Monster: Tale Loch Ness (18 page)

Olafsen raced past the partition into the cabin proper.

The first officer turned, having heard Olafsen's frightened voice.

"Faster!" Olafsen said softly, fearing the worst.

Bob Reddington spat out a series of orders, then ran toward the bridge deck, trying to reach the radio room. A tremendous vibration overran the ship, knocking him back on his rear. He looked up, terrified. A ball of gas-fed flame erupted through the ship's center, shooting the drill pipe out, destroying the derrick, and taking the drill floor and all the men along.

Sparks and flaming debris fell around him as he stood, only to be knocked back again, jolted off his feet by an enormous explosion that shattered equipment and smashed bodies into pools of flesh and blood.

Reddington stumbled ahead, bleeding heavily.

The deck was strewn with metal. The center of the ship was afire. Several crewmen, too. The off shift had appeared on deck, as had members of the ship's crew, tending to the injured, brandishing fire extinguishers.

A death wail rang through the air. Far off port, the lights of the sonar tug seemed to be moving toward them.

Frantic, singed by flames, Reddington picked his way through the desolation, shuddering. They were drilling through a gas zone. God help them if the gas evacuated the riser beneath the ship!

The helicopter pitched furiously about in the wind as Scotty hugged the shoreline, nearing Urquhart Bay. Several times, he'd nearly lost control. Certainly he was mad, having attempted the flight. But he'd had a premonition for days, and it had never been stronger than it was at this moment, the vision of a bright burning light on the water curdling his blood.

Tortured by the cries of the mangled, Reddington mounted the bow and stared at the water. He saw it immediately. Bubbles. Gas. The pressure zone was blowing out below them, aerating the water, surrounding the ship with less bouyant fluids, gas that would not support the vessel's weight.

He'd heard about it. Now he was a participant. He would take the experience to his grave.

Screams turned him around. Several uninjured men, having noticed the bubbles, had climbed on to the helipad where the pilot had primed the helicopter. The men were swarming all over the chopper's runners. The chopper lifted off, overweighted, bludgeoned by the wind. It careened down into the pad and exploded, killing everyone.

Flames and burning debris seared Reddington's flesh. He stumbled forward. The wait wasn't long. He felt it within seconds, the loss of support and control. Slowly, the vessel began to wobble sideways, then, began to sink.

The
Columbus
was going down.

Scotty felt terror rise up his spine as he watched the fire reach into the air, spiraling like fireworks against the black sky.

He pushed the throttle forward.

The
Columbus
had blown out!

The tug's crew members were confused. The
Columbus
, which was burning only several hundred feet away, seemed to be listing, bow into the water. That was understandable; it had been attacked. But they'd been unmolested. Yet they had lost control; too, and the tug was turning like a top, listing terribly in the direction of the drill ship.

"Reverse full!" Olafsen cried.

The first officer juggled controls, but the tug didn't respond.

Suddenly, a crewman ran into the cabin. "There's a gas blowout," he screamed, terrified. "The water's aerating. And we're in it!"

No one said a word.

Fire. Blood. Twisted steel. Mangled bodies. All before his eyes. All horrible. Almost as horrible as the hideous panic gripping the men who remained alive, diving hopelessly into the water, screaming.

Gripping a post, Reddington held on as water started to overflow the deck. Rain whipped his face. Blood clouded his vision. He thought of his children. Then he looked off starboard. The sonar tug was bearing in on them, carried by the collapsing suction of the water. It rose over the drill ship, then crashed in like a spear, its bow ripping through the rear of the drill ship, severing it, igniting additional explosions, decimating the stem. He listened. The ship screamed a death knell, then jerked downward. Walls of water surrounded it and the remains of the tug. He felt a kiss of death hit his face.

Then he felt nothing.

Scotty was sick. There was nothing he could do but watch.

The
Columbus
was almost gone.

Only her bow was visible within the collapsing well of water.

And then, suddenly, the ship vanished, though the marine riser remained still visible, spewing gas and fire.

Disoriented, confused, he searched for survivors and then, realizing it was hopeless, turned the helicopter into the teeth of the gale and directed it toward the base.

Jerry Foster exploded from the ballroom of the Claidheamh Mor Hotel pursued by a frantic group of reporters. Behind him, he left scores of international correspondents who had been pouring into Inverness for the last two days along with busloads of tourists, the flow starting the moment word had gone out that the
Columbus
and a support tug had gone down.

Because the Geminii complex was off limits, the press center had been set up in the city. This had been Foster's sixth scheduled press conference. The company line was simple. The
Columbus
and tug had gone down in the death claws of a gas blowout. That was it. As of yet, divers had not been dispatched, and the causes of the disaster were unknown. Sonar had located the wreck, the largest piece of which had settled over the wellhead, but more specific information had not been accumulated, and everyone had been advised they would just have to wait.

"That's all for today," Foster was screaming as he pawed his way through the lobby, joined by two press aides and Tony Spinelli, who had emerged just moments before from a technical press orientation. "The next Q and A will be at five tomorrow."

The reporters responded angrily.

"Gentlemen, please," Foster pleaded, nervously poking the air with his pipe. "You'll just have to have patience."

"This way," Spinelli advised, tugging at Foster's jacket.

Foster instructed the press aides to remain at the hotel. The aides blocked the doorway. Foster and Spinelli squeezed out, barely avoiding a screeching lorry.

"They're nuts," Foster said as he and Spinelli closed themselves into a limousine.

"The Geminii complex," Spinelli ordered, shaking his head.

Foster glanced out the window as the limo began to move; the streets were clogged with traffic. "Look at this place," he said, so disconcerted he nearly placed the wrong end of the pipe in his mouth.

"Goddamn incredible," Spinelli observed.

"I sent the wife and kids to London," Foster added. "They're going to be better off away from here."

The limousine crawled through the town center, then turned on to the Dores Road. Foster continued to stare out the window, arranging his priorities. Suddenly, the discovery of oil at Beauly seemed to have lost its significance.

He grimaced. Thoughts of the
Columbus
provoked questions. But there was no reason to ask them.

The only men who had the answers were dead.

"Those poor goddamn men," he kept whispering to himself instead. "Those poor goddamn men."

The Volvo stopped in front of the mansion. Bill Nunn and Michael Grabowski eased out, walked through the front gate, and knocked on the mansion door.

Mrs. Munro appeared. "Can I help you?"

Bill Nunn smiled. "Is Mr. Bruce in?"

"Yes, but he's asked to remain alone. No visitors."

"Tell him it's Nunn and Grabowski," Grabowski said.

Mrs. Munro retreated, then returned moments later and invited the men inside, leading them into the den where

Scotty was perched at the desk scribbling a letter.

"We thought we'd drop by," Nunn said.

Scotty berthed his pencil. "I'm glad you did."

Nunn eased on to the lounge. Grabowski took the couch. Scotty smiled and quickly reread the beginning of the letter, shaking his head.

"A status report?" Grabowski asked.

"No. A letter to Red's kids." He paused. "I called their mother, and she responded like a human being for the first time in her life. But there has to be a note from Uncle Scotty, and it has to be straight. No bullshit. Hell, when I heard bullshit as a kid, I shot off a finger and a fuck you, closed my eyes, and lit off." He laughed. "Reddington. What an asshole. I always knew he'd go down like a flaming Viking. Get some free press. Make his old lady feel guilty. The miserable son of a . . ." He put the letter back on the desk. "Thing reads like shit."

Grabowski stood and walked around the room. The place was spotless. Mrs. Munro had stormed through with a vengeance the night before.

"What's next?" Grabowski asked.

"We go back to work," Scotty replied. He placed an unlit cigar in his mouth. "I'll know more this afternoon. I have a meeting with Fallworth and Whittenfeld. I'm sure one of them has some ideas."

"You don't?" Nunn asked.

Scotty looked momentarily bewildered. "Apart from salvage, not a one." He paused, thinking. "You see the last transmission?"

"No."

"Gas blowout. Crew dead. Ship going down. The radio man sent three others as well, though the last was cut off midstream. The second two were identical to the first. No hint of what caused the blowout, though he did say they had completed the kill procedure."

"Could they have screwed it up? Miscalculated?"

Scotty shook his head after examining the possibilities. "I doubt it."

"What about equipment failure?"

"We inspected the ship's systems a hundred times, and we never found a speck of trouble. The riser was checked by the diving crew after the first mishap and the guidelines were replaced. No. Equipment failure just doesn't jibe."

Grabowski was puzzled. "Then what? The crew?"

"Maybe. But they were crack. You worked with them, and I read every key man's profile. They'd all been through a shitload of kill situations."

"One mistake," Grabowski said. "It was late. It was raining. The crew must have been tired. All it took was one mistake."

"Or no mistakes," Nunn said, interrupting. "And no failure."

Scotty looked up. "You've got some ideas?"

"Don't you think it's peculiar that the tug went down with the ship?"

"What do you mean?"

"The tug wasn't supposed to be anywhere near the
Columbus
."

"Granted."

"Well. Then what the hell was it doing out of position?"

"I don't know, and I don't think you do, either."

"You're right. But let's go back to square one—the first attack."

"I've been doing that since I saw the
Columbus
go under. I've been banging every alternative around. I've got to see the remains."

"Something attacked the ship." Nunn pointed to his stomach. "And the tug was involved. I know it. I feel it here. In my gut!!!"

Scotty buried himself in silent speculation. Nunn and Grabowski remained quiet, too. The phone rang. Scotty answered it, then informed Nunn and Grabowski that Whittenfeld's secretary had summoned him to the first of what promised to be a strenuous succession of meetings. He would have to leave. However, he invited them back for dinner. Mrs. Munro would cook. They agreed and left, with Scotty following moments later.

Scotty entered William Whittenfeld's office alone. Four men were already inside. Whittenfeld, John Fallworth, and two other officious-looking gentlemen in tweed coats, Detective Chief Inspector James MacKintosh, and a massive, athletically built man, Detective Superintendent Angus MacGregor.

Fallworth shook Scotty's hand. "I did not think we'd meet again under circumstances such as this," he said. "When you left London, Scotty, I felt very positive about the future. I felt disturbances aboard the drill ship were history, and I certainly felt extraordinarily sanguine about local management. You made a strong impression in London once again. Yes, an even stronger impression than you made on your first trip through, and the consensus was that you and Whittenfeld would make the best of teams with the best of ships. Unfortunately, one element in the equation has been removed." Fallworth seemed genuinely upset; the
Columbus
had not just been a piece of equipment and its men mere payroll numbers. "Yes," he said. "This is a nasty reason to meet again."

"The worst," Scotty observed.

"Please take a seat," Fallworth suggested.

Scotty sat; Whittenfeld tossed him two separate worksheets.

"The first is a crew list," Whittenfeld said. "The second is a compendium of salvage firms and equipment-leasing companies. Hold on to it." He pointed down the table. "Mr. MacGregor is chief of detectives, Criminal Investigation Bureau, Northern Constabulary. Mr. MacKintosh is his deputy. They've been informed of our prior experiences, the possibility of sabotage, and as you can see, they've been given copies of the
Columbus
report. The police are now officially involved, both the CID and the Special Branch, which work with Scotland Yard and are responsible for the surveillance of subversive organizations. We have also been contacted by the Ministry of Defence, various units in the armed services, and by MI5, but for the time being Mr. MacGregor will look after Ministry of Defence and British Secret Service interests and will coordinate his investigation with the Special Branch."

"I see," Scotty said ambivalently, trying to sort out the proliferation of interests.

"You look pained, Mr. Bruce," MacGregor said, bellowing a thunderous brogue. He had impressive features, which evoked a myriad of impressions. "Do you object?"

"To what?"

"To my representational capacity."

"Of course not. I wouldn't have the right, I'm just surprised there are so many people involved."

"It's not by whim," MacGregor suggested. "Defence, MI5, Scotland Yard, and the Northern Constabulary coordinate many operations and share many responsibilities, including home and internal defence, natural-disaster contingency planning, the infiltration of the regional narcotics trade—"