Devil's Gate

She took a deep breath, relaxed for a second, and then heard a crack, like a plate of glass had been snapped in two. She turned her head.

The trickle of water forcing its way in had suddenly become a steady stream.

21

THE RESTAURANT WAS NAMED ESCARPA, which was a way of saying “cliff top” in Portuguese. The name fit, as the low, wide building made of mortar and native stone sat high up in the hills above Santa Maria, three- quarters of the way to the top of the Pico Alto. An eight-mile drive on a twisting mountain road had brought Kurt and Katarina to its doorstep.

On the way, they’d passed open fields, tremendous views, and even an outfit that rented hang gliders and ultralights to tourists. Only a dozen times during the ride had Katarina put the wheels of her small rented Focus onto the gravel during a turn. And if Kurt was honest, only three of those times seemed likely to end in certain death, as the guardrails, which had been intermittent the whole way up, were nowhere to be seen.

But having watched the young woman shift and break and mash the gas pedal at just the right moments, Kurt had decided she was an excellent driver. She’d obviously been trained, and so he figured she was just trying to test his nerve.

He chose not to react, lazily opening the sunroof and then commenting on how incredible the valley looked with nothing standing between them and a trip down into it.

“Enjoying the drive?” she’d asked.

“Immensely,” he’d said. “Just don’t hit any cows.”

Having gotten no reaction out of him only seemed to make her drive harder. And Kurt could barely contain his laughter.

Now at a table, watching the sun drop over the island and into the ocean, they had an opportunity to order. She deferred to him and he chose the island specialty: Bacalhau a Gomes de Sa, Portuguese salt cod with potato casserole, along with fresh, locally grown vegetables.

Kurt took a look at the wine list. Despite several excellent French and Spanish choices, he believed a local dish was best accompanied by a local wine. The Azores had produced wine since the sixteenth century, some of it known to be very good. From what he’d been told, most of the grapes were still picked by hand. He felt it a shame to let such work go to waste.

“We’ll take a bottle of the Terras de Lava,” he said, picking a white to go with the fish.

Across from him, Katarina nodded her approval. “I get to choose dessert,” she insisted, smiling like a trader who’d just gotten the best part of the deal.

He smiled back. “Sounds fair.”

Guessing he would be finishing that dessert before he learned her secret, he chose a different subject.

“So you’re here on behalf of your government,” he said.

She seemed a little prickly about that. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. As if you’re not here on behalf of your government.”

“Actually, I’m not,” he said. “Joe and I were here for a competition. We just stuck around at the request of the Portuguese and Spanish governments. To keep the peace between them.”

“Quite a distinction,” she said, taking a bite from one of the appetizers. “I believe the last time they got in an argument it took the Pope drawing a line across the world to settle it.”

Kurt had to laugh. “Unfortunately, we have no such powers.”

The wine came. He tasted it and nodded his approval.

“Why did they send you here?” he asked.

“I thought you’d be more discreet,” she said.

“Not my strong suit.”

“I work for the Science Directorate,” she explained. “Of course they’re interested in this discovery. A dozen wrecks believed to be dragged down to the depths by the powerful magnetism of this rock. Who wouldn’t be?”

That made sense, even if some of her other actions didn’t.

“No one’s suggesting they were dragged to the bottom by the magnetism,” he said. “Only that during and after their sinkings, the current and the magnetism combined to slowly draw them in.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know. But isn’t it more romantic to imagine this place like the sirens of Greek mythology?”

“More romantic,” he said. “But less accurate.”

The gleam of adventure shone from her eyes. “Are you sure? After all, this part of the ocean has claimed an inordinate number of ships and planes over the years.”

Before he could interject she began a list. “In 1880, the HMS Atalanta went down in these waters. The survivors reported waves of dizziness and sickness and seeing bizarre things. These sights were later called hallucinations and attributed to a shipboard epidemic of yellow fever. But as it was 1880, and the diagnosis was made well after the fact, no one really knows.

“In 1938, a freighter named the Anglo-Australian and its crew vanished within sight of the island chain. No wreckage was ever found. In 1948, an airliner known as the Star Tiger disappeared after taking off from here. There was no Mayday or distress call issued. No wreckage was ever found. In 1968, after having unexplained radio troubles, one of your submarines, the USS Scorpion, vanished not far from here. As I understand it, the wreckage suggested she exploded from within.”

Kurt knew some of the stories. The fact was the Star Tiger disappeared well to the west of the Azores, perhaps a thousand miles from here, and the Scorpion was believed to have suffered a catastrophic failure at depth. There were some in the Navy that insisted she’d been rammed or hit by a Russian torpedo in retaliation for the accidental ramming of a Russian sub in the Pacific. He decided not to relay that theory.

“This place is much like the Bermuda Triangle,” she said. “Can’t we let it be mystical for just a moment?”

“Sure,” he said. “But you should know, U.S. Coast Guard studies have found no significant difference in the rate of ships and planes disappearing in the Bermuda Triangle than anywhere else on the seas. The oceans of this world are dangerous places wherever you decide to go.”

Looking disappointed again, she took a sip of wine. “You know, they’re calling it the Devil’s Gate.”

“Who is?”

“The other scientists,” she said. “Maybe the press.”

That was the first he’d heard of it. “I haven’t seen any press, not since the first day,” he said. “And I’m not sure I understand the reference.”

“The wreckage down there,” she said. “It lies in a wedge-shaped slice, narrowing from the west to the east and pointing toward the tower. At the closest end is a narrow gap through which the current accelerates and then spills over into the deeper waters. At the far end, the presumed entry point, there’s a wider gap between two distinctive raised sections of rock that look something like pillars.”

“And that’s the gate,” he said.

She nodded. “‘Wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction,’” she said. “That’s from Matthew. Chapter seven, verse thirteen. The theory I’ve heard tossed around is that the ships and planes and other wreckage have been dragged through the wide and crooked gate and cannot get through the straight and narrow. A graveyard of the damned: the Devil’s Gate.”

Kurt had to admit it sounded far more exciting than North Central Atlantic Magnetic Anomaly, or whatever it had officially been named.

“The ships check in but they don’t check out,” he said.

“Exactly,” she said, smiling at him.