Eyes of Fire by Heather Graham

Devil’s Triangle. And, yes, we are in it. The triangle stretches from Miami to Bermuda to Puerto Rico. It’s been responsible for the losses of ships, planes and human lives since man first began to traverse it. All the way back into the 1600s, Lloyds of London came to realize that they were paying dearly for ships that went down in the particular area known as the Devil’s—or Bermuda—Triangle. Before that, Christopher Columbus reported disturbances with his ship’s compass when he was in the area of the triangle. He made note, as well, of something that the astronauts have seen from space—strange, eerie streaks of white water appearing within the typical azures and deep blues of the sea.”
    â€œPerhaps,” Sukee whispered mischievously, “the long-lost continent of Atlantis sits beneath the triangle, and ancient electronic equipment pops on and off to suck in a ship now and then.”
    â€œOr,” Jim suggested, “Atlantis is now populated by alien beings, and they reach out giant tentacles to slurp up human men and women to bring back to their dying world.”
    â€œI think, Mr. Santino, that you watched too many B movies as a boy,” Avery Smith said, still smiling, unoffended by the sarcasm his story was drawing. He wagged a finger toward the gathered company. “Whatever the cause, I promise you, history tells a stranger tale than ever a man could weave! There are over three hundred Spanish wrecks in the waters of the Bermuda Triangle, and that’s just the beginning. Coming far closer to contemporary times, of course, is one of the strangest disasters, that of the planes that disappeared in 1944.”
    Brad had forgotten his backgammon game and turned his chair toward the adults, one of his game pieces curled in his fingers. Even Darlene seemed awed.
    â€œYou’re referring to the navy planes?” Adam said.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWell?” Liam demanded.
    Adam shrugged, looking at Avery Smith as he spoke. “Five torpedo bombers left the Fort Lauderdale Naval Air Station at two in the afternoon on December 5, 1944. A routine patrol that was to have lasted about two hours. They were in radio contact with the base at all times, as well as with one another. An hour and forty-five minutes into the flight, when they should have been heading back, the patrol leader radioed in to say that they were off course, that they couldn’t see land. They couldn’t figure out which way was west, but they should have found west very easily, just following the sun.” Adam paused to breathe.
    â€œWhat happened?” Brad demanded anxiously.
    Adam shrugged.
    â€œThey all died, kid,” Liam said.
    â€œLiam,” Jerry remonstrated softy.
    â€œWell, they did, didn’t they, O’Connor?”
    â€œThey kept in contact with the base for another half hour or so. They said that the ocean didn’t even look the way the ocean should look. A different pilot took over talking to the base. He said something about it looking like they were entering into ‘white water,’ that they were completely lost. Then there was no more contact with the pilots. None at all.”
    â€œWhoa,” Darlene murmured, wide-eyed.
    â€œAnd that wasn’t the worst of it, was it, Mr. O’Connor?” Avery Smith asked, still smiling, a little gleam in his eyes.
    Adam grinned at him—a knowledgeable skeptic. “No, it wasn’t.”
    â€œDo tell us what happened next!” Sukee demanded.
    â€œA rescue plane was sent,” Adam said.
    Avery picked up the story. “A huge plane called a Martin Mariner flying boat was sent out just as soon as it was established that all contact was really lost. The plane had all kinds of equipment aboard, everything that might help in the rescue of the pilots if they could be found. Only they weren’t found. And…”
    â€œAnd?” Brad asked.
    â€œAnd the rescue plane was