Into The Triangle

The Truth Behind the Bermuda Triangle

WITHIN THE WESTERN North Atlantic Ocean there exists what might be called a triangle of sea extending southwest from the island of Bermuda to Miami and through southern Florida to Key West; then, encompassing the Bahamas, it extends southeast through Puerto Rico to as far as 15° North latitude, and then from there northward back to Bermuda. This is the area commonly called the Bermuda Triangle. For all intents and purposes it appears like any other temperate sea. Yet in the annals of sea mysteries there is no other place that challenges mankind with so many extraordi- nary and incredible events, for this is where far more aircraft and ships have disappeared throughout recorded maritime history than in any other re- gion of the world’s oceans. With few exceptions the disappearances have been in fair weather, sending out no distress messages and leaving no wreckage or bodies. In the last twenty-five years alone, some seventy-five aircraft and hundreds of pleasure yachts have inexplicably vanished despite the fact that GPS is now extensively used, that communication systems are powerful and reliable, and that searches are immediately launched.
Disturbing as these numbers may seem, the circumstances surround- ing many of the disappearances are what really give rise to the greatest alarm. From the files of several federal investigating bureaus, eye-opening details emerge that continue to present difficult questions that as yet have no answers within the scope of our present knowledge of the sea, aero- nautics, and navigation. One such disappearance illustrates this point.
It was Halloween 1991. Radar controllers checked and rechecked what they had just seen. The scope was blank in one spot now. Everywhere else within the scope seemed normal, and routine traffic was proceeding undis- turbed, in their vectors, tracked and uninterrupted. But moments earlier radar had been tracking a Grumman Cougar jet. The pilot was John Verdi. He and trained copilot, Paul Lukaris, were heading toward Tallahassee, Florida. Just moments before, with a crackle of the mike, Verdi’s voice had come over the receiver at the flight center.
He requested a higher altitude. Permission was quickly granted and the turbo jet was observed ascending from 25,000 feet to its new altitude of
29,000 feet. All seemed normal. Some thunderstorms had drifted into the path of the jet, and satellite imagery confirmed the area was overcast.
But that was no concern for Verdi. They were above the weather. At their present altitude they were just break ing out of the cloud cover, emerging into the brilliant sunlight.
The clouds must have been their typical breathtaking sight, billowing below in glowing white hills and arroyos.
They were still ascending. Verdi had not yet “rogered” that he had reached his prescribed flight level. Radar continued to track the Cougar. Until, for some unknown reason, while ascending, it simply faded away. Verdi and Lukaris answered no more calls to respond. Furthermore, they had sent no SOS to indicate they had encountered any hint of a problem. Readouts of the radar ob- servations confirmed the unusual. The Grumman had not been captured on the scope at all as descending or as falling to the sea; there had been no sudden loss of altitude. It just disappeared from the scope while climb- ing. One sweep they were there. The next—raised brows on traffic con- trollers: it was blank.