F. Paul Wilson - Infernal

I'll soon be in the middle of the goddamn Atlantic Ocean, in the dark, heading for the Bermuda Triangle, with Tom as my skipper. Now there was a comforting thought. At least the boat wasn't named The Minnow .

2

Jack sat on a deck chair and kept his back to the coastline—so he wouldn't have to see the lights disappear—while Tom manned the helm. Ahead, only water… a limitless expanse of black, gently rolling waves.

It had been full dark by the time they'd chugged away from the docks, heading south into Pimlico Sound. After maybe eight or nine miles—or should he start thinking in leagues now?—they'd passed under a highway arching over a gap called the Oregon Inlet, and then they were out to sea.

Am I having fun yet? Jack thought. Answer: no.

The breeze felt cool but Jack was comfortable in his jeans, flannel shirt, and hoodie. Crying seagulls swooped and glided between the boat and the starlit sky.

Half of Jack had wanted to wait for tomorrow and get a fresh start first thing in the morning; the idea of cruising through the dark sent ripples through his gut, but there was no way around it: They were going to have to spend a night or two at sea no matter what time they left.

The other half wanted to get this whole deal over with, reminding him that the sooner they got going, the sooner they'd be back.

Tom came aft to the cooler and pulled out a Bud Light. Jack grimaced. Good movie sense, no beer sense. Maybe all the vodka he drank had killed off his taste buds.

"Want one?"

Jack shook his head. He'd stocked his cooler with Yuengling.

"Maybe later."

Tom stepped below. He returned a few seconds later with a folded piece of paper, pulled up a chair, and settled beside Jack.

"Ever see a treasure map?"

"No." Jack pointed to the helm. "I don't mean to be picky, but shouldn't someone be driving the boat?"

"Like I told you, this thing pilots itself. It knows where Bermuda is and knows it's supposed to go there. And there's not another boat around, so relax."

Yes, Jack knew what Tom had told him, but he still didn't like it.

He unfolded the sheet and handed it to Jack.

"Take a gander."

The sheet was actually four Xeroxed pages taped together into a large rectangle. A compass rose indicated that north was toward the top of the sheet. Right of center was a wedge-shaped landmass with a northward-pointing nipple. A line ran on a diagonal to a star surrounded by wiggly lines. The star had been labeled Sombra . The number of miles—eight and a half—had been written in ornate script along the line. Readings in minutes and degrees that Jack assumed to be latitudes had been placed above the nipple and the star.

Ornate handwritten Spanish filled the lower right corner. Jack's Spanish wasn't up to a translation.

"'Splain to me."

"Okay, Ricky."

Tom had spotted Ricky Ricardo. But that was an easy one.

"Translation?"

Tom closed his eyes and recited. " ' The resting place of the Sombra and the Lilitongue of Gefreda, in the depths near the Isle of Devils, this Twenty-eighth day of March, Year of Our Lord Fifteen-ninety-eight .' And then it's signed by Francisco Mendes, Society of Jesus."

Fifteen ninety-eight…

"This is over four hundred years old?"

Tom nodded. "The original is. It's parchment and barely holding together as it is. I wasn't about to take it out on the Atlantic."

"What's "Sombra" ? And what the hell is the Lilitongue of Gefreda?"

Tom held up a hand. "Let me start at the beginning. When I was in private practice I joined a firm and inherited this client from one of the partners who was retiring due to ill health. The client's name was Allan Wenzel, a sweet old guy who was a devoted antiquities collector—especially maps." He tapped the sheets in Jack's hand. "This was one of his favorites. He told me it'd been found in the ruins of a Spanish monastery and had languished in various antique shops for years before he discovered it."

"How did he know he wasn't buying a Brooklyn Bridge?"

"He had the parchment dated and it's from the late sixteenth century. The details—the distance and the precise latitude reading—point to someone who was on the spot and knew what he was talking about."

"But who is that someone?"

Tom pointed to the signature on the lower right sheet. "This Jesuit named Mendes, I'd guess. Wenzel's guess was that he must have been a passenger."

"On what?"

"The Sombra —a Spanish cargo ship."

Jack couldn't help laughing. "Don't tell me: It's a treasure ship laden with gold and jewels."

Tom shrugged. "Could be."

"Okay. I'll bite: Where's this Isle of Devils?"

"It's the old name for Bermuda before she was settled."

He and Tom were headed for the Isle of Devils. Why did that set off a warning bell?

Tom was pointing to the map again, this time at the tip of the nipple.

"That latitude crosses the northern tip of St. George's—Bermuda's northernmost island. The line runs three-oh-eight degrees northwest and intersects the latitude of the map's star right here."

"Why no longitude?"

"Longitude was iffy in those days. They were pretty good at telling how far north or south they were, but the science of east-west location hadn't been nailed down yet. But longitude isn't necessary here. Run eight-point-five miles from the tip of St. George's to this latitude and you'll find the Sombra ."

"If there ever was such a ship."

"Oh, there was. I did some research: Sombra was making a run to Cartagena."

"So how'd it end up in Bermuda?"

Tom shrugged. "No one knows. She left Cadiz on March sixth, 1598, and that was the last anyone ever saw or heard of her. Maybe a storm blew her off course, maybe she caught fire, maybe an onboard emergency forced her to seek land. But whatever the reason, the Sombra hit the northern reef—those wavy lines around the star indicate reefs—and went down, probably like the proverbial stone."

"Why do you say that?"

"Her class of ship had a deep draw—six feet. The reef out there is about three feet deep. If the Sombra was making decent speed, she probably traded damage with the reef: carving a path through the coral as the reef tore her open. She broke up and sank, and that was the end of her."

Jack waved the sheet. "I don't get the point."

"Simple: Someday I'm going to find her."

"If she hasn't already been found."

Tom shook his head. "The Sombra is not on any map of Bermuda wrecks, and believe me I've checked them all."

"So you've got a map of a wreck that isn't there."

"No, I've got a map of a wreck that no one else knows exists."

"How can you be so sure?" Jack tapped the big sheet. "The map maker knew. And if there were any survivors, wouldn't they talk up the wreck?"

"To whom?"

"I don't know—the Bermuda government?"

"The island wasn't inhabited at the time. The Brits didn't colonize it until 1612, and even then it was considered part of the Virginia colony."

Jack was confused. "Then how…?"

Tom smiled. "How did the map wind up in a Spanish monastery? Good question. That's what makes the Sombra so interesting. Someone drew the map, then hid it away."

"Doesn't make sense."

"Does if the Sombra went down with something valuable—very valuable—that you someday wanted to go back and retrieve. And here's another little tidbit: Sombra means shadow . Isn't that cool?"

So cool it gave Jack a chill.

"Did you find a manifest or anything like that?"

Tom rose and went to the cooler. "Want one while I'm up?"

"I'll take a Yuengling."

Tom returned and handed him a green bottle.