Part 2
Arthur’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his glasses. Tears welled in his aged, weathered eyes, spilling over his cheeks before he could stop them. For a long second, the only sound in the hall was the old man’s ragged breathing.
“What boat?” Arthur choked out, his voice cracking.
“USS Louisiana, sir. SSBN-743,” I replied, keeping my bearing despite the tremors shaking my legs.
Arthur let out a shuddering gasp. “I was a plank owner on the Louisiana,” he whispered. “Thirty years in the Navy. Senior Chief.” He turned to the stunned crowd, his voice suddenly booming with absolute, unquestionable authority. “This woman is not a deserter! She is a submariner on a ballistic missile sub. When they dive, they become ghosts. Absolute radio silence. No emails. No phone calls. No bad news from home. They are the nuclear shield of this country, and they cannot be distracted. My own mother passed away while I was two hundred feet under the ice, and my brother hated me for a decade because of it.”
He stepped closer to me, ignoring Derek completely, and offered a crisp, flawless salute. “You were standing the watch, Lieutenant. In the one place on earth you couldn’t leave.”
Chloe’s family began murmuring, the hostile glares transforming into looks of profound guilt and respect. But Derek wasn’t having it. The narrative he had clung to for seven years was collapsing, and it drove him completely mad.
“Bullshit!” Derek screamed, his face purple with rage. “You’re taking her side?! She could have come home! She just didn’t want to deal with him being sick!”
Derek grabbed a heavy crystal decanter from the nearest table and hurled it violently. I ducked just in time. It smashed against the wall behind me, spraying whiskey and shards of glass everywhere.
“Derek, stop!” Chloe shrieked, grabbing his arm. He shook her off violently, his eyes wild, utterly consumed by grief and misplaced hatred.
“You’re dead to me!” he spat at me, turning on his heel and storming out of the banquet hall.
I didn’t stay to receive the apologies from Chloe’s family. I ran out the back doors, sprinting through the rain-slicked parking lot, jumping into my rental car, and tearing off after Derek’s taillights. I knew exactly where he was going. He always retreated to our dad’s old house—the house Derek still lived in—when he was spiraling.
I pulled into the driveway just as he was kicking the front door open. I chased him inside. The house smelled exactly like I remembered: old pine and Dad’s pipe tobacco.
“Get the hell out of my house!” Derek roared from the living room.
I found him furiously throwing things into a duffel bag. “Derek, please listen to me. I didn’t know. The Navy wouldn’t let the Red Cross message through to the sub. It’s protocol!”
“I don’t care about your damn protocols!” He grabbed a heavy brass lamp from Dad’s old oak desk and hurled it at me. I dodged, but the lamp struck the side of the heavy desk with a deafening crack. The impact splintered the old wood, causing the bottom drawer—the one Dad always kept locked—to completely bust open, spilling its contents across the rug.
“Are you insane?!” I yelled, grabbing him by the collar of his dress shirt and shoving him hard against the wall. “I loved him too! Do you think I wanted to find out my father was dead from a commanding officer two months after the funeral?!”
Derek fought back, grappling with my arms, ready to throw a punch. But suddenly, he froze. His eyes were locked on the floor.
I followed his gaze. Lying among the spilled tax documents and old photos from the broken drawer was a thick, manila folder bearing the official seal of the Department of the Navy. And right next to it, an envelope. It was sealed with wax, and on the front, in Dad’s unmistakable, messy handwriting, were the words: For Sarah. When you finally surface.
Part 3
Derek’s arms went entirely limp. I released his collar, stepping back as my heart hammered violently against my ribs. The silence in the living room was deafening, broken only by the sound of the rain lashing against the windows.
With trembling hands, Derek fell to his knees. He picked up the Navy folder first. He opened it, his eyes scanning the rigid, official typography. It was a pre-deployment emergency contact waiver. There, at the bottom, was a specific box checked in bold black ink: Do not notify the sailor of death or severe injury until the conclusion of the patrol. Right beside the checkbox was our father’s signature. Dated three days before my submarine left port.
“He… he signed it,” Derek whispered, his voice entirely devoid of the rage that had consumed him for seven years. “He ordered them not to tell you.”
I sank to the floor across from him, my hands shaking as I reached for the sealed envelope. I broke the wax seal, pulling out a piece of yellowed legal paper. I recognized the oil stains on the edges—Dad had written this in his garage.
My dearest Sarah,
If you are reading this, it means my old heart finally gave out while you were under the sea. I know you, kiddo. I know you’re going to blame yourself for not being here. That’s exactly why I signed that Navy waiver. You are protecting millions of people, standing a watch that most people wouldn’t have the courage to endure. I refused to let my passing compromise your mind, your crew, or your mission. Do not shed a single tear of guilt. I died proud of you. I have always been proud of you. Please, take care of your brother. He’s hot-headed, but he loves us. Forgive him if he’s angry. I love you, Sarah. Now, square your shoulders, sailor, and keep moving forward.
Love, Dad.
Tears violently blurred my vision. A choked, agonizing sob ripped from my throat. I pressed the letter to my chest, finally mourning the father I hadn’t been allowed to grieve properly.
A sudden weight hit my shoulder. Derek collapsed against me, burying his face into my neck. He was sobbing uncontrollably, his fingers gripping my jacket like a frightened child. “I’m so sorry,” he bawled, the years of toxic hatred washing away in an instant. “I’m so sorry, Sarah. I hid from the pain, and I blamed you. I’m so sorry.”
I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him tightly against me. “It’s okay, Derek. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” We sat on the floor of our father’s wrecked office for hours, crying until we had nothing left, finally healing the gaping wound that had torn our family apart.
Three months later, the freezing wind bit at my cheeks as I stood on the pier at Naval Base Kitsap, preparing to board the USS Louisiana for my next patrol. It was 4:00 AM, pitch dark, and freezing. But I wasn’t alone.
Derek stood on the docks, holding Chloe’s hand tightly. Beside them stood Grandpa Arthur, bundled in a heavy peacoat, standing tall. As I turned to descend into the submarine’s hatch, Arthur snapped a crisp salute. Derek smiled, tears in his eyes, and placed his hand over his heart. I saluted back, a profound sense of peace anchoring my soul.
Nine days later, we were submerged deep in the Pacific Ocean, completely cut off from the world above. The radioman approached me in the dimly lit control room, handing me a small slip of paper—a standard forty-word family gram, the only communication allowed.
It read: Watching the thunderstorms roll in over Seattle. Missing you. We’ll be right here waiting when you surface. Love, Derek, Chloe, and Arthur.
I folded the paper, slipped it into my uniform pocket, and looked at the sonar screens. For the first time in seven years, I wasn’t just hiding in the deep. I was protecting my family.
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