Monday April 18th 1955
|In secluded room in a Princeton hospital, a nurse walked up to a bed, reached down for the patient’s wrist, and looked at her watch. She counted the rhythmic beats of the man Princeton University had come to know as the “absent-minded professor.” She set his arm back on the bed with great care, felt his wrinkled forehead and adjusted the blanket. She removed the notebook and pencil from his side and set them on the nightstand. She glanced at the pad and smiled at all the numbers and symbols that were scattered about the virgin white paper titled “Unified Field Theory.” Even at the end, Dr. Einstein would not stop working.
She started to walk toward the door when she heard him mutter something and recognized the hard sounds. She didn’t understand German, but she understood her job very well. He thrust his finger toward the sky and her training kicked in. She charged toward the bed, pressing her stethoscope to his chest. She stood upright and hit a button on the wall. Men stormed in with a long thin container that resembled a casket. Others carried glass jars and boxes. They shoved the nurse out of the room with no word of warning, slamming the faded white door in her face.
“Should we take the body?” one of the men asked.
Dr. Drew Livingston, the visionary leader of this operation, stepped in and set his stethoscope onto the professor’s chest.
“No time, severe heart trauma, the brain is our primary objective,” Dr. Livingston said, removing the instrument from his ears. He then nodded to another that was popping locks and opening foam-lined briefcases then removed vacuum packed surgical instruments. The other men sat Einstein up and strapped him to the foot of the bed.
“Administer the adrenalin quickly, we don’t have time,” Livingston said.
At one moment the team stopped they couldn’t pull their eyes from the crazy silvery hair as it was sheared off his scalp like lamb’s wool. Everyone in the room watched in amazement. That was when they knew just how important this really was.
In the corner of the room a man stood near the door. Dr. Livingston looked up and nodded and said. “Mister Kilbourn.”
“Doctor, good luck.” Damen said as the doctor went to work.
We could not fail our country or professor Einstein there is too much at stake. The wealth of his genius is on the line and the wealth of the United States, upon completion of Operation Celeritous. Damen thought.
“Alright, stay focused people: move! Get the IV.” Without hesitation, he fixed a needle to Einstein’s arm. The smell of alcohol filled the room with an acrid smell of sterility as a radial saw screamed to life.
Sweat started to bead on the forehead of Dr. Livingston. “We don’t have much time,” he said, still holding the stethoscope to Einstein’s chest and watching his people moving around the room at a frantic pace.
“No time, he has seconds. Do it now!” Dr. Livingston said.
Another doctor stepped in and set the spinning blade on the motionless man’s forehead. It buzzed a centimeter past the skull’s thickness, breaching the membrane, while another doctor cleaned the mess behind with a cotton swab on the orbital cut’s journey around Einstein’s skull. The team of men severed the spine from the nape of the neck and pulled 25% of the cord from his shoulder blades intact. They pulled the eyes, clipped the corneas and the nerves of the eyes and the ear canals.
The team placed the brain into a container of liquid nitrogen. They plugged the container into the generator and the temperature gauge began to fall. The leader monitored the needle on the side of the container, and, satisfied, he had a crew of men come in and they took the container and crated it. A hole was left to plug in the container. It was nailed down then marked with black spray paint with the word NORAD: and beneath it “OPERATION CELERITOUS.” The crate was loaded aboard a B-52 flown to Norad where it would sit for many decades, until technology could catch up to Celeritous’ vision.
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