Tomb of Atlantis

by Petersen, Christopher David

  Pushing himself harder, he started to make headway. Twenty feet, fifteen feet, ten feet... he closed the distance slowly, while breathing heavily and exhausting himself with each stroke. Suddenly, he realized his plight. He was swimming against a strong surface current. If he ran out of energy and didn’t reach the raft soon, he knew it would drift far out of reach before he ever regained his strength.

  Even harder now, he kicked and swam. His muscles ached and his lungs felt like they would burst. With mere feet left, he realized he wasn’t gaining ground. He had pushed himself to the limits of his endurance and had no more to give. He couldn’t reach the raft.

  Slowly, he reached out, desperation consuming his every action. With four feet between him and the float, he made a frantic lunge for its edge. His hand slipped through the water and briefly contacted something rough. Instantly, he recoiled in fear.

  “Shark!” he shrieked in horror.

  He looked into the water to face his enemy. He stared for just a moment, then realized the root of his fear. With his terrific lunge forward, he had reached out and grabbed the netting from the plane that hung just below the surface. Still attached to the float, he hadn’t realized it was there.

  The netting’s rough surface made his weakened grip easy to hold. Quickly, he pulled hard, hand over hand, and reached the edge of his raft. With what little strength he had left, he hauled himself up onto it and collapsed. He was safe.

  Completely out of breath, his hyperventilation pushed him to the edge of blackout. He straddled the float with his arms and legs dangling in the water. Lying face down, his chest heaved with each breath he took. In time, his breathing returned to normal and he came to a sitting position.

  With his legs dangling in the water, he watched as particulates floated on by and suddenly made a startling revelation: The strong currents had dragged him far away from his original landing point.

  "Wow, that’s probably why they haven't found me yet," he said to himself in realization.

  He stared off at the horizon searching for any signs of life. His mind wandered and he began to think about just how far he had drifted over the previous day and a half.

  He had an idea. He sat up and moved to the duffel bag. Reaching in, he pulled out his first aid kit and opened it. Still wet from its previous immersion in water, he found a band-aid and tossed it into the water. He timed it as it immediately drifted away from him.

  Jack used the length of the float to gauge how far away the band-aid traveled. At nearly twenty feet from the float, he rechecked the time: fifteen seconds had elapsed. Working through the data in his head, he calculated that the surface current was moving at a far greater velocity than he originally discovered in the planning stages of the trip.

  "Wow, I'm drifting nearly a mile an hour!" he said loudly. "That's almost twice as fast as the normal surface current."

  He looked around him, bewildered. He knew he was in trouble.

  "If they're using the standard currents to calculate my drift, I'll always be far beyond their search pattern," he said, anxiety building in his voice. "By the time they find me… if they find me, I'll be dead," he added, now in stark fear.

  Jack's world began to crumble. All his hopes were now a distant feeling he could barely recall. In its place were anxiety, panic, and hysteria. He stomach churned as he contemplated his options. With little water, no food, in the middle of the ocean and drifting beyond rescue, he knew the situation had just turned grave. His chances of survival had dropped significantly from promising to nearly non-existent.

  He slumped to the deck of the float, as he lost all strength to sit. Laying there, filled with anxiety and grief, he thought about his impending death and the people that would be affected by it. The guilt that wracked his mind was extreme and he choked back tears as he tried to think of a solution to save his life.

  "I could swim back against the current... slow my drift a bit. That way, they'd catch up to me," he said out loud.

  Continuing along those lines, he thought of another idea.

  "Or, I could just swim with the current and run into Caicos Island, almost due west of me. If I start paddling now, I could probably be there by this time tomorrow," he said, feeling slightly better at taking action to save his life.

  He looked behind him toward the search area, then in front of him toward the unseen land mass he was hoping to reach. With a slight smile of determination, he made up his mind.

  He sat up and moved along the float to the rear pipe of the outrigger. Pulling up on one of the ropes, he lifted his air tank to the surface. He then placed it up onto the deck and tied it securely to the outrigger. He now had his gauges in front him. Of the three gauges held in the rectangular unit, he stared at the one he hoped would save his life: the compass.

  He lay down on his stomach and prepared to begin the arduous task of paddling. Before he got underway, he decided to do one more thing. He rolled into the water and cooled himself off. For a minute, he floated and thought about the task before him. He would be swimming away from his rescuers and heading toward a land mass that he felt he could easily miss.

  Jack shook his head and said out loud, "This is madness."

  A moment later, he climbed back up onto the float, and checked his heading and began to paddle.

  Lying on the float, he placed his arms into the water below him. With a deep breath as a ceremonial symbol to start, he began to paddle. Slowly at first to set up his rhythm, alternating from side to side, he reached in with each hand and pulled it rearward, inching the float forward. As momentum built, he increased his paddling speed.

  With each stroke, he could feel his muscles straining as he worked to keep the float moving forward. Sweat built up on his forehead and rolled into his eyes, causing them to sting slightly. Quickly, he dunked his hands into the water and rubbed his face, trying to wash off the sweat, only to replace it with salt water.

  As he exhaled, the rush of air between the roof of his mouth and tongue created a "whoosh" sound that sounded like a low whistle. Adjusting his tongue, the whoosh of air began to take on the sound of music. Before he knew it, he was playing the happy Barney song in his mind: "I love you, you love me.” Over and over he "whooshed" the song out of his mouth in rhythm to his paddling, helping to alleviate some of the extreme boredom that came with the exhausting exercise.

  For more than half an hour, he paddled continuously, only stopping to wipe the sweat from his face. Periodically, he checked the compass. Strangely, the float had a tendency to steer toward the outrigger. Each time the float veered, he paddled extra hard on that side to bring it back to his intended course.

  Jack watched the float as it passed along the water. Noting his progress, he became dissatisfied and impatient with his speed.

  Looking down as he paddled, he could see the netting below the float was being pulled behind him. He knew that over time, the drag that the netting induced would dramatically add up and many miles would be lost as a result.

  He stopped what he was doing and sat up. He took several lengths of cord and began to tie the netting to the pipes on the outrigger and around the float, effectively creating a narrow hammock that spanned between the pipes. It wasn't very large, no greater than four feet long and a foot and a half wide, but would be far more comfortable when he needed to rest.

  With virtually nothing hanging below the float, he got under way once more. As he paddled, he noticed another problem. Without ballast, the float was pivoting around the triangular point of the outrigger, effectively causing him to paddle in a large circle around the point. With only the buoy to help keep the outrigger from sinking, he had no choice but to deal with the problem by paddling more on one side than on the other.

  For every one stroke on the left side, he needed to paddle four times on the right in order to keep the float traveling straight. His system seemed to work and in a very short time, he fell into a rhythm that was easy to accept. When he over heated, he slipped into the water and cooled down.
When he tired, he stopped for a moment, rested and continued.

  After a couple of hours, his body felt shaky and tired. He slowed for a minute, then found it hard to continue. Hot, exhausted and a powerful thirst the likes of which he never experienced, he became aware of a change. He now realized his body was showing the signs of severe fatigue and extreme dehydration.

  Desperate for a drink of water, he sat up and moved to the duffel bag. With shaking hands, he pulled out the last of the water. Staring at the bottle, he remembered filling it two days before, but not completely. Now, with only a swallow or two left, he regretted that move.

  Savoring the last of the water, he poured some into his mouth, swished it around, and swallowed. With only a mouthful left, he thought about saving it, but in an act of impulsiveness, he threw his head back and downed the rest.

  Jack stared at the empty bottle. He had never longed for anything like he did for water at that moment. His thirst was excruciating. As he stared down at the salt water around him, he had irrational thoughts of taking long, satisfying drinks of the cool, bluish liquid. At one point, his desire was so intense, he caught himself reaching for some with the empty water bottle. Coming to his senses, he put the container back into the duffel bag and zipped it closed.

  All he could think about now was his thirst. His thoughts continually reminded him of what he so desperately needed but could not have. Hoping the feeling would pass, he pulled the remaining piece of wetsuit from the deck of the float and spread in across the tiny hammock. Lying down on the small but comfortable bedding, he closed his eyes. Stretched out for the first time without the worry of falling overboard, his mind simply stopped thinking. In seconds, he was asleep.

  Atlantis - Chapter 14

  DAY 3

  COAST GUARD SEARCH AND RESCUE WING:

  Commander Lewis entered the briefing room and began his morning’s directives. Seated around a long rectangular conference table were the crews of the both Jayhawk helicopter and HC-130 Hercules reconnaissance aircraft. With his data in hand, he wasted no time getting straight to work.

  “Ok guys, I just talked to meteorology and they’ve confirmed the track and speed of tropical storm Francis,” Cmdr Lewis announced grimly.

  ”Is it bad?” Lt. Cmdr Ryan Briggs asked.

  “It’s bad,” Cmdr. Lewis shot back.

  “How much time do we have?” Lt. Cmdr. Briggs continued.

  “Less than twenty-four hours. We’ve got a high pressure system off to our east, so there’s a strong chance the storm will veer to the north,” Cmdr. Lewis replied.

  “Lucky break there,” Lt. JG Scott Davidson responded.

  “Unfortunately, it may not lucky enough. If the storm maintains its westerly heading, it could be on us by early tomorrow. Regardless of where it moves though, the seas are going to get rough in the wake of the storm so we need to make it happen today,” Cmdr. Lewis said resolutely.

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Lt. Cmdr. Briggs.

  “The Hercules will run the standard search pattern and the Jayhawk will search the cays south of Caicos,” Cmdr. Lewis instructed.

  “Do you really think he drifted that far?” Lt. Cmdr. Briggs asked.

  “The overnight data from our surface buoys indicated that the surface currents are running significantly faster than expected. It’s quite possible he made land since yesterday,” Cmdr Lewis replied.

  “Significantly faster? So we searched out of region?” Lt. JG Davidson asked in frustration.

  “It’s hard to say. The stronger currents weren’t noticed until late last night. There’s no telling when he picked them up and how far he drifted," Cmdr. Lewis responded.

  “That’s assuming he’s still alive. There still hasn’t been any sign of wreckage,” Ensign Andrew Matola said.

  “Let’s try to stay positive. Wreckage or not, he could be out there somewhere, and if he is, we have until tomorrow to find him,” Cmdr. Lewis responded.

  “Yes sir,” Ensign Matola replied.

  “And after tomorrow?” Lt. Cmdr. Briggs asked.

  “Your mission will become a recovery,” Cmdr Lewis said, grimly.

  “Understood,” Lt. Cmdr. Briggs replied simply.

  OFFICES OF JAVIER ARISTA:

  Javier sat at his desk and stared at the ancient scroll that now lay under a sheet of glass. He ran his finger across the row of hieroglyphics until he found one that appeared similar to one he had seen before. Next to him on the desktop, he glanced over to a book that held a comprehensive list of hieroglyphics. One by one, he scanned through the pages of data, checking for a match between the book and the scroll. With each symbol he confirmed as a match, he marked it down on his pad of paper, hoping in time to decipher the meaning of the ancient work.

  “How are you coming along, Dad?” Serena asked.

  “Slow, very slow," Javier responded, barely taking his eyes off his work.

  “Did you get any of it translated yet?” she asked.

  “Only a couple of words… I think.”

  “You think? That doesn’t sound very promising. I thought you’d have it done by now,” she teased.

  “Ha ha, very funny. Seriously though, honey, it’s only been a couple of days or so since I started analyzing the scrolls. It’s going to take a while," he replied.

  “I know it’s going to take a while. I was just hoping you had a breakthrough early and were going to tell me you discovered some ancient secret about Egypt,” she replied, only half joking.

  “Sorry, no secrets yet. I’ve barely found the basic conjunctions for sentence structure, let alone anything meaningful. It’s a bit frustrating," he commented. "The more I translate, the stronger my feeling is that this is not Egyptian.”

  “Not Egyptian? It has to be Egyptian. Who else could it be?" she asked. "What would make you think it’s not Egyptian?"

  “Well, for starters, there’s hardly a symbol on this scroll that matches any other ancient Egyptian symbol. And second, the structuring appears to be quite different than Egyptian," he explained.

  "It seems to me that if the pyramid with the all-seeing eye matches the same symbol on Burt Samuelson's scrolls, it almost certainly proves they're Egyptian,” she said.

  "One would think that, especially when you factor in the civil war aspect of this mystery, but why am I not seeing more matching symbols?" Javier asked, more rhetorically than a direct question.

  "Is it possible that what you're reading is an older version of ancient Egyptian where it hadn't quite evolved yet into the more modern hieroglyphics in the book?” she asked.

  "Are you saying older than Burt Samuelson's scrolls? That would mean we are now in possession of the oldest recorded word in history. Seems pretty unlikely, wouldn't you think?" he reasoned.

  "Why not? Why limit our thinking? It's broad-minded thinking that got us here in the first place," she said, cryptically

  "Ah yes, Jack Roberts. He certainly didn't limit his thinking to conventional doctrines. Any more word on him?" he asked.

  "Nothing. The Coast Guard is making another search today, expanding it to the local islands and cays. They think he could have drifted there last night," she said.

  "You heard about tropical storm Francis didn't you?" Javier responded, his tone turning ominous.

  "The storm forming off the coast of Africa? Yeah, I heard about it. The Coast Guard is pretty worried about it, too. They said that if they haven't found him by the time the storm hits, there's no way he'll make it through. This could be his last chance," Serena said, grimly.

  "Poor Jack. Such a tragedy,” Javier said, sympathetically.

  "They're going to find him, Dad. I just know it. He's out there somewhere, alive and waiting for someone to find him," Serena shot back.

  "Let's hope so, honey. Let's hope..."

  ----- ----- ----- -----

  Jack turned his stare toward the east as he made one last search for land or ship. Without a trace of civilization to be found, he turned back toward the sun a
nd watched as its rays disappeared beneath the horizon. The long day had been filled with oppressive heat, nagging thirst, and mind-numbing boredom. Now, as night began to fall, the cool evening air brought a small amount of relief and Jack took full advantage of it. Removing his wetsuit and laying it across the netting, he prepared his bed for the evening’s sleep. Lying down, with his legs fully extended out across the outrigger, he felt the warm balmy breezes brush against his exposed skin. It felt good, like the warm touch of a gentle hand, soothing him, coaxing him into a deep sleep.

  Five miles to the north, the Coast Guard Cutter Fitzgerald ended its search for the day and steamed for home. Captain Seymour Weber stood at a railing just outside the bridge and stared out across the darkened seas. With night-vision binoculars firmly pressed against his eyes, he focused intently on a spot several miles to his south.

  “Sir, we’re steering a course for home, three hundred degrees and twenty knots,” Lieutenant Will Abernathy announced through the door on the bridge.

  Capt. Weber continued his stare, the lieutenant’s words going unanswered.

  “Sir? Sir!” Lt Abernathy called out.

  “Three hundred degrees and twenty knots. Very well,” Capt. Weber shot back, still holding his stare on the horizon.

  “Sir, you see something?” Lt. Abernathy asked, now intrigued by his captain’s focus.

  “I don’t know. I thought I saw…”

  He took the binoculars away from his face and rubbed his eyes. Bringing them back up, he continued his stare.

  “Saw what, sir?” Lt. Abernathy asked, his voice now filled with anticipation. “You think you saw him, sir?”

  “I don’t know. I made a quick scan a moment a go and thought I saw a green shadow on the horizon. There’s no land or boats out there, so the only other thing I could think it to be was our missing person. But now it’s gone,” Capt. Weber replied in disappointing tone.

  “Should we make a pass in that direction, sir?” Lt. Abernathy asked.