The Devil’s Sea Gate was named thusly because it marked the boundaries of the Devil’s Sea. Since it encompassed water like the Bermuda Triangle, Foreman preferred to focus his attention on the Bermuda Triangle. There were also the reports he occasionally received of intense, covert Japanese interest in the Devil’s Sea Gate area. Somehow all the gates were connected and Foreman lived only to discover the true nature of what these Gates were, what was causing them and what was on the other side of the Gates.
“Clearing one thousand feet depth,” the commander of the Scorpion, Captain Bateman, reported. “Heading nine-zero degrees. Estimated crossing of line of departure in five mikes. Status all good.”
“Level at sixty thousand,” the pilot of the SR-71 called in. “ETA five mikes.”
Foreman didn't say anything. He had personally briefed the pilot and the captain of the Scorpion the previous week. He had made it abundantly clear that timing and positioning had to be exact. He looked at the large clock in the front of the listening room, watching the second hand make another circle. Then another.
“Three minutes,” Scorpion called. “All go.”
“Three minutes,” Blackbird echoed in his other ear at the same time. “All clear.”
Foreman looked down. A penciled-in line on the chart represented the Scorpion’s course. He knew that three minutes out meant that the submarine was less than a half-mile from the current edge of the Bermuda Triangle Gate along the western line drawn from Bermuda to Puerto Rico. A line on the map of southeast Asia had the SR-71's flight route, and Foreman knew it was ninety miles from the green line, heading in from the south, currently passing over Lake Tonle Sap. He had waited years to do this, watching, until both Angkor and Bermuda Triangle were active to this extent at the same time.
Another circle of the second hand. “Transmitting via HF,” Scorpion reported, indicating that the special high frequency transmitter that had been attached to the sub's front deck the previous week was now active.
“Ah, Foreman, this is Blackbird.”
Foreman sat straighter. He could sense a change in the normally laconic voice of the SR-71 pilot.
“I've got something ahead and below.”
Foreman spoke for the first time. “Clarify.”
“A yellow-white cloud. Maybe some kind of fog but it's growing fast.”
“Can you go above it?” Foreman asked.
“Oh, yeah. No sweat. I've got plenty of clear sky. Entering Angkor Gate airspace now.”
“We're in,” Captain Bateman reported. “Still transmitting. We're getting some electric anomalies in our systems, but nothing major. Sonar reports the ocean is clear out to limits.”
“How about HF?” Foreman asked, wanting to know if the SR-71 was picking up the signal from the submarine or vice versa. There was normally no way the HF signal could reach the SR-71 on the other side of the Earth. But the operative word in that sentence, as Foreman knew, was normally. There was nothing normal about either of the locations the two craft were closing on and the whole point of this exercise was to prove a link between the two Gates.
“Ah, I have a positive on the high frequency. I’m picking up Scorpion’s HF signal.”
Foreman tapped a fist against the desktop in triumph. The two Gates were definitely connected, and in a way that was not possible using known physics.
He keyed the radio. “Captain Bateman, can you read the SR-71 HF transponder?”
“Roger. I don’t know how we can, but we are. Loud and clear.”
There was brief silence, then a startled yell from the pilot. “What the hell?”
Foreman was leaning forward, his eyes closed. The feeling of triumph faded.
“Blackbird,” Foreman said. “What is going on?”
“Uh, this fog. I'm over it now but it's growing fast. It doesn't look right. I'm getting some electronic problems.”
“Will you be clear before it reaches your altitude?” Foreman asked.
“Uh, yeah.” There was a long pause. “I think so.”
“What about HF from Scorpion?” Foreman prodded.
“Still have HF. That's strange. Yeah, it's-hey!”
There was a garble of static in Foreman's right ear. “Blackbird? Report!”
“Shit. I've got major failures here,” The pilot's voice sounded distracted. “Compass out. On-board computer is going nuts. I'm-shit! There's light coming out of the cloud. Lines of light. Geez! What the hell is that? That was close. There’s something dark in the very center. Shit! I'm kicking it to-” the voice broke into unintelligible static. Then silence.
Foreman pressed the transmit button. “Blackbird? Blackbird?” He didn't waste any more time, hitting his other transmit. “Scorpion, this is Foreman. Evacuate the area. Immediately.”
“Turning,” Bateman acknowledged. “But we're getting a lot of electronic interference. Some system failures. Really strange.”
Foreman knew the sub would have to complete a wide turn to clear the Bermuda Triangle Gate. He also knew how long that would take. He checked the clock.
“There's something weird coming in over sonar,” Bateman suddenly announced.
“Clarify!” Foreman ordered.
“Sounds almost like someone's trying to contact us via sonar,” the captain of the Scorpion reported. “Pinging us. We're copying. Oh no!” he suddenly exclaimed. “We've got problems in the reactor.”
Foreman could hear Bateman yelling orders, his hand still keeping the channel open but the mike away from his lips. Then Bateman came back. “We've got a major reactor failure. Coolant lines down. We've also got something coming this way on sonar. Something big! It wasn't there before.”
Foreman leaned forward listening to the faint voices as the captain again addressed his men in the conning tower. “Jones, what the hell is it? You told me we were clear. That thing's going to be up our ass in a couple of seconds!”
“I don't know, sir! It's huge, sir. I've never seen anything that big and moving.”
“Evasive action!” the captain yelled.
“Sir, the reactor's off-line,” another voice was shouting in the background. “We don't-”
“Goddamnit,” the captain cut the other man off. “Get us out of here, number one! Blow all tanks. Now!”
The voice of the sonar man Jones, echoed tinnily in Foreman's ear. “Sir, it's right next to us. Good God! It’s huge. It's real-”
There was a crackling sound and a few more faint unintelligible yells then the sound abruptly cut off in Foreman's left ear.
Foreman leaned back in the seat. He reached into a pocket and pulled out some peanuts. He slowly cracked the shell on the first one and paused before throwing the contents into his mouth. He looked his hand. It was shaking. His stomach was shooting sharp pains. He threw the shell and peanut to the floor.
He waited one hour as agreed. Not another sound had come through either side of his headset. Finally he took it off and walked over to the radio that connected him to a man who sat on the National Security Council. He had a link between the Bermuda Triangle and Angkor Gates, but it looked like a high price had been paid to gain that information.