Monster: Tale Loch Ness (12 page)

"Of course," Olafsen declared.

Scotty and Reddington returned to the launch.

Reboarding the
Columbus
, they entered the supervisor's office. A tremendous jolt hit the ship moments later, throwing them off their chairs and against the cabin wall, upending every standing piece of furniture in sight.

"What the hell!" Reddington said as he struggled to his feet.

Another jolt hit, shoving the drill ship sideways, once more adding to the disarray.

They ran out the door. Bill Nunn intercepted them on the main-deck catwalk.

"Man overboard!" he cried. "The jolt knocked him off the forward helipad."

"Who?"

"We don't know yet."

Reddington pushed close. "Have the floods picked him up?"

"No. The fog's too thick for visual contact. We don't have much time. There. Listen. You can hear his screams."

"The life rafts?" Scotty asked.

"They're being lowered."

"Any damage to the ship?"

"Don't know yet, either."

"Something hit us?"

"No one's sure."

Scotty and Reddington raced to the gangway. A sizable portion of the crew had already crowded around. The life raft was in the water. Scotty and Reddington jumped aboard with two other men. They listened. They heard cries. Scotty pointed. They began to row, accompanied by the hazy lights of the ship's floods and their own torches.

"We're coming," Reddington cried.

No response.

"Can you hear us?"

Splashing sounds echoed, then screams.

"Hang on!"

Water spat up into the raft, water cold, damn cold, as was the air, thick as shit, as Nunn had said, visibility nil.

"To the right," Reddington ordered.

"We're coming," Scotty repeated, responding to a cry.

Goddamn if they would ever reach the man. The current was strong, swells heavy. They were confused, too.

An echo reverberated, a cry.

"Hang on."

Suddenly, the raft set into a peculiar position as if it had been sucked downward. Water spilled over the sides. The raft lurched rightward, spun hard, then moved quickly against the current. Terrified, they held on tight, sensing something might have moved with great force beneath them, causing an underwater wake, which had grabbed the raft.

A terrible yelp of pain, a death cry, refocused their attention on the lost crewman.

"Can you hear us?" Scotty called.

Another call of pain and then nothing. They continued to search. They found a torn-off shirt sleeve covered with blood. Nothing more. Concluding they'd done all they could, they returned to the ship.

Grabowski walked down the gangway to meet them. "We've got an ident," he said.

"Who?" Scotty asked.

Grabowski paused, then said, "Simpkins."

"The man who thought he saw the monster?"

"Yes."

Simpkins!

The flat light of the Scottish morning highlighted William Whittenfeld's features as he sat behind his desk, examining the sonar traces.

"This is it?" he asked.

"Yes," Scotty replied.

Whittenfeld's thoughts were flying. "Positive traces. No mechanical echo. Negative heat report."

"We all agreed. The object was alive, very big and very fast."

Whittenfeld laughed. "The Loch Ness monster?"

Scotty shrugged. "I don't know."

Whittenfeld dropped the traces on the blotter, then stood. "Scotty, I put the tug out there to watch for submersibles, not monsters."

"I know. But those traces were recorded. They exist. They are reality."

"Scotty. They are nonsense. A school of fish. An electrical error. Flotsam. But not a monster."

"The sonar engineer considered every possible alternative."

Whittenfeld shook his head. "I want this matter deep sixed. I want you to inform the sonar tug team to deep six it, too. There are no monsters in Loch Ness. No one at Geminii can ever infer such a thing. One word of this and every Nessie freak in creation will descend on the loch. The environmentalists and the university community will go berserk, and we could have our asses reamed right out of here."

"But how do you explain the traces?"

"I told you. A school of fish. Mechanical error. Or perhaps the work of saboteurs."

"Saboteurs?"

"Think, Scotty. They try to wreck the
Columbus
. They fail. Then they decide to introduce something to the loch which will record unnaturally. Suggest a monster. Everyone knows we've put the tug on line. It's the next logical move. Create a monster, a rallying flag. Cause the government to review our environmental impact report in light of developments. And then stick it up Geminii's ass!"

Was Whittenfeld serious? "You're assuming vast technical knowhow."

"I'm assuming the obvious."

"Suppose we pick up similar traces again?"

Whittenfeld smiled. "I expect you will." He tore up the trace pages and threw them in the wastepaper basket. "Then we'll file them away just like I filed these." He laughed again. "Don't worry. We haven't destroyed the world's only record of the Loch Ness monster. There are books and books written by monster freaks filled with similar stuff. Buy some. Read them. They're great fiction."

"I may just do that."

"Now, more important. What about this man who drowned?"

"His name was Simpkins. We did not find the body."

Whittenfeld solemnly shook his head. "This is a risky business."

"Very risky."

"Does he have family?"

"Yes."

"Are we helping out?"

"Yes."

"Good. Poor man! Damn accident!"

"It wasn't an accident. Something hit the ship."

"Yes, I know. But what? The sonar tug picked up nothing near the
Columbus
."

"That isn't conclusive. The tug might have been scanning the wrong sector at the time."

"Did anyone see anything?"

"No."

"Was a calling card left?"

"No."

"Then let's label the incident
unexplained
and file it away. Or, at worst, attribute it to the work of our saboteurs."

"The dead man's shirt was covered with blood."

"He probably injured himself in the fall."

"I think the ship is in danger."

"We've recognized that as a matter of operating policy."

"I think we should cease operations temporarily."

Whittenfeld flushed. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Scotty. I'll pretend it was never suggested. Nothing stops operations. Ever." He paused, then approached, put his arm around Scotty's shoulder, and said, "Scotty. This is natural. Everyone gets this goddamn monster bug sooner or later. There've been sightings, sonar contacts, pictures. Rubbish. As soon as something happens to defy explanation, the monster is blamed. It's an out. An excuse. And a poor one. You, an experienced engineer, should know better. Clear your head and address reality. The last thing any one of us can do is to engage in fantasy, and I must be very firm about this because I cannot allow it to happen. The world is full of the jealous, the weak. It is not full of monsters." He paused. "Now please, forget about this monster." He led Scotty to the door. "You're an important man. Think about important things."

Scotty walked out but stopped halfway down the hall, looking back.

Important things? Yes, Whittenfeld was right. He had to think about important things. Only he suspected Whittenfeld had not focused the emphasis in the right place.

The death of the man was important. The cause of the death even more so. And possibly the man's claimed sighting the most important element of them all.

For some strange reason, he was convinced of it!

Scotty drove the jeep along the Dores Road and the loch shore. The view was breathtaking, almost mystical, the road seemingly churning into eternity. And Christ, he was actually starting to feel at ease behind the wheel as well.

Stopping once or twice to look back at the
Columbus
, still visible at its moor site, he whisked through Inverfarigaig, then bypassed Lower Foyers, guiding the jeep up the mountainside to the Cam Dearg Inn, a provincial little cottage with a woven thatch roof. Leaving the car in the empty parking lot, he entered the inn's pub. It was only ten A.M. The place was empty, quaint, very parochial. There were tables for dining and others for dominoes, though the only domino pieces in sight had been molded into a sculpture of a Highland clansman. Music was playing in the background, too, and a hypnotizing shaft of light was dancing colors in the middle of the room.

"Is anybody home?" he called, settling on to a bar stool. He lit a cigar and let his mind wander. The place reeked of history. Of Highland clans. Battles. Shifting tartan colors. "Hello?" he called out again; he'd heard movement inside the inn proper. "You've got customers."

The bar door opened. Mary MacKenzie entered. Seeing Scotty, she froze.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I'm thirsty!" he answered. He felt his pulse race unexpectedly. He'd carefully rehearsed what he would say, but would he say it right?

"There's fresh water in the loch. Go drink!"

"I'm more interested in lager."

She took off her apron. "We're closed."

"The sign on the door said 'open.' "

"Open means closed as far as you are concerned!"

He leaned over the bar and drafted a lager.

"What the hell are you doing?" she cried, moving threateningly toward him.

"Serving myself," he replied, grinning.

"You're out of here right now or I call a constabe."

He drank deeply from the mug. "Look, Miss MacKenzie. I came to talk to you. We don't need constables for that."

She gestured defiantly. "How did you find this place?" '

"I called the Highland Council offices and asked where I might write you a letter. They were very helpful."

"You drove all the way here when you could just as well have put your questions on paper?"

He laughed. "The half hour drive from Dores was very pleasant. Besides, it's not a long trip when one considers the fantastic reception I've received."

She grabbed a towel and wiped the bar. "I think I heard everything you had to say in the car."

"Most of it, but not all."

"Mr. Bruce. What do you want?"

He puffed heavily on the cigar. "It's imperative I get to know someone who lives in Inverness. Someone who has a vested political interest. As I said in the car, I'm the new boy in town. You can help me, and I may be very well able to help you."

"Of course you can help me. You can get Geminii the hell out of Loch Ness."

"I can't do that. But I have considerable clout. It would not be a mistake on your part to at least have my sympathetic ear."

She stared, thinking. "Keep talking," she finally said.

"Only if you promise to listen."

She cracked a half smile. "You've invaded my home, and unless I call a constable, I'm afraid you hold me hostage."

"Nonsense. If you ask me to leave right now, I'll be out of here like a shot."

She paused, considering the alternatives, then called through the door. Her niece appeared moments later. She asked the girl to tend bar, then turned back to Scotty.

"If we stay here, we won't be able to talk. Soon there'll be a good deal of commotion. There's a quiet veranda behind the inn, a good place to sit."

Scotty stood and smiled. "Sounds fine," he said.

The air was clear, filled with the scent of pine needles. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, it was autumn brisk, and the view from the veranda was spectacular.

"I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with my life other than play professional football," he was saying, "until one day I read the story of Spindletop, America's first oil gusher. And I tell you, by the time I had finished, I was hooked."

"Where was this thing?" she asked.

"Texas," he replied. "And it blew out on June 10, 1901. The site was operated by a one-armed hell raiser turned Sunday school teacher named Bud Higgins and a geologist named Lucas. However, on the day of the strike, only their employees were about. The men first heard a rumble. Then the earth began to shake. A geyser of mud shot from the well, destroying their rig. When the flow had stopped, the men turned off the boilers. Then the rumble began again. More mud funneled; the men fled for their lives. Then came a spout of gas and an explosion of green crude rising two hundred feet into the air. It blew out for nine days, spewing eight hundred thousand barrels of oil before being capped. And before you could say Spindletop, the countryside was covered with driIling rigs, and the modern oil industry was born."

"That really inspired you?"

"Damn if it didn't. The next day, I began to study petroleum engineering. Then, after graduation, I earned a master's degree between football seasons and worked for Exxon part time. When I retired from the NFL in 1965, I began to specialize in drill-ship operations, and the rest is history. A lot of years passed around grease monkeys, oil rigs, and drill ships. A lot of dry. wells. And now Loch Ness."

"And you retired from football to try to conquer the oil business."

"No, not really. I had some good years left in me."

"This knee of yours?"

He hesitated. "No, the knee had healed." He stared.
Why not?
he thought. "I retired because I was determined to change things. You see, I broke a man's back. I crack-back blocked an opposing linebacker and damaged his spine. The accident had a tremendous impact on me. I'd never thought of football as violent before. It was just fun, a game. I'd grown up with it. I didn't think about hitting people. I just did it. When I saw the opponent, I cut him down. But then I crippled a man, and for the first time in my life I began to think about what I was doing. I was told the pangs of conscience were normal—a psychiatrist said so—but I began to realize there were things happening on the field that were dangerous and unnecessary. I started to make public statements. I found there were other ballplayers who felt like I did. So, for the first time in my life, I took up a cause. We tried to work out changes with the ownership. But, hell, the ownership didn't want to change a thing. The sport was doing great. Why mess with it? Go out and play ball like the All-Pro you are and don't let guilt cloud your vision, they all said! But I refused to fold. I fought. I got nowhere. I didn't like getting nowhere, losing. So I became a martyr. As an All-Pro, I had a lot of influence. I decided to make a real impact, sacrifice myself for the cause. I quit the game!"