PROLOGUE.

31° 22' N, 64° 57' W, 15:10, July 15th, 2012.

The Juan Bermudez streaked over the deep blue waters of the Atlantic. The Bermudez was one of the new Wing-In-Ground effect ferries. It
did not resemble a ship, so much as a fast passenger jet. Its hull was long and thin,
painted in a blinding white. Half way down the hull two wings started, curving back
to the tail. High above the waters, mounted on the top of a fin was the engine, a
huge, Pratt and Whittney 12 cylinder. The ship was currently cruising a few metres
above the waves. Spray was kicked up by its passage, leaving behind a wake, just
like that of a normal ship. However, normal ships couldn't travel over a thousand
kilometres in under a day. But that's what the Juan Bermudez did; all the way from
Norfolk, Virginia to the Bermudas in just over four hours.
Captain Sean O'Grady turned in his pilot's seat, and checked the Navigational
Computer. He was a tall man, somewhere in his mid fifties. The dazzling white
uniform of Bermuda Ferries looked well on him, as it should, seeing he had helped to
design it. 'We'll be arriving in about half an hour,' he announced in his lilting Irish accent.
First Lieutenant Samantha DeBerg picked up her microphone. 'Ladies and
Gentlemen, we shall be arriving at Long Island, the main island in the Bermudas
chain, in a little over half an hour. The weather in Hamilton is fine and mild, currently
17 degrees Celsius. Thank you.'
O'Grady flicked a couple of switches and they began to decelerate. 'Sure, and are ye
looking forward to Hamilton?' he asked DeBerg. 'We've been given two days shore
leave.'
'Yeah,' Samantha admitted. 'Flying this thing gets boring after a while. I only joined
up because of the romance. You know, first WIG ferry in operation, that kinda thing.'
'Same here, actually,' replied O'Grady. 'It seemed like being a good chick mag-' He
was cut off by a warning tone. His eyes went to the radar scope. There was nothing
there. The warning sounded again.
'Electro-static disturbance,' DeBerg indicated the screen of the weather
computer. 'Urgent Bureau of Meteorology report just come in. Says something about
a storm brewing over the Bermudas.'
'Now that's odd.' mused O'Grady. 'It's been fine all week, and the forecast's set to
stay clear all next week as well.'
'Should we radio ahead, and report that we might be caught in the storm?'
O'Grady nodded, and picked up the mic. 'Juan Bermudez to Ferry Control. Come in
Control.' Nothing happened. He repeated himself. Only static.
'Maybe this electro-static disturbance has screwed up the radio sir,' DeBerg
suggested.
'Possible, it's happened before.'
The ships lights suddenly blinked off. O'Grady looked puzzled. The computers and
instruments followed. O'Grady looked downright bewildered.
'I've never seen that happen. Disturbance or no.' he muttered.
DeBerg screamed 'The ENGINE!'
O'Grady listened. The engine had stopped.
'Oh fuck.' he said. Without the engine on, the ferry had settled into the water. It was rocking gently with the swells.
Chief steward Fiona Hendricks burst in, her blonde hair flying out of control. 'What
do I tell the passengers?', she cried.
'Ar SHIT!' said O'Grady. He thought a moment 'Tell hem there's been a minor fault
in the generator, but we'll be under way again soon.' Hendricks turned to go. DeBerg stopped her. 'Not like that Fiona! You want to inspire confidence! Fix your hair, smooth the uniform, and do something about the make up.'
O'Grady picked up the intercom, but it was dead. He swore, and got up. 'I'm going to
see the engineer,' he said, as he left.

The Juan Bermudez's passenger compartment was full of noise. It hit O'Grady like a
wall, and left him staggering. The passengers were out of their seats; fearful.
They were for the most part not used to the sea. Most of them would fly, but the ferry
was cheaper. Although it wasn't choppy, several had gone green. O'Grady forced his
way through, reassuring those who spoke to him. Finally, he made it to the back of the
compartment. He keyed in the security code on the 'Crew Only' door, and was
admitted into the engine room. Not that the engine was there, it was up top, but most
of the other mechanical apparatus was monitored from this room. No one was there.
The screens were all dead, the dials all read zero. The hatch swung open above.
O'Grady hauled himself up the ladder, and emerged beside the engine mounting fin.
Chief Engineer Oleg Peterson and his assistant Costas were fiddling with the engine.
'What's wrong with it?', called O'Grady'
'Fuck all. It's fine.'
'Then why have we stopped?'
'Haven't a bloody clue. Everything on board should work fine, but refuses to do so.'
Puzzled, O'Grady turned to go below. He was naturally startled to see a huge lightning
bolt erupt from the Bermudas and streak towards him. The crackling energy smashed
into the ship, instantly frying all inside, before the fuel went up, tearing the Jaun
Bermudez into tiny, unrecognisable pieces.

On the islands, people looked up from what they were doing, and went to stare at the
column of smoke rising from the sea. They talked, and they argued, but they all knew
one thing: the infamous Bermuda Triangle had struck again, for the third time that
week

I

Melbourne, 9:21, 16th July, 2012.

It was cold in Melbourne. Actually, that's an understatement. It was freezing. The
weather bureau had cheerfully informed the populace that today was the coldest day
on record. It really cheered us up. People were going to work in snow suits and arctic
survival gear. Personally, I was cursing the fact that I'm a sucker for a convertible.
The inside of my AC Cobra was definitely colder than the outside. I was carefully
threading my way through the swarms of wage slaves still heading to work. Collins
Street was one single mass of cars. At least I was spared the reek of petrol fumes; all
cars produced after 2003 have environmentaly friendly engines. The world's gone
Eco-Mad, so most people glare at my car. Some even shake their fists, as I roar by
with my 427 V8 purring. I did try out one of the new hybrid sports cars, but it
handled like a constipated duck. I'd decided to stick to the Cobra.
The CPA had called me up, pulling me out of bed for an urgent meeting. I figured
there was only one thing it could be; more goddamn cults, claiming to be psychic.
When I became a Psychic Investigator at age 17, I'd always expected something more entertaining. No such bloody luck.
Incredibly, there was an empty parking space outside 333 Collins St. I pulled in, and
switched off the engine. After some fiddling under the dash, I found the security coder. I punched in the Activate Code, and climbed out of the old car. I slipped my sun
glasses off. As I entered the huge foyer, I was tugging off my two sets of gloves. The
inside of the building was well heated, and I was damn grateful.

There is a door in that foyer nobody ever uses. NO one even notices it. It's not that
it's hidden, it's just one of those doors you don't ever see. I went through that door. I
was faced by another, equally normal door. And an extremely abnormal security
system. It consisted of a retina scanner, palm scanner, voice scanner and number
code. I did it all, and the door popped open. Behind the second door lay the lift. I got
in, and punched the code for CPA Headquarters. The lift began to descend.
I should explain something at this point. It's a fact that no one believes even when they're confronted with it. Number 333 Collins Street, or rather, under it, is where Australia is really controlled.
You may have heard that our Houses of Parliament are where the Prime Minister
works. It's true, but it's also a lie. The PM never does anything. He's an actor. The
government doesn't really run Australia. America does. And they run it from under
333 Collins St. They say it's safer, and besides, it looks much classier than Parliament House in Canberra. I know it
sounds far fetched, but the Yanks want our resources. They want the uranium. They
figure that if we've got so much, they should make sure we don't use it against them.
That's why they run the country. None of that was terribly important to me now. I was
headed for an Aussie agency. The lift halted and I strode out between the two US
Marine Guards. I walked down a couple of corridors, and finally found the door
marked CPA. Considering how damn important it is, the CPA has a frigging small
office. It's barely bigger than a bed-sit.

The Commander looked up as I entered. 'G'day mate,' he said.
'How's it goin' cobber?' I asked.
'Stone the crows, but I've had a pig's arse of a day,' said the Commander, in a broad
Aussie accent.
'True Blue?' I asked, equally broadly.
'Bloody oath yeah!'
'Why the heck do we have to have such a dumb set of pass words?' I asked, reverting
to my normal voice.
'Damned if I know. The Yanks must think that we need to be reminded that we're a
wholly Australian agency,' replied the Commander, in his normal voice, which was exactly the same as the one he'd just been employing.
I hurled myself into an over stuffed chair. He climbed over the desk to shake hands (I
told you it was a small office).
'Okay,' he said, perching on the desk, 'We've got a situation for you.'
I steeled myself for the worst. 'Let me guess, a cult of tree-huggers who think Jesus wants us to go forth and multiply?'
I was astounded when the Commander said 'It's serious.'
He waited for me to recover, before continuing. 'Titus, I realise this is the first time
you've been given a serious mission. In fact, it's the first time the CPA has tackled a
serious mission. Just try to calm down, and watch this.'
We both turned to the tiny 30cm TV in the corner (They'd just cut our budget down
again), and he used the remote to turn it on. It was on the cable network 24 hour news channel. They were reporting on the Jaun Bermudez tragedy. I'd heard about it the previous night, but couldn't see the connection. Then an eye witness came on. He was a rather thin bloke, bald, and wearing the most appalling Hawaiian shirt it's ever been my misfortune to lay eyes on. 'Ah werz in ma car drivin' tuh ma condo,' Now I
knew why he looked so dumb. He was an American tourist. 'An Ah saw this big sort
ah lightnin' bolt.'
'Can you describe it?' asked the sexy female reporter with the enchanting cleavage
(You know the one, she's computer generated, and they use her in all the stories, to
get the guys to stay tuned).
'It werz big an' braht, an' it came from inlaynd.'
This was getting interesting, and I'm not just talking about CG cleavages here.
The Commander clicked the TV off.
'I suppose you've seen the reports from the other disasters. The Bermuda Triangle
Revival, as they're calling it.'
'Sure,' I said. And who could have missed them? They'd been the hottest news
around for three weeks. Two ships, an airliner, two private planes, one submarine,
and two helicopters. All missing under strange circumstances in the waters around
Bermuda. It seemed fishy, but I hadn't made up my mind as to what was happening. A lot of people said aliens, but it couldn't be. The government had that all sorted. We let the Ker'Shanti have old politicians, and that kind of useless bum. In return, they make sure no other aliens try to invade us. It's mutually beneficial and top secret to boot. 'Now listen Titus. This is important. These disasters have been occurring in the
Triangle, sure. A lot of weird shit goes down in that place. But the submarine, one
helicopter, and the Jaun Bermudez were all outside the Triangle. The staff (here he
referred to our research staff, consisting of one secretary, a researcher, and the
Commanders cat, Berty, who helps keep the mice at bay) have been checking things
out. It looks like psychic energy.'
Instantly, I perked up. If this was real, it would be my first ever chance at actual
psychic investigation! COOL!
'We want you to go to Bermuda,' DOUBLE COOL! 'And check it out. Talk to Miss
Ivadenov about the details.'

So I climbed over the desk, and tried to open the door through to the second room. It
wouldn't move so I knocked.
'Just a minute! zere iz a stack of files in front of zer door,' Ivadenov informed me
from inside. There were dragging sounds and finally the door opened. Ivadenov, our
Secretary/Tactician/Tea-lady greeted me. She was a small, remarkably compact
woman, with a tendency towards tight clothing. I didn't mind much, since she was
also rather sexy. She wiped her glasses on the untucked tail of her shirt, and ushered
me into the Tactical Planning Room. Like the office, it was small. A lot of the space was taken up by our most expensive piece of equipment, one of those tactical-map display computers they use in warships. I'd stolen it from USS Kittyhawk last year, and they still hadn't figured out who did it. Ivadenov bent over the display. Unfortunately, I was on the other side of the thing, so I couldn't ogle her posterior. I think she planned it that way, since she doesn't like me much.
'Chere are the locations of the recent accidents,' she informed me, in that sex-laden
Russian accent of hers, pointing out icons on the screen, which, predicably was
displaying a map of Bermuda. 'As chu can zee, they are for the most part inside the
Bermuda Triangle, Chowever, these are not. It is these vich haf convinced us that it is
not a supernatural occurrence, but a psychic disturbance.'
'I know all that,' I said, gazing in rapture at her cleavage. 'The Commander already
told me. Get to the important part.'
'Okay Titus. The important part eez ziss: Ztop lookink at my tits, or I will be forced to take action.'
Immediately I locked my eyes on the screen. I didn't want Ivadenov hitting me, she
was the Armed Forces female boxing champion of 2007. The rumour has it she used metal lined gloves.
'If chu look at the locations, chu vill notice, or voud notice, if chu had any brains, dat
zey are all wizen a 100km radius of Lonk Island, zer main island in zer Bermudas
chain. Ve belief that the disturbance iz centred zhere.'
'I presume that I will start looking there?'
'Da. In Hamilton, zer capital. You vill be flyink out tonight, Chere iz der tickets.
Report to zer armourer for eqvuipment. Call me if chu have any qvestions.'
I bade her good day, and pushed through the curtain which divided the room in half. I
emerged in the Armoury. Quentin, the armourer looked up from his work bench. He'd
been fixing the Commander's watch.
'Ah! I've been expecting you Smith! I've got a great new idea! Exploding
Hamburgers! All you do, is push the detonator in the pickle and feed it to the enemy.
Five minutes later, it explodes in his stomach! Brilliant, eh?'
'It would be, Quentin, except that most people take the pickle out of hamburgers. I'm
going on an assignment to Bermuda, I'll need the works.'
Quentin opened the arms cupboard. It was packed full of gear, most of it hopelessly
out dated. We spent a merry hour rummaging through boxes of explosives, crates of
wire cutters, stacks of satellite navigators and drifts of detonators. Eventually, I had
what I needed: A Berretta 9mm automatic, some spare mags, and a Psychic Activity
Metre. In any organised place, it would have taken about five minutes, but our
armoury was so small, that it was impossible to keep it orderly.
Five minutes later I was in the Cobra racing towards the airport, the Commander's
parting words ringing in my ears; 'You're a man of means, Titus, what with that
inheritance of yours, you'll have to pay all your own bills.'
The 007 image was really fading fast.