by Rachel Grant
“Are you going to read it now?” Diego asked.
She’d planned on it, but it would be weird to read it without Luke but for the camera. He was at work and wouldn’t be home for two more hours. “Not yet.”
Diego gave the hand signal for cut and fixed her with a fond but irritated stare. She was used to that stare, having earned it often when they filmed the excavation of the Wrasse. This was supposed to be the final scene. The rest of the film was in postproduction already.
“Sorry, guys. I just can’t without Luke.”
Diego let out a heavy sigh. “Are you going to let us be there when you read it?”
She frowned. She really wanted this to be a private moment with Luke, but the documentary would benefit both her father’s institute and NHHC—both organizations she’d given her heart to, and it would honor the sacrifice of seven men. She gave the director a sharp nod. “We won’t read them without you filming it.”
Diego’s smile shifted to more fond, less irritated.
She called Luke at work and warned him that they would be filmed that evening. “Hurry home if you can, I’m dying to open the envelope.”
“Will do, sweetheart.”
Her fingers went to the pendant at her throat, a habit she’d developed soon after Luke gave her the necklace. A tiny silver sand dollar, it had three numbers etched into the back; the combination that had saved thousands—possibly millions—of lives.
The sand dollar and numbers served as a reminder to be grateful for every twist of fate that brought her and Luke together at the right place and time, after having met in the wrong place and time a dozen years ago.
The problem was she’d met him too soon. Then fate—and Yuri Kravchenko—fixed that, pressing the restart button twelve years later. Yuri, his nephew, and the two Ukrainians captured on the ferry were in federal custody, awaiting trial on espionage and terrorism charges. They would never see the outside of prison.
Parker Reeves had disappeared. Before he jumped, he’d admitted to Luke that he was the one who set fire to their cabin. He’d seen them leave and felt it was the perfect opportunity to spur them into action. He’d suspected Yuri had already recovered the bombs, but feared delays in the documentary filming would mean they’d miss the window of seeing the cleared torpedo tube. He’d known how Luke would react, that he’d choose to dive immediately. Proof Parker was very good at reading people, as a spy must be.
She wondered if he was alive. She didn’t wish to see him again but found she didn’t bear him ill will either. If he hadn’t taken the case from the museum, Yuri would have gotten it and Luke would have died along with thousands of others that night.
Her parents were dating, which was strange, but not in a bad way. Her relationship with her dad was back on track—nearly as close as they’d been all those years ago. With her mother, things were strained, but improving. It was enough.
Luke’s mother, however, had proven to be a warm, amazing woman. Undine told Luke more than once that she was marrying him for his mother.
The wedding was set for August, and her friends from NHHC were flying out to be her bridesmaids. She missed them terribly on a day-to-day basis but had zero regrets about her decision to move to Washington. Her home was, and would always be, where Luke was.
He finally walked in the door of their small rental house, and she threw herself at him. He scooped her up and swung her around, a habit he’d developed the night he saved the world.
She kissed him deeply. Then groaned, “No time for a quickie before Diego and Mario get here.”
He flashed a grin. “Just as well, because I’m not in the mood to be quick.”
Mario and Diego arrived, and they settled on the couch with the manila envelope between them. Diego asked a few scene-setting questions, then she opened the envelope.
The first words made her laugh out loud.
Oct. 20, 1962 - SIGHTED SOVIET SUB SANK SAME
“Can you explain why that’s funny, Undine?” Diego asked off-camera.
“It’s one word longer than a famous transmission sent by a pilot early after the US entered World War II. ‘Sighted sub sank same.’”
“Is there more?” Diego asked.
“Yes.” Undine began to read for the camera.
Because I retired with the lowest rank, the others have voted me scribe. They said it’s in my name, and I suppose it is. They’re selling it as an honor. Lazy bastards.
Now they’re telling me I should say more, although sighted Soviet sub about sums it up…
It has been an honor to serve my country during WWII and with these sailors today. If anyone ever reads this, it will be a miracle, but we all hold out the hope that someday, people will learn what happened here.
It started when Avery dared the captain to take Wrasse down to periscope depth one last time. That got everyone excited. Even the admiral was on board. And so we dove, and that would have been it, but after we’d been underway at that depth for quite some time, we started to surface and caught sight of a glint of something at two o’clock. A Soviet sub was surfacing. The captain’s son is an Air Force pilot whose job is to spot Ruskie subs, and he’d seen enough pictures to identify this one without hesitation. He said it’s one of the ones that has the problem with oxygen evaporation, which could cause it to surface in a hurry. That had to be the reason their conning tower was riding the waterline in the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
They spotted us and fired a torpedo—that thankfully missed. Then they dove. A Ruskie in US territory is a bad thing on a good day, but with the Soviets trying to put bombs in Cuba, this is an especially tense week. That sub is up to no good.
We had no weapons to return fire, and they were dropping fast. They would get away. We could barely navigate with just the periscope.
The admiral suggested we use the only weapon we had—Wrasse herself—to take out the Soviets. And so we did. We rammed them, then we lost all power. We took on water, and we started to dive for real.
Avery tells me the proper word is “sink.” I said if he prefers his wording, he can write the damn report…
The control room, where all seven of us are, remains air-tight, but the impact has bent the portal. It won’t budge. We can’t escape without having to swim through sections that have flooded. We’d drown before we could open a hatch, and if we made it that far, odds are we’d get bent surfacing and would never make it to shore in this cold water.
We’re blind down here. We’ve heard banging through the hull. The Soviets are in the deep with us. They too have sunk. We’ll share this grave and die knowing we succeeded in stopping them.
No regrets. It was the right thing to do. We are honored to serve our country and gladly give our lives to defend our shores.
Tell my beloved children how proud I am of them. I will be seeing my beautiful wife very soon.
Yours truly,
Lieutenant Commander Francis Wright, USN, retired
Other letters were included in the packet, but this was the only account of the sinking. The other notes were addressed to loved ones, saying good-bye, as Lt. Commander Wright had done at the end of his. Tears flowed down Undine’s cheeks as she read the love notes. She met Luke’s gaze. “You did the same thing, in the same place. You accepted a suicide mission without hesitation and might never have come back. I can easily imagine how those wives must have felt, but they had no idea of the heroic sacrifice their husbands made.”
All the spouses had died years ago, but the Wrasse seven’s children and grandchildren had since learned the truth. And it would all come out in the documentary, including the full story of what Magnum had carried in her torpedo tube.
Luke stroked her cheek. “I understand why they did it without hesitation. And I bet you anything, while Wright was writing this letter, the other six were trying to figure out how to stay alive, trying to hook up radios, anything. Even tapping out messages on the hull to the Soviets. But it was a different time, and what they had at their disposal was i
nadequate.”
Undine wiped away her tears, remembering the camera was running, and there was one scripted line she was supposed to add. “These letters, along with other items collected from the Wrasse excavation, will become part of a permanent Cold War exhibit in the Smithsonian Museum of American History in Washington, DC. The Wrasse seven will posthumously receive the Congressional Medal of Honor, and the men will be buried with full honors in Arlington National Cemetery this coming Memorial Day. The Wrasse seven are the first US military personnel to receive our nation’s highest military decoration for engaging with the enemy during the Cold War.”
After a long beat, Diego said, “Perfect, Undine. That’s a wrap.”
She slumped back into the couch, clutching the letters to her chest while the two men packed their equipment. The documentary was done. Her final assignment for NHHC. A bittersweet moment.
After they walked Mario and Diego to the door and said good-bye, she flopped back onto the couch. “I think this means I’m unemployed now.”
“And so you are,” Luke said, pulling her onto his lap. “But we’ll worry about that tomorrow. Right now, I just want to hold you.”
She snuggled into his lap, enjoying the moment. This wasn’t the end. It was another new beginning.
“You aren’t the only one to receive something interesting in the mail today,” Luke said. “I received a card at work.”
“A card?”
“Yeah. At first I thought it was from your dad, because the envelope was postmarked Palau and inside was a picture of Jellyfish Lake.”
“Dad won’t be in Palau until next month.”
“Yeah, I remembered that after I turned it over. On the back it said ‘4-2-5’ and nothing else. Parker Reeves is alive.”
Author’s Note
It is a burden, having readers who insist on meticulous research, but in the name of accuracy I diligently stayed at Hobuck resort in November to make sure I got the details right. The power did indeed go out, my cell phone has no service in that corner of my state, and I can confirm the sunsets are insanely beautiful.
If you ever find yourself lucky enough to visit Washington and can make it out to the Makah Reservation, I highly recommend visiting the museum to view the Ozette collection and hiking the Cape Flattery Trail. Staying in a cabin at Hobuck is a special treat. I can’t wait to return.
The encounter between USS Wrasse and M-357 was fictional, as are both submarines, but there are some similarities to actual events. Of particular note, USS Bugara, a Balao-class submarine, was being towed to the Pacific for SINKEX when she took on water and sank off the coast at Cape Flattery. No submariners were aboard Bugara, and no one on the tow vessel was injured when the cable slipped from the brake and ran free.
The bombs described in this story are also fictional, however many countries experimented with nuclear artillery and the US developed “backpack nukes”—fifty-pound nuclear weapons that could be carried in a soldier’s pack, many of which were more powerful than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Special Forces units, Navy SEALs, and some Marines were trained to carry these small devices. One documentary stated SEALs were trained to plant these nuclear weapons underwater.
This book would not have been possible without input from my husband, who worked for UAB at Naval History and Heritage Command in the late nineties, and like Undine, holds an MA in nautical archaeology from Texas A&M. He shared details both small—underwater archaeologists do indeed read paperback books during decompression—and large—there are accounts of US sailors hearing tapping by sailors trapped in sinking vessels. It is also true that notes written by trapped submariners have been found when the wreckage was later examined.
Thank you for reading Cold Evidence. I hope you enjoyed my mermaid and SEAL story.
If you’d like to know when my next book is available, you can sign up for my new release mailing list or visit my website. You can also follow me on Twitter or like my Facebook page. I’m also on Goodreads, where you can see what I’m currently reading.
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Acknowledgments
As I stated in the author’s note, this book would not be possible without the help of former UAB nautical archaeologist David Grant, who also happens to be my husband. I’m a lucky woman to have a husband willing to spend a romantic birthday getaway weekend walking the beach at Hobuck to plot out the logistics of Ukrainian neo-Nazis planting a nuclear bomb on an international ferry.
Huge thanks to Jenn Stark, who was once again available for IM harassment as I worked out this story. Thanks so much for the insightful and fast critique of the finished work as well. Promise me you’ll never leave me.
Darcy Burke thank you for your friendship, plotting help, and for writing amazing books!
Thank you to Gwen Hayes for joining my process with this book. Your feedback was just what I needed, when I needed it.
Thank you to Gwen Hernandez, for your friendship, support, and willingness to field random military-related questions.
Thank you Serena Bell for our plotting walks in sunshine, darkness, rain, and windstorms.
To my editor, Linda Ingmanson, thank you as always, for your thorough edits that bring out the shine.
Thank you to my children for their tolerance of my writing schedule and their love and support.
Lastly, even though I started the acknowledgments with my husband, I must end with Dave too, because he remains the reason I believe in happily ever afters.
Read on for a sneak peek at Cate Beauman’s latest installment in her bestselling Bodyguards of L.A. County series
Finding Lyla
Chapter One
Moscow, Russia
February 1991
Jonathan’s heart raced as the steady rhythm of the machines tracking his wife’s vitals filled the operating suite.
“Hold me tighter,” Mina whispered as she stared up at him and nervously licked her dry lips.
“You’re doing great. He or she will be here before we know it,” he reassured her, sliding his fingers down Mina’s smooth neck and shoulder, one of the few places he could touch on their side of the bluish-green curtain.
“I can’t stop shaking.”
He glanced at Mina’s delicate, trembling arms strapped into place on the table, as if she were affixed to a cross, and he felt his pulse kick up another notch with his sense of helplessness. “It’s cold in here.” He smiled, kissing Mina’s nose and brushing at the silky blond wisps of hair escaping her surgical cap. “Soon this will be over and we’ll finally get to meet the little one who’s been kicking you for months.” He smiled again as Mina did, doing his best to reassure her while his stomach continued its greasy roil.
For hours, they’d waited for their new son or daughter. For hours, Mina had endured the excruciating pain of labor and the frustrations of endlessly attempting to push their child into the world, until the baby’s heart rate took a dangerous dip that had yet to recover. Only minutes had passed since the doctors and nurses rushed them down to the operating theater, but it felt like days while they waited for the new life to be born.
“The head’s stuck,” someone muttered on the other side of the curtain separating them from the gore of Mina’s cesarean section.
“Work faster,” another demanded quietly as a wet suction sound filled the room. “The outcome will not be good if we don’t.”
Jonathan sat farther up on the uncomfortable stool as the urgency in the doctors’ tones registered. A year ago, he would have struggled to understand the rapid-fire Russian they spoke, but now he understood just fine that even though emergency surgery was taking place, the baby was still in trouble. He swallowed while sweat dribbled down his back and Mina blinked up at him.
“Widen the incision,” another doctor said.
“Everything’s okay,” he mumbled, str
oking Mina’s forehead, praying his words were true, even though it was clear things weren’t going well.
Mina sucked in a breath as her body was roughly jostled. “Why are they pulling so? Even with the drugs, I feel as if I’m being ripped in two.”
“It will be over soon—very soon,” he promised as the fetal alarms started beeping the way they had when the doctors raced around in the upstairs delivery room.
More tense seconds passed while Jonathan stared into Mina’s pretty blue eyes.
“Finally,” said the doctor closest to Jonathan’s side as he listened to his child’s first lusty wails.
The nurse peeked her face over the curtain, holding up a tiny, screaming infant covered in goop and blood. “What do you have, Mina?”
“A girl.” Mina grinned as Jonathan laughed his relief.
“We have a daughter.” Jonathan followed the nurse’s movements with his gaze as she quickly walked his baby over to the warming station. “She’s really here.” He kissed Mina’s forehead and relaxed his tense shoulders for the first time in days. “You did it. You did it, Mina,” he whispered next to her ear. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I did nothing more than lay here like a log. Kiss me again, my darling, and tell them I need to see her.”
He pressed his mouth to Mina’s and smiled as he wiped away her tears, surprised that it was possible to love her more than he already did.
“Tell them, Jonathan. Tell them we must see her, or I’ll simply die from the anticipation.”
Nodding, he chuckled as his daughter’s cries echoed, certain he’d never been so overcome with joy. Mina had been waiting for this moment since the doctor confirmed her pregnancy. “Okay.” He moved to stand as the nurse walked their way.
