As they cleared the no-wake area outside the marina the dive instructor called down to the deck from the fly-bridge. "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 hand-held 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.
CHAPTER 48
As soon as the black Sikorsky helicopter touched down at the marina on Long Island four commandos leapt from the side door and raced toward Taft and Martinez, who were seated in the rental car. Dressed entirely in black and toting black composite assault rifles, the commandos' demeanor was as serious as the situation. They quickly assumed a defensive position around the car, and Taft waited until they were in place before rolling down the window.
"I take it you're our ride," Taft said to the commando nearest the door.
"Our orders are to guard you aboard the helicopter," said the commando. With the board clutched under his arm still wrapped in the wet towel, Taft climbed from the driver's seat. Martinez rose from the passenger seat. Surrounded by the commandos, the pair proceeded to the helicopter. Climbing through the side door, the half-dozen men quickly seated and belted themselves in place. Two minutes later the helicopter was airborne.