Martinez pulled into a parking lot and parked the car. Walking over toward the passenger door, Martinez glanced at Taft.
"I can handle it Larry, thanks," Taft said as he swiveled to the edge of the seat, then pushed himself to standing with his good arm.
Without any words being spoken, the two men walked to the Vietnam Memorial. Stopping at the nearest end, they looked at the black marble wall of the memorial. The names of the dead were etched deeply into the stone, a silent but visible reminder of the cost of freedom. Walking a short distance away from the slab, the pair sat on a park bench and breathed in the scenery.
"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."
CHAPTER 47
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.