Monster: Tale Loch Ness (43 page)

"Are those the cameras?" Whittenfeld asked, pointing toward bulges on the spokes.

"Yes," Scotty replied. "There are sixteen, two set on every other spoke. However, we changed camera models. The plans assumed standard water conditions, and we damn well know that's not the case here. We've substituted Hydro TC-125-SITs, which have very high resolution at very low light levels. All but two of the cameras are Hydros. The other two are Rebikoff color underwaters."

"And the sonar systems?" Whittenfeld asked; he'd made it plain that the responsibility for construction lay with Mr. Bruce and had therefore involved himself in the prep only sparingly.

"Just as the plans specify. There's passive and echo ranging inside and out. We'll know the moment something approaches and then enters the jaws."

The launch drew closer. Set at water level were the ballasts. There were four main ballast tanks for submersion and surfacing and several sets of smaller tanks for trimming and depth control. Four spools, two each at either end of the trap base, were all part of an ingenious anchoring system. The trap's four anchors would be cemented into the loch walls, much like the anchors of the
Magellan
. As the trap descended and ascended, the anchor lines would be spun in and out in order to keep the trap in a fixed position, held taut.

In addition, the four tugs would maintain connections, assuring additional horizontal stability.

Whittenfeld pointed toward the rear center of the trap. "The speakers?"

"Yes," Scotty said. "We've increased the amplitude range, too." He pointed to the top of the spokes. "There are the clamps. Once we're sure the trap has closed around the creature, we'll activate the mechanism, which will bind the opposing spokes."

"What if the creature doesn't move into the trap?" Lefebre asked.

"It will," Scotty answered.

He stared at the two men, now fully aware of their backgrounds, the bond between them. He also had a good idea of what made them tick and how the beat was anything but predictable and sane. Lefebre, the trained murderer, Whittenfeld, the obsessed manipulator of lives. They made him sick and angry.

The launch pulled up to the barge. They boarded and entered the command cabin. Captain Harrigan, Dr. Rubinstein, and Dr. Fiammengo were inside.

There were no other technicians on board.

"We were just discussing the tie-in of the barge to the trap," Dr. Rubinstein said.

"When we arrived at the right time," Whittenfeld declared, turning to Harrigan. "Did you review the operational orders with the other tug captains?"

"This morning," Harrigan said.

"How long until you're operational?" Whittenfeld asked.

"Two more days," Dr. Fiammengo advised, injecting herself into the conversation.

"The tie-in?" Lefebre inquired.

"It will also take two days," Dr. Rubinstein said. "We plan to begin first thing in the morning. The end spokes will be attached first. The electrical crews will make the power connections; then we'll follow with the television and sonar teams and, finally, anchor and inspection divers. No, everything has been covered in detail. Everything is timed and scheduled. It should go like clockwork."

"You sure this will work, doctor?" Whittenfeld asked.

"It will work!" Dr. Rubinstein replied, brimming with confidence.

Dr. Rubinstein began to explain the systems, particularly the computer and its associated display units. Dr. Fiammengo joined. Whittenfeld listened carefully. Lefebre seemed distracted.

Scotty just watched.

The telephone rang. Several times. Jolted from sleep, Scotty placed the receiver to his ear.

Sounds were garbled.

He turned on the table lamp. The windows were black. He consulted his alarm clock. Three A.M.

"Okay, Foster," he said, rubbing his eyes, clearing off cobwebs. "Say again."

Foster's voice barked out of the phone. "They had a breakdown at Carrbridge."

Scotty sorted impressions. Carrbridge. The new exploratory well. Twenty-two miles east of Loch Ness. "What kind of breakdown?" he asked.

"Loss of circulation!"

The words invoked terror. The closed circulation of drilling mud had been interrupted. Some of the mud was disappearing from the well below ground, and the down pressure was obviously being reduced.

"Did they blow out?" he asked.

"No, but they shut down. Whittenfeld's on his way to base. You're needed, too. There's a chopper on call."

He climbed from under the covers. His clothes were next to the bed, thrown over a chair. He began to put them on.

"Why'd they lose the circulation?"

"Don't know. You'll have to ask them."

Scotty dropped the phone, finished dressing, left the house, drove quickly to the Geminii base, and proceeded directly to the roof.

A helicopter was already primed.

"Take her up," Whittenfeld cried after Scotty had climbed inside and the door had been shut.

"What do you have?" Scotty asked, huffing, exhausted. His

shirt was askew; he'd buttoned it incorrectly in the rush.

"Just what you have."

The helicopter flew eastward into the black sky. They watched points of light recede into darkness. Several minutes after liftoff, floodlights appeared below. They'd reached the well site.

The pilot landed the chopper. They climbed off. The Carrbridge company manager was there to meet them. The well was a beehive of confusion.

"What the hell's going on here?" Whittenfeld asked, visibly perturbed.

"We lost mud circ," the manager answered.

"How bad?" Scotty asked.

"Total."

"Why?"

"We're not sure," the manager said; he was very agitated. "We were at eight hundred feet. There was no sign of abnormal pressure, and we were in an extremely consolidated formation."

"There's been no loss of drilling mud before?" Scotty asked. "Even small quantities?"

"No. It's all been very hard stuff. We didn't even find unconsolidated formations in the shallow part of the bore. And no fractures."

They walked to the well; there was some minor damage to the drilling assemblage. Most of the crew was clear of the derrick.

"What about injuries?" Scotty asked.

"Cuts and bruises," the manager replied.

Scotty looked around. "Let me see the mud and bit records."

The manager fetched the records. Scotty examined them in the bright glare of the floodlights and asked several more questions. The manager fired out answers.

"What do you think?" Whittenfeld asked after Scotty had reviewed all the parameters.

"I think we punctured into an underground cavern!" Scotty replied.

Whittenfeld looked to the company manager, who nodded indecisively.

"Look at the pump rates," Scotty said. "The other parameters. The loss of all the mud. The lack of gas or other fluids. No kick. Hell, we punctured a big space filled with air."

"What now?" the manager asked.

Scotty called for the well-site geologist. The geologist confirmed they had crossed no abnormal pressure zones. Nothing that would cause any problems.

"Pull the drill pipe!" Scotty ordered. "We may have our cavern!"

"But we're in Carrbridge. Nowhere near the Inverness Firth."

"I know!"

The rig crew began preparations to pull the drill pipe and shut in the well.

Scotty collared the manager. "Do we have the ability to ream out a new hole so that I can get down in there? Say to forty-six or forty-eight inches in diameter?" They couldn't use the old hole; casing had already been inserted and cemented.

"We do, but—"

"Don't but me. Just get the material here for a big workout. Then contact base and have them ship in some television equipment with extension electricals for a long drop. Say two thousand feet. Make sure base sends the right kind of TV unit ,and have it blimped for moisture protection. And it's going to need a powerful strobe. Then contact whoever you have to contact and get a descent jacket and harness here."

"Lefebre will go down with you," Whittenfeld said.

"No, he won't," Scotty countered. "He's going to keep his slimy ass up here."

"I understand your feelings," Whittenfeld said. "But I suggest your feelings be placed secondary to your safety. If you encounter this beast of yours, you will be most grateful for Lefebre's well-equipped presence."

Scotty called for the geologist again; the geologist appeared moments later.

"Where are the seismics for this area?" he asked.

"I have the Carrbridge sections."

"What about the stretch between here and Loch Ness and here and the Moray Firth?"

"I have them, too."

Whittenfeld's expression had shifted; he was astonished. "The Moray Firth?" he asked.

"It's just a thought," Scotty answered, turning back to the geologist. "Let's get the sections out!"

The geologist retreated to the company office.

Scotty looked to Whittenfeld. He'd been afraid Whittenfeld would allow Dr. Rubinstein to proceed without locating the outlet. But he was sure his fears were now moot. His gut feeling told him they were standing right over the object of their search.

"You know, Scotty," Whittenfeld said, "it's a pleasure to watch you work. You exude confidence. You make decisions quickly. Issue orders with authority. Yet there is no condescension in your attitude. You communicate to your underlings very well. They respect you. They act quickly when you orchestrate. The demonstration I just saw was a classic example of an experienced and confident executive in action. I should have recorded it for posterity. No, I'm morally gratified I hired the right man for the job. You are definitely an asset." A smirk crossed his lips as he surveyed the well-site activity, blazed by the bright night lights. "However, I do notice a change in attitude. Only a short time ago, you were reluctant to participate in the venture. You were an adversary. Now suddenly, there's this explosion of enthusiasm and dedication."

"You've given me no choice, you sick bastard," Scotty said.

"I know," Whittenfeld rejoined, smirking. "But I sense some self-interest at work now, too. Something about this cavern, if it is a cavern, excites you." He started to walk to the chopper, stopping before boarding. "Or perhaps Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo have infected you," he added. "Perhaps you've sensed the thrill of the hunt. Perhaps something deep in your psyche has been energized. The human instinct for conquest of the unknown. Base desires of the hunter." He laughed. "Think about it, Scotty—think about it."

Dr. Allen Rubinstein was a vision of excitement, his face, his voice, totally unable to constrain the emotions that had been surging through his body since he'd received the call from Scotty Bruce.

He'd stepped off a helicopter just a short time before popping questions, aggressively seeking answers. He shared Scotty's gut feeling, too. This was it!

Dr. Fiammengo had also been unable to restrain herself. She had hugged Scotty, kissed him, overlooking the tensions between them.

Not even his admonition that they had yet to determine what the drill pipe had actually penetrated had been able to dampen their enthusiasm.

And certainly the seismic evidence had only fed the growing sense of euphoria.

"Assuming a portion of the cavern lies below us," Scotty said as he paced back and forth in the company shed in front of a series of seismic maps, "it's certainly understandable that we missed it on the wiggle traces." He pointed to a graphic; a tiny wiggle had been circled in red. "The ground is very consolidated. The soil is tightly packed. The propagation wave moved down unusually fast. The air interface was very small."

"How wide is the section below us?" Dr. Rubinstein asked, nervously biting his fingernails.

"It's hard to tell," Scotty replied as he pointed to several other circled wiggle traces. "The air interfaces we have located have been circled in red. We think each circle indicates a portion of the cavern. One section suggests a stretch of the cavern goes down to almost four thousand feet. Others suggest it rises up well above sea level."

"The roller coaster," Dr. Fiammengo observed.

Scotty looked out the shed window. Whittenfeld, Lefebre and Tony Spinelli were at the well site. The drill pipe had been pulled, and a new bore had been drilled. There had been no incidents. A television crew was presently lowering a camera. A monitor had been set up in the tent.

"Why didn't we pick this up before?" Dr. Rubinstein asked; he was dressed in overalls, a flight jacket, and heavy combat boots. When he'd insisted on joining the expedition, Whittenfeld had agreed.

"We were looking in the wrong place," Scotty said.

Dr. Fiammengo protested. "The cavern runs eastward out of the loch and not northeastward, as we expected. But it still has to double back into the Inverness Firth."

"It doesn't turn into the Inverness Firth," Scotty said, pointing. "It turns into the Moray."

Dr. Fiammengo was awe struck. "The length of it. It's impossible."

"I traced the route myself."

Dr. Rubinstein clenched a fist. "I knew it was there. I knew it all along."

The company manager informed them the television camera had penetrated the cavern.

They moved to the drill floor.

"What do you think of Mr. Bruce's conclusions?" Whittenfeld asked.

"They're exact!" Dr. Rubinstein replied, eyeing the television cable that ran into a transit box, mounted on the new bore hole.

They walked into the monitor tent. Whittenfeld ordered a technician to hit an activator switch. A camera monitor responded.

"That's it!" Dr. Rubinstein screamed, pushing up close to the screen; he could make out walls, a floor, the cavern ceiling itself. "When can we go down?"

Whittenfeld looked to Scotty. "Well?"

"Now," Scotty said.

They left the tent. A crew member brought the descent jacket and harness to the bore hole. The roustabouts moved a hoist into position and pulled the camera from the bore. Lefebre removed a case from the chopper.

Scotty watched as Lefebre placed the case on the drill floor, opened the top, and removed the contents: three high-powered rifles and a closed ammunition pack.