BERMUDA
KARIM SOLIMAN
BERMUDA
Copyright © 2019 by Karim Soliman.
Cover art by Stefanie Saw
Cover design by Stefanie Saw
ISBN-13: 978-1-07421-782-2
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
For the Nosseir brothers who lent me a book about Bermuda. Please forgive me. I lost your book when we moved eighteen years ago.
Prologue
1. Unthinkable
2. Mr. Colgate
3. Tiger Woods and the Chick
4. New Rider
5. Inevitable Failure
6. Obsession
7. Some Little Hacking
8. That Phone Call
9. No Way Back
10. Zero Hour
11. Into the Vanishing Zone
12. A List of the Worst Conditions
13. Yellow Lights
14. Humanoid
15. The Island
16. Never Mess with the Humanoids
17. Minds Do Not Lie
18. Akmenios
19. History Retold
20. Homines and Locusts
21. The Secret Chamber
22. An Offer You Must Refuse
23. Atlanteans
24. Fire Storm
25. Cattle Farm
26. Run or Die
27. Mind Blown
28. A Form of Life
29. The Signal of Hope
30. March of the Atlanteans
31. Farewell, Burke
32. A Mental Duel
33. Awakening
34. Two Minds, One Head
35. Gray Hell
36. The Last Warrior
37. Spheroidal Death
38. Trust Me, Trust Me Not
39. To Sink Or Not to Sink
40. Death Capsule
41. Dry Land
42. Rewind
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
"Perfect weather for a vacation." Owen gazed at the clear sky above the Atlantic Ocean, stretching himself on his seat at the right side of the cockpit. The long non-stop flight that had started from Lisbon was going to end in seventy minutes in Miami International Airport.
"Lucky you." Cruz shook his head, grinning. "You might have the chance to enjoy the Fourth of July fireworks live. I'll be watching from Rio de Janeiro at that time."
"Not bad at all, Cruz," said Owen. "I spent a week myself at Ilha Grande with my ex. It's so close to Rio, but it's something else. It's relaxing, quiet and—"
"It's the perfect place for a dreamy, boring guy like you," Cruz interrupted, teasing his second-in-command. "I'm not surprised she left you anyway."
Come on. Give me a break. Owen wanted to strike back. Should he remind the not-boring pilot of the Australian chick, who had dumped him after a long-standing love story that had lasted for two minutes and thirty-two seconds? Officially, Cruz held now the world-record of. . .
"What the hell is this?" Cruz's voice alarmed him. Did they both doze or what? From nowhere, a flying object appeared on the radar screen. The bad news was: it was headed directly to their plane.
"Too small for a plane," Owen pointed out.
"And too big for a missile," Cruz muttered when he tried the radio. "Mayday! Mayday! This is flight AAL 256. We're having contact with an unidentified flying object in fifty seconds."
"Flight AAL 256, identify your position," came the answer from the radio.
Hurriedly, Owen replied, "Latitude twenty-nine degrees—" Dammit! The buzzing sound declared the death of the device that connected them to the world. Could this get any worse? Sure thing. In forty-four seconds, he was going to witness his first, and surely, his last plane crash. Live.
The remaining seconds to collision were the heaviest he could remember. Heavier than waiting for his turn to enter the operation room for appendectomy. Adrenaline rush hit a top score. Maybe they weren't exaggerating after all when they said that waiting for death was worse than death itself. But how the hell would anybody know if they didn't taste death before? Anyway, it was a matter of seconds to live that unique experience.
The experience of death.
1. Unthinkable
Virginia, three months later,
Two years in the Pentagon and still those men with stars on their shoulders and harsh voices intimidated her. Heather understood that being firm was part of their military nature, but she wasn't a soldier; she was a scientist.
"They're ready for you now, Heather." Holly came out of the room, which Heather wasn't sure whether she should call a meeting hall or an investigation room. It depended on those guys ready for her inside.
"So, am I," Heather lied as she stepped into the hall, butterflies in her stomach killing her. It was too late to go to the ladies' room now. Pull yourself together, Heath. She had presented to hundreds of people in several international conferences, in bigger halls than the one she was stepping into right now. But still, the Pentagon had its own ambiance. Today her audience was not a group of researchers who had come for the love of science. Today her audience was a bunch of big shot officials whom she was seeing for the first time save for the man at the head of the table; her boss, the Secretary of Navy, also known as the SecNav—they were fond of abbreviations here.
The big shots stared at Heather, their faces grim. Were they really pissed off, or were they born like this? This was not an audience; this was the jury.
Holly—the only friendly face in this damned hall—handed Heather a presenter. "You sure you put the right file, huh?" Heather asked. "I don't need any surprises in this meeting."
"Just a click, and it's your show," Holly whispered. "Good luck. Your boss is not in the mood today."
The scowling gray-haired man had never been in the mood any day before. Maybe that was the mood.
Holly stood at the nearest corner to the door while Heather was walking toward the spotlight. "Good afternoon, gentlemen." She managed her best smile for the time being.
"Do you know why you are here, Heather?" Her boss narrowed his deep set eyes.
"I'm supposed to present the progress of Bermuda Unit so far," replied Heather.
"Progress?" The SecNav clenched his square jaw, his voice thick with disapproval. "Let me make this clear. After the jet crash, Mr. Secretary of Defense is expecting conclusions. That accident has drawn too much attention, and the pressure on the White House is growing to allow the Germans and the French to help our investigation teams. I guess you understand that the last thing we want is those Europeans sticking their noses in our business."
So, he knew how it felt when someone stuck his nose in his business. Should Heather tell him that she was sick of military noses in her work? But hey, screw them all. This could be the right moment to get a positive answer for her request—at last. Now was the right moment to say, "We need the HG-3 to give you a conclusion, sir."
"You know I can't do that without convincing reasons," he gruffly said. A typical answer she was expecting from her boss.
"I do have convincing reasons. That's why I'm here."
"We're listening." The anticipation in his eyes as well as the big shots' boosted her confidence. Heather was the one with the magic wand now.<
br />
One click on the presenter, and a map of the Atlantic Ocean appeared on the screen behind her. "My team inspected the water in a ring of two hundred square miles around the point of collision," she clicked again, a circle surrounding a specific part of the ocean, "looking for parts and even splinters from the mysterious object that hit the jet. Using a virtual builder that Kenji and Jay from our team had developed, we did succeed in building an image of the outer skeleton of the flying object."
Heather captured their attention; she could see it in their eyes. The butterflies in her stomach were gone, and now she was starting to enjoy the show—her show. She couldn't wait to watch their faces when they saw the next slide.
"This is the object that hit the plane?" Pointing at the shown image, the SecNav was doing his best to keep his cold face, but he was astounded, no doubt. "A TBM Avenger?"
"We're sure of it, sir." Heather smiled confidently. "We used radioactive analysis to detect the bomber age. And guess what?" Maybe, it wasn't the most proper way to address these big shots, but screw them all again. "The bomber is seventy-four years old."
"This doesn't make any sense." The SecNav frowned, his arms folded. "Where would a World War II bomber lead you in this investigation?"
"An excellent question." She nodded. "It leads us into possibilities that may sound crazy to you, gentlemen. But we're scientists; we should think of the unthinkable. You all know, there are several theories about Bermuda Triangle that—"
"Please, proceed with your finding, Heather," the SecNav put in. "We're not here to listen to academic theories."
Nobody interrupts me. Heather hated it when someone disrupted her train of thought. Taking a deep breath to calm herself down, she feigned a smile. "We went beyond theories, Mr. Secretary," she slowly said. "The picture you're gazing at is not an archived one."
Her boss shot her an inquiring look.
"Even with ninety percent of the damaged parts of the mysterious bomber, the physical rebuilding of the real plane was much harder than creating a virtual image of it," Heather continued. "But we did it."
The big shots were not keeping their masked faces any longer, their eyes betraying their obvious astonishment. "You have restored an original TBM Avenger?" One of them adjusted his glasses, as if he was making sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.
"We didn't just rebuild the external skeleton," she bragged, "we reconstructed most of the inner parts as well." She flipped to the next slide which showed the bomber engine.
"Is it working now?" the SecNav asked.
"Not yet." Heather shook her head. "Some parts of the engine are still missing, but that wasn't our issue. We restored most of the engine for this." She zoomed into the engine to magnify the digits on it.
"The engine serial number." Her boss had got her idea. He's not bad after all.
"Exactly." Heather nodded with a smile. "As we didn't find any DNA traces that might lead us to the pilots of that bomber, we thought that the engine serial number would help us verify the origin of the plane itself, and it did. Actually, the plane identity shocked us all."
Their widened eyes were on her, their ears ready for her next announcement.
"This plane belongs to Flight 19 that vanished in 1945."
2. Mr. Colgate
Well, that had gone better than she had thought; Heather could tell from Holly's wink to her when she walked out of the room. Still, it wasn't a crushing victory. The HG-3 would be under Heather's disposal in five days, but she had less than nine days to complete her damn mission. Once and for all. She wondered how the crew of the Bermuda Unit would react to the deal she brought to them. Daniel would probably rub his rugged beard for five minutes before finally saying, 'Ok, Heather. We'll do it.' She knew he would never protest, but he couldn't make any decision without meditation. Anyway, it wasn't up to him or her or anyone else in the team to decide. The SecNav had spoken.
Santino would be a headache, as he had always been. He was an ill-tempered guy, and Heather easily got ill-tempered with ill-tempered men—that was how she had broken up with her two exes. But she had no other choice than being nice to him. He was the one who had designed the immune skeleton of the HG-3; an enough reason for Heather to even fall in love with him.
The others wouldn't be a problem. Linda, Kenneth, Walter, and Joshua would nod their approval. Susan would do the same, but not before she found something about the matter to mock. Kenji and Jay, the two IT whizzes would shrug carelessly, smiling. 'As you wish, Heather,' Jay would say.
"Dr. Heather?" a deep voice called out. As Heather turned, she recognized the bald head of one of the big shots who had attended the meeting. But this hazel-eyed guy in particular had remained silent during the whole session. She didn't remember he had even cleared his throat or nodded with an um.
"Yes?"
"That was a good show you made." The slightest of smiles lifted the corner of his mouth. "I'm really looking forward to seeing you reach the finish line."
"Thanks," she cautiously replied. "We didn't get acquainted, sir."
"I know you already, and that's enough for me." He leaned forward, the same slight smile on his face.
"But not for me." She tilted her head.
He seemed to be enjoying this. "I work for a classified special unit that is concerned about our national security; you need nothing more to know about me."
A classified special unit? Could the IMF team be real after all?
"You didn't stop me just to wish me good luck, did you?" she asked.
"You're alone, and you need some help." His Colgate-grin together with his deep voice and hazel eyes made her swallow this time. Alone? The way he stressed the word made her believe he was hitting on her. Not that she would mind. . .
"I'm not alone, sir." She cleared her throat, dismissing her wild thoughts. "As you've heard in my presentation, we are a team. More than a team; a family." What if he was really hitting on her, the lonely her, not Dr. Heather? That would be awesome.
"You and your team are alone, Heather." His smile vanished when he insisted, and she couldn't deny she was a bit frustrated. "The Navy, the National Security, the CIA; no one will help you reach the only man who knows the truth."
Well played. Now she knew how her audience had felt during her show. "What truth?" she impatiently asked. "And who knows it?"
He grinned again.
"Do you mind if I walk you?" he asked.
"Do you know where I'm going to?" she teased him.
He killed her again with his Colgate-smile. "After you."
Walking side by side with her along the corridor, he said, "Jeff Burke, a former assistant professor of Geology at the University of Oklahoma."
"Former?"
"He was fired for perversion. But that was the official reason."
"What's the real reason then?"
As they stepped into the elevator, he didn't say a word, and neither did she. Not with twelve ears around them. Even when they were alone after everybody else had exited, his mouth was still shut. Surely, every word was taped inside this big can.
The door slid open, revealing the quiet corridor behind it. "He claims he has a relative among the victims of USS Proteus—the ship that was lost in the Triangle in 1941," he resumed the story. "But that's not the best part. He also claims he made a journey nine years ago on his own to find the wreck, and that was when things went ugly with him. When he tried to publish a paper about his journey, a crusade was raised against him."
"For what? For his academic work?" Heather didn't get it. Even if his work was based on delusions, that shouldn't be a reason to fire him.
"Well," he tilted his head, "let's say there were some big shots who didn't want him to spread his reflections."
She couldn't conceal her grin. Does he have issues with big shots as I do? We have something in common, then. "I wonder who those guys were," she said.
"You met a few of them today already."
Today? Heather stopped and faced him. "M
y boss is not one of them, is he?"
Her shoulder numbed when he gently patted it, motioning her to resume their little walk. "We can't blame him, though. Our fellow, Burke, wasn't playing nice. And you know how sensitive we are in this country about anything that might compromise our national security."
"National security?" She couldn't believe what she was listening to. "Come on."
"The termination of his academic career didn't stop him. He went to the online community to spread his nonsense about Bermuda. Of course, it's not hard to imagine how headlines like Bermuda: Still Alive, What They Didn't Tell You About the Devil's Triangle, The Five Lies of Pentagon About Bermuda can pique the curiosity of sci-fi nerds and mystery fans."
"It seems his nonsense about Bermuda wasn't nonsense at all." She glanced at him to catch his reaction. His smile confirmed her point.
"He passed the lie detector, so we know he is not pushed by the Russians to make up the stuff about Bermuda and USS Proteus."
The lie detector? Such a treat for the poor guy. "A schizophrenic would do better than any of us with the lie detector," she pointed out.
"His behavior might be a bit odd, but we can't say he is a schizophrenic." He opened a door, and suddenly she realized they had reached the roof, a helicopter waiting already at the helipad. How and when had she got there with him? Was she so smitten by his charm that she wasn't aware of where she was heading to?
"What do you want from me?" Heather asked him directly, knowing that there was no free lunch here in the Pentagon. For all this information, there would be a price, a heavy one, most probably. Unless he's telling me all of this because he's fallen for me. I know I was stunning today in the presentation, though.
He gazed at the awaiting helicopter, his Colgate-smile back. "I want what you want, Heather." Seriously, do you have any idea what I want now? "I want you to succeed in your mission. That guy has gone to the Triangle and returned. I'm quite sure that all he has told us in two years of interrogations is just the tip of the iceberg."
Bermuda Page 1
