Time Storm Shockwave

by Juliann Farnsworth

  Where are we? It can’t be the Bahamas or the Keys, it’s too large—Cuba? Haiti? It can’t be Haiti.

  He snapped to attention. No time to worry about that now—he had to pull himself together, and face the crisis at hand. He couldn’t worry about their location until after he solved their primary problem, landing. He glanced at his fuel gauge. The lack of it had seemed almost insignificant only a few moments before. He whistled in surprise when he realized how little he had left, and prayed the other planes had more.

  Below them, the Earth was coming up fast, but there was no airstrip—nothing. It appeared almost uninhabited, except for what may have been a tiny village to the north along the coastline. At least the ground seemed smooth enough to land. Although their flight had been a training exercise, it had been their last one before going into combat. He felt certain that the other pilots would also be able to make the approach.

  Over the radio, he gave quick instructions that the others were eager to obey. They quickly descended and headed for what could have been a dirt road, or at least a trail of some kind, on an otherwise dry, barren plain with mountains in the distance. The ground appeared sandy and extremely hazardous for landing, but it would have to do.

  The first four planes came in too fast, but managed to land successfully in spite of stirring up a massive dust cloud. The fifth airplane wasn’t so lucky and clipped one of the other plane’s wings. The aircraft on the ground was barely scraped, but the landing craft spun around three times and rolled over onto its side. Its wing snapped off as it hit the ground. Gratefully, other than the pilot’s broken arm, the occupants were all uninjured.

  The commander radioed the other planes to assess their status, and then in vain he tried to reach flight control. He instructed each team to gather any emergency supplies they could carry. They would have to walk until they found some way to reach help.

  It seemed unseasonably hot and dry—I hope we have enough water—he thought and prayed that what he had seen from the sky was, in fact, a village.

  After walking a few miles, they ran across a fisherman.

  “Excuse me—” the flight commander asked “—could you tell me where we are?”

  Startled, the man answered, “No hablo ingles.”

  The commander furrowed his brow—Spanish, maybe this is Cuba—he turned to one of the pilots who spoke Spanish and gave him a nod.

  “¿Dónde estámos?—” the pilot asked fluently as he shook his head “—estámos perdidos.”

  The man eyed them strangely, scanning their flight uniforms before responding, “Estámos en San Felipe, Señor.”

  “Gracias, pero—” the pilot scratched his head, and then glanced sideways at his commander before asking “—¿Qué país por favor?”

  Looking nervous and suspicious now, the fisherman answered with a shrug, “México, por supuesto.”

  The rest of the pilots and flight crewmembers understood that without translation, and gaped at one another, bewildered.

  The commander eyed the man incredulously—how could we have made it across the Gulf of Mexico? That’s impossible. We didn’t have enough time, not to mention fuel—nothing made sense.

  “Ask him what part—” the commander demanded of the pilot translator “—what he is saying is impossible!

  “¿Señor—” the pilot cleared his throat“—qué parte de México?”

  Clearly disturbed, but apparently sympathetic to their plight, the man answered, “Estamos en el Territorio del Norte de Baja California—” then more cautiously he asked “—¿Señores, de dónde vino ustedes?”

  The words Baja California were spoken clearly enough to caused an audible gasp from all the men.

  “Sir, how?—” one of the men asked what they were all thinking “—Baja California, that’s …absurd! He can’t be right.”

  The commander didn’t respond—that does answer some questions, the heat, the time of day, the look of the water—he just shook his head.

  The commander turned to the man who had been translating and ordered, “Ask him if he can help us get word to Fort Lauderdale.”

  After that, everything was a blur. His mind could not accept reality. By the next day, the Navy sent a plane for them, but it did not take them to Florida. Rather it took them to a top-secret facility attached to the Naval Ordinance Test Station at China Lake in California. Apparently, the Navy was trying to cover it up, and the men soon found themselves prisoners.

  A couple of weeks passed, and then one of the men tried to escape. Before the officials caught him, he managed to send one telegram. However, devoid of details it made little difference and only served to deepen the mystery of their disappearance.

  ***

  1977, NASA

  On August twentieth, the Voyager II space probe was launched from Cape Canaveral, aboard a Titan-Centaur rocket. Its twin, Voyager I, was launched on September fifth of that same year. Their mission was to explore, and send back measurements, readings, and photos of the outer planets. If all went well, they would reach, and take measurements of the heliosheath, the outer edge of the heliosphere, and finally beyond to the interstellar medium.

  ***

  2008, NASA

  October, NASA launched the IBEX spacecraft. Its mission was to observe the nature of our heliosphere, measure the interstellar winds, and determine the makeup of the interstellar medium. It was to collect data to compare with the Voyager probes and to allow NASA to determine the size and shape of the solar system.”

  ***

  Current Day, Arlington, VA

  Bradley Sandstrom, a tall, well-proportioned man, stood with his hands crossed behind his back. His custom-fit, black Armani suit, along with his lavishly decorated high-rise office, conferred a sense of power and wealth. He was staring out the window across the Potomac River far beneath him.

  “He’s getting too close,” the black, triangular conference phone on his desk, boomed angrily throughout the room.

  Sandstrom didn’t respond, he only continued to stare out the window.

  “I want it taken care of!” the disembodied voice ordered.

  Sandstrom finally turned from the window and walked toward the desk where the conference phone sat. His black steely eyes were as cold as his voice when he answered, “I’ll take care of it.”

  The man on the other end of the line moved the mouthpiece closer to his angry, gritted teeth and hissed, “You had better.”

  ***

  Sandstrom’s boss hung up the phone without saying good-bye and then sat for a while, staring around his office with unseeing eyes. The walls were lined with naval charts and glassed-in shelves that held miniatures of all the finest naval vessels ever made, organized by year. Like walking through time, one could see the evolution of technology simply by perusing the shelves.

  After a moment, he lifted a cup of steaming coffee toward his mouth, then instantly spat the overly hot liquid back into the cup, spraying some of it onto himself. He cursed under his breath. An almost feral growl exposed yellow, cigarette-stained teeth and one gold canine.

  He put the coffee down and wiped at the spot on his neatly pressed Navy Admiral’s uniform in disgust. He would have to change before his meeting. His red face seemed a stark contrast to the white of his clothing.

  ***

  Bradley Sandstrom was furious about the situation, and even angrier that he was only a pawn taking orders.

  He had known it would come to this, and he clinched his jaw bitterly. He kept his voice flat as he pushed the button to buzz his secretary, “Send her in.”

  As the woman entered, he couldn’t help but think that it was a waste for someone so attractive to be an assassin. As his eyes flickered down her body, his mood improved a little.

  Chapter 2

  Mysteries are due to secrecy. — Francis Bacon

  ~

  Five miles south of Bimini Island in the Bahamas, a diver emerged from the intensely blue, translucent water of the Caribbean. Another man carefully lift
ed sensitive sonar, seismic, and electromagnetic equipment from the diver’s hands. Even though it was October, the weather was pleasant. The sky was mostly overcast and showed signs of a coming storm, and the small yacht bobbed gently up and down.

  The diver hauled his tanned, six-foot frame out of the water and up the ladder, onto the lower landing of the aft deck. He removed the full-cover facemask, and grabbed a towel to dry himself. Water trickled from his dark hair, and he subconsciously wiped it away from his vivid blue eyes, which almost perfectly reflected the color of the water from which he had just emerged. The sun and wind had done an excellent job of giving him a slightly rugged look. His thirty-five years of life had only delicately lined his face and a faint five o’clock shadow covered his sculptured jaw.

  He placed the rest of his gear on the landing. It wasn’t the standard open-circuit scuba gear; rather a high-tech closed-circuit underwater breathing apparatus, or CCUBA—sometimes called a rebreather. The system was self-contained and recycled his expended breathing gas, scrubbing it of excess carbon dioxide and other toxic substances while adding small amounts of essential oxygen before returning it to him for use. An electro-galvanic fuel cell powered the microchip regulated breathing-gas mixture. The system was lightweight and allowed for a longer dive time.

  “Mark, it looks like a storm is coming—” the diver’s assistant spoke nervously as he watched birds migrating swiftly away “—I think we should head back.”

  The two had spent several days anchored at that spot doing research; there was nothing more to be done there. However, the term going back held little relevance since they lived on the boat. Stewart was an oceanography graduate student with an odd fear of the ocean. In contrast to Mark’s physique, Stewart had an almost skinny body that would not tan, no matter how much sun it saw. His sandy brown hair was short and slightly spiked on the top.

  Mark had both a PhD in oceanographic seismology from UCLA, and one in physics from Yale. He was doing research on the electromagnetic anomalies in the Bermuda Triangle. Fascinated by mysteries, he was convinced that there was a logical explanation for at least some of the strange reports. Many highly reputable people had been eyewitnesses, and he was determined to record some definitive scientific data for analysis. He had been working for a year all over the Triangle, weather permitting, focusing on those places with the highest incidence of unusual occurrences. Following up on the work of another physicist, Mark had actually been having some success in finding anomalous readings.

  “Yeah—” Mark looked up and studied the gathering clouds “—you know we might just have a hurricane. I’ve seen this type of weather before.”

  He was only joking, but he acted completely serious. He found it hilarious that Stewart was so afraid of the ocean—of all places to face his fears, the Bermuda Triangle—Mark nearly laughed aloud, but managed to maintain his grave expression.

  The boat began to pitch a bit, and Stewart noticeably shuddered. Technically, he was an employee, but in truth, Mark thought of him more like a younger brother. There would be nothing but rain, he was certain, and decided not to push his teasing any further; besides, he had an interview on Nassau the next morning—another story to check out. They still had a long way to go before docking for the night.

  “I’ve got something to do,” Stewart murmured as he finished stowing the sonar equipment.

  It was an obvious excuse to get below deck—the deck is no place for a chicken in a storm. He watched Steward headed for his stateroom, across the aft deck, through the salon and galley, then downstairs.

  When Mark finished locking everything down, he climbed up to the aft deck and then to the pilothouse. He pushed the button to lift the heavy anchor, started the engine, and headed toward land. The small yacht was his home year-round.

  After several hours of travel, he docked in the harbor. The trip had been uneventful, with nothing more than gray clouds and a few scattered showers, just as he had expected. It was sundown, but Stewart said he was too seasick to leave the boat. Tired of cooking for himself, Mark went into town alone for dinner.

  ***

  The next morning dawned bright and clear. Mark headed over to Paradise Island for his meeting at the Atlantis Resort. He had been there many times before but preferred staying on his boat; he enjoyed the solitude of the ocean. On Nassau, he had a mailbox set up for himself and he checked it every week or two. He had never met the guy he was supposed to see, but that wasn’t unusual. The islanders knew him well enough to know where to send astonished visitors with new stories.

  The appointed meeting place was at an outdoor, covered restaurant. He waited for a half an hour, but the man didn’t show. A woman had been watching him since his arrival, concealed in an alcove. She glanced around quickly and then left the shadows and headed straight for him.

  The restaurant was circular shaped, with the food preparation area in the center. He glanced at a shark swimming by in the large saltwater pond next to his table—I wonder how many of those I have dived around without ever noticing.

  The woman walked past too closely. Her ample beach bag swung around and knocked over his drink.

  “Oh, excuse me—” she said, as if it had been accidental “—I’m sorry. Can I buy you another drink?”

  He was irritated until he saw her smile. She had shoulder length, light brown hair pulled back loosely from her high forehead. It was apparent by the translucent radiance of her skin that she had not spent as many years on the ocean as he had. She appeared to be in her late twenties.

  He nodded his acquiescence, and then motioned for a waiter who mopped up the spill with a towel and then vanished. Mark had already concluded that his appointment wasn’t going to show, and this woman was exceptionally beautiful.

  When the waiter returned the woman ordered a Piña Colada for herself, and then motioned for Mark to order, “I’ll have the same.”

  “I’m Ashlyn Wright,” she extended her hand.

  “I’m Dr. Mark Turner.”

  He had added his title to impress her, and then immediately regretted it; he didn’t want to sound pompous.

  “Oh—” she curved her lips “—you’re a doctor?”

  “Not an MD, PhD—” he felt awkward “—I’m an oceanographic seismologist and physicist.”

  She was bewitching, and her presence was making him feel a little dizzy, or maybe it was the drink.

  “So—” she cocked her head “—what are you doing out here?”

  “I’m doing research on the electromagnetic anomalies in the area.” He watched for any reaction, careful not to use the word triangle—not everyone appreciated the subject matter.

  “Oh—” she leaned forward imperceptibly “—do you have a boat?”

  Her vibrant green eyes were mesmerizing, and he found himself having to ask her to repeat herself—off his game.

  “I asked you—” she smirked slightly “—if you have a boat.”

  Yeah and I want to show it to you, he thought, but he only answered, “Yes.”

  “Looking for an assistant?”

  He hesitated—I wish I needed one—he thought regretfully, but said, “Actually, I already have one.”

  “Well—” she spoke coyly “—maybe you could use another?”

  Her eagerness seemed a little odd—she doesn’t even know me. He heard himself reply, “What are your qualifications?”

  “I have a lot of experience diving. I was raised in Hawaii, and I practically lived on a boat for a year with my grandfather.”

  “How long—” he furrowed his brow “—I mean …how long has it been since you were with him?”

  “Well—” she smiled slyly “—I was twelve, but I have a good memory, and …I can cook.”

  Neither he nor Stewart could do that well—that might just be worthwhile—he decided.

  His boat was large enough for a full crew, but he and Stewart had been running the ship alone. Mark liked it that way—more quiet, more freedom. However, it would be nice to ha
ve her help, and she was pleasant to look at.

  “Why do you want to be my assistant—” he eyed her strangely “—you don’t even know me?”

  “Well to be honest—” she appeared to be embarrassed “—I’m kind of stuck here, and I don’t have a job or a place to stay.”

  “What are you saying …your homeless?—” He shook his head “—I’m sorry, but …you just don’t look the part.”

  She stared down at her hands, and then back up at him before saying, “It’s really personal—” her eyes misted and she averted them momentarily before meeting his again “—I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.”

  “Alright—” he nodded “—if you are interested in just working for room and board then you’ve got it.”

  “That works for me—” and then more softly she said “—thank you.”

  “I’ve been watching everyone else eat for the last couple of hours, and I’m getting hungry—” he motioned for the waiter “—will you be ready to go when we are done eating?”

  “Sure—” she flashed him a disarming smile “—I’m looking forward to it.”

  They talked while they ate, and then walked back to the boat. He loved the islands, and he feasted on the beauty of the soft blue, cloudless sky. He breathed in the saltwater-tinged air. His mind sifted through memories of the things that he had seen and done since he had been living there.

  He had walked the bleached white sandy beaches of the many islands and dived into the incredible-blue of the unimaginably translucent water. He had explored countless coral reefs, all teaming with an unending variety of life. The weather seemed nearly perfect year round. At night, the innumerable stars shined so brightly against the blackness of the sky that the Milky Way appeared close enough to touch. Above all, he had a profound sense of satisfaction in the solitude that the yacht provided.