Before any diver even touched the water, the paranoia started.
Coordinates—encrypted briefing files, the kind you don’t misplace—were stored on the ship’s internal system.
They disappeared.
Not corrupted.
Not moved.
Wiped.
Gone as if they’d never existed.
No error logs.
No alerts.
No accidental deletion.
“It wasn’t a glitch,” one of them muttered, staring at the empty directories like they were staring into a grave.
Someone had accessed the system.
But nobody admitted to it.
That was the moment the crew started acting like they weren’t alone out there—even though the sea was empty in every direction.
Somebody was watching.
The only question was: who?
The Sonar Hit That Should Not Exist
The first sweep was supposed to show the usual junk—rocks, sand ripples, coral scatter, maybe the ghost of an old boat.
Not one wreck.
Not one pile.
A line.
A mile-long stretch of anomalies—wheel-like outlines repeating across the seabed like the remains of something that didn’t sink…
but moved.
And then the moment happened.
A wheel-shaped outline on the sonar screen shifted.
Not because the object moved.
Because the ground under it dropped.
Just inches—but enough to make the entire ship go silent.
The seabed doesn’t do that.
Not without quakes.
Not without current surges.
Not without equipment failure.
And this wasn’t any of those.
The technicians stared at the readings, then at each other.
A collapse inside the seabed.
As if layers underneath were crushed… unstable… broken… still collapsing under their own weight.
“That only happens when the sediment is sitting on something shattered,” one specialist said quietly.
“Like… a mass of crushed material.”
Metal. Bone. Stone.
Pressed down long ago with terrible force.
And suddenly, nobody was talking about geology anymore.
Because the pattern of collapse felt like a memory.
A violent downward slam.
A wall of water dropping.
A moment from Exodus—playing out again on a screen.
“This is bad news,” one diver said.
And nobody laughed.
The Name They Didn’t Want to Say: Ron Wyatt
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