A strange tranquility set in. The ocean seemed to still, and Lydia lay back, allowing the vest to keep her afloat. The pain in her arm lessened as she relaxed. With each new breath, Lydia gained clarity. Bits and pieces flowed to her marginally coherent head — the violent torrents of water, Alex pulling her free. And the look on his face right before he had inflated her vest — the same odd expression she'd seen after throwing his precious papers into the sky. Only now did she recognize it for what it was.
Lydia looked all around, drawing her gaze carefully across the sea. Alex was not here. He was gone.
Two hundred miles to the west, a small Russian fishing boat received the first faint signal. Her captain adjusted course accordingly. The man who was truly in charge, an NKVD colonel, made a series of plots on his chart. He then issued the first of what would eventually be four messages. Contact established.
The Japanese submarine I-58 acknowledged.
Chapter 46
Thatcher woke to the gentle din of rain tapping at his window. The impulse to move was not a strong one, and so he lay in bed with his eyes closed and listened. Aside from the rain, there was nothing. Nothing at all. He had never been one to appreciated things like silence, yet today, somehow, it seemed a like a treasure.
It had taken over a week to get back to England, and it all seemed a blur. After a few days in a clinic on Guam, Thatcher had delivered Lydia to her grateful family in Newport. He'd spent a day there, mostly giving her parents a glowing account of their daughter's exploits. That evening, he and Lydia had spent a few hours alone in the kitchen — at the same table where they'd first gotten to know each other late one night over a month ago. The next two days were lost to travel. And finally Thatcher was home.
When he tried to rise, his limbs felt heavy, as if the bones had been replaced with leaden rods. He sat up slowly and, like each morning for the past week, found today's pains to be slightly more bearable than yesterday's. Dim morning light filtered in through the windows, and he looked at the unset alarm clock by his bed. Ten thirty. He had slept for sixteen hours — and was already four hours late for work. Today would be Thatcher's first day back at Handley Down since he'd left over a month ago.
He pried himself out of bed and cracked open the windows, hoping to stir the stale air that had gathered in his absence. His next stop was the mirror — a grievous mistake. One side of his head displayed a gash with ten stitches, and his jaw was still swollen on the opposite side. On top of this, he hadn't shaved in three days, and his hair was completely askew. Thatcher sighed. He went through the motions as best he could — washing, dressing, breakfast, and tea.
Before heading outside, he paused at the nightstand. As always, the picture of Madeline was there. Thatcher studied it for some time before picking up the unopened envelope that leaned against it. Lydia had given it to him in parting, with instructions that it should not be opened until Thatcher had arrived back in England. Yesterday he'd been tired. But also fearful. He'd been thinking a great deal about Lydia Murray, and what the letter might or might not say.
Thatcher sat on the bed, took a deep breath — and slid the letter into the pocket of his jacket.
He rode through the gate at Handley Down thirty minutes later. The guard shack was vacant. He parked his bicycle and went straight to Roger Ainsley's office.
When Thatcher limped in, Ainsley looked up from his desk in astonishment. "Good Lord, Michael!" He rushed over to help, but Thatcher shooed him off.
"I'm fine, Roger. Really." Thatcher eased into a chair. "Much improved, actually, from when they fished me out of the Pacific."
"All the same, you should have told me." Ainsley crossed his arms defiantly. "I simply won't have you here in this state, Michael. You must take time off to convalesce. I won't hear any argument."
For once, Thatcher gave none.
"Can I send for tea?"
"No, thank you."
Ainsley edged back behind his desk. "Have you seen the newspapers?"
Thatcher shook his head, and Ainsley spun the Times across the hardwood writing surface. The headline displayed prominently: atomic bomb devastates hiroshima.
Thatcher skimmed through the article. "Dear God — 100,000 dead?" He pinched the bridge of his thin nose. "So this is what it was all about — what Braun was trying to sell to Russia."
"Yes. And he would have done it if it hadn't been for you."
Thatcher tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Actually… there was another person who had an even bigger part in stopping him."
Ainsley raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask the obvious question. Instead, he said, "There's something else. Page 9, bottom left."
Thatcher leafed through and found the second article: u. S. sailors spend four days adrift. Again he read, and again he felt his stomach churn. "Indianapolis. Do you think Braun had something to do with it? Or the Russians?"
"I think it's a hell of a coincidence," Ainsley replied.
"Eight hundred men — it ought to be investigated."
"It ought to be. But it's been a long war, Michael. I have a feeling we'll probably never know if there was any connection."
Thatcher nodded, then paused to consider it. "Perhaps it's best that way."
The telephone rang, and Ainsley answered, falling victim to his daily chores.
Thatcher briefly considered venturing across the hall to his own office, to inspect the mountain of papers that must certainly have accumulated in his absence. Instead, he pulled Lydia's letter from his pocket. After some hesitation, he forged it open and read.
Michael
We've been through a great deal together. I asked you to not open this letter until your arrival in England because I know it will take time for us to collect our lives.
You are, I think, the bravest man I've known. I realize there is an ocean between us now, but I dearly hope that someday we might see each other again. I say this not with the prospect of looking back to reminisce over the terrible events we left behind. Instead, I think you and I, more than most, can appreciate the possibilities of what is yet to come.
With deepest affection, Lydia
Thatcher read the letter three times. He then folded it carefully and sat very still, playing her voice in his mind. And what would come? The future tense had been foreign to his thoughts for so long.
Ainsley hung up his telephone. "Apparently we'll be getting another tomorrow — a colonel from the 7th Army Headquarters who —" Ainsley stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Thatcher. "Are you hearing any of this?"
When the question broke Thatcher's thoughts, he could think of only one thing to say. "I think you're right, Roger. I'm going to take some time off."
Ainsley walked around his desk and put a hand on Thatcher's shoulder. "Take as much as you need, Michael. God knows, you've earned it."
Thatcher left Ainsley's office and passed his own without a glance. There would be others to find, he knew. It might take years, even decades to track them all down. In time, he would do his share. But not today. And not tomorrow. As he walked down the hall his pace quickened. He could almost hear Madeline's strong, clear voice urging him elsewhere — It's time to live now, Michael Live!
Outside, Thatcher struggled onto his bicycle and began to pedal surely through the warm August rain.
Author's Note
The sinking of the USS Indianapolis has long been shrouded in mystery, but the same can be said for any number of events that occurred during World War II. The true circumstances of such tragedies are, of course, generally more ordinary than writers of fiction would imagine. What is not at question are the sacrifices made then, and continuing to this day, by the generation who fought those battles both at home and on the fronts.