin Ran had decided early: if no Hoover, wipe the Soviet Embassy clean—interest from the Kremlin.
This twist Dobrynin never foresaw: “You’re insane? This could spark war between our countries, even nuclear war.”
Laughter from behind the mask: “I don’t care. War sounds good—I’d love to see it.
Dobrynin, your choice now. Five seconds.”
“Five
Four
Three”
The gun stayed trained on Dobrynin.
Dobrynin then noticed the black gloves—no traces.
“3201 M Street NW, Georgetown neighborhood, northwest Washington D.C.” Dobrynin rattled off the address.
He added: “Gun and car keys in the safe to your right rear; car in the lot, plate ******.”
He tossed the keys to V.
Lin Ran caught them, chuckling: “Deal, Mr. Dobrynin. You know—if it’s a fake address, this year’s assassinations get one more.”
Lin Ran turned to the safe; Dobrynin reached into his jacket pocket for a pistol—Lin Ran glanced back, shooting the Makarov with PB suppressor from his hand, fast and precise, no hesitation.
The bullet hit the pistol, numbing Dobrynin’s whole arm.
“Mr. Dobrynin, looks like you’re not being honest.”
This shot fully calmed Dobrynin; he said nothing, knowing his life was in another’s hands.
Lin Ran took pistols from the safe, picked up Dobrynin’s from the floor, and said on leaving: “We’ll settle this account eventually.”
Dobrynin thought it meant his rash move; unaware Lin Ran meant the Kremlin’s order for the Russian translator to assassinate him.
Lin Ran left the basement; Dobrynin followed, watching him exit the embassy gate, not ordering security to stop him.
This wasn’t Moscow—he dared not make such a racket late night.
Lin Ran didn’t take the car; he vanished into the night.
Dobrynin rushed upstairs to call Edgar Hoover, warn him to watch his back.
He still couldn’t accept Hoover’s death.
Unbeknownst, Lin Ran was already in an alley near Hoover’s residence.
He moved leap by leap, leopard-agile.
The house was a two-story red brick building, surrounded by manicured lawn and iron fences.
Security was tight; though not director, his boyfriend Clyde Tolson was now director.
Security, police dogs, patrolling guards—all present.
What a year for assassinations—Hoover had plenty of enemies.
He vaulted the fence fluidly, but the dogs noticed.
Gunshots: dogs down; as security drew, Lin Ran drew too—men dropped.
Inside, Hoover sat in the study in an old robe, desk littered with documents and whiskey bottles. Silencer couldn’t fully muffle shots; gun and phone rang together.
Phone kept ringing; gunshots didn’t stop.
The FBI-spun security here was paper-thin against a superhuman.
Hoover looked up sharply, eyes bulging; the black-robed, V-masked figure was at the room door.
By reaction time, the whole building’s security was cleared.
“V? Get out!” Hoover roared, reaching for the drawer pistol—but too late.
Lin Ran first shot Hoover’s hand, disabling it.
Now Lin Ran was practiced.
Hoover’s face flushed, gasping: “You’re mad! I’m the FBI legend! You’ll regret this!”
Fear, anger, regret swirled inside him.
Hoover once thought himself invincible; now he felt power’s fragility.
Lin Ran laughed: “Avenge President Kennedy.”
Gun to Hoover’s forehead, trigger pulled.
A muffled “bang”—silencer swallowed the echo.
Hoover’s body slumped, eyes still open in endless shock.
Lin Ran wrote in blood on the wall: For JFK.
For John Kennedy.
Then a big V below.
“President Kennedy, I owe you nothing now,” Lin Ran thought.
If Kennedy hadn’t made so many enemies all wanting him dead, Lin Ran wouldn’t have minded protecting him.
But too many foes—he couldn’t cover it all.
Couldn’t just abandon NASA to bodyguard Kennedy.
Killing the prime evil this time counted as vengeance for Kennedy.
One shot downed Hoover; his own roll saved Robert Kennedy from death. Lin Ran figured the old promotion favor was repaid.
He then left the villa; the rooms were full of bodies, the bell still ringing nonstop.
