Dane jerked upright in accompaniment to Chelsea’s whine. His first action was to put a comforting hand on the Golden Retriever’s head, fingers automatically scratching her forehead. He felt cold even though a warm Pacific breeze came through the open porthole in the cabin. He became aware that his skin was wet. He was puzzled for a moment, and then realized it was sweat.
He got out of the bunk, and pulled on a black t-shirt with a Special Forces crest on the chest to complement the faded green jungle fatigue pants he wore. Barefoot, he silently padded out of the cabin, Chelsea right behind him. He went to the railing at the edge of the deck and halted. Chelsea sat next to him, waiting, then slid down to lay her belly against the cool metal, her nose just over the edge, nostrils flared, smelling the ocean.
He was on the deck of the FLIP, a unique research vessel over two hundred meters long. Just behind him was the control section, and in front was the bulbous bow, which contained the muonic probe that had allowed Dane and the others to enter the gate and go through the portal inside. When in operation, tanks near the bow were flooded and the long ship went from horizontal to vertical, the probe going down while the decks in the control section pivoted to keep everything level.
Muons, formerly called mu-mesons, were sub-atomic particles with a negative charge and an incredibly short mean lifetime; or at least muons that were generated by nature were like that. The muons that the gates generated were a different matter, lasting far longer than traditional physics said they should. Dane knew it had taken decades of research to discover the muon emission that occurred whenever the Shadow acted. He also knew that Professor Nagoya and his assistant Ahana, had learned to manipulate muons enough to allow his entry into the Devil’s Sea gate the previous day and that the two scientists were now in the control room, studying the data he had gathered and trying to make sense of it. He was also aware that Foreman, the CIA agent who had been studying the gates for decades was in contact with Washington, trying to decide what the next move would be in this strange war mankind was raging with the Shadow, the malevolent, unknown power behind the gates.
“What’s wrong?”
The voice startled Dane. He hadn’t sensed Foreman’s presence, which was unusual.
“I had a strange—“ Dane paused as he realized he had been about to say dream, but knew better— “vision.”
“Of?” Foreman asked. The old man was a silhouette in the dark, his sharp nose the most prominent feature, the starlight glinting off his silver hair.
Dane quickly related what he had ‘seen’, from the meeting of Frost and Kennedy in the Oval Office through the detonation of the atomic bomb over Washington. When he was done, Foreman made no immediate comment.
“It was sent to me,” Dane finally said.
“It was a dream,” Foreman differed.
Dane shook his head. “It was too detailed.”
“But it didn’t happen that way,” Foreman said.
“So part of it is true?” Dane wasn’t surprised.
Foreman nodded, remembering events almost forty years ago. “We picked up the Bermuda Triangle gate opening from a reconnaissance plane flying the blockade. I called Professor Kolkov in Moscow immediately on the CIA landline. He got hold of the Russian military and they managed to change the freighter’s course. It avoided the gate. That was the last day of the crisis. That freighter picked up the first of the missiles from Cuba that night and removed them.”
Dane ran a callused hand over the metal railing, listening to the gentle lap of the sea against the ship. “I felt what Frost did. That’s not a normal dream. And I saw the freighter get caught in the Bermuda Triangle gate.”
“Why would you get a vision of something that didn’t happen?” Foreman asked.
Dane had been thinking about that while he stood at the railing. “We’re missing something important about these Gates and the true nature of the Shadow. Something very important. I was given that vision for a reason.”
“Get some sleep,” Foreman said. “We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” He nodded toward the pitch-black wall two miles to the west, the Devil’s Sea gate that Dane had escaped out of the previous day.
The CIA agent wandered off into the dark. For the first time Dane wondered why Foreman had been out in the middle of the night also. Then, unbidden, the thought struck him that maybe what he had seen had happened. How that could be, he had no idea, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.
The King, one of the few kings who still ruled in Greece against the rising wave of democracy, was alone, a most strange occurrence for someone of his rank. Leonidas was also far from his kingdom. Sparta was one hundred and fifty kilometers due south of his current location. He rode along a rocky trail that wound its way through the steep hills that constituted the northern shore of the Gulf of Corinth. He saw a temple on a mound to the right and knew he was close to his goal. It was dedicated to Apollo who was worshipped here at Delphi.
He pulled back on the reins, eyes darting about in the shadow cast by the two cheek guards of his bronze helmet. His right hand went to the pommel of his sword, resting there, fingers lightly curled over it. There was no one about, which was most strange. Usually the area was crowded with supplicants trying to see the Oracle. Still, he felt a strong sense of threat, as if an enemy force lay in ambush. Decades of warring — and living to learn the lessons- had taught him to trust these feelings.
Then he noted the fog, a thick, unnatural mist, creeping up from the low ground to the south, out of the Gulf. He spurred the horse forward, passing the necropolis that held the temple and the place where the Oracle held formal meetings with supplicants. The sacred grove was ahead, but he edged the horse toward the Corycian Cave.
The fog was rising faster, covering all the land below and coming closer. Leonidas halted as a torch appeared in the mouth of the cave. An old woman, wrapped in a long white cloak held the flame.
“Quickly,” she called out. “Enemies come.”
Leonidas rode up to her and dismounted, drawing his xiphos — sword- as his feet touched the ground. He pulled his heavy shield off the saddle and hefted it with his off-hand.
“You must attack the eyes,” the Oracle said. “It is the only place they are vulnerable to your weapon.”
“Whose eyes?”
With her free hand, the Oracle pointed toward the mist. “There.”
Leonidas turned. A white figure floated in the front edge of the fog, less than forty feet away and approaching rapidly. At first the King thought it was a ghost or a demon of the gods, as it was completely covered in white and its feet were six inches above the ground. It moved as if carried by the fog.
But when it raised its arms, hands extended, and he saw the foot long blades on the end of each finger, he knew this thing was real. He went on guard, sword point toward the creature, shield covering the other half of his body and waited. He felt a moment’s shock as he saw that its face was featureless white, with only two red eyes, bulging like an insect’s.
It swiped at him and he ducked the blow, blocking the second swipe from the other hand with his sword. Then he struck, a lifetime of military training making the movement lightning quick.
The tip of the xiphos entered the creature’s left eye, smashing through the crystal. The arm propelling the metal blade was well-muscled and covered with scars that rippled as the sword plunged deeper into the smooth white face. Leonidas twisted the sword, the metal scraping along the rim of the socket, giving to the harder white material. He jerked back, pulling his sword out as a terrible scream rent the night.