Bermuda Triangle (2 page)

Captain Hanlon,
fortified by coffee and brownies, sat at the wardroom table with his XO and
Maryland's
physician.

Lieutenant
Commander Ron Slater,
Maryland's
doctor, was a tall, slim man, with
gold-rimmed glasses and thinning sandy hair. He said, "My patient is in an
advanced stage of pulmonary tuberculosis." He took a sip of black coffee.
"It is a contagious and lethal disease."

Hanlon said, "Just
as well we instituted precautions."

"Oh
yes," Doctor Slater agreed. "TB is
airborne, it
spreads when an infected person coughs or sneezes." He hesitated for a
long moment and then added, "An individual
could be
asymptomatic for months. Judging by scar tissue, my patient has been infected
for perhaps a year."

"Yes?"
Captain Hanlon encouraged. He knew there was no way to speed up his friend's
dissertation. The doc was a careful man. He always spoke in a slow, measured voice,
as if he pre-thought each word -- which, Hanlon realized, he probably did.

Doctor Slater took
another drink and said, "The linings in both his lungs are thin and prone
to rupture. His sputum is blood-tinged when he coughs." He pushed his
glasses back in place from where they slipped down his nose and added, "With
treatment, he'll recover."

Hanlon could hear
a, "but" in the doc's voice. He snagged a brownie -- still warm from
the oven -- and said, "So, what's the problem?"

A look of
frustration crossed the doctor's expression. "TB doesn't attack the
nervous system. I just don't understand why my patient is so feeble. It's as if
he hasn't used his muscles for months." He shook his head and shuffled through
some notes. "Then there's his lack of bone density. I don't know. I've
never seen anything like this." He frowned. "I really hate mysteries
that I can't solve."

"He still hasn't
offered much?" Hanlon's tone was sympathetic.

"Nothing. He
claims he doesn't know his name, and he denied that comment about Heaven."
The doctor raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Says he must have been delirious. He
asked where he was, time, day and month -- usual for concussion cases. I offered
him a newspaper. He froze and went quite pale as he read the first page; I
can't for the life of me imagine why. I asked him what was wrong. He
dissembled, mumbling something incoherent in an attempt to hide his shock. I
can tell you this: whatever he is -- he's no actor. He put the paper down and wouldn’t
speak to me after that."

Their eyes met.

"He's
hiding something," Hanlon observed.

Doctor Slater
nodded his agreement. "Here's what I gave him." He held out the
newspaper.

Captain Hanlon took
the proffered copy of the,
New York Times.
Lips pursed, he scanned it. There
wasn't anything exceptional: debt relief and the Euro, the 2012 presidential
campaign and more finger-pointing in relation to the financial crisis. What on
this page could have frightened the guy? Who was he? How had he come to be
there, right where
Maryland
would find him? It was a ridiculous chance. He
should have died of exposure. There was nada -- zip -- absolutely nothing
nearby, and with
Maryland's
sensor array he ought to know. Had he been
dropped from low altitude by plane? No,
Maryland
would have known about
that, too.

He shook his
head and said, "None of this makes any sense." Hanlon had a sudden
thought and brightened. "You know, with the off chaplain sick, I'm holding
his position. Perhaps your patient needs, ah, spiritual guidance. You know, for
the sake of his health."

The XO laughed
out loud. Bits of brownie showered the table, making him laugh even more. Lieutenant
Commander Joseph "Bull" Weber was a stocky man with thick, dark
eyebrows and a forehead that remained in a permanent crease, giving him a
fierce, thinking man's frown.

Captain Hanlon
regarded his colleague with a derisive glare that demanded an explanation.

Bull stopped
laughing, but his grin was pure mischief. The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed
with that grin, taking ten years off his age. He shrugged. "You might have
missed your calling there, with that whole spiritual guidance thing, is all."
His manner became calculated, his expression sly. "But y'know I agree, Skipper.
The guy's in the dumps, and who could blame him? The sea kicked the shit out of
him and that whole TB thing's got to suck. There's not much we can do to cheer
him up. It's not like we can offer him a date, or even a beer."

Expectant and
hopeful, they both looked at the doctor.

Doctor Ron Slater
gave Captain Hanlon a tentative smile. He hesitated longer than usual and said,
"I think you'd have a chance of getting somewhere, Mark. Lord knows you
have a way with people. People confide in you. If anyone can get the truth out
of the fellow, you could. It really would help if I knew more about him. My
patient isn't well, but he's no longer critical." He breathed in deeply
and then exhaled. "So, as chaplain, you have my medical consent to speak
with him."

Hanlon got to
his feet with an engaging grin. His expression was more suited to a twelve-year-old
after scoring a goal, than to a seasoned submarine commander. It was those
words that he had been waiting for.

Hanlon nodded
toward his executive officer. "Take the conn. We'll be in port day after
tomorrow and God knows, with the government's paranoia concerning secrecy, we'll
never find out what's going on after that. Perhaps he will, ah, volunteer
something before then. From a humanitarian point of view we can't deny the man
his right to speak with a chaplain."

"Yes, sir."

Meeting
adjourned, the doctor and the XO stood, too. They were all smiling now, grouped
all for one -- reminiscent of three musketeers, or siblings with Mom's cookie
jar. They weren't breaking the rules. They had found a way to get around them. Their
guest was well enough to be given subtle grilling.

Captain Hanlon
had
kicked the whole thing up to CINCLANT, not daring to guess how the Commander of
the Atlantic fleet would take such an odd transmission. He received clear
orders
concerning
their mysterious visitor. This was a matter of national security. The man was
to be held in isolation until he was seen by Homeland Security and Naval Intelligence.
He was to have minimal interaction with others -- only as necessary to his
health.

The rescued man was
lying on his bed, alone in the two-berth room. An IV was in one arm, while crisp
white sheets and tan woven blankets covered him to the chest. A faint medical scent
hung in the air, the nauseating antiseptic smell of an infirmary. The fellow's
arms were exposed and Hanlon noticed a tattoo on his upper right bicep. A woman
in a skimpy bikini, once a buxom figure, was outlined in blue, just above the
word, "Navy." Originally the ink must have been placed on a healthy,
muscular arm. Now the shrunken tattoo appeared pathetic in the artificial
light. Hanlon hid a smile. It wasn't really funny, but that tattooed babe of
his looked more like a scrawny geriatric suffering
advanced osteoporosis.

On the bedside
table lay a recent newspaper (only two months old), a sports magazine with a
blonde in a bathing suit on it, and a faded copy of the submarine verse of the
Navy Hymn by Reverend Williamson:

Bless those who serve
beneath the deep,

Through lonely
hours their vigil keep.

May peace their
mission ever be,

Protect each one
we ask of thee.

Bless those at
home who wait and pray,

For their return
by night or day.

A few used
tissues, reddish-pink with tinges of blood, had missed the bin and rested on
the linoleum flooring. Hanlon kept his face impassive. This was difficult to do
because his protective gear irritated him -- he felt too warm and his hands
were sweating inside his blue, disposable gloves.
Maryland's
unnamed
hitchhiker -- stubborn SOB that he was -- was also irritating him, and had been
doing so for some time. He checked his watch. Over forty-five minutes with no
results. The man was a rock. Hanlon was beginning to wonder if anything less
than high explosive would crack that hardened exterior. He said, "I'm just
saying -- if there is anything you want to talk about, I'll listen."

"I told you
already," the man repeated with a sullen look, "I don't remember
anything -- not even my name."

Hanlon studied
him. The ill man spoke with the natural antagonism of someone who, through
sheer bloody-mindedness, survived every kick in the gut that life presented. He
was defiant and tense, braced and waiting for another kick. His belligerent
expression showed he expected the worst and, what was more, he didn't give a
damn. He was sitting on a mountain of built up fury, ready to vent.

Exasperated, Hanlon
took a deep breath and changed tack. He knew the stubborn bastard was lying. Should
he prod him? Be the catalyst for a volcanic explosion? He sighed. No, fighting
wouldn't make the stranger confide in him.
What then? The man was impossible.
Captain Hanlon allowed himself an inward smile. Noelle, his polite, petite
wife, was the only other person he knew who could be this pig-headed.

"All right,"
Hanlon said. Comparing the man to Noelle calmed his growing frustration. His
wife
might drive him nuts, but generally there was a good reason for any
inexplicable behaviour, even though not always obvious at the time.
Perhaps
this man had his reasons, too. He put his hands behind his back and moved away
from his visitor's bedside once more. His actions were uniform and intentional,
like waves against the shore: reach and then withdraw, reach and withdraw. He
would get answers. With patience and persistence, like chipping rock into sand,
Captain Hanlon intended to wear the man down.

Turning things
over in his mind, Hanlon paced the short distance to the end of the room. The stranger
had a "Navy" tattoo. Now that was interesting. It made them
compatriots. He recalled the tatt of the woman in a bikini and grinned. Brothers
in the service -- and they both liked girls. In the past Hanlon had obtained
results with less to build on. He had tried the friendly approach, and he had
spoken with subtle authority, offering his aid. Tongue in cheek humor and
common naval wit hadn't helped. So far he had struck out.

 Hanlon turned
on his heels and looked at the man with intent, objective eyes. He had a
natural empathy with people and was amused by psychological studies of
successful submarine captains. "Empathetic connection that commands loyalty,"
was one such trait; "aggressive determinism," was another. He gave a wry
smile. Aggressive determinism was a euphemistic way of describing someone with
an inborn stubborn streak that ran deeper than the Mariana Trench. This unnamed
stranger had a similar streak, it seemed.

Hanlon walked to
some medical equipment and fiddled with the stethoscope, tapping the ends and fingering
it with absent interest. He almost always had success with people through observing
the obvious. Whatever he was looking for, it would be there to see. Camouflage was
always ultimately imperfect. He frowned.

 
I must be
missing something.

 Was the man's
belligerence genuine, or was it a front? Captain Hanlon let the stethoscope go,
and turned back toward the visitor and
really looked
at the man. He
wanted to see through any disguise, to the truth and the essence of the person
behind it.

The ill man
returned his gaze with sad, brown eyes. As unwell as he was, even sick in bed,
he was still holding himself at attention -- stiff and unbending. But it was
his eyes that were giving him away. Beneath his war-like hostility was a
definite sense of loss. Hanlon flinched with sudden understanding and marveled
at his own stupidity.
That grief, so obvious!
He knew what the man was so
desperate to keep hidden, or perhaps what he wished to forget.

Striding back to
the bed, he leaned over and asked in a soft voice, "Who died?"

The man's
reaction was instantaneous.

"I don't
know what you're talking about!" The man's expression was savage as he
struggled, attempting to sit up. The captain and the stranger's eyes met for a
timeless second and in that moment they both recognized the lie.

The stranger
began a paroxysm of coughing, his body in spasms. Grabbing the convalescent's arms,
Hanlon pushed him back on the bed, holding his shoulders in an attempt to calm
him. When the man quit fighting, Hanlon grabbed a tissue. There was fresh red
blood in his spittle. There were flecks of blood on the clear, fluid-resistant
visor of Hanlon's surgical mask.

"Easy
there, buddy. Easy. It's all right. Hey, c'mon now. I'm on your side," Hanlon
said, surprised to find that he meant it. In the face of compassion and
support, the tough, hostile stranger, who had for three days refused to budge,
crumbled.

Captain Hanlon's
unexpected guest began to cry.

It took twenty
minutes for the ill man to compose himself. Doc Slater arrived, but the captain
waved him away. He didn't want to be interrupted. The stranger's walls hadn't
just cracked - they had turned to dust. No way was he getting a chance to build
more.

"I don't
mind telling you," the fellow began, rubbing his face. "Christ, I
have to tell someone. It won't make a difference either way. You’re going to
think I'm crazy."

Hanlon shook his
head and began to deny it.

"No,"
the man broke in, "you will. I don't even know if I'm crazy myself. I've
seen the newspapers. I know what year it is. My name is Jacob -- Jake Swann. It's
hard to believe, but I was on
Scorpion.
My friends, my crewmates…"
he paused, his expression bleak, "…I still can't believe it. I guess they're
all dead. No one else came with me to Heaven. Did any of
Scorpion's
crew
survive?"

Hanlon shook his
head. "I'm sorry."

Jake Swann gave
a short, hollow laugh. "They called me Birdie because my surname is Swann.
Get it? Able-bodied seaman, third class. Torpedo man and Damage control. Fire
fighting was my specialty."

"But that
was over forty years ago! Why haven't you...?

"Aged? I haven't,
have I? I'm still thirty-five years old. It's 2011, or so that news rag the doc
gave me says. By the looks of this boat, I can believe it. Forty years have
passed here, but to me it hasn't been that long -- just a couple of months."
He looked at the water on his bedside table with longing. Captain Hanlon helped
him sit up. Swann drank, and settled back in bed. The tension in his body hadn't
left him.

"It's going
to be hard to explain...."

"I'm a good
listener," Hanlon assured.

Swann smiled,
but with chapped lips and sunken eyes it seemed more like a grimace. "I can't
tell you what happened to
Scorpion.
It isn't clear in my mind -- it
happened so fast. I was at my station. We were about to surface, on a routine
patrol. There was a malfunction in my section." Swann turned his head away
and was quiet for a few minutes. His breathing was labored, but he was holding
his own.

Hanlon studied
him. It appeared that Swann was thinking of what to say or, Hanlon thought
cynically, maybe what not to say. Was Swann unable to meet his eyes due to
guilt? Shame? Fear of consequences? If this man was once crew on
Scorpion
-- which Hanlon didn't for one minute believe -- did he imagine he was
responsible for the catastrophic loss of the sub?
For the death of all
those men?

Swann turned
back, swallowed and said, "There was this noise, a screaming high-pitched
din that just kept getting louder. I swear that sound was so heavy and thick, I
felt like I was being crushed. Everything kind of tunneled, turned yellow, and
then went cold and black. I don't know what happened after that."

"And?"

Swann glared.
The defiant expression Hanlon saw earlier returned in force. "And when I
woke up I wasn't on Earth."

Captain Hanlon
frowned and rubbed his chin. Even through his protective gloves he could feel
the beginnings of stubble. It had been eight hours since he had last shaved. "I
don't see why I shouldn't believe you, if that's what you're worried about."
He shrugged. "God knows there's no logical explanation for your arrival
here now. Do you know where you were when you weren't, um, weren't on Earth?"

Hanlon watched
as an incredible sadness came over Swann, along with an expression of regret or
perhaps longing. "Yes," Swann said. "I woke to find myself
wedged in a cave that was scattered with rubble -- an incredible heap of
relics. I was surrounded by parts of old aircraft, bowsprits from ancient ships,
parts of vessels I couldn't even recognize – Goddamn it, I was in a submarine at
sea -- I was sure of that! Then I was in some sort of storeroom for a stinkin' museum!
Everything, including me, was covered in junk. I was crammed in so tight I
couldn’t move." He paused and looked into Hanlon's eyes without flinching.
"It was the angels that dug me out."

"Angels?"

His chin lifted.
"You heard me right."

Captain Hanlon
nodded, contrite. He was beginning to doubt his decision to get around his orders.
Swann needed medical help.

He needed a
psychiatrist.