The Atlantic Ocean was entirely too blue to be this terrifying, but the cabin of our twin-engine charter plane was doing its best to feel like a claustrophobic waiting room.
"If the compass needle is rotating clockwise at a rate of forty revolutions per minute," Dr. Veronica Vance said, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her armrests, "it implies a localized electromagnetic distortion. It does not imply a doorway to Atlantis, Gregg."
"Veronica, the instruments are spinning, the radio is playing 1940s big band music, and our GPS thinks we are currently parked in the middle of a Target in Ohio," I shouted over the roar of the engine. "If this isn't the Bermuda Triangle welcoming us with open arms, I don't know what is."
Veronica squeezed her eyes shut as the plane dipped into a bank of thick, unnaturally violet clouds. "It's a severe weather anomaly combined with iron-ore deposits on the seafloor. The science is completely sound!"
"Right, totally sound," I muttered, leaning across the narrow aisle to place my hand over hers.
Her skin was ice-cold. She didn't pull away. In fact, her fingers tightly locked into mine, her grip strong enough to crush a lesser man's hand. We sat like that for three turbulent minutes, suspended in a violet fog, our hearts hammering a synchronized rhythm that had absolutely nothing to do with atmospheric pressure.
When the plane finally broke through the clouds, the sky was blindingly clear, and the turquoise waters of the Bahamas stretched out below us. The radio static vanished, replaced by the calm voice of the Nassau air traffic controller.
Veronica blinked, looking down at our intertwined hands. She pulled away so fast she nearly smacked her elbow on the window frame, her cheeks immediately dusting with a brilliant crimson. She instantly began adjusting her glasses, smoothing her linen blazer, and clearing her throat with immense academic dignity.
"The, uh... the electromagnetic spike appears to have dissipated," she stammered, staring fixedly at her blank monitor.
"Shame," I said, rubbing my hand and flashing her a grin. "I was just getting used to Ohio."
Two hours later, we were standing on a sun-drenched dock in Bimini, surrounded by palm trees and the scent of saltwater taffy. Our latest assignment had brought us to the edge of the Devil's Triangle following the mysterious disappearance—and sudden reappearance—of a luxury yacht. The passengers had returned with no memory of the past forty-eight hours, completely dry, but wearing vintage clothing from 1975.
"The local authorities think it's a elaborate insurance hoax," Veronica said, her composure fully recovered as she unpacked her portable magnetometer on a nearby picnic table. "But I managed to secure a sample of the fabric from the captain's jacket. Polyester. Pure, unadulterated, mid-seventies polyester."
"See? The Triangle has a sense of style," I said, leaning against a wooden pilaster in my favorite tropical shirt. "They went into a temporal rift and came out looking like a disco band."
"It's a psychological fugue state induced by toxic algal blooms, Gregg. The vintage clothing is likely a coincidence."
"Veronica, the yacht's captain was found wearing a mood ring that was permanently stuck on 'groovy.' You can't explain that with algae."
She let out a soft, musical laugh—the kind she usually tried to stifle behind her hand. She looked up at me, the bright Caribbean sun catching the amber flecks in her eyes. For a second, the tropical breeze blew a strand of dark hair across her face, and I had the sudden, ridiculous urge to brush it away. I kept my hands firmly in my pockets instead.
"We have a boat chartered for sunset," she said, her voice dropping to that soft cadence she reserved for when we were finally alone. "The yacht re-entered our reality near the coordinates of the Bimini Road. We'll start our scans there."
"Sunset on the open ocean," I smiled, winking at her. "Sounds like a date, partner."
"It's an investigation, Gregg," she corrected, though the dimple in her left cheek made a stubborn, beautiful appearance. "Bring the sunblock. Your pale complexion is the only true anomaly here."
