R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

“Always thinking, aren’t you?” Mitchell remarked.

Reinheiser ignored the comment, unsure whether he had been insulted or complimented. “I also positioned a microphone under the break in the cavern ceiling. The funnel narrows considerably, but remains, I believe, large enough to admit the sub. The black area at its top seems similar to the one we were observing before the storm hit.”

“You’re assuming that we were forced downward by the storm, through that hole,” Corbin said.

“We did go down,” Del insisted, unconsciously clenching his fist as if he was still grasping the chair. “And we were pushed right through that hole.”

“We must consider all of the possibilities,” Reinheiser said. “But whether or not we went through the hole, whether the break in the ceiling is indeed the hole or not, it deserves our attention. That funnel is generating some sort of electrical disturbances-pulses, if you will-that may prove important. With the sonar equipment, we might be able to find some pattern to the pulse intensity.”

“And then?” Mitchell asked, his tone still edged with frustration and dripping with sarcasm.

“Possibilities,” was all that Reinheiser bothered to reply. He turned to Thompson, who had accompanied him on the last dive. “Do you know more on the status of the ship?”

“She’ll never swim again, that’s for sure,” Thompson replied. “Our propellers are completely destroyed and we’re bent and twisted in the middle. And we’ve got at least three fair-sized holes in us. There may be other smaller ones, too-I’m sure there are. The engines are in pretty good shape, though, considering the beating they’ve taken.”

“Could you get her up?” Reinheiser asked.

“Surface?” Thompson balked at the idea. He started to chuckle, as if he believed the question a jest, but the physicist’s stern visage told him otherwise. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and continued. “Well, I can patch some of the holes, and I think we can muster the power to blow our ballast tanks. But half the sub is full of water and we haven’t got pumps to handle that. There’s no way we can carry that load.”

“Let me worry about that,” Reinheiser said in a condescending tone that conveyed the message to Thompson, and to all of them, that their role was to follow orders and leave the thinking to him. “How long to patch the hull?”

“A few days, and I’ll need someone to help me.”

Reinheiser nodded and patted his goatee. With a look, he indicated to Mitchell that he had heard enough from Thompson. Billy Shank was the next to speak.

“There’s not much more to tell about the bridge,” he began despondently, obviously not enjoying his role as a prophet of doom. “The screens work, the com works, and a couple of the PCs are actually responding, though the mainframe is off-line and going to stay that way. At least the sonic equipment is okay; here’s the latest readout.” He handed the papers to Reinheiser. “Apparently the depth gauge is functional, too, but that’s about it. Everything else is dead and I really don’t see how we can fix any of it.”

“What you’re saying is that we can see and hear anything that’s in our area,” Corbin remarked grimly. “And that’s all we can do.”

Even Mitchell seemed touched by the apparent finality of Corbin’s statement. The sense of personal mortality descended upon the men, its weight bowing their heads low.

But not Reinheiser. He studied the sonic printouts, oblivious to their despair. “What about supplies, Mr. Corbin?” he asked in his emotionless tone.

“There’s enough food in the storage compartments below the galley to last several years,” Corbin replied. “Water could be a problem, though. As far as I can tell, we’ve got about two weeks’ worth with strict rationing, and we aren’t likely to get any more. Our purification units are both completely destroyed.”

Mitchell watched, fuming, as Reinheiser scribbled more notes on his little pad. The physicist was taking control.

“You seem to have this whole thing figured out,” the captain snapped at him. “Why don’t you let us in on it?”

“In due time, Captain,” Reinheiser replied coolly. He turned away from Mitchell with a smirk. “Tell me, Doctor, based on your examination, how long was that cadaver in the water?”

“I don’t know.” Brady shrugged. “There must be some type of preservative in the water, or a lack of bacteria. I remember a story of some bodies found at great depths in one of the western lakes-Nevada, I think. The people and their covered wagons had fallen in a century before, but they looked as if they had recently drowned.”

Reinheiser’s nod was one of politeness and not agreement.

“But assuming that things were normal,” Brady went on, “assuming that we had found the body in the local pond, I’d say that he was in the water about a day.” The other men knew that the body was in good condition, but the confirmation from Brady shocked them nonetheless.

“Could you be more specific?” Reinheiser pressed, his excitement revealing that Brady’s estimation somehow figured into the framework of his escape plans.

“Twenty-two to twenty-five hours,” Brady replied.

Reinheiser merely petted his goatee again and absently eyed the sonic printout. “Interesting,” he muttered.

Del almost chuckled out loud as he imagined switches clicking on and off behind the physicist’s eyes. He managed to cough as a cover, but a second later Reinheiser looked straight at him with his information-devouring eyes, and Del felt sure that his mind had been read. “Mr. DelGiudice, do you have anything to tell us?”

Del cleared his throat to compose himself. “If that ship on the screen was really the Wasp, she’s over a hundred eighty years old. She was lost without a trace early in 1814, commanded by Johnston Blakely.”

“That matches the JB initials on the belt buckle,” Billy observed.

“Could you find anything else about the schooner off our tail, where Thompson found the corpse?” Reinheiser pressed.

Del looked down at the notes Thompson had given him, naming the various wrecks around them. “The Bella,” he replied. “Lost in 1854.”

“Unfrigging real,” Doc Brady muttered, shaking his head.

Reinheiser nodded his accord and smiled smugly.

“There’s more,” Del continued. He held up an old book, one of the many written in the late 1970s concerning the almost-magical mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle. “All of the ships Thompson saw out there are listed in here. Lost at sea twenty, fifty, even two hundred years ago.” Del paused to let it sink in, knowing that his next revelation would stun the others even more.

“And the planes-” he began.

“Planes?” Corbin echoed.

“World War Two fighters,” Del explained. “Or trainers, actually. Five of them and a larger rescue craft.”

“Flight Nineteen,” Doc Brady said with a groan.

Del nodded. “Flew out of Florida on a training mission and simply disappeared,” he said, though the legendary tragedy needed no explanation to the group at the table.

“So we’ve solved the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle,” Corbin said grimly. “Or at least we know where everything went.”

“Not to see the surface again,” Billy found himself saying. He fell silent and slumped back.

Mitchell slammed his hands down on the edge of the table and leaped up from his chair, leaning ominously over them to give them a closer look at his scowl. “You keep your minds on your work! Got it?” He turned impatiently on Reinheiser. “Are you ready to talk yet? You’ve got something clicking around that brain of yours.”

Martin Reinheiser stared intently at the men around the table, trying to determine the best way to present his theories. He fixed his gaze on Doc Brady.