Monster: Tale Loch Ness (11 page)

Lefebre was hiding something, and based on Whittenfeld's attitude, he suspected Whittenfeld might well be aware of it. Although he kept telling himself to hold to his promise and mind his own business, he damn well was going to make a quiet exception in this case.

Pierre Lefebre. The son of a bitch.

Yes, he'd challenged the Frenchman but certainly his action didn't warrant the response, Lefebre's attack had been the knee jerk of a madman, the reflex of a man out of control, a man on whose shoulders rested the safety of the project and every individual involved.

Was he the only one in Inverness who understood the danger this man presented?

Scotty leaned over the ship's rail, watching whitecaps surge across the water toward Urquhart Bay. The surface conditions were a shade toward the perilous for most loch vessels, and so there were few in sight. However, the sonar tug had arrived and was lingering nearby, waiting for Whittenfeld's appearance.

Scotty had risen early, feeling even angrier than he'd felt before going to bed, an anger fed by the prior evening's smoldering solitude and a telex received at Travis House that morning from the London office that had announced it knew of no information concerning Pierre Lefebre apart from the material contained in Lefebre's resume and clearances. Completing breakfast, Scotty had retired to the den to place the same transatlantic call he'd unsuccessfully tried to place the night before to Michael Wessinghage, State Department, Washington Intelligence Bureau, an old friend. This time; however, Wessinghage had been in his office.

Their conversation had been short. He hadn't asked for much. Only a rundown on a man known to him as Pierre Lefebre, a Frenchman. Certainly, if anyone could pinpoint Lefebre, it was Wessinghage. However, even Wessinghage could only make a commitment to diligent effort, promising to call as soon as he'd located anything of interest.

Leaving the house, he'd picked up Tony Spinelli and had toured the three exploratory on-land well sites. The Black Isle hole, located on the Black Isle, a peninsula north of Inverness, had just been spudded. Highland B, situated across the firth, was a third of the way along, and Beauly Highpoint was almost at depth and, unlike the other two locations, a beehive of excitement because preliminary core tests had indicated they might very well be on the verge of a significant hydrocarbon find.

Subsequent to a conference with British Midland field executives at Beauly—Midland had won the drilling concession for all three wells—he'd returned with Spinelli to the base and had helicoptered out to the
Columbus
.

Bob Reddington, who'd been standing quietly alongside, moved closer. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Nothing," Scotty replied, deciding not to mention his continuing inquiries even to Reddington. "I don't want more trouble here. If the situation had been different, if Whittenfeld hadn't been there . . . God knows what might have happened."

"Damn thing is incredible!"

"What do you know about Lefebre?"

"Not much. Whittenfeld brought him in last year with little fanfare. He's apparently done a good job. And he's never attacked anyone that I'm aware of. Oh, sure, there've been some problems. Barrett didn't like the excess security. He unsuccessfully lobbied Whittenfeld to curtail it. And consequently argued heatedly with Lefebre, who did not appreciate Barrett's interference. But this kind of thing? Never."

They descended into the drill ship to the second deck and inspected the condition of equipment at the heart: the mud pumps, the liquid mud containers, and cement pods. Satisfied, they checked the electric and engineering workshops, moved forward into the moon pool, then returned to the main deck and entered the superintendent's offices.

A summons from Grabowski drew them topside moments later.

Several members of the crew and staff were gathered on the forward helipad, babbling excitedly, pressing in on one of the helipad workers, identified by Grabowski as a crewman named Simpkins.

"What's this all about?" Reddington asked, trying to still the commotion.

Simpkins jostled excitedly in place. "I saw it, sir. Damn, and may God strike me if I didn't see the monster."

Scotty glanced at Reddington, smiled, then placed his arm

around Mr. Simpkins's shoulder. "The Loch Ness monster?"

"Yes, sir. One and the same."

"You sure you ain't been drinking?" Reddington asked, once again hushing the group.

"On the ship! No way. I haven't been hallucinating, either. No. I was standing right here washing some petrol off the deck. I looked out at the south shore, and there it was."

"What exactly did you see?" Scotty asked.

"A hump."

"What kind of hump?"

"A hump hump, Mr. Bruce. What other kind of hump is there?"

Scotty stifled a laugh. "It was just floating in the water?"

Simpkins pointed, moving his arm toward the west. "No, first it was moving. Kind of zigzag. Then it disappeared below the surface, popped up once more for just a second, and was gone for good before I could puff a breath again."

"Did anyone else see this thing?" Reddington asked.

"No," Grabowski advised. "I've already checked every member of the crew."

"How long was it on the surface?" Reddington questioned, scanning the horizon.

"Maybe ten seconds," Simpkins replied.

"And you didn't call for anyone?"

"You have a good sense of humor, Mr. Red. No. I was shaking like hell. Couldn't talk. Besides, I was trying to get my camera working."

"You took its picture?" Scotty asked.

"Sure enough."

Simpkins handed Scotty a Polaroid glossy. Scotty and Reddington looked close. Oh, the hump was there all right, but it looked more like a floating log than a big monster.

"This doesn't help us much at all, Mr. Simpkins," Scotty said, commenting on the poor resolution.

"I didn't say it would, sir. I only said I took the monster's picture."

Scotty looked out toward the south shore. There was no sign of any floating riffraff. "Beats me." He turned to Reddington. "What about you?"

"Beats me, too."

"Well, it was there," Simpkins said, defending himself.

Reddington nodded. "How long have you been on shift?"

"Six hours."

"Then you're relieved. Go down and relax for an hour or two."

The crew members began to congratulate Simpkins. Then, as Simpkins started off the helipad, he turned. "Can I have my picture, sir?"

"Of course," Reddington said, handing Simpkins the undistinguished glossy.

Simpkins put the snapshot in his pocket. The clutch broke up. Scotty and Reddington remained on the helipad, searching the horizon.

Whittenfeld's chopper appeared. Turning to each other, they laughed, then moved off the pad to clear the chopper's approach.

A chill wind had begun to gust mercilessly across the main deck as Whittenfeld, Lefebre, Foster, Reddington, and Scotty Bruce emerged from the bridge deck after an exhaustive meeting.

"I want one guard stationed in the moon pool area at all times," Whittenfeld was saying as they stopped alongside one of the deck cranes. "And the other two on the stern and the bow."

"Two shifts?" Reddington asked.

"Yes," Whittenfeld replied. "Twelve hours each to run concurrently with the drill-crew tour."

Reddington looked up at the drilling platform. One of the guards was already in position, holding an automatic rifle; the others were below deck in the cabins assigned to security.

Whittenfeld turned to Reddington. "The guards have been instructed to inform you of anything suspicious. If that occurs, you are to call home base and speak to Lefebre." He looked down the catwalk. "Is the launch ready, Scotty?"

"Ready and waiting," Scotty said.

Whittenfeld smiled. He hadn't smiled much during the meeting. He'd been very businesslike, very preoccupied. "Then let's go for a ride," he said.

They walked to the gangway, then carefully descended on to a motor launch, moored to the ship's side.

"Take us out," Scotty ordered.

The launch pilot steered the launch away from the drill ship and then, several minutes later, pulled up to the sonar tug.

They climbed aboard. The tug was rolling heavily on the swells. The tug captain, a stalklike Norwegian named Sven Olafsen, ushered them into the bridge room and

them to the sonar engineer.

"You all set?" Whittenfeld asked, examining and scope displays.

"Absolutely," the engineer said, flipping a switch. "We've got passive sound, side scan, and heat detect." He pointed to a panel of instruments. "That's the passive. Standard Navy issue, antisubmarine. It's a basic sonic receiver. Paticularly sensitive to engine noises. If anything with a shaft and propeller comes waltzing along, we're going to pick her up." He pointed to another scope. "Again, Royal standard issue, antisubmarine ordnance. It's a heat seeker. It will spot any mechanical vehicle, even if the vehicle's running silent."

"Will it Pick up the
Columbus
?" Reddington asked.

"Sure," the engineer replied. "But We have a clear picture of the
Columbus
's pattern, so we can factor out its influence. However, the drill vibrations will give us distortion on the side scan." He moved to another console. "We've got a high-resolution, computerized Marine Tech, Model 800 Side Scan sonar on board, equipped with a very advanced sonar fish, which we're trailing a couple of hundred feet behind the tug."

"How reliable is the unit?" Foster asked.

"As reliable as they come. We used its forerunner to survey the Loch bottom when we were try'rog to fix a position for the
Columbus
."

Whittenfeld impatiently walked out of the cabin, followed by Olafsen and the rest of the group.

"I want the system on 'go' at all times," he said after everyone had returned to the launch.

"Of course," Olafsen replied from the tug.

The launch returned to the
Columbus
.

"Are you coming back with us?" Whittenfeld asked as he, Lefebre, and Foster marched to the helipad's steps.

"No," Scotty said. "I'm going to hang around for a while."

Whittenfeld stepped on to the pad along with Foster and climbed aboard the helicopter. Lefebre remained on the steps, staring down at Scotty, motionless. Lefebre had not said a word since arriving on board. In fact, this was the first time Lefebre had even looked at Scotty. The look was not pleasant.

Scotty restrained himself; God how he wanted to unload on the bastard!

The helicopter loudspeaker belched Lefebre's name; Lefebre hopped on to the helipad and disappeared as well.

Moments later, the helicopter was gone.

At eight o'clock, Scotty called Geminii base and spoke to the director of helicopter operations. Since Whittenfeld's departure, a heavy fog and drizzle had socked in the loch. Both agreed visibility was unfavorable for shipboard landing. Scotty decided to remain on board until the morning and joined Bill Nunn in the lounge.

Reddington appeared moments later.

"One of the sonar scouts just called," Reddington cried. "They've got something already."

"What?" Scotty asked, standing.

"They're not sure. But they want us out. Right now."

Leaving Nunn, they hurried topside, climbed on to the launch, and raced toward the tug, whose night lights were shining a half mile away. Once aboard, Captain Olafsen led them onto the bridge.

"We don't know what the hell we've picked up," Olafsen stammered, "but it's very strange."

"How many tracings?" Reddington asked as they poked through the doorway.

"Several, so far."

Three crew members were huddled together behind the sonar engineer, who was carefully monitoring scopes

"What's up?" Scotty asked, pushing to the fore.

The engineer glanced over his shoulder. "Take a look at these printouts."

Scotty and Reddington leaned over the side-scan display.

"It looks like a Rorschach of a big eel," Reddington said. "What is it?" Scotty asked.

"I don't know," the engineer replied. "But whatever it is, I think we've just picked up part of it. You can see the trace broadening out as it leaves the paper."

Reddington breathed deeply. "Could it be a submersible?"

The engineer emphatically shook his head. "No submersible traces like that. First of all, if the thing was inanimate, its trace would be composed of straighter rebound lines. No, I'd bet it's alive, whatever it is."

"Is it moving?" Reddington asked.

"Yes," the engineer replied. "Straight down! And no submersible dives straight down. Especially at five hundred and fifty feet per minute!"

Scotty pointed to the displays. "Could the thing be a fish or a school of fish?"

The engineer tried to increase resolution. "I doubt it. The rate of descent makes it unlikely."

Reddington moved closer. "Are you sure, absolutely sure, the traces aren't being made by a submersible?"

The engineer annoyedly pointed to the other displays. "The sound detect hasn't registered a damn thing other than the drill ship's drilling track. There are no motors running. No propellers turning. There's negative on heat. There's nothing mechanical down there, period!"

Seconds later, another trace plotted out. The engineer analyzed it.

"My guess is the object's in excess of one hundred feet. And it's moving at close to seventeen knots."

Reddington flinched. "Seventeen knots? Over a hundred feet long?"

Stunned, they huddled around the instnunents.

"It must be gone," the engineer finally said shortly before ten o'clock, a half hour after the last trace had been taken. "Whatever it was has headed for the hills."

Scotty tore off the trace sheets, folded them, and placed them in his pocket.

"You've been doing this for a long time?" he asked.

"That's correct," the engineer replied.

"Then tell me. Have you ever seen traces like these before?"

"No. Absolutely not."

Scotty turned to Olafsen. "We'll be on the drill ship. If the object returns, call us immediately."