"Sounds like fun," Chutetski said as he began to climb down the ladder, then stopped.
"Commander?"
"What, Chutes?"
"Slow burn or fast?"
"Make it medium," Oakes said.
Jeff Scaramelli slurped from a cold cup of stale coffee, then tossed his pencil in the air, sticking it in a ceiling tile. After glancing at Choi, who shrugged his shoulders, he turned in his chair.
"We've got nothing," Scaramelli said in a voice tinged by disgust. Benson stared directly into Scaramelli s eyes. "You're sure?" Scaramelli glanced at Choi, then slowly nodded. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, General Benson, but the formula you brought us is like a giant jigsaw puzzle of the Lincoln Memorial."
"Only with Abraham Lincoln's beard missing," Choi added.
"Son of a bitch," Benson muttered.
For two days now Benson had been patiently waiting in Boulder for the physicists to finish their work. The waiting was taking its toll on the general. "Damnit," he said bitterly. "Do you have some idea of what the formula contains? I would like to tell the president something."
Choi glanced at Scaramelli, who nodded. "We think if we could solve the equation we might be able to explain most of the worlds natural phenomena, sir."
"Could you be more specific?" Benson asked.
"Not really," Scaramelli said, staring at Choi.
"How do whales find their way underwater, why migrating birds don't become lost, maybe why mineral deposits are where they are, heck, it's still all up in the air," Choi said quietly.
"If you could understand this formula," Benson asked, "could you build a weapon that would stop an invading army?"
"General," Scaramelli said, "if we had the solution to these equations, I could make a waterfall flow uphill."
"You men keep working," Benson said. "Maybe something will break. I want you to understand something. The solution to these equations is the most important thing you will probably ever work on. The lives of hundreds of thousands of people hang in the balance."
Scaramelli and Choi nodded slowly, then started working again. It had been two days since either man had slept.
The relentless heat of an Indian summer gripped Washington, D.C. The sun seemed to burn with a vengeance brought about by the knowledge that winter would soon be here. In the District of Columbia ordinary citizens went about their daily rituals never suspecting a war that could envelop the world was only days away.
At a coffee shop less than a mile from the White House a clerk from the Department of Veterans Affairs dipped a toast point into his over-easy eggs, then chewed. In front of the reflecting pond on the Washington Mall a retired schoolteacher from New Zealand took a photograph of his wife for their travel album. Edging forward in thick traffic on the road from Silver Springs to the District, an accountant from the General Services Administration listened to a Spanish language tape and repeated the phrases he heard. Special Agent John Taft awoke in his hospital bed in Bethesda. Raising the top of the bed with the electric lift, he stared out the window at the sunny day. As he waited for the nurse to arrive he took stock of his body. He was still tired and sore but his color had improved, and his appetite had returned with a vengeance.
With a little luck this would be the morning he would be returning home for the first time in what seemed like years. He had enjoyed reading the biography of Albert Einstein that Martinez had brought, but he felt strangely removed from the case at this point. Taft had been injured before in the line of duty. Once he was crushed by a truck and had nearly died. He had broken his ankle parachuting into Pakistan with a heavy pack on his back. His arm had been broken while he was being tortured in Vienna, Austria. He had even been shot once before, a round that glanced off the side of his head, opening up his scalp but causing little damage.
Each time he was badly injured he became reflective.
He felt that at his age he should already be a father. He wondered if he should return to school and make a career change. He was good at his job — one of the best in his profession — but he wondered if it was just a matter of time before fate caught up with him and he was killed in some backwater country performing a mission he doubted would hold much value for the world. Sometimes he dreamed of giving it all up — maybe returning to school for his doctorate and becoming a professor in political science—
something where his experience could be used for good. Or maybe just buying a fishing boat and making his living outdoors every day trying to farm the ocean. He wondered if he shouldn't find someone to marry, then opt for an NIA office job and leave the field operations to those younger and more eager.
He was deep in thought when the nurse walked into the room.
"You rang?"
"Have you considered my offer?" Taft asked.
"Yes I have," the nurse said, smiling. "And as interesting as your offer of a full-body massage might seem, I'm afraid I have to work Friday night"
"I'd just break your heart anyway," Taft said in jest. "In that case, who do I have to kill to get breakfast around here?"
The nurse glanced at her clipboard. "This shows you filled out an order for breakfast but not for lunch."
"That's because I'm going home."
The nurse glanced at her clipboard again. "I don't see that anywhere."
"Maybe that's because I haven't told them yet," Taft said. The nurse poked her head out the door. "The food cart is two rooms down, so your food will be here shortly. Do you want me to call the doctor for you to see about releasing you?"
"Sure, give him a call," Taft said. "But bring me my clothes just in case. If I have to escape I don't want my ass hanging out of this gown as I run out the front door."
"I don't know why, John," the nurse said, "but I think I'm going to miss having you as a patient."
"It was the sponge bath we shared," Taft said as the nurse walked out. Twenty minutes later Taft was fully clothed and sitting in a chair in his room, finishing up the last of his breakfast.
"You really should stay here a few more days," Dr. Gundersen advised.
"Appreciate the offer, but I think I'd be happier at home."
"Let me just note on the form that I asked you to stay," Gundersen said. "Then I'll have a nurse bring up a wheelchair."
Martinez entered the room just as Taft finished slipping on his shoes.
"Will you explain to your partner he needs to ride downstairs in a wheelchair?" Gundersen said.
"Don't look at me for help. He never listens to me," Martinez said easily. After thanking the nurses and shaking Gundersen's hand, Taft followed Martinez to the elevator and rode down. Following Martinez across the parking lot, he climbed in the passenger seat of an NIA sedan.
As they pulled out of the parking lot Taft spoke.
"I've been cooped up inside for way too long," he said easily. "Let's stop and let me get some fresh air before you take me home."
"Do you want to go downtown?"
"That's fine," Taft said, rolling down his window.
Taft was quiet as Martinez steered the sedan through light traffic and drove toward the Washington Mall. Taft watched the scene through the open window. The tourists visiting the capital in the fall were mainly older couples, seniors visiting in the off-peak season to save money. The lads who flocked to the nation's capital in summer were already back in school. Most of the citizens of the District were at work, so the area around the mall was not crowded. Taft saw a shadow pass over his arm, which was resting on the edge of the car door. He glanced up at the sky and watched a flock of birds pass overhead. Unlike ducks and geese, which attempt to maintain a formation when they fly, these birds were common wrens and then-flock fluttered about as if their leader was indecisive as to direction. Taft glanced back through the windshield as Martinez slowed the sedan and turned.