She rose to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. "You play hard-to-get really well, John," she said.
Taft smiled.
"Do you have any moral arguments against quickies?" the lady asked.
"No," Taft said easily.
"Got a spare ten minutes?" she said seductively.
Estimating the distance to Andrews and the time it would take if he broke the speed limit, Taft winked at her. "I've got fifteen."
"Saddle up, cowboy," the lady said as she sprinted for the bedroom. Twenty minutes later Taft s Ramcharger was doing ninety on the Capitol Beltway. Four hours later, in a fishing boat nearing Block Island, Taft backed off the throttle and the boat slowly settled in the water as it came off plane. Directly ahead lay the salvage ship Deep Search. Walking back to the stern of the fishing boat Taft raised the engine hatch cover, then peered for several minutes into the crowded space. The Deep Search bobbed quietly on the surface only seventy-five yards away. Unlocking the boat's communications box, Taft turned on the VHF radio and keyed the microphone.
"Ship off Block Island, this is the fishing boat off your port bow." The answer came immediately. "Go ahead, this is the ship off Block Island," the radio blared.
Taft noticed the ship did not identify itself by name, strange in itself.
"I'm having fuel problems," Taft lied. "I need another fuel filter. Can you help me out?"
"Hold one minute," the voice on the radio said.
As Taft waited, he found an old package of black licorice in a side compartment of the boat and chomped off a piece. The candy was dry and cracked as he chewed. On board the Deep Search, the captain and first officer held a rushed meeting. They had been ordered to stay on station above the Windforce and talk to no one until the recovery could begin. They also knew that to anyone monitoring the radio, a refusal to help a stranded boat was tantamount to burning a church in Rome. It would definitely be noticed.
Taft waited as the next several minutes passed slowly.
Suddenly the radio crackled. "The chief engineer states he has no filters; he suggests you bypass the filter until you reach port," the radio voice advised. Whoever they are, they're sharp, Taft thought. "Roger that, I will attempt to bypass." Taft returned to the stern and spent twenty minutes doing nothing to the fuel filter. Satisfied that he had taken long enough, he straightened up. Returning to the helm, he turned the key and the engine roared to life. Then he closed the hatches, engaged the drives, and set out toward the Deep Search. As the fishing boat drew near, several men quickly ran onto the deck of the salvage ship and waved him away. Taft observed the men carefully to see if they were wearing any type of uniform or patches that might identify them. He noticed nothing.
The radio on board the fishing boat barked. "Pull back," the voice ordered. Taft backed off the throttles and idled the fishing boat alongside the Deep Search, looking carefully to see if he could determine what work the crew was performing. He could not. The Deep Search appeared to be a catamaran, but no trawl nets or work gear could be seen. After marking the long-range navigation system — or LORAN—
coordinates, as well as the GPS numbers, so he could find the site in the future, he reached for the radio.
"Just wanted to thank you. I'm running fine now."
"You are most welcome. We are doing some very precise environmental work that you are disturbing. Could you please leave this area?" the voice on the radio asked politely.
"Roger, Captain, I'm leaving for port," Taft said finally. Taft cranked the wheel of the fishing boat hard to port and engaged the throttle. He pulled away, leaving the crew of the Deep Search slowly shaking their heads. Bringing the boat quickly on plane, he dialed up Martinez on the secure phone.
"I didn't see anything unusual," he said as soon as Martinez answered. "They claimed they were doing environmental work. I didn't see anything to suspect they weren't, but I recorded the position on my charts just in case."
"Sounds good," Martinez agreed. "I'm still working on tracking down the registered owner of Deep Search. Once I do I'll get back to you."
"Can I go home yet?" Taft asked.
"Not just yet."
"You're starting to annoy me," Taft said as he hung up the phone, locked the cabinet, and steered the fishing boat back toward Montauk Point.
CHAPTER 16
Later that same night a light drizzle began falling on the salvage ship Deep Search. Her twin catamaran hulls allowed the vessel to ride smoothly on rough seas and she barely rocked as she anchored atop the Windforce. Inside the recovery bay of the Deep Search, a yellow glow from the lights overhead bathed a pair of salvage technicians who were busy checking the slings and winches in preparation for the job ahead. Captain Holtz paced nervously as he spoke into the satellite telephone. "Yes, we are certain of the identity. Shall we proceed to salvage the wreck?" Over eight thousand miles across the globe the Chinese prime minister and a small group of men conferred. At last, their spokesman acknowledged Holtz's question.
"Yes, bring it up, then make your way to Boston as quickly as possible."
"We can only recover nine-tenths of the boat easily. What little is left of the stern section is broken into too many pieces to raise."
"It's only a small section of the stern, right?" the spokesman asked.
"Correct, only a few feet. What little there is left is not worth the intense effort necessary to raise it," Captain Holtz answered.
"That's fine. Leave the stern pieces and raise only the main section."
"Very good," Holtz said.
Holtz replaced the phone and turned to First Officer Dietz.
"Let's do it," Holtz said quickly.
In the recovery bay the remote-operated vehicle was dropped down into the water. When it touched bottom, the operators directed jets of water to bore tunnels under the hull.
The ROVs pincer arms held wide canvas straps that trailed behind the jets of water and wrapped around the hull. Maneuvering to the other side of the hull the ROV grabbed the end of the straps poking from beneath the wreck, then propelled to the surface with the straps in its arms. The straps were returned to the recovery bay and the ends were taken by the salvage crewmen and fed into electric winches.
Engaging the motors on the winches the straps were slowly tightened. As Captain Holtz monitored the progress from the pilothouse with the underwater camera, the sailboat was winched upright on the bottom.
Once upright and stabilized, the Windforce, a battered hulk containing the greatest scientific discovery of all time, began to make its way slowly to the surface. Twenty minutes later, the Windforce broke through the water in the recovery bay and was winched into the open air. Almost immediately, the doors of the bay slid closed underneath and the sloop sat in slings, above water once again.
In the recovery bay the intercom blared: "Stations please, we will soon be under way." The noise emanating from the engine room increased as the Deep Search set a course for Boston at twelve knots. While the salvage ship made its way north, the salvage technicians immediately began to probe the interior of the old sailboat. The salvagers showed little respect for the skeletal remains of Ivar Halversen. The bones forming his skeleton were yanked free from where they were trapped and tossed into a corner of the bay. They formed a crude pile of what appeared to be bleached driftwood. The barren pile was unceremoniously crowned with the skull, which had been picked clean by crabs.
Like grave robbers in an ancient tomb, the salvagers on the Deep Search showed little respect for history. To them, the Windforce, a boat that belonged in a museum, was little more than an assemblage of planks. It was merely a rotting, soggy pile of junk sheathing a package they had been paid handsomely to plunder.