Hayden smiled sweetly. “It’s a time displacement device. And it’s time we went to see it.”
Through the bowels of the great ship they were led. Silent marines with loaded and cocked weapons escorted them front and behind. In Ben’s whispered words it almost felt as if they were captives here. The massive cruiser rocked slightly from side to side, its joints and welds groaning like a host of condemned souls.
At last they reached a nondescript door and were ushered inside. True to form, the soldiers lined up outside.
Harrison was already there, pacing faster than some English footballers cheat on their wives. Watching him with wry amusement was one of the ship’s officers. A third man was further away, bending slightly to study an object placed on a steel table.
“At last. At last,” Harrison beckoned them in, looking sweaty and nervous. “This way. Device is over here.”
Drake frowned hard at the aid. “You got somewhere else to be, Justin?”
The aid blinked. “Umm, no. Why?”
Drake waved him on. Kennedy whispered: “Take it easy. Guy’s weird, but harmless.”
“It’s probably me,” Drake admitted with a glint in his eye. “I just don’t like guys with very small penises.”
Hayden blinked in interest, Ben shook his head, and Kennedy bit. “How’d you know…?”
“Break the name down,” Drake smirked as he strode ahead. “Just. In.”
“Dinosaur,” Ben called after him. “That joke’s older than York Minster.”
Drake approached the metal table. The man next to it straightened and gave him an appraising stare. Soldier, Drake thought. Commander. Probably in charge of the military forces around here.
“Name’s Drake,” he said holding his hand out. “Matt Drake.”
“As in Bond?” the man let slip a little smile that didn’t grace his eyes. “Jo Bradey. SOG.”
Drake was rocked, despite himself. The SOG were a small elite force within Delta force. A highly secretive group, not too dissimilar from the command he used to be a part of — the English SRT. He hid his surprise by glancing towards the table.
“So that’s the thing that’s got everyone’s knickers in a twist, eh?”
His friends gathered around him. Before them, given pride of place on an otherwise bare table, sat what at first glance appeared to be a rusty metal box. When Drake bent a little closer, unconsciously imitating the SOG commanders’ pose of a minute ago, he was able to distinguish several tiny marks decorating its rough-looking surface.
What at first appeared to be a shabby old hunk of metal was on closer inspection a clever work of art. Indistinct, sweeping whorls covered the entire exterior, each one designed to blend with the next — infinite arches perhaps, or graceful waves of power.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Harrison was still trying to push things along. “This is the device that was hauled up from the bottom of the ocean, from Blackbeard’s own cabin, we think. You can see now why it might be traded back and forth during the pirate days.”
“And you think this thing has been the cause of random occurrences in the Bermuda Triangle?” Kennedy asked sceptically. “A phenomenon which, as you know, has always been denied and disproven. Until now.”
“As it will continue to be,” Bradey said. “Half the aeroplanes landing in Orlando travel through the heart of the Triangle. We wouldn’t wanna panic folk bound for Mickeyland now would we?”
“They do?” Ben asked. “How many of them know that?”
“Surprisingly few,” said Bradey chuckling.
Ben set his jaw. “Look,” he said, “there’s something you people aren’t telling us. How do you know that thing… ” he waved at the box, “… is responsible for causing the Bermuda Triangle? How can you? The phenomenon has never been attributed to anything, ever, so how is it possible now to say — ‘oh yeah, this box is the cause.’”
There was a moment’s silence that threatened to stretch into something more uncomfortable. Hayden filled the gap eloquently.
“I can explain how the CIA knew that a crappy looking box suddenly went viral and shocked the underworld to its core.”
Ben pulled a face. “OK.”
“The uplift was filmed on national TV,” she said. “Regretfully. The moment that box broke free of the water, the very second it began to spin slowly with all those cameras focused on it, monitored ‘chatter’ went up five thousand percent.”
“Five thousand?” Drake breathed, and even Bradey looked impressed.
“That’s how we knew it was something special.”
“What type of chatter?” Ben pressed.
“The type that’s attributed to bad people in bad regions. The type that’s filled with flagged code-words. The type that’s passed on through less-than-legal channels. Channels we know about but allow to operate to give us the heads up. Basically, the things the CIA are paid to do.”
“Cool.” Ben nodded. “I get that now. But…”
“Yes, yes, I know — the Bermuda Triangle part. Well…” Hayden now seemed a little embarrassed. “There are so many things recorded throughout history. We all know this. What many people don’t know is that the CIA employ various people — boffins, super-intellectual geeks, fantasists, professors — just to collect and read all this shit and feed it into a super-computer.” She grinned at Ben’s expression. “For real. We do. And we’re by no means the only U.S. agency or world government that does so.”
“It’s said they hired a bunch of writers to sketch out various scenarios that the government stiffs would never dream of after 9/11,” Kennedy said. “This ain’t so far-fetched.”
“They did,” Hayden said. “We did. The CIA. Anyway, this shit sticks, so to speak, to the grey matter. They found old writings that indicate Blackbeard was in possession of a ‘cheap trinket box that fairly made the ground sway and turned a man’s legs to jelly’. It went on to describe people just vanishing in the pirate-king’s wake, and played a massive part in cementing Blackbeard’s fearsome legend and reputation. It also mentioned a second device, a colourful bit of ‘swag that might fetch more’n a pretty penny’, but no more than that.”
Hayden looked scared. “Boudreau knew this second device was a controller. The CIA did not. Now, if that doesn’t scare any of you, then I suggest you go home now.”
“I get it,” Ben said again. “The cheap box is the hard-drive, the engine. The pretty device controls it. So the man who holds both…”
“… Manages a portable displacement device,” Drake finished.
“I still don’t know how it’s responsible for the Triangle phenomenon,” Ben stated flatly.
“What we now think is this: that the second device controls the output, the on/off and directionality. But — that the box has juice of its own. And that an unknown chain of events has, quite randomly, set it off several times over the years.”
“You do realise what you’re telling us?” Drake said to her, already utilizing the old SAS brain for weighing and measuring the ship’s defences. “You know what a displacement device is — in plain terms?”
“A time-machine. Yes. And one that can be controlled by the man who acquires both devices.”
“The Blood King?” Kinimaka sounded scared, a sentiment that just didn’t fit him.
“I can see why a thirty-year-old myth would come out of hiding to acquire such a thing,” Bradey said. “For unlimited power. The chance to rule the world through blackmail.”