The Einstein Papers (38 page)

“You want one of these beers?” Martinez said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

“I didn’t think you’d remembered my request,” Taft said.

“I figured Gundersen would be pissed if I gave you one in the hospital. But I didn’t forget. Ask and you shall receive-that’s my motto,” Martinez said, smiling.

Together the men sipped the lukewarm beer in silence.

“You okay, John? You seem a little quiet,” Martinez asked.

“Ah, you know,” Taft said, “just wondering about my place in all this.”

“If it helps any, Jeff Scaramelli, the physicist at the Advanced Physics Lab who’s been working with Choi on the Einstein papers, said to say thank you. It turns out his father was one of Einstein’s drivers in college and Jeff grew up in awe of the man. He calls the papers the greatest scientific discovery of the twentieth century,” Martinez said as he finished the beer and tossed the empty into a trash can next to the bench.

“Then my labors were not in vain.”

“Not completely, anyway, but there is a snag. It seems that Scaramelli and Choi still can’t understand what the theory is all about,” Martinez said slowly. “Apparently, the last and final key to the equation was not among the papers we recovered. That was according to the last report I received, which was just before I left the office to pick you up at the hospital.”

Taft sipped his beer quietly, then shook his head as if disgusted.

Martinez stared at his friend. “I’ll say it again, are you all right? You’ve been acting strange since we left the hospital.”

“Just thinking,” Taft said as he straightened up on the bench. “So you’re telling me we chased someone halfway across the country, plus I was nearly killed recovering these papers, and now the physicists can’t figure out what the equations mean?”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Martinez said quietly.

“I’ll say,” Taft said as he took another sip. “Are they going to work on the equations some more?”

“That’s the word, but apparently they can already tell they won’t be able to solve the final equation as it stands. The physicists all agree some important part is missing.”

Taft closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He still felt tired and sore, and now the stitches in his shoulder were itching. And now this. Everything he had done was a giant waste of time.

Some say don’t sweat the little things and the big things will take care of themselves; others believe it’s all in the details. One little thing was nagging Taft. What little thing was he missing? In his mind he ran through all that had happened.

And then it hit him.

Taft’s disgust gradually gave way to a thin smile and finally rolling laughter.

Martinez stared at his partner in concern. “Maybe we ought to take you home. You look like you could use some rest.”

Taft shook his head at his partner. “Not quite yet,” he said confidently. “We need to go back to the car now and call the general.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Martinez said as he rose and began to follow Taft toward the parking lot.

“The final equation,” Taft said, smiling. “I know where to find it.”

At Andrews Air Force base outside Washington, D.C., a dark gray Gulfstream jet sat on the runway with its door ramp down and engines warming. Martinez drove to the side of a hangar, then parked and locked the sedan.

“You’re sure you feel up to this?” he said to Taft as they walked toward the jet. “The agency has other personnel who can handle this project.”

“I’ve gone this far,” Taft said, “I want to see this through. I need to make sure I’m right.”

Martinez nodded, and knowing that further argument would be futile, climbed up the ramp and made his way to the rear of the jet. Taft stopped at the door and signaled the pilot in the cockpit that they were aboard. The ramp retracted and in less than a minute the Gulfstream was taxiing toward the runway. Three minutes later they were airborne.

Flying east, Taft and Martinez arrived at the Long Island airport in early afternoon. They were met at the door of the Gulfstream by an NIA agent, who motioned to his car. Once they were seated inside they were driven toward the water. The agent followed Taft’s directions, and they arrived at the marina in less than ten minutes.

“We’re going to be gone a couple of hours,” Taft explained to the agent. “You can leave and return later if you’d like.”

Sliding the sedan into park, the agent reached under the seat and withdrew a paperback novel. “My orders are to wait here until you finish,” he said, and using the novel for a writing surface, scribbled a number on a business card and handed it to Taft. “Here’s my cellular number. If you need anything, just call.”

As Taft and Martinez climbed from the car, the agent was already thumbing through the paperback. Stopping at the grocery store inside the marina building, Taft purchased a box of trash bags and a roll of duct tape, then walked next door to the local dive shop. Taft stared at the certifications on the wall as he waited until a compressor in the rear shut off and the owner emerged from the rear of the shop.

“Are you Walt Taylor?”

“In the flesh,” the man said, smiling.

Taylor appeared near fifty years old but fit from a lifetime of outdoor activity. His skin was tanned and leathery. His graving hair was covered with a black bandanna, and a thin scar ran along the side of his face. The scar was the result of scraping his face along an iron support beam inside a shipwreck. He walked with a slight limp from suffering the bends when he stayed underwater too long. All Taylor needed was an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder and he’d be at home in a pirate movie.

“I need to hire you for the rest of the afternoon,” Taft told Taylor without preamble, “for a private charter.”

“Charter to where?” Taylor asked.

“I need to dive a wreck out near Block Island.”

“Are you both diving?” Taylor said, pointing to Martinez.

“No,” Taft said. “I want you to dive with me. Larry here will stay topside and watch over the boat.”

“I’ll need to close my shop for the afternoon. I don’t have anyone that can take over.” Taylor turned his head sideways slightly as he sized up Taft. “I’m afraid the cost is going to be a flat five hundred dollars.”

Taft smiled at Taylor. “The government is paying for this trip, so money won’t be a problem.”

Taylor smiled. “The boat’s out back. It’s already fueled but it’ll take me a few minutes to load up the gear.”

“We’ll meet you in back in a couple of minutes,” Taft said.

Taft motioned to Martinez, then walked outside to the other agent waiting in the car. “Call General Benson for me and ask him to contact the air force to see what’s the fastest plane they have that will make it to Colorado without refueling. If I’m successful we’ll need to transport something west ASAP.”

The agent nodded. “No problem, Agent Taft.” He was reaching for his phone as Taft walked away. Taylor had finished stowing the gear when they returned. Taft stared at the name on the stern as he and Martinez climbed aboard the dive boat. The agents cast off the lines and Taylor, seated above in the flybridge, pulled smoothly away from the dock.

The dive vessel, which was named Sir Walter, was new but spartan in furnishings. Designed for diving, not pleasure cruising, its catamaran hull provided a stable platform but little in the way of creature comforts-a single head below, tank racks lining the gunwales, and a pair of large portable ice chests mounted on the deck. The seating consisted of benches padded with cushions covered in beige vinyl.

As they cleared the no-wake area outside the marina the dive instructor called down to the deck from the flybridge. “You two grab a seat. I’m going to take us up to cruising speed.”

Taft and Martinez settled into a bench running down the center of the boat as Taylor advanced the throttles on the pair of 250 horsepower Evinrude FITCH outboard engines. The boat immediately responded. Once at cruising speed, they made fast time to the site off Block Island where the Deep Search had raised the Windforce.

Taft directed the dive-boat owner where to anchor using a handheld GPS unit. Once they were over the spot, Taft shouted to Martinez, who unhooked the anchor and dropped it into the water. When they were sure the anchor was set and holding, Taylor backed Sir Walter off a short distance and shut down the engines. Climbing down from the flybridge, he turned to Martinez.

“In case there’s an emergency I left the keys in the ignition.”

“Gotcha,” Martinez said.

Taft removed his shirt, exposing the bandage over his shoulder wound. “Tape me up,” Taft said to Martinez.

Taylor stared at the bandage, began to say something, then decided to remain silent.

Martinez wrapped Taft’s shoulder then bound the area with the tape.

Once the taping was complete Taylor helped Taft pull the wet suit up over his shoulder, now wrapped in a plastic garbage sack.

Taylor couldn’t help but notice as Taft winced in pain. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly.

Taft gritted his teeth and nodded.

Martinez glanced at his partner. “Are you sure you’ll be all right? You lost a fair amount of blood. I don’t want you blacking out down there.”

“This won’t take long,” Taft said.

Taylor and Martinez stared at one another. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep a close eye on him,” Taylor said. “I haven’t lost a diver yet, and it’s too damn late in my life to start now.”

Taylor quickly pulled on his wet suit, then checked both sets of gear in preparation for the descent. After being helped into his BCD, Taft slipped his fins over his feet, placed his mask over his eyes, and took a breath from his regulator. After giving a quick thumbs-up sign, he climbed onto the dive platform then stepped into the water. Taylor quickly put on his gear and followed.

Taft jerked in pain as the saltwater crept inside his wet suit and slipped under the plastic and tape. The jury-rigged waterproofing job on his shoulder had not worked. The stitches were already soaked and Dr. Gundersen would later need to replace them. Taft waited as Taylor adjusted his gear in the water and signaled all was okay.

Communicating with one another through hand signals, the two men swam to the anchor line, then began to descend slowly into the depths.

When they reached the bottom, Taft began to swim in a circle. The water was cloudy and the light he carried seemed to reflect back as much as it pierced through the murk. Taft swam slowly, his arms outstretched, feeling as well as looking. Luckily the GPS coordinates he had written down were on the money. He found the small stern piece from Windforce after only a short search.

Kneeling on the ocean floor, Taft motioned for Taylor, who had kneeled next to him, to help him raise the rusted stern hatch. Jamming his dive knife into a crack, Taft pried the crack wider until their hands could fit inside.

The hatch was warped and weathered from its years underwater, but it gave way slowly as the two men rugged. When the opening was large enough, Taft slid one leg into the opening. Standing on the floor of the ocean and supporting himself using Taylor’s shoulder, Taft wrenched the hatch with his leg.

Once Taft had the hatch two-thirds open, he stopped to look. Several small crabs scurried from the opening as Taft shined his light inside. With his light Taft searched the area carefully while Taylor watched.

Taft found absolutely nothing. The inside was as barren as the surface of the moon.

Reaching out his gloved hand, Taft slammed the hatch closed angrily. All this work for nothing, he thought to himself. Thousands of man-hours, millions of dollars, and for what? A giant practical joke that had brought the world to the edge of annihilation?

Finally Taft had to accept harsh reality-the theory was never completed. He stood on the ocean floor and exhaled a sigh through his regulator. Shrugging his shoulders at Taylor, he willed himself to relax. It was not the end of the world: at least not yet.

He stared at the stern section in disgust.

His wrenching open of the hatch had pulled the buried stern section slightly from the silty bottom. Taft waited as the murky water was cleared by the current. He began to make out the outline of what appeared to be symbols. Taft touched the hatch and felt something whittled into the wooden surface. Moving rapidly, he tore off his gloves and traced his fingers along the etched wood.

Hands shaking from the cold, he was beginning to feel the excitement of possibly wringing victory from defeat. Taft ripped the board from its worm-eaten mounting. Bringing the board up to his face mask, he shined the dive light onto the etchings. For a few seconds he stared at the carved letters and symbols in shock. Smiling inside his mask, he motioned with his hand to Taylor that it was time to surface. Kicking with his fins, he started his ascent with the board safely in his hands.

When they broke the surface they were directly alongside the catamaran.

Taft yanked his regulator from his mouth. “Larry,” he shouted, and Martinez’s head appeared over the side of the Sir Walter. “Grab this.”

Taft passed the board up to Martinez, who quickly wrapped it in a wet towel.

Swimming to the dive platform Taft climbed the ladder then stepped onto the deck of the boat and removed his gear. Walking back, he helped Taylor get inside the boat and helped him off with his tank.

Taft removed his badge from the pocket of his pants and flashed it open. Looking deep into Taylor’s eyes Taft said quietly, “This is a matter of national security. It’s important for you to forget this ever happened.”

Taylor nodded. “What happened?”

“Thanks, Walt,” Taft said as he toweled off his face. “There will be a nice bonus for a successful job.”

“Works for me,” Taylor said as he pulled off his wet suit. Then he walked to the bow of the Sir Walter and pulled the anchor. A few moments later he climbed up to the flybridge, started the engines, and set a course for Long Island.

Taft and Martinez set the board on the bench and stared at the inscriptions. With Taylor hard on the throttles, the group aboard the Sir Walter was back at the dock in under an hour.