As she smiled for the cameras, Vanessa wondered if America could ever accept an environmentally friendly President.
The faces smiled back at her.
Yes, they could.
Fear, she understood, was a powerful motivator. She’d been lucky to make it this far. All she needed now was an environmental disaster to strike the heart of America, and she might have a real chance at winning the Presidency.
Chapter Seventeen
The Maria Helena’s massive twin 44, 000 HP diesel engines turned her powerful screws through the water. Her steel bow sliced through the calm waters. The swell was low, and the barometer showed a high. They would be in for a nice few days at sea. On the bridge, Sam stared at the admiralty charts which mapped the region. Standing next to him was Matthew, his conservative skipper. One look at the man’s hazel eyes and cordial smile, and you knew exactly what the man was thinking — there’s no such thing as the Bermuda Triangle.
He glanced at the fanciful map of the Bermuda Triangle, superimposed on the area in which all four rogue waves had recently done so much damage. Within the Atlantic Ocean, an imaginary triangle formed between Bermuda, Miami and Puerto Rico. Contrary to popular beliefs, research gathered by both the American Bureau of Shipping and shipping underwriters Lloyd’s of London show no statistical increase in maritime risk or insurance claims within the area.
Sam grinned as he plotted a GPS marker to a point along the eastern edge of the supposedly deadly triangle. A place where all three cargo ships and one sailing vessel had been severely damaged or sunk as the result of a rogue wave. He marked the exact location of each rogue wave with the letter R. The last one being the Mirabelle, which was a sailing vessel, designed for blue water sailing. The Mirabelle had previously won the Open Forties Challenge, which was a circumnavigation of the globe, by any means, as long as they maintained latitude below 40 degrees south. By comparison, Bermuda was like sailing in a millpond. Sam then plotted the areas highlighted. They were all within a five-mile radius. An area comparable to finding four needles in the same location within a field of haystacks.
Sam grinned as he plotted the course for the GPS waypoint. “That’s where we’re headed, Matthew.”
Matthew looked at it and nodded his head. Checked the instruments and then let the autopilot take over. “That’s some coincidence isn’t it?”
“There’s no coincidence about it. There’s something there, and I’m going to prove it.”
Matthew shook his head. “You’re not really starting to buy into this rubbish about rogue waves being intentionally created?”
“No. Not for a minute. But something mortally wounded all four of these ships. And I intend to find out who was responsible, and just how they’ve done it.”
Matthew made the slight course adjustments, steering to a slight angle no more than five degrees off the waves running towards their port side, to avoid the discomfort of pounding by the oncoming waves. After a minute, confident that the Maria Helena had settled into a comfortable rhythm he said, “Just like your father. You need scientific answers where coincidence and luck seem to play the biggest part.”
Tom Bower looked up from where he was lounging at the far end of the bridge, reading a book. “That’s not true. Well, not in this case, anyway.”
“Really?” Matthew replied, looking back where Tom had already returned to his book, apparently disinterested in their discussion. “What’s he interested in then?”
Tom grinned, marking his book with a dog’s ear. “Sam thinks this is going to prove his hypothesis about the Bimini Road.”
Sam laughed out loud, but said nothing. He stood up, as though he were about to make a counterargument, and then sat back down again. Keeping his mouth firmly shut having thought better about it.
“What about the Bimini Road?” Matthew asked.
Tom smiled. “Sam here had a theory going back more than ten years ago when we were still in our twenties that an ancient tribe built the Bimini Road. Part of his theory was that the ancient tribe used it to sink invaders or at least damage their ships enough that they were easy plunder.”
Matthew looked at Sam, trying to determine if there was an ounce of truth in Tom’s words. Sam smiled sheepishly.
“Holy shit Sam! You were a believer?”
“Enjoy your laugh. Let’s see who finds the first answers.”
“Sam and I even spent a few weeks on vacation diving the place before I was convinced that it was nothing more than a natural formation of rocks.”
“Rocks that aren’t found anywhere else in the area and clearly do not match up with the surrounding sand,” Sam pointed out.
“Yes, well I didn’t say I had the answer. The point is, Sam’s been fascinated by the Bimini Road since we were kids. No wonder he jumped at this case.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “So Sam, what the hell’s so interesting about the Bimini Road?”
Chapter Eighteen
Sam wanted to wait until he’d had time to find what he was looking for at Bimini Road before he explained his entire crazy scheme. He looked at Matthew’s hazel eyes. They told him the skipper wanted answers before he risked bringing the Maria Helena anywhere near the trouble.
Sam took a drink of lemonade. He considered how much to tell Matthew. And then he began talking about one of the first maritime mysteries he’d ever tried to solve.
Sam opened his laptop screen. Scanned through several files labeled Archives until he found the one he wanted. It was named Bimini Road. He clicked on it and several files came up. Sam opened the first one, revealing an image of an old oil painting on canvas.
It was a depiction of a trimaran made from the cut outs of massive tree trunks. The old boat was completely flat with no mast or sail. It appeared as though it was simply paddled by dozens of occupants. A closer inspection showed wooden carvings most probably used as cleats and a basket of woven leaves. The purpose of which, was entirely unknown.
“What do you see?” Sam asked.
Matthew bent down to look at the image. His expression told Sam everything — it wasn’t the first time he’d shown Matthew some obscure image or location and asked him what he made of it. The man smiled patiently — after all, Sam was still his boss.
“I’m not an art critic, but I’ll give it a try.” Matthew expanded the image and began focusing on individual aspects from the right to left. “At face value, I see an old painting of a pre-industrial trimaran. The hull looks to have been cut out from large tree trunks — possibly oak or pine, I couldn’t be sure. The vessel looks primitive but strong. I see several dark skinned people inside waving axes and showing their perfectly white teeth. I see no mast, sails or rigging. In the left hand corner there’s a basket with woven leaves.”
“Go on. What about the people?” Sam persisted.
“They’re dark skinned. Wearing nothing at all. They are short and very stocky. Perfect for stabilizing in rough seas.”
“Not just stabilizing in rough seas — raiding ships.”
Matthew smiled. “Ships already floundering?”
“Yes. Ships already struck by a rogue wave. Already in trouble — and then attacked.”
Matthew zoomed back so the entire image of the painting became visible again. “They look like happy people. You got all that from this painting?”
Sam laughed. “They’re called the Antiqui Nautae. Its Latin translation means the Ancient Seafarers.” Sam pointed at the basket of woven leaves. “It has been said that they used those intricately woven leaves as giant kites to help move their ships over large distances at great speed. One of the theories is that the Antiqui Nautae used the strange shape of the Bimini Road to change the size and shape of the swell as it flowed over the strange rock formation. In doing so, they created a large swell or even a small rogue wave, which they then used to disarm or de-mast ships during the 17th century. Providing them with the unfair advantage required to beat Britain’s Man-o-Wars, Spain’s Frigates, and pirates who all had a significant technological advantage over the primitive seafarers.”