Which leads me to believe that the Russians are somehow responsible for this whole confusing tragedy.”
“Very interesting, Admiral,” remarked Moore.
“I’ve got to admit that it sure makes a hell of a lot more sense than that black-hole theory, even though I still find the idea of an antimatter device a bit hard to swallow. How do you propose that we continue with the investigation from this point?”
Most relieved that his hypothesis was not immediately shrugged off by Moore, Daniel Proctor answered him with a question.
“Ever embark on a 688 class attack sub before, Thomas?”
“I haven’t had that pleasure. Admiral.”
Proctor grinned.
“Well, you’re going to presently, son, because I’m ordering you to Norfolk. There COMSUBLANT will be providing you with your very own Los Angeles class attack sub to recreate the Lewis and Clark’s voyage up to the point where we lost them. To allow you unlimited surveillance of the Andros Trench, your 688 will be picking up the deep submergence rescue vehicle, Avalon, in Port Canaveral. My gut tells me that the Soviets are using the U.N. underwater habitat program as a cover, and I’m relying on you to verify my suspicions.
“To keep you busy on the flight down to Norfolk, I’ve got a file that I’d like you to take a look at. This top-secret report documents the only official U.S. Navy mention of Einstein’s Philadelphia Experiment that I was able to put my hands on. It seems that when the Eldridge rematerialized in Norfolk, all hands below deck except one were inexplicably lost. An old friend in BUPERS was able to dig up a portion of the original medical report concerning this lone survivor.”
“My God, that’s just like what happened on the Lewis and Clark!” exclaimed the astounded junior investigator.
“You’ve got it,” replied his superior, whose tone turned somber.
“And by the way, Thomas, it’s been decided to inform the families of Lewis and Clark’s crew that the boat has been officially listed as missing at sea. We’ll continue to stick to our story that the vessel was lost off the coast of Florida, with a press release from CHINFO to hit the wires later this afternoon.”
Without waiting for a response to this. Proctor flicked off the slide projector and turned the room lights back on.
“Good luck with your sub ride,” he said as he pushed his chair back and stood.
“And for heaven’s sake, don’t go and disappear on me. This case is confusing enough as it is.”
8
Mimi Slater had been waiting for them to arrive all day long. When the white U.S. Navy van finally pulled into the driveway, and the two uniformed officers solemnly climbed out, it was almost anticlimactic. She had inwardly known that her husband would never be coming home again from the first moment she heard the news report that the Lewis and Clark was missing, earlier that morning. And now true to custom, the U.S. Navy was taking the time to inform their own of the true extent of the tragedy that had befallen them.
Yet reality really hit home when they somberly informed her that Peter was officially listed as missing at sea. This meant that they had yet to find his body, or those of his shipmates for that matter. Being a submariner’s wife, Mimi knew that if her husband was ever involved in a serious accident while on patrol, the chances were almost nil that his remains would ever be located. Such was the unforgiving nature of the elements he sailed beneath.
Though there was always the slimmest chance that the Lewis and Clark was not sunk, and that the crew was still very much alive, Mimi didn’t dare deceive herself.
The arrival of the two officers at her door meant that all hope was forever lost, and to think otherwise was pure self-delusion.
She bravely accepted their sincere condolences, and stubbornly refused their offer of assistance. When they finally left, and she locked the door behind them, she found herself so numbed by shock that not even tears would fall. But all of this quickly changed when she returned to the living room, and spotted the family gram that she had received only yesterday.
The tears began welling up in her eyes when she reached for this single-page dispatch, which she had lovingly placed on top of the glass coffee table. Sent by her husband in honor of her thirty-seventh birthday, it had been initially received with the greatest of joy.
Little did she ever realize at the time, that this would be her last communique from the man that she adoringly called Dutch.
She cried, reread the family gram and wept once more. And thus went the coldest, loneliest day of her life.
Later that evening, she managed to drink some tea, and to call Tina Bressler, the wife of Peter’s XO. Earlier in the summer, Tina had told Mimi that she was expecting their third child. And now this baby would have to grow up without its birth father.
As it turned out, Tina was too distraught to come to the phone, and after expressing her sympathy to Tina’s mother, Mimi returned to the couch to continue her lonely vigil. It was well after midnight when she pulled out a photo album and began leafing through it. Since they had never been fortunate enough to have children, these pictures were all that remained of a glorious, twenty-year relationship.
She began in the back of the album, where the most recent photos had been placed. This series chronicled their summer trip to Catalina Island. One of Peter’s submarine buddies, who was based out of San Diego, had lent them his twenty-eight-foot sailboat, and it was on this vessel that they crossed over to the island.
The voyage itself was a great adventure, and she scanned the various shots of herself and Peter at the boat’s helm, beside its mast, and inside the rather cramped cabin.
She fondly viewed a photo showing Catalina’s Avalon harbor. They had arrived at dusk, and there was just enough light left for them to photograph the famed Casino, the Wrigley mansion, and the colorful collection of boats anchored before the quaint seaside village.
The next series of shots had been taken the following day, when they initiated their exploration of the island.
They began with a hike up to the Wrigley Memorial, where William Wrigley Jr. of chewing-gum fame had been buried. A botanical garden had been planted beside the art-deco memorial tower, and Peter made certain to get pictures of the many unusual indigenous plants and cacti there.
Per the suggestion of a group of locals, they hiked up into the hills behind the memorial. Peter had taken several shots of Mimi as they climbed a trail high up onto a surrounding ridge. From this lofty vantage point, they could clearly see Avalon and the smog-enshrouded coast of Southern California, twenty-eight miles in the distance.
Yet it was in the opposite direction that a truly magnificent view of nearby San Clemente island was encountered.
Peter tried to capture this vista with several photographs showing the sparkling channel of water separating the two islands. One of these pictures showed a sleek U.S. Navy cruiser. Of course, Peter was thrilled by this sighting, and explained in detail how the Navy used San Clemente as a weapons test-range.
It was as they prepared to return to Avalon, that she took a very special picture of her husband that she enlarged, framed, and placed on the mantel. She had caught him thoughtfully staring out to the sparkling blue waters of the Pacific. The sun had been directly behind her, and perfectly illuminated his ruggedly handsome face. His determined stare, blondish-brown hair, and sharply dimpled chin gave him additional character, and he could have easily passed for a middle-aged version of the actor Kirk Douglas. For the rest of her life, this would be how she would always picture Peter, so handsome, so curious, with the eyes of a poet and the heart of a silent warrior.