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The Bermuda Triangle
With the seventh week came something that was as far away from sea beasts as possible. People had expected something similar but this was completely unexpected.
"You're an aeronautics controller at Fort Lauderdale Naval Station." Stated Ken. "You've just come on duty in the control tower. It's an average south Florida winter day outside: capricious zephyrs, bright azures, clear daylight. There is a light chill in the air, but nothing comparable to the winters up north. You check off the flight schedules before you settle down to work. Training flights, cargo arrivals, a transport due later that afternoon with new recruits. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just routine. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, wishing you had traded shifts with someone. Christmas is only three weeks away, and you still have a lot of shipping to do. As always, you'll probably goof around and wait until the last minute to do it. Then the control-tower radio crackles to life with the first of a series of puzzling and frightening messages which blot all thoughts of Christmas from your mind. 'Hello, tower,' the radio says. 'This is Flight 19. We seem to have an emergency here. We appear to be off course. We can't see land. Repeat, we can't see land.' There is tension in the voice, but you know that the first duty of a flight controller is to remain calm. You flip quickly through your log of flight schedules, checking to see who's talking. Lieutenant Charles C. Taylor of Corpus Christi, Texas, is listed as the leader of Flight 19. It must be Taylor on the radio. Even as you're looking up this data, you have picked up the tower microphone and you're saying, 'What is your position, Flight 19?' 'We're not sure,' the voice says, 'We can't be sure where we are. We seem to be lost.' Lost? In the middle of a bright sunshiny day? You check your log again. Flight 19 is supposed to be a routine training mission. Five of the rugged little Navy TBMs… The stubby torpedo bomber known as the 'Avenger' when it was sinking Japanese battleships during World War Two. The five planes were supposed to head out over the Atlantic and zero in on a target ship anchored below Bimini in the Bahamas. Then, after they made their practice torpedo runs on the target hulk, they were to regroup and run through some navigational exercises. But now they're in trouble? That could be dangerous. Three men in each of the planes, except for Marine Lieutenant Forest Gerber's plane. His gunner took sick at the last minute and stayed behind. That meant 14 men out there, apparently lost. 'Assume a bearing due west,' you tell the planes crisply. 'You'll spot land very shortly.' 'We don't know which way west is,' the voice says. It sounds confused, edging towards frantic. 'Everything is wrong. Strange. We can't be sure of our direction. Even the ocean doesn't look right.' You sink into a chair by the radio, your stomach tied in knots. Suddenly all those old sea stories come back to you. The Hoodoo Sea. The devil's own playground. Can they be true? You swallow hard and lift the microphone. 'Listen,' you say, trying to sound confident. 'Don't panic. Hold on. Help is on the way. I'm calling for a rescue plane right now. We'll have someone out to you in a matter of minutes.' It is December 5, 1945, just four months after the end of World War Two. And…"
Down in the kitchen, there was once more a visitation. There was once more a card game going. It was once more going on between Rick, Mort and Cerdic.
As Rick shuffled the cards, he spoke about what he had encountered in his lifetime. "I've encountered it all: charms, devils, pythoness children, deities, undead but what is going on at the high school… It just sounds so… Well, high school!"
"I don't suppose you believe in ghosts." Said Mort, waiting for Rick to stop shuffling. Did it really take six minutes to shuffle?
"Actually, I do." Stated Rick. "However, an apparition visiting a high school borders on the cliché."
"Were you evil at Roswell, Rick?" asked Cerdic.
"You mean the UFO incident?" asked Rick.
"Yes."
"Lets see here, what was that? 1947? Yes, 1947. I was six years old and more interested in my Superman and Captain America comics. Of course, any intelligent person knows that it was just a weather balloon that crashed. However, my father actually did see it so those of you conspiracy theorists can stop believing it was aliens."
"Neither of us are conspiracy theorists." Stated Mort.
"Good, you are both are far too intelligent to be conspiracy theorists."" Complimented Rick.