The Einstein Papers (32 page)

“We’re observing a Chinese spy ship named Carondelet at the mouth of the Potomac. We believe the Einstein papers are on board, or soon will be. At midnight the Coast Guard will board the vessel and seize her. Why do you ask?’

“The Potomac River monitoring system in Potomac Beach just located a Chinese-made mini-sub steaming up the Potomac,” Taft blurted out.

Punching the gas pedal to the floor, Taft steered around an eighteen-wheeler. Martinez placed one hand on the dashboard as he clutched the passenger-assist strap on the door.

“They must have launched the submarine from the Carondelet when we weren’t watching,” Benson said quickly. “Can you and Martinez intercept it?”

“We’re driving toward the sub right now. To receive the directions from the monitoring station in Potomac Beach we need to hang up on you and call them back.”

“Which way are you headed?” Benson asked.

“The sub just passed under the bridge at Dahlgren, Virginia,” Taft said.

“I’ll send backup,” Benson said as the phone went dead.

Martinez grabbed the cellular phone from Taft and dialed the computer room at Potomac Beach. “Where’s the sub now?” he asked.

“It just passed the bridge at Dahlgren and is angling north to a cove nearby,” the contractor said.

Martinez repeated the information so there could be no mistake. Taft pushed the accelerator of the sedan to the floor. Their NIA sedan was doing ninety as they roared over the bridge at Dahlgren.

“Tell Potomac Beach to keep the screens split. I need to know when the sub breaks to the surface,” Taft said.

Martinez relayed the instructions and waited. Taft watched the road ahead intently. Lines of trees on each side of the road made it seem the men were traveling through a tunnel. Ahead Taft noticed lights. They were entering the town of Bel Alton.

“The sub is turning toward shore. The location is almost directly across from the town of Bel Alton,” the contractor noted.

Taft slammed on the brakes in the center of Bel Alton, then swung the car in a high-speed 180-degree turn. “I saw a road back there leading to the water,” he shouted to Martinez.

Pulling off the pavement, Taft steered down a dirt road. The road was tree-lined and fallen leaves littered the packed earth. In the rearview mirror, lit by the car’s taillights, Taft could see a cloud of leaves being blown in the air.

He reached to the dash and killed his headlights, then continued on with only the parking lights for illumination. The sedan was a wraith in the night racing toward a clash with destiny brought about by dumb luck

“The sub is rising to the surface,” the contractor said over the cellular phone.

Rolling down his window, Taft sniffed at the air. “We’re getting close to the water,” he said to Martinez.

Taft was watching to the side of the sedan as they sped down the road. He noticed a path leading through the forest toward the water. He slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a sliding stop. Jamming the transmission into reverse, he drove ten yards backward and wrenched the vehicle into park.

Running to the rear of the car, Taft opened the trunk and rooted around inside. “Here’s what I need,” he said to Martinez as he pocketed a road flare. “Do you have an extra clip?”

“Yes,” Martinez said as he removed his extra clip from a pouch on his belt and handed it to Taft.

“Stay here, Larry. This job is for someone trained in operations. I’ve got a feeling it might get wet. You made a pact with your wife you’d stay out of operations from now on, and I don’t want you to break that. Call Benson and ask him to have the navy block the entrance to the cove. Let me handle the courier.” Taft cocked his automatic with a single fluid motion. “Next, get some choppers with lights over the area. Also request some bloodhounds to be put on standby in case this guy somehow escapes and we need to track him. I’ll try to capture him before he runs, but who knows.”

“Okay, John, whatever you say,” Martinez said. “But be careful, this guy’s a crafty little shit.”

“I know,” Taft said as he stuffed his gun into the waistband of his pants and set out from the car.

Taft began running through the forest toward the water. Away from lights his eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness and his night vision began to improve. He listened to the woods and sniffed at the air.

He was a hunter and he knew his prey was nearby.

At the edge of the forest, near the water, Taft stopped and looked across the river. In the waning light of a quarter-moon he could make out the conning tower of the mini-sub as it broke the surface fifty yards downriver. Taft began to make his way silently along the tree line.

He watched carefully for the courier.

As soon as the submarine’s conning tower was fully out of the water, Tsing flashed his light three times. He waited for a reply. Seeing the correct signal from shore the submarine’s navigator poked from the hatch of the submarine and turned on a single blue light atop the tower.

Tsing’s salvation was at hand.

As soon as Tsing saw the answering signal from the submarine he raced for the edge of the Potomac. His thoughts turned to home and family.

Taft was at the edge of the woods, watching the submarine while scanning the shoreline for sign of the courier. The instant Tsing ran from the woods, Taft struck the road flare against a rock and sparked the end.

It burst into flames with a red chemical glow.

Tossing the flare toward the edge of the river he ran from his hiding spot with his pistol drawn. “Stop where you are,” he shouted at Tsing, who was clutching the package containing the Einstein papers tightly in his hand.

The thin line between a civilized man and a barbarian was exposed.

Taft should have shot Tsing without a warning, because in the next few seconds everything went very wrong. Using the light from the burning flare as his beacon, the navigator in the conning tower of the mini-sub drew out a pistol.

The navigator took careful aim.

On shore, with the light of the moon glinting off the wet metal deck of the mini-sub. Taft saw the weapon come from the holster. With an instantaneous reaction, fused in his soul by years of training, Taft lined up his shot and fired two rounds in the direction of the submarine.

His would be the opening salvo.

Then, as if in slow motion, Taft watched as the man on the sub flinched as a slug tore into his left side. As if in reaction to his wound, the man thrust the right side of his body forward while at the same time pulling the trigger of the pistol he held in his hand.

His aim was dead on.

The bullet slammed into Taft’s shoulder near his heart. Flung on his back by the force of the bullet, Taft instinctively rolled onto his stomach and squeezed off several rounds at Tsing, then fired the remainder of the clip at the submarine.

Then, with an effort born of will, he began to crawl toward Tsing, who was now lying on the ground at the edge of the river. In the sand behind Taft, the trail of blood grew wider with each foot he traveled. Reaching the folder of papers Tsing had dropped, Taft drew them closer, then clutched them against his chest.

And then Taft felt nothing, nothing at all.

At the sound of the gunfire, Martinez immediately ignored his fears, his promise to his wife, as well as his instructions from Taft, and ran toward the water. Sweeping the beam of his flashlight along the ground, he searched for Taft.

Finding Taft lying next to Tsing in a crumpled heap near the water, Martinez reached under him and supported his head. Martinez could see blood bubbling out of the wound in Taft’s shoulder. It looked like an artery had been nicked.

Kneeling next to Taft, Martinez glanced out on the river. A small V-shape plowed through the water heading downstream. The waters disruption was the only visual sign of the submarine making its escape.

From the back pocket of his pants Martinez removed a handkerchief and pressed it to the hole in Taft’s shoulder. The handkerchief was almost immediately soaked through with blood. It was serious but Martinez didn’t hesitate a second. Ripping strips off Taft’s shirt, he made a compress bandage, then pressed some of his body weight against the wound to staunch the bleeding.

Placing his knee over the wound to continue the direct pressure, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone. Hitting the speed dialer he was connected with the NIA operations center in seconds.

“This is Agent Martinez. My number is 04356. Listen carefully: my partner, Agent Taft, has been shot and the wound appears to be life-threatening. I need a medical evacuation helicopter immediately. Our location is approximately two miles west of Bel Alton, Maryland, on the bank of the Potomac River,” Martinez said crisply.

“Affirmative on the helicopter, Agent Martinez, we’ll dispatch a medevac immediately. What else do you have to report?”

“Tell Benson the submarine has gone underwater again and is headed downstream.”

Martinez glanced down at Taft’s wound. Blood was spreading around the edge of the shirt.

“Understand, Agent Martinez,” the dispatcher said, “we have the navy standing by to intercept the submarine.”

Taft’s wound is bleeding profusely,” Martinez said. “It’s soaking whatever I put on top of it.”

“Keep direct pressure on the wound, just keep adding another layer of cloth as the one below becomes soaked,” the dispatcher said. “Now take two fingers and place them on Agent Taft’s neck next to the collarbone.”

“Okay,” Martinez said, “I’m touching his neck.”

“Feel for a pulse,” the dispatcher said.

Martinez moved his fingers around near Taft’s collarbone until he detected a slow steady beating.

“Agent Martinez,” the dispatcher said quickly, “I just received word that the medical chopper has lifted off. They estimate they can reach you in five minutes. Can you light the area so they can find you?”

“There’s a red road flare that’s already lit. It’s burning on the ground,” said Martinez.

“Did you find the pulse?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes, it’s slow but steady.”

“Are the bandages thoroughly soaked?”

“Pretty much,” Martinez said.

“Hold on. Let me see what else we can do,” the dispatcher said.

The dispatcher rolled from the switchboard and punched a series of commands into a computer terminal. She rolled back to the switchboard and keyed the microphone.

“We had a team of agents observing a ship on the Potomac River. They’re headed toward you now as fast as they can travel. In case something happens to the helicopter, they have a first-aid kit in their car and will assist you.” The operator paused for a second. “Agent Martinez, I want you to remove your shirt, fold it into a compress bandage, and add it to the top of the bandages already in place. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Martinez said as he shrugged off his jacket and ripped his shirt off.

“Remember, don’t remove the bandages already in place. Just add your shirt on top and continue to apply pressure.”

“Got it,” Martinez said.

The dispatcher glanced at a message on her screen.

“The helicopter reports they can see the Potomac River,” the dispatcher said quickly.

“I can hear the chopper now,” Martinez said.

“They report they see the flare,” the dispatcher said, scanning the screen. “Agent Martinez, you need to keep up the pressure on the wound. Do not take the pressure away until someone can take over. Now I need you to feel for a pulse again.”

Martinez placed his fingers on Taft’s neck and felt around. It took him longer this time to detect a pulse.

“I’ve still got a pulse,” Martinez, told the dispatcher, “but it’s not as strong. The helicopter’s landing now.”

“Hang in there, Agent Martinez, we’re going to pull Taft through this,” the dispatcher said firmly.

The medevac helicopter touched down on the only open area nearby-a spit of sand some fifty yards downstream. Two attendants jumped from the chopper before the pilot had a chance to throttle back the engine. One carried a plastic box containing medical equipment while the other held a portable stretcher in his hands. Racing up to Martinez and Taft, the pair assessed the situation almost instantly. One of the attendants reached for the radio microphone clipped to his shoulder while the other took over compressing the wound from Martinez.

“Let us do our job now,” one of the attendants said as he placed his hand on Martinez’s shoulder.

It was only then that Martinez had a chance to look around.

Only five days remained before the fiftieth anniversary of Mao Zedong’s announcement of the formation of the Peoples Republic of China. The Chinese plan to attack Taiwan and bring the island back under Communist rule was moving at a blistering pace.

Seven Chinese fast-attack submarines were already in place in the Strait of Taiwan. Their mission was to cripple the Taiwanese navy when its ships steamed from port to defend against the blitzkrieg naval attack coming from mainland China.

Much work had gone into the amphibious portion of the attack from the mainland. Paratrooper battalions were being assembled in Xiamen, in Quanzhou. The Chinese attack plan called for tens of thousands of troops to be dropped in a massive coordinated airlift over Taipei, Taichung, and Tainan.

After crossing the Taiwan Strait, the mainland Chinese naval force would split in two, with several battleships supporting the amphibious assault, while the remainder of the fleet would be assigned to the west side of the island, where they would shell Taiwanese military installations and villages from the sea.

After the flotilla made it across the Strait, the Chinese air force would perform a close support role for the amphibious troops as well as a continuous carpet-bombing mission designed to soften up guerrilla resistance in the high mountains that formed Taiwan’s backbone.

Inside the command headquarters for the attack, located at the Chinese Combined Military Command Center in Beijing, the Chinese prime minister stared at the ten-by-twenty-foot model of Taiwan, then questioned the head of the army.

“Are you sure you can keep open the supply lines to your troops on the ground?”