Stealing Trinity (37 page)

"Come on, Lydia!" With the cockpit elevated, the remaining air now surrounded them. Braun saw that Lydia's right arm was badly broken. The water rose even more quickly now, and as he tried to lift her from the seat, he looked up through what had been the front window. Braun saw the ocean s surface clearly -- it was definitely receding. They were already ten or twenty feet down, sinking like a stone.

It was a death trap that would only stop falling when it hit the bottom. Braun knew he could make it to the surface if he went now. But not with Lydia in tow. And he knew she'd never make it alone. Lydia, the ocean, his own well being -- it all triangulated in his mind. Then he remembered the life vests.

Still cradling Lydia, Braun reached behind her seat and groped in the stowage pocket with his hand. He found what he wanted -- the emergency life vest. He worked it around her neck and secured the strap, then positioned Lydia carefully near the breach in the sidewall, where the remaining air was fighting a tumultuous, losing battle with the sea.

"Lydia!" he screamed, shaking her shoulders.

Her eyes opened, but the gaze was lazy, unfocused.

"Listen to me, dammit!"

There was a glimmer of comprehension as her soft green eyes locked to his. The water was back up to chest level. "Take a deep breath! I'm going to send you up!"

Lydia looked around briefly, registering their predicament, seeing the vest strapped around her. Braun might have expected panic, or at least fear. Instead he saw only one thing etched into her face -- determination. She nodded. "All right."

Braun made sure she was clear of any obstructions, and Lydia drew in a full breath. He reached for the inflation lanyard on her vest and they locked eyes once more. Braun felt like he was taking a snapshot of her face. The battered cheek, wet hair plastered across her forehead. All so incredibly-- Braun cursed himself for the hesitation. He pulled the lanyard and guided her clear. In a rush of air and water, Lydia was gone.

He watched her rise in a maelstrom of bubbles as the water level reached his own chin. He had considered going up with her, but his added weight would have slowed the ascent. With only a small pocket of air remaining, Braun took his last breath. As he did, he was suddenly beset by a sickening realization. There had been a second vest -- but it was gone, lost with the pilots seat. How had he not realized it? What had he been thinking?

He scrambled out, trying to clear the wreckage. His shirt caught on something, and Braun tried to wrestle free. As the airplane pulled him farther into the abyss, he looked up, his vision blurred by the stinging salt water. The surface was less distinguishable now, simply a lighter shade against the darkness surrounding him. How deep could he be? Fifty feet? A hundred? There was an urge to close his eyes, to take his minute of calm. But in a minute his body would be crushed by the depth.

Braun finally ripped free, his lungs demanding air after the exertion. He again looked up to find the surface. He saw the sun, a faded orb, obscure and distant. It reminded him of the sky on a snowy Russian morning. Then Braun s eyes captured something else -- a tiny dot dancing near the surface, a lone figure awash in muted sunlight. Lydia.

The vision above him faltered. And soon it faded to nothing.

Lydia burst to the surface gasping for air. The brightness was incredible. She slapped frantically against the waves, as if trying to keep afloat. Her right arm blazed in pain, every movement a torture as she gasped for breath. She then heard a distant voice.

Lydia ... Lydia.

A shudder coursed briefly through her nervous system. But then she saw the source -- it was Thatcher, clinging to a piece of wreckage thirty yards away. Lydia gave him an awkward wave with her good arm.

"Are you all right?" he shouted across the divide.

The question was a simple one, yet a thousand thoughts spun in her mind. She tried to wave again, then saw Thatcher pointing toward the sky. Lydia looked up and saw an airplane overhead flying low, lazy circles.

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 1-58 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, f/ze bravest man I've known. I realize there is an ocean between us now, fewt 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 , 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.

To them, my utmost thanks and respect.

Sarasota, Florida February 2008

Table of Contents

Start

Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter 1.

Chapter 2.

Chapter 3.

Chapter 4.

Chapter 5.

Chapter 6.

Chapter 7.

Chapter 8.

Chapter 9.

Chapter 10.

Chapter 11.

Chapter 12.

Chapter 13.

PART II

Chapter 14.

Chapter 15.

Chapter 16.

Chapter 17.

Chapter 18.

Chapter 19.

Chapter 20.

Chapter 21.

Chapter 22.

Chapter 23.

Chapter 24.

Chapter 25.

Chapter 26.

Chapter 27.