Cold Evidence (Evidence Series Book 6)

by Rachel Grant

  “Are you planning to stay? Now that…well, everything.” Annabelle gestured toward the anchor line where Luke and her father had disappeared below the surface. She flashed a grin. “Luke is more attractive now than he was twelve years ago. Maturity looks good on him.”

  Undine smiled back. “The muscles do too.”

  “It’s nice seeing you two together. Like a jigsaw puzzle that was missing pieces, finally complete.”

  She nodded and tried not to think of the questionable future or the shock of the scary night. Everything was unsettled, and she and Luke as a couple was the least of it.

  Someone had burned down their cabin. That someone could well have believed they were still inside.

  “I’m glad Trey is gone,” Annabelle continued. “I almost quit several times in the last few years after Trey took over the number two job.”

  Undine was glad to be pulled away from her thoughts. “Why didn’t you take the job? Didn’t Dad offer it to you?”

  “He did. But I’m a scientist, not management. I’m not saying I couldn’t do it. But I didn’t want to. I still don’t. You know Stefan is going to ask you to return.”

  “He already did. I said no. To answer your original question, no, I’m not back—with the institute—permanently. I have a life and a job all the way across the country.”

  “Bummer. But I understand.” Annabelle checked her watch. “In five minutes, they’ll start ascending for decompression.”

  “This wait is killing me.”

  “By tomorrow, the submersible should be back online. No more sending people down when we can use Marvin.”

  Undine couldn’t help but smile. She’d nicknamed the minisubmarine Marvin after reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy at the age of eleven. In spite of it being less robot and more remote controlled, the name had stuck. “That’ll be a relief.”

  She and Annabelle settled into silence as the older woman returned to her task of prepping the pure oxygen line for the decompression stop.

  At last, Luke’s voice carried over the radio, informing them they’d reached decompression depth without incident. Parker relayed this news to the Coast Guard vessel waiting a hundred meters away. Undine glanced across the choppy water and gave the boatswain’s mate on the deck a thumbs-up.

  Luke is okay. Dad is okay.

  I can breathe again.

  Far too many minutes later, Luke finally climbed on the dive platform, followed by her dad. She didn’t hesitate and ran forward and kissed Luke. The cold, salty water dripped from his BC vest and gear, saturating her.

  He kissed her back, but his response was reserved. Something was wrong. Her gaze flew to her dad, but he looked unharmed and not even upset that his daughter was making out with Luke yet again. But then, he seemed to have moved on as if the last twelve years had never happened. Luke was back in the fold.

  Undine knew it wouldn’t be such an easy transition for Luke, even with apologies and forgiveness and love.

  She met Luke’s gaze, and his eyes were shuttered. He gave her a quick shake of his head, then glanced toward the deck where Annabelle and the film crew waited. “We need to go to the Coast Guard and call Curt. Now.”

  What the hell did they find at the bottom of the strait this time?

  “From the markings you can see in these photos and the chipping of the corrosion on the inside, it’s clear the torpedo tube was cleared out recently, within the last week, possibly even before the storm,” Luke said. He’d opted for the expedient hose down instead of a full shower, and Stefan had done the same, so they’d settled into the conference room within thirty minutes of surfacing, and his hair was still damp.

  He pointed to the photo that was projected on the screen. “By the time we located the tubes, we were down to just a few minutes left on the bottom, so we took as many photos as we could but didn’t have a chance to explore further.”

  The attorney general’s curses emitted from the speaker at the center of the table. Luke had emailed the photos to him before the conference call began. “Undine, what can you tell us about the sub?” the AG asked.

  “From studying the photos Luke and I took of the deck gun and conning tower last week and our measurements of the length of the hull, I believe we have a Quebec-class sub. They were small, maneuverable, coastal attack submarines. Only the earliest versions had deck guns. There are photos of one such sub, M-305, online, to give you an idea of size and configuration. The Quebec-class subs had four twenty-one inch torpedo tubes in the bow. One tube was recently cleared out. One still has something inside, but it’s so rusted over, it’s hard to be certain what it is. It doesn’t look like a torpedo. It appears the other two tubes were emptied before she sank.”

  “Did Quebec-class subs carry nuclear missiles?” Curt asked.

  “No. They weren’t first-strike subs capable of carrying MIRVs—but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t be retrofitted to transport a nuclear warhead. It might be a good idea to bring Trina—NHHC Cold War historian Dr. Trina Sorensen,” she added with a glance at the men in the Coast Guard conference room, “—into the conversation. She knows much more about what the Soviet Union was developing at the time than I do.”

  Within minutes, Curt had Dr. Sorensen—Keith Hatcher’s girlfriend, if Luke remembered correctly—patched into the conference call. Curt explained the top-secret nature of this conversation and explained to those listening in Neah Bay that Sorensen had high-level security clearance through her job at NHHC. Then the attorney general repeated his question. “Is there any evidence Quebec-class subs carried nuclear torpedoes?”

  “No direct evidence,” Sorensen said, “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. In 1961 and ’62, the US was manufacturing the W54, our smallest nuclear warhead. We aren’t entirely certain how small Soviet bombs got, but at the same time we were developing the W54, all sides were experimenting with nuclear artillery. It’s possible an early scud might have been small enough to fit into a Quebec-class torpedo tube. Worth noting, however, is that if they only placed the actual nuclear device, without the necessary shell or missile housing, the bomb itself could be compact but powerful—more powerful than our W54s.”

  “So we can’t rule out that whoever was digging on the Soviet submarine didn’t recover a nuclear device?” Curt confirmed.

  “It’s possible,” Sorensen said.

  “How soon can we get a Geiger counter down there?” Curt asked.

  “My remote-controlled submersible should be back online tomorrow, and it can take a Geiger reading,” Stefan said, “in addition to giving us a better view of what’s down there. If Marvin isn’t ready to go, Lt. Sevick and I will dive again to get the reading. We need at least a six-hour surface interval, or we’d dive again today.”

  “Okay,” Curt said. “I’m about to brief the secretary of state, so she’ll be prepared to open a dialogue with Russia if we get a positive reading on the radiation. I need to remind everyone that this issue is classified. We don’t want to create a panic when this could be nothing of the sort.”

  Luke studied the people around the table. Stefan, Undine, Commander Martinez, Lt. Parker Reeves, another lieutenant named Boyle, an ensign named Taylor, and Shales, the boatswain’s mate who’d rescued them from the beach. Most of them—including Undine—didn’t have the security clearance of even Dr. Sorensen, but they’d been involved from the start or, like Stefan, had been brought into the loop out of necessity, and so they were part of the core team.

  Each person acknowledged the attorney general’s orders, and the meeting adjourned. Luke leaned back in his chair as he met the gazes of the various Coast Guard men. From their grim expressions, he knew they were thinking the same thing he was. Yuri had gone to a hell of a lot of effort to extract something from that torpedo tube.

  When Ukraine split from the Soviet Union, they’d ended up with the secret underground Soviet submarine base in the port town of Balaklava on the Crimean Peninsula. The massive hidden fortress had a great de
al of information that detailed Soviet submarine activity during the Cold War. Not even the Kremlin had copies of some of the paperwork that ended up in Ukrainian hands.

  It was entirely possible Yuri Kravchenko had access to those papers and knew exactly what happened on that October day in 1962. He might well have been searching for the Soviet sub since he arrived in the US five years ago. No way in hell would he have gone to all that trouble for a simple torpedo. Ukraine had a stockpile of those.

  Luke figured that after fifty-plus years resting at the bottom of the strait, the Geiger counter reading of the empty torpedo tube would be off the charts.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Undine had lost count of how many times she’d had plans to return to Port Angeles, only to have the trip put off. Since the fire, she was ready to leave Neah Bay, to be anonymous in a big city. She would happily go to Seattle to hide for a few days, just until she got her equilibrium back.

  But they needed to know if there was radiation in those torpedo tubes, and Luke needed to be on hand in case Marvin wasn’t up to the job. And no way in hell was she leaving Neah Bay while Luke remained.

  And so they spent another night in a beachfront cabin, just a hundred meters from where the sweet cabin that had been their haven—the place where she’d fallen in love for the first time—had once stood. Luke didn’t make love to her. He said—and she agreed—they couldn’t afford to let their guard down. Instead, he held her while she slept, and she had a feeling his sleep was light—ready to spring into action should a threat appear.

  The following morning, she parked herself next to the control station for Marvin on the back deck as her dad reattached the remote-controlled camera’s wires. “What happened to Marvin?” she asked.

  “When money got tight, I had to let Jose go.”

  Undine felt shock slide through her. Jose was a mechanical wizard who handled the technical repairs for the institute’s most delicate equipment. “Why did money get so tight? I mean, letting go of Jose—that’s pure penny-wise, pound-foolish.”

  Her dad’s jaw clenched. “I know. It was a combination of things. I overbought on technology and upgrades to the boat. Some of those upgrades were a failure. Then IMAX was having their own problems and closing theaters, and they decided not to move forward with 3D theater showings of that documentary we’d filmed for wide release. They wanted to show superhero movies instead.”

  Undine grimaced. She’d seen the last three Marvel movies in 3D at an IMAX theater, but had yet to watch her dad’s last documentary, which had released straight to DVD without even the National Geographic label that added a deserved layer of prestige. But she had bought the documentary, at least.

  “So you don’t really think Trey was embezzling,” she said.

  “I honestly don’t know what to think. It’s possible Trey took a bad situation—one that I’d created—and found it was the perfect cover for his actions. I didn’t delve deeper into the money, even though I should have, but I do know that by the time I realized the extent of the institute’s financial mess, it was far worse than I’d expected.”

  “And so you agreed to Sink or Swim.”

  “Much as I hate that reality show, it’s kept the lights on. Last week, I signed the contract for season three. We’ve got permission to film some of it in Palau.” Her dad’s gaze fixed on Luke, who was on the other end of the deck conferring with Annabelle, who would pilot Marvin and operate the Geiger counter. “You know, viewers would love your SEAL if he stepped into Trey’s role as the competition organizer.”

  She shook her head with a smile. Her dad was correct, viewers would swoon and Luke’s background would be a huge draw, bringing in new viewers. But she couldn’t imagine any scenario in which Luke would agree to become one of the faces of her dad’s reality show, even if the underlying competition involved bringing a better understanding of the sea to TV viewers. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “Me neither. But damn, he’d be perfect. As would you—”

  “No, Dad.”

  “Hear me out. If you aren’t willing to be a regular, maybe you could show up in one episode as a celebrity judge.”

  “I’m not a celebrity—”

  “You have name recognition, and after the explosion, people know your face. Filming for season three will start when the Wrasse documentary is in postproduction. Appearances on the show would be a good tie-in for the documentary. Promo for NHHC.”

  As much as she wanted to shoot down the idea, it had merit—presuming they actually produced the Wrasse documentary to begin with. Right now, with the questions about the Soviet submarine, that was doubtful. “I don’t know, Dad.”

  “How about this… My publicist reminded me that as long as I’m here, I should attend the black-tie party on the ferry that runs between Port Angeles and Victoria this Saturday. The British Columbia premier and the governor of Washington will be on board to sign the agreement for the International Salish Sea Management Plan. It will be done with great pomp and circumstance. The agreement sets up a plan to expand both the US and Canadian marine wildlife sanctuaries into the strait. There’ll be lots of press. The event is a perfect fit for my brand, and a great opportunity for some mild, positive promotion for Sink or Swim.”

  She shook her head, hearing her dad speak of his life’s work as a brand. But like him, she wholly supported the cause of extending the sanctuaries and had been following the negotiations for the management plan with anticipation. It was the first such agreement between state and province and long overdue, even if it wasn’t actually binding. “How can the state even afford to host a black-tie event like this?”

  “I didn’t mention the best part—the party is being paid for by a Seattle tech-company billionaire who’s made the seas his pet cause. I’ve been courting him for donations to the institute for years. Hell, I’d rename Nereid for the right donation.”

  She’d heard more and more nonprofits were selling naming rights in the same way stadiums did. But in his heart, her dad was as superstitious as most sailors, and she couldn’t imagine him blithely renaming Nereid or any boat. “I take it the billionaire will be there.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want me to go with you to the party and talk him up?”

  Her dad nodded. “Along with reporters covering the event. Because of Petrel, you’re a person of interest. People want to know how you’re doing.”

  Talking about Petrel with reporters didn’t sit right with her, but it would help her father and the institute, and deep down she hoped the institute’s finances could get back on track so he could dump the damn reality show.

  “I could get Luke added to the guest list. People would love to see you two together, especially after he saved your life after the explosion.”

  He’d saved her life at least twice, but the tabloid-watching public would never know about any of that. “It’s on Saturday?” she asked.

  “Yes. It’s an evening cruise on the Blackfish Line’s MV Chinook, after the regularly scheduled runs from Port Angeles to Victoria are done for the day. It’ll be a quick round trip. We won’t even disembark in Canada.”

  Saturday was five days away. Trina could overnight her evening gown to Port Angeles. It wasn’t impossible. “I’ll think about it.”

  He finished hooking up the cables and flipped the power button. The screen on the control console came to life and displayed the deck and marina at which the camera on the submersible was aimed. “So far so good.”

  Undine moved the joystick that aimed the camera, and the image shifted as the camera repositioned. The image froze when she directed it to the straight downward position, the optimal angle for viewing the seafloor.

  Her dad cursed and checked the camera mount. “The camera is moving. We lost the video feed.” He disconnected the wires and started over. A half hour later, Marvin was up and running and they were no longer losing feed when the camera hit a sharp angle within the housing. They would send Marvin down to get a reading
of radiation levels on the Soviet Quebec-class sub. Luke and her dad would dive only if Marvin failed.

  Luke had gone over the charts with Annabelle, who could drive the submersible better than a twelve-year-old playing Mario Kart. Over the years, she’d developed the instinct for maneuvering through currents and obstacles that couldn’t be anticipated. She’d once battled an octopus and won—without hurting the poor creature. She had the touch to get Marvin to the bottom in one piece, and the skill to find the tubes and get the reading.

  It took her thirty minutes to maneuver Marvin to the bottom, then, with Undine, Stefan, and Luke’s help, they directed her over the two sub wrecks and finally located the empty torpedo tubes. In the meantime, they got better video of both vessels than had been previously acquired.

  Marvin was a miracle for collecting data.

  Two hours later, they gathered around the Coast Guard conference room table to share the results of Marvin’s reconnaissance mission. They had photos and video. Marvin had even captured exterior markings on the sub—meaning it might be possible to identify the exact submarine that had engaged with Wrasse. But the most important thing they’d learned was at the top of the agenda: the item missing from the torpedo tube had been radioactive.

  Luke had expected it, but still, confirmation that a nuclear device had been taken from the Soviet sub was shocking. Scary. He wanted to drag Undine home and make love to her and then set out to find Yuri and rip the SOB’s head off.

  But instead he was stuck in a meeting where calmer heads prevailed. They needed to find Yuri and the bomb, but it had to be done in a way that would protect the secret and prevent panic.

  Curt Dominick brought the secretaries of Homeland Security and state and the directors of the CIA and FBI into the telephone conference. They’d each brought along experts to aid the discussion—the CIA had an analyst who’d been studying Ukraine and Russia for years, while the FBI had an expert on Russian Bratva, Ukrainian neo-Nazis, and the Georgian and Azerbaijani Mafia.