The Einstein Papers

CHAPTER 17

Early the next morning in a room in a motel on Long Island, Taft's mental alarm clock woke him from a dead sleep. As he rose with a start to his elbows, the digital clock sitting on the nightstand was flashing 4:30 in bright red numerals. It was time to go fishing.

Taft rose silently. Quietly slipping out the sliding glass door of the room, he made his way in the darkness to the dock. The sky over the Atlantic Ocean was just beginning to show the light of day. The air in the cove was still as Taft started the fishing boat. The smoke from the exhaust at start-up hung low on the surface of the water. After a brief warm-up period, Taft engaged the drive and pulled away from the dock. With winter approaching, the morning was cool and he pulled on a pair of leather work gloves. Just to be safe, Taft walked fore and aft and checked his running lights to make sure they were working properly. The surface of the ocean was black, reflecting only the red and green from his running lights. He blew his chilled nose into the wind. Once free of the channel from the marina, Taft pushed the throttle forward to the stop and steered through a cluster of small islands that rose in the darkness from the depths of the sea. Taft navigated the fishing boat up the back of Long Island toward Block Island. His sleep had been uneasy, and as if his actions were on autopilot he was returning to the position for the Deep Search he had marked on his chart the day before. As the fishing boat got nearer to Block Island, Taft scanned the sea with his binoculars. The ocean was a dark placid pool, quiet and lonely. Taft looked for the required navigation lights the Deep Search should be displaying. He listened for noise from the ship's horn or engines. No luck. It was as if the Deep Search he had seen yesterday had been a mirage, a ghost vessel that had never really existed.

Taft strained his eyes against the darkness, checked his chart again, then put the throttles into neutral and climbed below into the cabin. As the fishing boat bobbed gently on the ocean surface he called Martinez in Maryland.

Though it was just past 5:00 a.m., the phone was answered on the first ring. "You're not going to believe this shit. I'm on the site, the Deep Search is gone," Taft said without preamble.

"What are you doing up so early?" Martinez asked sleepily.

"I'm a fisherman, remember. It doesn't matter why I'm awake — you kept me from a night of unbridled passion, so don't expect me to worry if you're getting enough beauty sleep."

"Sounds fair," Martinez said with a yawn. "You sure you're at the right site?"

"I have a GPS on the boat. It marks the area to within a few feet."

"That's strange they left during the night," Martinez said. "My last report had them still there at eleven last night. The satellites should have picked up the movement. I'll call and check." Martinez paused as he thought. "Since we're not sure the Deep Search was even tied to the Chinese, what do you think we should do now?"

"Call General B. and ask him. Whatever the case is, I'm here now and can find out." Taft paused, staring at the depth gauge on the boat's dashboard. "I'm within dive depth. I think I'll go down and look around."

"Do you have gear?"

"The agency stocked this boat with everything but a Taco Bell," Taft noted.

"You're diving alone? Without a buddy?" Martinez said quietly.

"I've done it before."

"That's not very safe."

"I could cruise back to Long Island and wait for a dive shop to open," Taft said, laughing. "But then I'd be dragging some innocent civilian into this mess if I found anything interesting."

"You've got a point."

"Then we both agree it's just me?"

"Yes. But if I don't hear from you in an hour, I'm sending out the Coast Guard."

"For what?'

"So they can drag for your body."

"Thanks for the pep talk, old buddy, but you'll hear from me within the hour," Taft said as he hung up the phone.

After rechecking the GPS and moving the fishing boat's position slightly, Taft dropped anchor from the bow and made sure it was set and holding. He returned to the stern and donned a wet suit that was a size too small. Next he checked to make sure the tank of air on board was full. Hooking the buoyancy control device and regulator to the tank, he strapped the set to his back, then slipped on fins and a mask.

Satisfied his equipment was ready, he flopped backward over the side into the cold water. He checked his dive light to make sure it was working properly, then swam to the anchor line. After making sure there were no other boats on the water, he slipped below the inky black surface.

The depth gauge on the fishing boat had put the bottom at just over seventy feet. Taft descended slowly through the murky water, stopping often to equalize his ears. It was a strange sensation being alone in the cold void and he fought off the creeping fear of the unknown.

As he moved downward in the water, he peered out into the blackness. When he was just feet from the ocean bottom, he checked his compass, then tied a line to the anchor and began to swim around the line in ever-widening circles.

The water that surrounded him was like a shroud, lit only by the portable dive light he clutched firmly in his hand. The bottom was silty and Taft swam just above the murk, careful not to disturb the sediment into blinding clouds. His safe bottom time passed quickly, and after glancing at his dive console for a readout, he realized he would soon have to begin his ascent.

There's nothing down here, Taft thought to himself. Probably never was. But at least now he'd seen for himself. Taft was swimming back to the anchor line to ascend when the dive light caught something to his left. He swam slowly toward it. Like a wraith materializing in the gloom, the broken wooden stern section of a sailboat grew out of the darkness. He reached out with his gloved hands and touched the wood, rotten now after its long immersion in seawater. The sloop's small diesel motor had detached itself and lay rusting on the ocean floor. A large red snapper seemed to enjoy swimming around it. Kicking back to the transom of the sunken vessel, Taft rubbed the peeling paint with his gloved hand. As the muck cleared he could just make out the boat's name in his dive light. Windforce.

He swam back to the anchor line and began his ascent.

When Taft surfaced, the yellow glow of daylight was fast approaching. He switched off the dive light and tossed it inside the boat. Next he climbed onto the rear platform of the boat and removed his tank. Then he stood and peeled off his wet suit. Dressed only in his shorts, he balanced on the platform, unbuttoned his fly, and urinated into the ocean. After he had stowed the gear in the proper compartments, he went to the cabin below to phone Martinez.

"Are you fully awake yet?" Taft asked.

"Yeah, I took a shower and I'm having a cup of coffee."

"You prick. I'm freezing my ass off out here."

"You claimed to be the fisherman," Martinez said, slurping loudly from his cup. Taft paused to blow his nose into a paper towel. "I found the stern of a sailboat down there. It looked like the ground nearby had been disturbed."

"No forward section? No bow, masts, or cabin?"

"I believe that was just salvaged by the Deep Search. That would explain the disturbance. It kind of looked like something had been dug up then dragged a little ways."

"Interesting."

"I know the name of the vessel that was salvaged."

"Let's have it."

"Windforce," Taft said quietly. "Judging by the small engine I saw, it was probably a smaller sailboat, but don't hold me to that."

"Let me check into this at the office," Martinez said. "I'll get back to you shortly."

"It would be nice if you did some of the work," Taft said, hanging up on his partner. Taft closed up the phone, then reached into a compartment under a seat and withdrew a frayed green towel to dry himself. Climbing out of the cabin, he pulled on a blue fleece warm-up suit he had in his bag. He then started the fishing boat's engine and let it idle. Walking onto the bow, he pulled the anchor line taut then tied it to a cleat. The boat rocked and the anchor came loose. Feeding the line into the rope locker, he hoisted the anchor from the water and secured it.

With a quick final check of the fishing boat to ensure all was in order, he eased the throttle partway forward to cruising speed and began the trip back. Taft had no way of knowing the impact of the events he had just set into motion.