Costa Rica, two months later
Steve Fischer descended past fifty feet, keeping a check on his depth gauge. The water was murky, courtesy of a recent storm, the visibility no more than fifty percent. Below, in grim shades of gray and lavender, he could just make out the top of the reef. Beside him Taylor signaled to go left.
The stern of the Nordika reared out of the reef floor. The fisherman who had brought them out had been precise with his navigation. Jose regularly fished the reef. He knew where all the wrecks were, and still remembered the navy tragedy. Eight Americano militar dying in their waters wasn’t an event that would easily be forgotten. Like everyone else along the coast, he had scanned the shores and checked his nets for bodies. The fact that none had ever been found had always been remarked upon, adding fuel to the mystery. According to Jose, with the Caribbean current sweeping in against the coastline, the bodies should have made landfall somewhere.
The Nordika still lay balanced on the edge of a ravine, its hull broken in two, its barnacle-encrusted rudder visible. Water welled coldly from the trench as Steve examined what was left of the deck area. The bridge was gone, and any sign of the onboard crane. The trench had already been searched by a specialist team and nothing further had been discovered, no bodies and no sign of the cargo the ship had carried. As a wreck, the Nordika remained as enigmatic as it had been almost twenty-five years before when his father had dived on it. At a guess, Reichmann and Chavez had offloaded the cargo and disposed of the crew at another location, then scuttled the ship over the trench.
Saunders had a lead on a small fishing settlement on the Colombian coast that had a deepwater anchorage, and the testimony of an elderly fisherman and his son who claimed they had seen the Nordika. The fact that Juarez was one of the few places a ship the size of the Nordika could anchor in close made it a strong candidate for the offloading of cargo and the execution of the ship’s crew.
The discovery just days ago of a plank, which had been used in the construction of a seaside shanty, and which had a partial swastika stenciled on one side, had finally provided Saunders with the leverage he’d needed. He had gone through diplomatic channels and pulled some heavy-duty strings. For the past two days the area had been sealed off while they had searched.
Juarez, Colombia
One week later
Steve watched as the team of forensic archaeologists painstakingly uncovered what had proved to be a mass grave, on not one level, but two.
The first level contained the remains of Todd Fischer, his SEAL team and the launch skipper. Identification of individual remains would take time, although the divers’s neoprene dive suits had helped preserve the bodies. A further two bodies had also been found. At this point their identities remained a mystery, but it was conjectured that they could be local men who had been employed to dig the grave before being executed themselves.
The second level contained remains that were much older. From the scraps of clothing and the rotted documentation that had been found—the Nordika’s log and manifest—it had been ascertained that they were the original crew of the Nordika.
The discovery of the graves had sparked an international furor. People had started to arrive, filtering through Saunders’s tight security. A Colombian woman who had been certain her son had died in the area, but had never been able to find him, came to the site. Representatives from the families of the naval dive team—Verney, Downey, Mathews, Hendrickson, Salter, McNeal and Brooks—were quietly waiting. An elderly woman from Germany, Bernadette Reinhardt, the granddaughter of the captain of the Nordika, Erich Reinhardt, had flown in that morning with her son.
Flowers had also started to arrive, piling up to one side of the open pit where they wouldn’t interfere with the delicate work in progress.
Steve watched as the numbers around the grave slowly expanded, men in uniform, somber women in dark clothing. That morning he had positively identified his father’s remains, courtesy of the tattoo on his Dad’s right arm. The moment had hurt.
There would be a funeral service with full military honors back in Shreveport, a postmortem presentation of medals and an official apology. The record would finally be set straight, but as far as Steve was concerned it was over, here. Todd Fischer had already found his rest.
Chest tight, he crouched down and picked up a handful of the damp, crumbly soil. Rising to his feet, he let the soil slide between his fingers and remembered Todd Fischer as he had been, not as a soldier but as his father…and finally let go.
White rose petals and delicate sprays of jasmine blew across the muddy ground as Taylor slipped her fingers through Steve’s. She was unwilling to intrude on his grief, but at the same time she was determined to pull him back from the solitary place he’d retreated to.
Steve had found his father and, against the odds, she had found hers. Her relationship with Jack wasn’t perfect, but she no longer expected it to be. He was in the picture, despite his past, and was determined to stay for her sake and for Dana’s. Dana hadn’t said anything, but she didn’t have to. The glow in her expression was all Taylor needed to see. Somehow, despite the passage of years and the twists and turns their lives had taken, she and Jack still fit together. More than that, they were happy.
Steve’s fingers tightened on hers as he pulled her away from the lingering grief and sadness of the now-empty grave. His arm came around her waist as they picked their way through the expanding press of humanity that had sprung up around the site, his palm cupping her abdomen. Her stomach was still flat and there was no visible evidence of the small life growing inside her, but the baby was there, and already the center of the new life they were planning, courtesy of WITSEC.
They all had a chance at a new beginning, and they were taking it. Wedding arrangements were under way, although Taylor had stipulated that the ceremony had to take place after the memorial services. When Steve walked down the aisle, she wanted his focus firmly on the future, not the past.
His gaze met hers as they reached the mud encrusted four-wheel-drive truck they had rented in Cartagena. He dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them in one hand, and the grimness of the past few days dissolved, replaced by warmth and a piercing sweetness. “Time to go home.”
And in that moment she knew he was finally free.
Wrapping her arms around his waist, she held him tight.
Freedom felt good.
Love felt even better.