“If you're remembering something that makes you uncomfortable, you don't need to force yourself to tell me everything at once.”
His voice softened.
“I've waited eight years. I think I can tell you now.”
They agreed to meet at a quiet café near the waterfront.
After ending the call, Elise sat still for several minutes.
Then she called Mark.
He answered on the second ring.
“Everything okay?”
“I received a letter.”
“What kind of letter?”
“From someone who served aboard the Carver.”
Mark was quiet.
“Is it about Andrew?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
Elise explained the letter without drawing conclusions.
When she finished, Mark did not speak immediately.
“Do you think it changes what happened?”
“I don't know.”
“Could it mean Andrew went back for someone?”
“Possibly.”
“Does it mean the Navy left something out?”
“Not necessarily. There may be information that never made it into the final report because the transmission was incomplete. Or Daniel may have misunderstood what he heard.”
Mark exhaled.
“Are you going to meet him?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Do you want me there?”
Elise considered the question.
“I don't know yet.”
“That's fine.”
“I don't want you to hear something before we're sure what it means.”
“I understand.”
Mark paused.
“Just don't carry it alone.”
Elise looked at the photograph.
“I won't.”
Daniel Reeves arrived ten minutes early.
He was taller than Elise remembered, with grey beginning at his temples. He wore a plain blue shirt and carried a small document case.
When he saw her, he stopped beside the table.
“Commander.”
“Daniel.”
He offered his hand.
She shook it.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
“Sit down.”
He placed the document case on the chair beside him.
For a moment, they spoke about ordinary things. Daniel had left active service several years earlier. He now worked for a marine engineering company. He had two children and lived outside Norfolk.
Then the conversation returned to the Carver.
“I brought what I have,” he said.
He opened the case.
Inside were several folders, a small notebook, and a plastic sleeve containing a photograph of a handwritten maintenance log.
Elise looked at the notebook.
“Is this yours?”
“Yes. I kept it during the deployment.”
“Was it an official record?”
“No. Personal notes. I used it to remember equipment problems and things I needed to follow up on.”
“Did you write in it during the emergency?”
“Some of it.”
He opened the notebook carefully.
Several pages contained diagrams and short entries. Most were routine maintenance notes. One page had a date, a time, and a brief line written in darker ink.
Lower engineering section — intermittent signal. Team not confirmed.
Elise leaned forward.
“What time was this?”
“Approximately twenty-one hundred. I can't guarantee the exact minute. The notebook wasn't synchronized with the ship's official clock.”
“Did you send the transmission?”
“Yes.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“I don't remember the exact person. I used the engineering communications line. I reported that the team had not confirmed their status.”
“Did you say someone was trapped?”
“No. I said the team was unconfirmed.”
“Did you have any evidence that someone was physically trapped?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
“Then why did you write that Andrew believed someone was still there?”
“Because of what he said to me later.”
“When?”
“Not long after the first transmission.”
Elise sat back.
“What exactly did he say?”
Daniel looked down at the notebook.
“He asked whether I had received a response from the lower section. I told him no. He asked whether the signal had been repeated. I said it had.”
“Did he tell you he was going back?”
“No. Not then.”
“What happened next?”
Daniel folded his hands.
“The ship lost power. We were trying to restore the systems. The communications were unstable. I was ordered to assist with an engineering check, but the compartment became unsafe.”
He paused.
“I got out.”
Elise waited.
“I was not injured. I made it to the designated area. But I knew the status of the team was still uncertain.”
“Did you report that?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“An officer from the engineering section. I don't remember the name.”
“Was the report recorded?”
“I believe so. But I never saw the final record.”
Elise looked at the photocopy.
“Then what happened?”
Daniel took a breath.
“I saw Andrew.”
“Where?”
“Near the access corridor.”
“Was he alone?”
“No. There were other people moving through the area.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Daniel looked directly at her.
“He asked me whether the team had been accounted for. I said I didn't know. He told me to get to the evacuation point.”
Elise felt her stomach tighten.
“Did he say he was going to look for them?”
“He said he needed to check the status.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“I know.”
“Did he enter the lower compartment?”
“I didn't see him enter.”
“Did you see him return?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
Elise looked at the table.
“Then what are you asking me to believe?”
Daniel swallowed.
“I am asking you to believe that he heard the same transmission I heard. I am asking you to consider that he may have gone toward the lower section because he thought someone needed help.”
“That's possible.”
“I know.”
“But you didn't see him go in.”
“No.”
“You didn't see him reach anyone.”
“No.”
“You didn't see him return.”
“No.”
“Then you cannot tell me he died trying to rescue a trapped sailor.”
Daniel lowered his head.
“I know.”
Elise's voice softened.
“Daniel, I am not dismissing what you're telling me. But we cannot turn an uncertain memory into a confirmed event.”
“I understand.”
“Do you know whether the engineering team was eventually accounted for?”
“I found out later that everyone listed on the final personnel record had been accounted for.”
“Then why did you wait eight years to contact me?”
Daniel looked toward the window.
“Because I never knew whether the person who sent the transmission had made a mistake.”