Atlantis: Bermuda Triangle a-2

by Robert Doherty

  Tam Nok was tucked under the forward most- and narrowest- bench, the cloak pulled around her, the hood over her face. Ragnarok was in the rear, his back against the side of the longship, a knife in his hand as he carved a long, thick stake of oak. He wanted a new haft ready. He planned to find a metal worker in England to make him a new head for another war ax.

  He had a sword, the one his father had wielded, but Ragnarok preferred the power of the ax to the sharpness of the sword. He was also proficient with spear and bow, but used those mostly to hunt, not for battle. He had men on board who were designated bowmen. Their job was to give a long distance punch to the ship, but Ragnarok knew a leader’s place was always in the forefront and using an ax had allowed him to break through several shield-walls and lead his men to victory.

  When it became too dark to work, he stood next to Bjarni for a while. The shore to the west was so faint in the darkness there were many times Ragnarok could not see it, but Bjarni was steady on the rudder till.

  Hrolf joined them, the three most experienced members of the crew now together around the rudder block.

  “We will not be the first ship to arrive in Iceland this spring,” Hrolf noted.

  “We’ve made more than enough to make up for that,” Ragnarok said.

  “Enough to make up for Duartr being dead?” Hrolf asked.

  “He would be dead whether we were heading for Iceland or England,” Ragnarok said.

  “And abandoning Thorlak?” Hrolf was the only man on board who would dare say that.

  “What should I have done?” Ragnarok asked. “Flown after the Valkyrie bitch on my wings?”

  “I think you trust this woman too much,” Hrolf said. “Perhaps she lured Duartr onto the beach in the fjord. All this talk of Gods and Valkyries and weapons-” Hrolf spit over the side of the boat.

  “She was not near the beach when I went ashore,” Ragnarok said. “She was climbing down the rocks. One of those strange beasts got to Duartr in the dark. And it is not a question of whether I trust this woman. It is a risk, but if this weapon she speaks of exists, it must be very powerful.”

  There was only the sound of the sail taking the wind and the water against the hull for a several minutes.

  “You think we might be able to return home?” Bjarni finally asked.

  “If the weapon is powerful enough,” Ragnarok said, “it might be possible.”

  “This is our home,” Hrolf said, slapping a callused hand on the side of the boat. “This is your home,” the old warrior continued. “Even if you went back, you would return to the sea as quickly as you could. This is what you know and what you love. It isn’t about going home for you, my friend, it is about vengeance.”

  “So it is,” Ragnarok agreed, surprised at what amounted to a speech for Hrolf. “And what is wrong with that?”

  “Nothing,” Hrolf said, “except vengeance for you springs out of loyalty and I would recommend you consider how much your desire to revenge the dead will hurt those who are still living and loyal to you.” Hrolf pulled his cloak tight around his broad shoulders. “I am tired and the words come out without thought. I must sleep.” He climbed over the bench and made his way to his place.

  Ragnarok glanced at Bjarni in the twilight. The navigator had said nothing, his eyes focused ahead, turning to the right every so often to check the coastline that was sliding by.

  “Do you want to go home?” Ragnarok asked him.

  Bjarni’s hands were steady on the tiller, so solid it was difficult to tell where the wood ended on the flesh began. “As Hrolf said, this ship is my home. We are here with you because our families are dead and we were loyal to your father and we are loyal to you.”

  “But vengeance-” Ragnarok began, but Bjarni’s low voice interrupted.

  “My Captain, we can spend the rest of our lives seeking vengeance. And if we achieve it, will not those we achieve it on have someone in their family seek vengeance on us? When does it end?”

  “Ah-” Ragnarok spit over the side of the boat. “You old men have gotten soft.”

  “That may well be,” Bjarni agreed.

  “I am going to sleep.” Ragnarok lay down pulling his blankets tight around his body.

  He woke to the not so gentle nudge of Bjarni’s boot in his chest. Ragnarok rolled to his knees, looking in the direction the dark silhouette of Bjarni pointed. Someone was moving forward along the left side of the ship, a dark lump barely visible against the almost pitch black night sky. Ragnarok got to his feet, pulling his sword out of its scabbard.

  Ragnarok dropped all pretense at stealth as there was a flash of metal from the dark form- an upraised knife. Ragnarok sprinted down the ship, leaping benches and bodies. The knife struck downward near the first bench. Sparks flew as it hit metal coming up.

  Ragnarok roared a battle cry, leaping the next to last bench, then came to a complete halt. Tam Nok was on her feet, parrying the next thrust of the would-be murderer with her long knife. She spun, almost faster than Ragnarok could follow and he heard the thud of her knife striking home in the man’s chest. The man staggered back, hands groping for the blade. Ragnarok grabbed him and pulled him backwards, hearing the man’s spine crack as he thrust his knee into the man’s back.

  By the faint light he could finally see the face. It was Eric Thorren, one of the men who had just signed on two weeks previously. The light faded from Thorren’s eyes and the body went slack in Ragnarok’s hands. He dumped it to the floor, then stepped over it.

  “Are you all right?”

  Tam Nok knelt down and pulled her blade out of Thorren’s chest, wiping the metal clean on his cloak before sliding it into the sheath. “I am fine,” she said.

  “He was a new man,” Ragnarok explained. “He wanted your money- then he would jump overboard and swim for shore. We wouldn’t be able to follow with the ship in the dark as there are many sandbars. I will-”

  “I don’t need explanations,” Tam Nok settled back down in her place under the forward bench, pulling her hood over her face once more. “I just need you to get me where I want to go.”

  Ragnarok bit back his angry reply. He was mad at himself for having even tried to offer an explanation- since when did a captain have to explain himself to a passenger and a woman at that? First Hrolf and Bjarni and now this. Things were not the way they should be.

  Ragnarok turned from her. He slid a hand inside the man’s tunic and pulled out the small leather pouch that hung there on a cord around the neck. Ragnarok opened the pouch and emptied it into his hand. A single ingot of gold fell out.

  It was Ragnarok’s gold- a piece that he gave to every man on his crew. It was the offering to be made to Aegir’s wife. Aegir was the Norse God of the sea, and his wife controlled the entrance from the depths of the ocean to Valhalla. A good Viking captain always made sure every member of his crew had a piece of gold so that if a mishap occurred during the voyage and the man died, his body lost at sea, he would have the offering needed to cross over.

  Ragnarok put the gold piece in his own pouch, then slid Eric’s body overboard. He watched it disappear into the dark water, then stared at Tam Nok for a few seconds, before returning to his place in the rear of the boat.

  * * *

  Thorlak the Hardy spit, the glob hitting the creature in front of him and slowly sliding down the white, hard face. There was no reaction to his act of defiance. The Valkyrie had been standing in front of him, not moving for hours, like a piece of stone.

  Thorlak had no idea where he was. He had vague memories of traveling through the dark fog, dangling in the creature’s claw. Then darkness. Then awakening in his present situation. Which was not good.

  His arms were pinned back on a flat vertical surface with metal clamps tight over his one hand and the stump of his other. His legs was similarly locked down. He was naked, his clothes lying a few feet away in a dirty pile. The air was strange, thick, clammy and cold on his skin. Despite that, a trickle of sweat ran down his forehead.


  The arm that had been severed had been cauterized and no blood seeped through any more. Thorlak felt weezy from the loss of blood and knew without his sword arm, Valhalla would most likely not open its doors for him. But he had to try. He could wield a sword left-handed and maybe the Gods would smile on him for fighting against such great odds.

  All he could see was the unmoving white-faced monster in front of him, the unblinking red eyes staring at him, and beyond a large cavern, the ceiling and near walls he could see, but the far wall not visible in the dim light.

  “Let me have my sword and a brave death,” Thorlak’s words echoed into silence, bringing no response. “You are pigs. Cowards.” His voice sounded weak in such a large space.

  There was movement and Thorlak squinted to see. Another Valkyrie floated into view, the bottom of the cloak just a few inches about the rock floor. It was carrying something shiny and large- some sort of package. It placed the package on a stone table twenty feet away and swung up the lid.

  Thorlak eyes widened as the creature used it’s right hand to twist off its left arm all the way back to the elbow. It placed the removed appendage on the table and picked up something from the package. Another arm but one that did not end in the clawed hand but rather a single blade eight inches long. The red light reflected off the metal, making it appear as if already tinted with blood.

  The Valkyrie turned toward and floated over toward Thorlok, the other one finally moving, getting out of the way. Thorlak searched for more spit, but his mouth was dry. The Valkyrie stopped less than two feet away, the dead red eyes dispassionately regarding him.

  “Give me a warrior’s death!” Thorlak screamed.

  The left arm, blade on the end came forward. The tip touched him on the breastbone.

  “A sword in my hand!” Thorlak begged. “To go to Valhalla!”

  Thorlak’s breathing was very shallow- if he took a deep breath the blade would pierce his skin. Sweat was pouring off his forehead, trickling down his naked flesh.

  The second Valkyrie reappeared carrying something, a metal band. It reached up and placed the band on top of Thorlak’s head, as if crowning him. He felt small jolts of pain all around the top of his skull. A wire led from the band to a square box the creature held in its hands.

  While Thorlak was still puzzling over what the band and box were, the blade at his chest moved forward a fraction of an inch, slicing flesh like a rudder through water, and down his chest to his stomach.

  Thorlak bit back his scream, not willing to let his enemies know his pain. He had once seen a captured Saxon lord go through the 'bloody eagle’ without ever uttering a whimper of pain. The Norse torturer had cut through the Saxon’s back, removed several rib bones, then pulled the man’s still breathing lungs out through the hole. They lay on the man’s back, inflating and deflating with each breath like a pair of bloody wings. The Saxon had bit through his lip to keep from screaming in agony and stared defiantly at his tormentors until he died.

  If a Saxon pig could do such, Thorlak knew he also ought to be capable of such bravery. The blade sliced left along the bottom of his stomach, then back across to the right. With the other hand, the Valkyrie peeled back the skin along the T shaped incision.

  Thorlak thought to his youth, to the hills above the fjord of his village, green with grass and the bright flowers that fought their way to sunlight for the brief summer. A young girl whom he had gone with through the fields to the-

  The blade cut along the side of Thorlak’s face, now horizontal to the surface, peeling away the skin in one fine swipe and jerking Thorlak’s mind back to the present.

  The blade did the same to other side of the face. Then the scalp, taking care to pass over the metal band. Until Thorlak’s head was nothing but a bleeding skull covered with exposed muscle and ligaments. Still he did not cry out.

  Memories would not work. Thorlak forced his mind onto a task. Rowing. He had pulled so many strokes on board Ragnarok’s ship that it was as natural to him as breathing. His hands were on the oars, his muscles straining. Pull. Lift. Push. Down. Pull. Lift. Push. Down. Pull.

  The litany got Thorlak’s brain into a rhythm as the Valkyrie continued its ghastly work. It went on until all of Thorlak’s skin- except for the tiny strip under the metal band, was gone. Blood pooled at his feet, mixing with the sweat that had been there and staining the pile of peeled skin.

  The Valkyrie paused in its work and simply hovered. Thorlak’s mind was rowing, steady, helping to pull Ragnarok’s ship through the ocean water. The pain was there, but not so close as it was before.

  There was a tingling in his head. A very strange feeling. For a few seconds the pain faded even more. The two Valkyries hung in the air, simply watching. Thorlak faltered with the oar in the air. The wood disappeared from his hand. He was back in the cavern.

  The pain came back. He gave up. His mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out.

  He felt weak, tired. He had been called the Hardy because he could stay awake and row after all others on the ship collapsed, but he knew he could not row much further now. The journey was nearly over. He reached for the oar, wrapping his hands tight around the wood, feeling the comfort of the known.

  The blade, now crimson in the red light, came forward once more. Thorlak let go of the oar and surrendered to the darkness.

  Chapter 9

  THE PRESENT

  1999 AD

  Dane was impressed with the efficiency of the Glomar crew. They could snatch a new section of pipe off the wall of the pool, use a crane to pull it up to the top of the derrick, then two men would clip safety lines around the pipe itself and bolt it to the section below while the entire thing was moving down at a steady rate. Just before the pipe went into the water two other man clamped the power, oxygen and communications cables to the side of the pipe, continuously unreeling the cables while making sure there were no snags.

  Two hours earlier, Deeplab IV had been attached at the bottom of the very first section of eighteen inch pipe. Lieutenant Sautran had waved once before disappearing into the hatch at the top of the central corridor. The hatch was screwed shut, final checks were made and Deeplab IV disappeared beneath the waves.

  As the pipes continued to be connected and push Deeplab IV deeper and deeper, Dane noticing something strange- the thick pipe that extended down from the derrick, was moving up and down very slowly, independent of the ship. It was mesmerizing to watch.

  Captain Stanton caught the look and explained. “It gets to you doesn’t it. We have to keep Deeplab stable- can’t have it bobbing like a cork on the end of the pipe. So we use an inertia dampener.” He pointed to where the pipe was clamped between several rollers. “The ship is what is actually moving with the swell- the pipe is staying perfectly still. You should see that when we get rough water. The hydraulics attached to those rollers can move the pipe over thirty feet vertically if necessary. What feels weird is that you think you’re standing still and its moving, but somewhere in your mind your body knows it’s moving.”

  Dane’s attention was diverted as a large navy helicopter appeared on the southern horizon, something large slung load below it.

  “Deepflight II is arriving,” Ariana said. She turned for the rear of the ship. “Let’s go check it out.”

  Dane followed her and Sin Fen across the gantry and through the passageways until they reached the edge of the large helipad. By that time the chopper had arrived, hovering fifty feet above the deck. Dangling below, attached by two cables, was the deep sea submersible.

  It was long and looked more like a plane with two bulging bubbles, one at the front and one in the middle, than a submarine. Several Glomar crewmembers ran out and insured the submersible touched down gently on the deck, then unhooked it. The helicopter moved away while they hooked Deepflight’s harness rig to the ship’s rear crane. It was lifted once more, and swung around the side of the ship. Dane and the others waited as the helicopter came back and settled down on the helipad. A man got off a
nd the chopper lifted and was gone.

  Ariana led the way to greet the new arrival, a young-looking man in a bright red jumpsuit. He was tall and well-built, with thick black hair. Besides the jump suit, he wore a New York Yankees baseball cap, bill back, on his head.

  “Jimmy DeAngelo at your service,” he stuck his hand out to Dane, and then each woman as they introduced themselves to him.

  All the while his eyes kept shifting to the submarine teetering in the air, following it until it disappeared into the well. “How soon are we going down?”

  Dane glanced at Ariana who shrugged. “As soon as you’re ready to take us.”

  DeAngelo nodded. “I’d say in forty-five minutes. I did all my checks prior to coming here, but I want to make sure all the handling hasn’t damaged anything.”

  * * *

  Three hundred and fifty feet below the lowest level of the Pentagon proper was the Joint Chiefs of Staff's National Military Command Center, commonly called the War Room by those who worked there. It had been placed inside a large cavern carved out of solid bedrock. The complex could only be entered via one secure elevator and was mounted on massive springs on the cavern floor. There was enough food and supplies in the War Room for an emergency crew to operate for a year. Besides the lines that went straight up to the Pentagon's own communications system, a narrow tunnel holding back-up cables had been laboriously dug at the same depth to the alternate National Command Post at Blue Mountain in West Virginia.

  When it had been built in the early sixties, the War Room had been designed to survive a nuclear first strike. The advances in both targeting and warhead technology over the past three decades had made that design obsolete. There was no doubt in the minds of anyone who worked in the War Room that they were high on the list of Russian and Chinese nuclear targeting and that they would be vaporized atoms shortly after any nuclear exchange. Because of that, it had been turned into the operations center for the Pentagon.