“Good point,” Dr. Alpert said. “Dr. McCauley? Care to weigh in?”
She felt confident he’d have the right answer, and he obviously liked the way she had re-framed the discussion.
“Happy to. Actually, as you all know the average dinosaur was no bigger than sheep. That alone makes for an easier boat ride. But even better, what if Noah picked a pair of babies? Their growth spurts were likely to be after they were five or six. So, yes, while some dinosaurs were behemoths, they grew to that size. They weren’t born that way.”
Katrina Alpert smiled. “Hey, would you take a fierce man-eating dog or a puppy on your ship?”
“A puppy,” Cohen easily answered.
“And so would Noah. Puppies and baby dinosaurs.”
• • •
London
Gruber’s breathing sounded shallower. The once robust publisher now delivered his thoughts in shorter sentences, all designed to fit into his diminished capacity. But, everything he said still had power. Power because of who he was. Power because of the legacy and power because of the resources at his command, which included the muscle to manipulate thought.
• • •
Montana
“Take the measurement of a cubit. How big?” McCauley asked.
“One point five feet. Basically the distance between the fingertips and the elbow. That’s what’s generally accepted,” Jaffe said
“What if you’re wrong, Al? What if translations were imprecise?”
The younger man nodded. He realized he had accepted dogma as truth. But McCauley insisted that his students look beyond simple explanations for answers that would define the position.
“What if a cubit was really more like eight, nine, or ten feet? Wouldn’t Noah’s Ark be bigger? A lot bigger?”
“A lot,” Jaffe agreed.
McCauley extended the hypothesis. “So that would mean that instead of fitting on a boat some four hundred and fifty feet long by seventy-five feet wide by forty-five feet high, as Genesis claims, the ark could have been a great deal larger.”
Jaffe put his hands a foot apart as if holding a small ship. Then he moved them apart creating a space ten times bigger. “Maybe 4,500 feet long,” he exclaimed. “Nearly a mile. You’d sure get a helluva lot of creatures booked on that sailing.”
• • •
London
“Have you ever thought of a cruise, Mr. Gruber? Maybe the ocean air could help.”
“I’ve never found the idea of a burial at sea appealing.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Kavanaugh tried to sound sincere.
“No cruise. I will die at my desk or in my bed. I am prepared to accept my future. I ask the same of you. Are you, my boy? Are you?”
Kavanaugh was amazed how Gruber could so quickly pivot on a word and turn a discussion around. He’d have to do better himself. There really are things to learn from the old man, he thought.
“I am, sir.” Kavanaugh framed it as a promise more than a casual reply. He felt that Gruber needed assurance. If he equivocated, then Gruber would somehow find another replacement. Colin Kavanaugh would not let that happen. Not for Martin Gruber, not for his teachers at the seminary years earlier. Not for his own commitment to The Path.
• • •
Montana
Leslie Cohen jumped deeper into history. “Come on, there are unadulterated facts. The Big Bang occurred fourteen-plus billion years ago. The earth is 4.5 to 4.6 billion years old. It took early forms of life a couple of billion years more to emerge. Way before the dinosaurs came and went. Way, way, way before our ancestral hominids yelled ‘fire’ around 100,000 years ago. Hell, dinosaur fossils I uncovered this week could be carbon dated back some sixty-five million years.”
“But believers in a Young Earth claim the planet is only five, six, maybe seven thousand years old,” McCauley countered again. “Same bones, just different conclusions.”
“What about natural selection?” Rodriguez proposed. “The food chain. We look at carnage of natural selection and see it as the process of adaptation. One species survives, another doesn’t. Speciation.”
“And?” McCauley challenged.
“And what?”
“And the answer is simply survival, not evolution. The good make it. The bad don’t. In this universe of thought, science and creationism coexist. It’s a powerful argument backed by powerful people.”
• • •
London
“And are you prepared?”
“You have prepared me, Mr. Gruber.”
“I have taught you. But are you prepared? They are two different questions.”
“They are two questions with one answer. You have taught me. I am prepared.”
• • •
Montana
Trent slammed his bottle on the table. “People have been trying to reconcile this for ages. And no one will ever succeed!” He was letting emotion get the better of him. “Hell, modern geology goes back to Steno.” He was referring to Nicolas Steno, a Dutch cleric who published a treatise of fossils in 1669. Steno proposed the principles of rock strata formation. He claimed that fossils in the sedimentary rocks were the remains of animals that died in the Noachian Deluge—a flood, not necessarily the Flood, but maybe.
Trent summarized the history for the group explaining that the opinion gained traction with support from Englishman Thomas Burnet in his 1691 publication, A Sacred Theory of the Earth, in John Woodward’s 1695 book An Essay Toward a Natural Theory of the Earth, and William Whiston’s A New Theory of the Earth, which was published a year later.
“Very interesting, Mr. Trent. How about Comte Buffon?” Katrina Alpert asked.
No one recognized the name.
“Good person to add to the discussion. In the mid-eighteenth century, Buffon sparked to the notion of evolution. Like Darwin, he was a naturalist. He wrote Natural History, maybe the first real argument in favor of variation of the species.”
“And what happened to him?”
“He was slapped down, discredited and belittled by theologians at the Sorbonne in Paris.”
• • •
London
“Though it’s not in any record, our work goes as far back as the debates on evolution. And earlier. You recall the recantation of Comte Buffon, Mr. Kavanaugh?”
“I’m familiar with it,” the younger man replied.
“Become completely conversant with it. Study his denial. It established the fundamental response for years to come.” Gruber now quoted from memory: “‘I declare,’ said Buffon, ‘that I had no intention to contradict the text of Scripture, that I believe most firmly all therein related about creation, both as to order of time and matter of fact. I abandon everything in my book respecting the formation of the earth, and generally all which may be contrary to the narrative of Moses.’”
Kavanaugh was surprised by the retraction, but it reminded him of another, more famous example.
• • •
Montana
“Sounds familiar,” Cohen observed.
“Certainly not the first to cave to theological arguments,” Dr. Alpert added. “Perhaps he did so in order to quietly live out his life and continue his work.” She took another sip of the local brew. “Sometimes you do what you have to do.”
“Like Buffon, you will face obstructionists,” McCauley stated. “Religious, political, corporate, academic. They’ll question your hypotheses. They’ll reject your proposals. They’ll dismiss your research. They’ll pull your grants. They’ll shove every ‘saurous up your sore ass and test you to kingdom come. They push paper, but they don’t get their own hands dirty. They stay inside while you’re out baking in the sun. They live in the present. You make the past relevant. They say no and don’t even consider maybe. But I do have something to hang your hat on. The rejoinder of all rejoinders. Get this fundamental down and you’re set for life.”
Alpert didn’t know where McCauley was going.
“Here’s to the g
reat British paleontologist—well, not really, but he sure said things right. William Shakespeare.”
They laughed.
“Come on raise your glasses. Do it.”
They complied.
“To William Shakespeare who put it best. ‘Past is prologue.’”
Tamburro reacted first. “Past is prologue!”
“Past is prologue!” the team responded bringing their glasses together. “Past is prologue,” they said again.
Dr. Katrina Alpert smiled. Maybe for the first time in years, she felt she’d come to the right place.
• • •
While they were drinking the time away, Anna Chohany was in the cave, scraping away dirt around the boulder. She wore a hard hat. Her beam illuminated the way ahead, and ahead was a narrow crawl space.
Chohany was in good shape. But she was not experienced as a caver, which she realized an instant later.
No one was there to hear her scream as she fell twelve feet into complete darkness.
Twenty-two
Makoshika State Park, MT
Ninety minutes later
Tamburro rode shotgun on the way back and dialed through stations on the AM radio. He settled on a powerhouse signal out of Kalispell, MT broadcasting the national late night show, “Coast to Coast AM.”
“Cool,” he said. I love this guy. The host was interviewing a guest about curious satellite photographs of the moon. Shapes that could be things. Things that could be relics. It was a favorite topic of the show. “Dr. McCauley, you do shows like this. You should get on it.”
“What?” McCauley wasn’t really paying attention. His team was wasted. They were falling asleep into one another in the second and third rows of his Tahoe. McCauley concentrated on driving.
“A little bit of ooga booga, a lot of paranormal stuff, UFO’s and the like. They’re talking about secret sites in the South Pole designed to control the weather.”
“Conspiracy crap,” McCauley said.
At that moment, the host doubled down on that very point, speculating that the cover-up went as high as the White House.
“Definitely pushes the limits. But seriously, you’d be a good guest.”
“No I wouldn’t. Way too out there for me.”
“Naw, listen,” Tamburro said.
The guest, Robert Greene, was a regular. The question to him was simple. “What’s the government hiding?”
Greene ran with the answer, talking about what he’d gleaned from his Freedom of Information Act requests and his own website. No smoking guns, but enough to build a few hours of conspiratorial talk.
Greene was engaging and entertaining. He easily moved from recent rumors to long held views. He sprinkled it with references to black ops, the Pentagon, and a money trail that seemed to disappear in the South Pole snow.
It was impossible not to get caught up in the conversation; virtually a radio reality show with over-the-top characters and suppositions that could neither be proven nor disproven.
“See, you’re into it,” Tamburro said.
• • •
At base camp everyone said good night and went to their respective tents. Rich Tamburro slipped away from what Chohany called “the boys’ tent.” He crossed the grounds and pulled the flap back on her tent expecting to find his new girlfriend sound asleep. She wasn’t in her cot or, when he checked, in the lav. I know where she is, he thought. They had a special place where they made love under the stars.
It was dark, very dark. A moonless night. Tamburro picked up a high intensity flashlight and set out for Anna at their rendezvous spot.
“Hey, Anna,” he called out at moderate volume. He expected to hear her answer softly; alluringly. No response. He aimed the light into the immediate area. Nothing. He widened the field. Still nothing.
“Anna.” He said louder. “Anna!”
The call brought Leslie Cohen and Dr. Alpert. “What’s up?” Cohen asked.
“Just looking for Anna. She must have strolled off. Probably nothing. See you in the morning.”
“K, goodnight.”
“No,” Alpert said sensing concern. “Try again.”
Tamburro aimed his beam further into the darkness. His voice more urgent. “Anna!”
McCauley emerged from his tent wearing only his Bermuda shorts and sandals. He double-timed over to Tamburro. “Problem, Rich?”
“Well, I can’t find Anna.” He didn’t stop to explain. “Anna!”
One by one, the others made their way.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Jaffe asked.
McCauley interrupted. “Everyone. Splash cold water on your faces and get your flashlights.”
“Why?”
“Just do it. Now.”
Quinn McCauley returned to his tent to put on a shirt and change into sneakers.
Within minutes, eight beams of light cut through the pitch black sky. Eight voices called out from an area now spreading over fifty square yards.
McCauley caught up with Tamburro.
“She said she was just going to read.” Tamburro’s tone showed real fear.
McCauley looked back at the supply hut and quickly ordered, “Come with me.”
They ran at top speed and barged into the tent that housed all their daily supplies. After a quick inventory McCauley surmised what was missing: rope, lights and shovels.
“Christ!” he exclaimed. McCauley summoned the team. “Grab everything we just bought and more flashlights! And the first aid kit! Anyone who doesn’t feel good enough, tell me now.” He cursed the fact that he allowed everyone to drink so much.
“What? asked Trent.
“We’re going to the cave.”
“Why?”
“Do it!”
McCauley had a bad feeling. It was dangerous enough to explore during the day. But at night? And alone?
• • •
The cave
McCauley ran ahead, hoping he wasn’t going to find the lights on at the cliff site, praying that Chohany wasn’t there. He stumbled over a few rocks, steadied himself and came around a sandstone spire at the base of the valley.
“Jesus Christ!”
The generator was on and the lights high above illuminated the cave entrance.
Rich Tamburro had the same reaction when he pulled up behind McCauley. “Oh no! What was she thinking?”
“Not thinking.”
McCauley caught his breath. “Okay, we have to do this carefully. Let’s get everyone together and divvy up duties.”
“Right.”
A few minutes later, McCauley circled the team for instructions. “Here’s how we’re going to do this,” McCauley stated. “Rich and I will take the lead. Carlos and Al behind us. Leslie, come up, but stay posted at the cave entrance. Dr. Alpert, Tom, and Adam, you’re here, but be ready to call for help. We’ll check in with Leslie every two minutes on the walkie-talkies. Leslie keeps the three of you posted.
“I’m going with you,” Alpert argued.
“No,” McCauley replied.
“Yes, and that’s final.”
“No! And that’s final.”
She grabbed a hard hat and begin walking toward the ladder. “All right,” he said calling to her. “But stick close to me.” It sounded silly considering she was already ahead.
“Ready?” McCauley asked.
“Ready,” they replied in unison.
One by one they climbed the cold metal rungs. They checked their gear at the top, tested communications and reviewed the plan again.
“She’s definitely in here,” McCauley said. “The lights are fired up way down the line.”
“I just don’t understand why, Dr. McCauley.” Rich Tamburro was confused and concerned.
“Stay focused. Here we go.”
After taking a few steps in McCauley yelled, “Anna! Anna Chohany!” No response. “Too many twists and turns. Rich, you call. She might respond better to your voice.”
He shouted her name. All they heard were his echoe
s.
At the first two-minute mark, Jaffe transmitted that they were okay. Leslie Cohen relayed the message. They did the same thing at the second check-in just before they climbed down the interior ladder.
“Anna!” Tamburro continued to yell.
Eight minutes in, McCauley held his arm out for everyone to stop. “Quiet. We’re making too much noise ourselves.” Once it was stone cold silent, the professor signaled Tamburro to go again.
“Anna! Can you hear me?”
Still no response.
“Anna! For God’s sake. It’s Rich!”
At twelve minutes, they were close to the spot where they’d stopped hours earlier. McCauley examined the dirt. More was piled up. “Look,” he exclaimed. “She dug around the rock.”
The professor shined his light. “I’m going ahead. Hold onto my legs.”
“Got you.”
McCauley crawled forward through the loose dirt. Three feet in his fingers were no longer grasping the ground. There was nothing. “Whoa. Hold on!” he called back.
Tamburro grabbed hard, “What? What’s the matter?”
McCauley now aimed his flashlight down. He thought he saw something, but he wasn’t sure. He looked again. Leaning over as far as he could he listened and turned off his flashlight. That’s when his heart sank.
“Anna,” he said.
After a half-minute, McCauley asked to be pulled out.
“Is she there?” Tamburro pleaded.
“There’s a drop just beyond the opening.”
“But did you see her?”
“No, but there’s a little light. It has to be her flashlight. She must have fallen. I would have too if you hadn’t been holding on.”
“I’m going down.” Tamburro started toward the crawl space.
“Wait, Rich.”
“No, I’m going.”
“No. I’m responsible,” McCauley said. “It’s my fault and it’s my job.”
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