Bermuda Triangle Read online

  On the bedside table lay a recent newspaper (only two months old), a sports magazine with a blonde in a bathing suit on it, and a faded copy of the submarine verse of the Navy Hymn by Reverend Williamson:

  Bless those who serve beneath the deep,

  Through lonely hours their vigil keep.

  May peace their mission ever be,

  Protect each one we ask of thee.

  Bless those at home who wait and pray,

  For their return by night or day.

  A few used tissues, reddish-pink with tinges of blood, had missed the bin and rested on the linoleum flooring. Hanlon kept his face impassive. This was difficult to do because his protective gear irritated him -- he felt too warm and his hands were sweating inside his blue, disposable gloves. Maryland's unnamed hitchhiker -- stubborn SOB that he was -- was also irritating him, and had been doing so for some time. He checked his watch. Over forty-five minutes with no results. The man was a rock. Hanlon was beginning to wonder if anything less than high explosive would crack that hardened exterior. He said, "I'm just saying -- if there is anything you want to talk about, I'll listen."

  "I told you already," the man repeated with a sullen look, "I don't remember anything -- not even my name."

  Hanlon studied him. The ill man spoke with the natural antagonism of someone who, through sheer bloody-mindedness, survived every kick in the gut that life presented. He was defiant and tense, braced and waiting for another kick. His belligerent expression showed he expected the worst and, what was more, he didn't give a damn. He was sitting on a mountain of built up fury, ready to vent.

  Exasperated, Hanlon took a deep breath and changed tack. He knew the stubborn bastard was lying. Should he prod him? Be the catalyst for a volcanic explosion? He sighed. No, fighting wouldn't make the stranger confide in him. What then? The man was impossible. Captain Hanlon allowed himself an inward smile. Noelle, his polite, petite wife, was the only other person he knew who could be this pig-headed.

  "All right," Hanlon said. Comparing the man to Noelle calmed his growing frustration. His wife might drive him nuts, but generally there was a good reason for any inexplicable behaviour, even though not always obvious at the time. Perhaps this man had his reasons, too. He put his hands behind his back and moved away from his visitor's bedside once more. His actions were uniform and intentional, like waves against the shore: reach and then withdraw, reach and withdraw. He would get answers. With patience and persistence, like chipping rock into sand, Captain Hanlon intended to wear the man down.

  Turning things over in his mind, Hanlon paced the short distance to the end of the room. The stranger had a "Navy" tattoo. Now that was interesting. It made them compatriots. He recalled the tatt of the woman in a bikini and grinned. Brothers in the service -- and they both liked girls. In the past Hanlon had obtained results with less to build on. He had tried the friendly approach, and he had spoken with subtle authority, offering his aid. Tongue in cheek humor and common naval wit hadn't helped. So far he had struck out.

  Hanlon turned on his heels and looked at the man with intent, objective eyes. He had a natural empathy with people and was amused by psychological studies of successful submarine captains. "Empathetic connection that commands loyalty," was one such trait; "aggressive determinism," was another. He gave a wry smile. Aggressive determinism was a euphemistic way of describing someone with an inborn stubborn streak that ran deeper than the Mariana Trench. This unnamed stranger had a similar streak, it seemed.

  Hanlon walked to some medical equipment and fiddled with the stethoscope, tapping the ends and fingering it with absent interest. He almost always had success with people through observing the obvious. Whatever he was looking for, it would be there to see. Camouflage was always ultimately imperfect. He frowned.

  I must be missing something.

  Was the man's belligerence genuine, or was it a front? Captain Hanlon let the stethoscope go, and turned back toward the visitor and really looked at the man. He wanted to see through any disguise, to the truth and the essence of the person behind it.

  The ill man returned his gaze with sad, brown eyes. As unwell as he was, even sick in bed, he was still holding himself at attention -- stiff and unbending. But it was his eyes that were giving him away. Beneath his war-like hostility was a definite sense of loss. Hanlon flinched with sudden understanding and marveled at his own stupidity. That grief, so obvious! He knew what the man was so desperate to keep hidden, or perhaps what he wished to forget.

  Striding back to the bed, he leaned over and asked in a soft voice, "Who died?"

  The man's reaction was instantaneous.

  "I don't know what you're talking about!" The man's expression was savage as he struggled, attempting to sit up. The captain and the stranger's eyes met for a timeless second and in that moment they both recognized the lie.

  The stranger began a paroxysm of coughing, his body in spasms. Grabbing the convalescent's arms, Hanlon pushed him back on the bed, holding his shoulders in an attempt to calm him. When the man quit fighting, Hanlon grabbed a tissue. There was fresh red blood in his spittle. There were flecks of blood on the clear, fluid-resistant visor of Hanlon's surgical mask.

  "Easy there, buddy. Easy. It's all right. Hey, c'mon now. I'm on your side," Hanlon said, surprised to find that he meant it. In the face of compassion and support, the tough, hostile stranger, who had for three days refused to budge, crumbled.

  Captain Hanlon's unexpected guest began to cry.

  5. Nutjob

  It took twenty minutes for the ill man to compose himself. Doc Slater arrived, but the captain waved him away. He didn't want to be interrupted. The stranger's walls hadn't just cracked - they had turned to dust. No way was he getting a chance to build more.

  "I don't mind telling you," the fellow began, rubbing his face. "Christ, I have to tell someone. It won't make a difference either way. You’re going to think I'm crazy."

  Hanlon shook his head and began to deny it.

  "No," the man broke in, "you will. I don't even know if I'm crazy myself. I've seen the newspapers. I know what year it is. My name is Jacob -- Jake Swann. It's hard to believe, but I was on Scorpion. My friends, my crewmates…" he paused, his expression bleak, "…I still can't believe it. I guess they're all dead. No one else came with me to Heaven. Did any of Scorpion's crew survive?"

  Hanlon shook his head. "I'm sorry."

  Jake Swann gave a short, hollow laugh. "They called me Birdie because my surname is Swann. Get it? Able-bodied seaman, third class. Torpedo man and Damage control. Fire fighting was my specialty."

  "But that was over forty years ago! Why haven't you...?

  "Aged? I haven't, have I? I'm still thirty-five years old. It's 2011, or so that news rag the doc gave me says. By the looks of this boat, I can believe it. Forty years have passed here, but to me it hasn't been that long -- just a couple of months." He looked at the water on his bedside table with longing. Captain Hanlon helped him sit up. Swann drank, and settled back in bed. The tension in his body hadn't left him.

  "It's going to be hard to explain...."

  "I'm a good listener," Hanlon assured.

  Swann smiled, but with chapped lips and sunken eyes it seemed more like a grimace. "I can't tell you what happened to Scorpion. It isn't clear in my mind -- it happened so fast. I was at my station. We were about to surface, on a routine patrol. There was a malfunction in my section." Swann turned his head away and was quiet for a few minutes. His breathing was labored, but he was holding his own.

  Hanlon studied him. It appeared that Swann was thinking of what to say or, Hanlon thought cynically, maybe what not to say. Was Swann unable to meet his eyes due to guilt? Shame? Fear of consequences? If this man was once crew on Scorpion -- which Hanlon didn't for one minute believe -- did he imagine he was responsible for the catastrophic loss of the sub? For the death of all those men?

  Swann turned back, swallowed and said, "There was this noise, a screaming high-pitched din that just kept getting louder. I swear that sound was so heavy and thick, I felt like I was being crushed. Everything kind of tunneled, turned yellow, and then went cold and black. I don't know what happened after that."

  "And?"

  Swann glared. The defiant expression Hanlon saw earlier returned in force. "And when I woke up I wasn't on Earth."

  Captain Hanlon frowned and rubbed his chin. Even through his protective gloves he could feel the beginnings of stubble. It had been eight hours since he had last shaved. "I don't see why I shouldn't believe you, if that's what you're worried about." He shrugged. "God knows there's no logical explanation for your arrival here now. Do you know where you were when you weren't, um, weren't on Earth?"

  Hanlon watched as an incredible sadness came over Swann, along with an expression of regret or perhaps longing. "Yes," Swann said. "I woke to find myself wedged in a cave that was scattered with rubble -- an incredible heap of relics. I was surrounded by parts of old aircraft, bowsprits from ancient ships, parts of vessels I couldn't even recognize – Goddamn it, I was in a submarine at sea -- I was sure of that! Then I was in some sort of storeroom for a stinkin' museum! Everything, including me, was covered in junk. I was crammed in so tight I couldn’t move." He paused and looked into Hanlon's eyes without flinching. "It was the angels that dug me out."

  "Angels?"

  His chin lifted. "You heard me right."

  Captain Hanlon nodded, contrite. He was beginning to doubt his decision to get around his orders. Swann needed medical help.

  He needed a psychiatrist.

  6. Angels

  "You don't believe me?"

  Hanlon shook his head, a mute denial rather than an outright lie.

  The doctor entered the room, remaining on the other side of the plastic bar
rier. He put on one glove. "Sorry to interrupt, sir. This came in for you." His hand came through.

  "Excuse me," Hanlon said. Turning his back to the sick man, he read in the doctor's exacting cursive script, Need any help?

  With a grateful expression, Hanlon scribbled a reply: Send a transmission. Get me everything there is on a seaman third class from Scorpion named Jacob Swann.

  He folded the note and handed it back to the doctor. "Make that urgent," he said. The doctor nodded, stripped off his protective glove, and put it in the yellow bin. He washed his hands and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  "You were saying?"

  With a bold stare the man said, "I was talking about angels."

  Captain Hanlon didn't even blink. "Right."

  Swann took a deep breath. "You see, the angels, they can fly. Once I got out of that hole I could fly too. It's something to do with gravity there. Everything was as light as a feather. It was hell coming back -- back here to Earth, I'm so Goddamned heavy." He glared at Hanlon. "You can understand that, can't you? I used to have muscles. You think I was always this puny?"

  Hanlon shook his head. Impossible as it seemed, Swann's story made sense. There was no medical explanation for his debilitated state. Even a few weeks of low gravity would account for muscle atrophy and loss of bone density.

  "I was scared at first. Me, Jake Swann, afraid! Afraid of angels. Makes you laugh, don't it?" His laughter held a definite hysterical note. For a moment Hanlon thought Swann might break into tears again.

  "The people were naked -- you don't need clothes. And they all had white wings -- wings with real feathers, growing right out of their shoulders. They don't speak. They could talk inside my head -- I don't know how, but I talked to them that way, too-- pretty weird at first, but you get used to it."

  Hanlon frowned. Jake Swann took deep audible breaths every few words. He couldn't seem to get enough air.

  "There was a black hole inside the cave," Swann wheezed. "It was an incredible thing, a big dark nothing. It pulled at me -- shit, it was bitter cold! I felt the chill from where I stood, a good ten feet away. The angels said if I fell in I'd go to Hell. They didn't use that word -- they communicate mind to mind -- it's hard to explain -- but I knew what they were talking about. I could believe it, too."

  Swann's words shot like rapid fire, his breath ragged as he struggled for air. "The leader -- a skinny guy with -- a white beard, argued with one of the women -- I shouldn't have come -- he kept saying I -- should be thrown down the hole -- back to Hell where I belonged -- one woman, Lana, disagreed -- said if I was here -- God had sent me for a reason -- White Beard said -- I hadn't been sent by God -- I'd been sent by the Devil -- said they would be sorry -- if they didn't drop me down the hole to Hell."

  All this talk of hell was a trigger, Hanlon realized. Swann was over excited, eyes bright, skin flushed. He looked terrible. "Maybe we should take a break," Captain Hanlon said with a soothing voice that disguised his concern. With an easy grin in his eyes he quipped, "You look like you're ready for your afternoon nap."

  Swann began to cough and Captain Hanlon became overly solicitous. He took his time, offering tissues and water, encouraging him to drink. He contrived as long an interlude as possible, curbing Swann's fevered narration. A corpsman came in, and gave Swann medication via a nebulizer. He checked his vital signs, making careful notations in his chart. By the time the corpsman left Jake Swann was breathing easier.

  "I want to get this off my chest," Swann said, resting back against the pillows. "They decided I could stay. Lana led me out of the cave and into the light. The angels have no sun and they have no night -- it's always day time where they live. There are plenty of fruits and berries in the trees and bushes. I thought I'd miss meat, but that stuff is good and it fills you up. The place was paradise. Lana made me some wings so I could fly, too." A little smile came to his lips, his expression distant. Hanlon was relieved to find Swan much more composed. He made a mental note to avoid the subject of Hell.

  Swan continued, "Course, you don't need wings to fly. In Heaven you float, because you're virtually weightless. The wings just kind of direct you. The trees were huge, and their branches spread out every which way. It's the light, see? It's all around. I don't know how or why, it just is! I tell you, time has no meaning in that place. If you want to sleep, then you sleep!" He paused and swallowed. He still had a wheeze. "Most people sleep in caves or holes that they've dug -- it's darker that way and you don't go floating away. They catch the water that comes from underground rivers; eating and drinking is never a problem. And the sex! Holy shit, you have sex floating right up in the air. If that ain't living, I don't know what is!"

  Jake Swann's eyes glittered. With his red face and wild eyes, Hanlon thought he looked a little crazy, like someone who needed sedation. Or a padded room.

  Swann picked at his blanket, his fingers moving restlessly. "The women there are all fit, healthy and beautiful. Every one of them loves sex. It's like eating to them. Wait, no -- it's more like breathing. Something you do all the time, without thinking, you know?" He frowned and shook his head. "You don't know, do you? How could you? You can't even imagine. It's every man's dream. They all wanted to try me out. Me being a stranger -- something different. And no one gave a damn! No one is jealous. How can anyone be jealous? Nobody misses out on anything."

  Hanlon knew he should leave it. The guy wasn't playing with a full deck and he needed rest. Still, he was compelled to ask, "But what about children? Or wild animals? They must have enemies."

  Swann whispered, "No kids, no animals. Just lots of different kinds of birds and they're friendly."

  Hanlon realized the man was at the end of his strength. "Rest now, Jake," he ordered. "You're tired. We can talk later."

  Swann nodded and sighed. "It was Heaven."

  Exhausted, Jake Swann shut his eyes and his features relaxed. Quiescent, he slept.

  7. Uncomfortable Truth

  For a few minutes, Captain Hanlon watched Jake Swann breathe in calm repose.

  Who was this guy? He would write him off as a madman except for the weird circumstances that heralded his arrival. The mystery was like a chipped tooth. His mind -- like a tongue -- continually returned to that irritating spot. Hanlon forced the puzzle of Swann out of his thoughts. He might know more when he had a response to his transmission.

  Instead he thought of his boat -- always a pleasant pastime. He moved through the plastic barrier, and began stripping off his mask and gown. Within the infirmary Maryland was soundless except for a steady vibration that was barely audible --more felt than heard. The SSN-774 Virginia-class boomers had pump-jets which created a stream of water for propulsion. These significantly reduced cavitation, that noisy formation of millions of bubbles caused by conventional propellers. It resulted in quieter and faster operation.

  Hanlon felt five degrees cooler as he stuffed his disposable protective gear in the yellow bag. He stripped his gloves with intense relief and threw them in last. When submerged Maryland could move in virtual silence at twenty-five nautical miles per hour, which was to say knots. Hanlon knew most people had no idea what a knot was, but the concept was easy to understand. Sea and air navigators, working with charts, found the use of knots convenient because knots measured distance, not speed.

  While washing his hands, Hanlon automatically did the math. Twenty-five knots x 1.15 = 28.75 miles. In layman's terms, Maryland was capable of moving about thirty miles per hour underwater. When she really hauled, she was faster than that, but that knowledge was classified. Still, even thirty miles per hour was good going for a vessel that had a three inch steel hull, was longer than a football field, and was as tall as a three-story building. He was proud of his boat. She was an enormous, silent, fast moving building with no windows.