Operation Loch Ness

by William Meikle

  As it turned out, a cheese sandwich, a cup of weak coffee, courtesy of Wiggins rather than McCally, and a smoke proved to be the highlights of the next few hours. They slowly crisscrossed the north end of the loch with nothing to see but the wind on the water and a nasty-looking front of dark, looming cloud slowly advancing from the southwest. A cold breeze blew up ahead of the front, making the water even choppier and biting through Banks’ clothing.

  After a while, the wind came even colder, driving straight into his face. He abandoned the top pilot deck and went below to the safety of the cabin and the interior wheelhouse at the front of the living space. The view over the loch wasn’t nearly as good, but the relative warmth more than made up for that.

  He allowed the squad to come in, one at a time, to fetch their waterproof fleeces, but kept them out on deck; he needed as many eyes on the water as they could muster, and Seton wasn’t going to be of any help. The older man had taken to the whisky with gusto, and was now lost in what looked to be a mercifully painless sleep, flat out across the bench beside the kitchen table.

  *

  They had another coffee and smoke break in the early afternoon, just past the midway point of their trip down the loch. There had been no sign of the monster.

  “Probably still chewing away at that fucking chopper,” Wiggins said as they all converged on the rear viewing deck for a smoke. “I don’t want to know what’s in its shite the next time it goes.”

  “Stupid bloody reporters who should have kent better,” Hynd said.

  Banks didn’t admonish the men for their tastelessness. Gallows humor was a survival tactic for men who had to face danger on a routine basis, an ‘if it’s happening to somebody else, it’s not happening to us’ mentality that allowed them a buffer against harsh reality.

  Besides, the BBC men really should have bloody known better.

  By the time they finished their coffee and smokes, the line of the dark front was almost directly overhead. The wind got up, disturbing the water even more, and rain splattered in heavy drops. By the time Banks got back to the wheel, the window in front of him was awash. The whole sky had gone dark, slate gray, and the rudimentary wiper blades he had at his disposal did little to clear the view from rain that was being blown almost horizontal in the face of the window.

  He had to drop his speed to half of what he’d been doing earlier. There was little chance of maintaining their crisscross searching pattern, for turning side on into the wind caused them to rock and roll alarmingly, threatening to tumble the men outside off and over the rail.

  Bugger this for a game of soldiers.

  He set the boat’s nose directly into the wind, ran up the engine as far as he dared, and headed, he hoped, in the general direction of Castle Urquhart.

  - 8 -

  Over the next half an hour, the weather deteriorated until he could only see a few yards ahead of the nose of the boat. Hynd came in from the rear deck. Although he wore the waterproof fleece with its hood pulled over his face, rain dripped from his nose, his cheeks looked as if they’d been sandblasted, and he gave every impression of being seriously fed up with life.

  “Can I bring the lads in, Cap? It’s not fit for man nor beast out here.”

  “It’s the beast I’m worried about,” Banks replied. “But you’re right, there’s fuck all to see anyway apart from rain. Bring them in and get a brew going to warm you up. I’ll keep an eye out up front, and one of you three watch out the back door. But if it decides to attack us in this weather, we’re fucked anyway; we’ll never see it coming.”

  “Let’s hope chewing on yon chopper gives it the shits, keeps it busy, and far away.”

  “We’re supposed to be hunting it,” Banks said with a thin smile.

  “Aye, because that’s been working out well so far,” Hynd replied, and left to fetch McCally and Wiggins.

  *

  Seton woke up as the others were coming inside and sat up to make room at the table, his face pale and a mask of pain after the effort.

  “What did I miss?” he asked, his voice little more than a croak.

  “A fuckload of wind, a shitload of rain, and fuck all of anything else,” Wiggins replied.

  Banks turned to Seton.

  “Yep, that about sums it up. As far as I can tell, we’re headed directly for Castle Urquhart. Shouldn’t be too long, as long as I don’t run us ashore in the meantime.”

  Seton insisted on getting up to join Banks at the wheel, although the effort clearly pained him enough that he needed another slug of whisky before he was able to speak. He looked at the map of the loch that was pinned above their heads, checked the compass and GPS, and nodded.

  “You’re a tad off. Bring her to port, ten degrees or so, and you’re heading straight there. Remember to stop before you hit the castle.”

  Wiggins came over and passed them each a coffee. Seton put a slug of whisky in his, but Banks refused when offered.

  “You can buy me and the lads a drink when this is all over, and we’ll listen to your stories all night, but best we all stay sharp right now. The weather might be just the cover this thing needs; we know fuck all about its attack patterns.”

  “At least we know it disnae like helicopters,” Wiggins said.

  Banks’ tension headache from peering through the window ratcheted up again, and he ceded the wheel to Hynd for a spell before going to stand guard at the open rear door to have a smoke. At first, he was looking almost northeast while he stood in the relative cover of the doorway, but when he turned to flick the butt of the smoke away when he was done, he looked northwest, in line with the rear of the boat.

  The beast was there, right behind them.

  Although visibility was low, he saw the length of the creature clearly, the three dark, almost shadowy humps swimming along in their wake, keeping pace with the boat some 20 yards behind.

  He unslung his rifle, taking aim, but didn’t shoot. With a beast this big, he’d need to get it in the eye or straight down the gullet to put it down fast; one or two bullets were only likely to enrage it. The chances of a decent shot were slim to nil. All he could see were the humps, and with the boat rocking and bouncing, and the gloom gathering, he wasn’t even sure of hitting it in the first place.

  He turned back to the cabin and called inside.

  “Sarge, stay at the wheel, keep us on the straight and narrow. The rest of you; grab your guns and get out here. We’ve got a visitor.”

  *

  “Stay put, auld man,” Banks said to Seton. “The excitement won’t do you any good.”

  “At my age, any kind of excitement is better than none at all,” Seton replied.

  The older man pulled an oilskin rain jacket over his shoulders and came out with McCally and Wiggins. They all stood at the rear deck looking at the beast while rain lashed against their backs. If the weather bothered the creature, it showed no sign of it, maintaining the same steady pace in their wake.

  “Well, we found it,” McCally said. “Now what do we do?”

  “We’ve got our orders. We take it down. It’s got to raise its head some time,” Banks said. “We all hit it at once when it does.”

  “Otters can swim with their noses just clearing the surface every few minutes,” Seton said. “This might not be an otter, exactly, but it swims like one. I wouldn’t count on getting a clear shot. Besides, Captain, I thought you did not want to be the man who killed Nessie?”

  “I don’t. But nobody will ever know in any case; the colonel will see to that. And I’m in his bad books enough already without letting a kiddie-killer rampage about the countryside just because I’m a sentimental old fart.”

  “It’s a fine club to be in,” Seton replied. “I’m a long-standing member.”

  “I get one of those when I visit the sarge’s wife,” Wiggins said, but his heart wasn’t in the banter; they were all too fixated on the loch monster that cruised just 20 yards away.

  “What do we know about it that’ll help here?”
Banks asked.

  “We know it reacts when it gets annoyed,” McCally said.

  “What do you want to do? Poke it with a big stick?” Wiggins replied.

  “Something like that, aye, Wiggo,” Banks said. “Sandy, are you up to taking the wheel for a bit? We’ll need the sarge and his gun.”

  Seton again looked like he wanted to argue, but he must have seen Banks’ determination in his eyes, for he went back into the cabin and, after a short conversation that Banks couldn’t hear for the wind, Sergeant Hynd, with his rifle unslung, came out to join them. Banks had them line up along the rear rail just above the churning propellers.

  He raised his rifle and took aim at the larger target that was the middle of the three humps.

  “Get ready, lads. This might go down fast.”

  *

  “Wait.” a shout came from the cabin. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Banks stepped back so that he was at the cabin doorway and could speak to Seton.

  “Is it less risky?”

  Seton smiled. “I don’t know about that, but it might give you a better chance of hitting it.”

  Banks studied Seton’s face, looking for signs of any devious intent, but saw only a plan, open smile.

  “Okay, let’s have it then, and be quick. It might get bored with following us any time.”

  Seton pointed to the map above his head.

  “We’re near the northwest shore, about five minutes if we head straight for it. We can float easily enough in only six feet of water. But the beast is too big to swim properly in that depth. It would have to raise itself up…”

  “…and give us a clearer headshot. Good thinking, man,” Banks said. “Make it so.”

  He went back out to the squad and quickly relayed the plan. The boat turned slightly against the wind so that they had to steady themselves against the rail.

  The beast turned, right on cue, behind them and kept following.

  *

  After several minutes, it became obvious that Seton’s plan might have merit. The beast’s swimming action became less smooth, punctuated by several seconds where either the tail thrashed more violently in the water, or the head came up, briefly, only to drop back down again before they could get a clear shot.

  “Steady, lads,” Banks said. “Wait until we’re sure of putting it down. I don’t want to see this lad when he’s really angry.”

  Rain and wind continued to lash at them, coming slightly side-on now that they had turned their nose, enough to make their shots even trickier. Banks checked his watch. It was four minutes since he’d left the cabin doorway.

  “Any time now,” he shouted.

  The wash behind them was getting whiter as they churned up shallower water, and that too seemed to cause the beast trouble in its swimming.

  “I think it’s pissed off,” Wiggins said.

  “I know how it feels,” Banks replied, and then there was no time for talk as the beast came forward fast, a powerful thrust of its tail propelling it, torpedo-like, straight at them. Its head hadn’t come up at all yet, although the main body was noticeable higher out of the water. In a matter of seconds, they were going to get rammed.

  Banks put three quick shots into the largest hump, hitting it just above the waterline, but the beast didn’t slow.

  “Brace yourself,” Banks shouted, and grabbed tight onto the rear deck handrail.

  *

  Banks heard three more shots; McCally had taken a chance and fired instead of bracing himself. He didn’t see if the shots hit. The boat bucked and shuddered as the beast slammed into them—the only similar feeling Banks had felt before was back in Afghanistan when their SUV had been hit side on by a tank. This was worse.

  He lost his grip on the rail and was turned around, thrown across the deck and fell hard against the doorjamb of the rear door. He saw Seton lying, slumped across the wheel, and had no idea whether the man was alive or dead. Through the big front window, he also saw that the shoreline was coming up fast as the beast pushed them along. They were headed, at speed, straight for the rocky bank.

  “Seton, get out of there.”

  His shout went unheard. The boat bucked again, and Banks got thrown through the doorway to smash hard into the kitchen tabletop. He managed to steady himself with his free hand and gripped the rifle tight in the other and a new sound rent the air, the crunch and tear of the boat dragging along a rocky bottom. The engine squealed twice and cut out with a bang. Smoke came up through the hatchway that led below.

  Two more shots came from outside.

  “Fuck you,” Wiggins shouted loudly, then there was no more shooting, no more shouting, just the lurch and rock of the boat and the ever-louder crunching of the bottom against rock.

  Banks staggered upright and stepped over to Seton, lifting him and turning him around to check for life. The older man’s eyes fluttered, and there was more blood at his lips.

  But he’s alive.

  The boat rose at the back end, six feet or more. The big front window gave way and fell in on itself in a crash of glass. But it gave Banks a chance he had not been expecting. He heaved Seton up, slid him out the window, and leapt after him as the boat came apart in flying bits of timber and plastic, metal, and glass. He caught hold of Seton around the waist and they slid, feet first, across the sloping front deck, stopping only for a second when they reached the railing. Banks was able to get his feet underneath him and, gun in one hand, the other arm around Seton’s waist, leapt into the cold waters of the loch.

  He was relieved to hit solid ground underfoot and stood up, thigh deep. The shore was only a few yards away, and he pushed himself quickly through the water toward it, almost slipping on sharper rocks twice, but managing to stay upright, although Seton was completely limp, a dead weight in his arm.

  He struggled ashore and put Seton down on a small pebbled beach before turning back to look for the rest of the squad.

  Hynd and Wiggins were right behind him, wading out of the water with their rifles held high overhead. There was no sign of Corporal McCally.

  - 9 -

  The beast wasn’t paying them any attention. It had already destroyed the boat and was now in the process of tearing the wreckage apart. It had stood up, the waterline just at the top of its short, squat legs, its front paws up on what was left of the rear deck of the boat. The huge head once again reminded Banks of that of a large horse in its general shape and demeanor, eyes wide, ears pricked, nostrils flaring and hairy mane flying in the wind. But no horse ever showed rows of teeth like this one; twin canines showing most prominently, gleaming white in the gloom.

  Banks raised his weapon, ready to take a shot, but the beast’s head went down to the deck before he could aim, and when the head came back up again, it had McCally in its mouth. It was impossible to tell whether the corporal was alive, although he lay limp across the lower law, and he wasn’t holding a weapon.

  Banks saw that Hynd and Wiggins had also turned and raised their rifles.

  “Aim for the fucker’s body,” he shouted.

  The beast bit down, a burst of red filled its maw, and it was already turning away, starting to chew, McCally clearly dead between its jaws, as the squad fired, three shots each, all aiming for the bulk of its body.

  Banks knew at least two of his had hit, he’d seen the impact clearly enough, but the beast surged away and was into the deeper water and moving off at speed in a matter of seconds. If the shots had wounded it in any way, it didn’t show it.

  *

  “Get back here, you fucker,” Wiggins wailed, and sent more shots off after the beast until it was lost from sight on the rain and haze, and Hynd put a hand on his shoulder.

  “He’s gone, lad. Cally’s gone.”

  “Aye,” Banks said bitterly. “And auld Sandy will be soon if we don’t get him to a doctor.”

  Banks knew that the loss of a man, one he’d considered a friend these past few years, was going to hit him hard when he stopped to think about it. Th
e trick, the only one he’d found over the years that worked, for a while, was not to stop and think about it. Sarge and Wiggins needed him now, and at this point, any order was better than no order at all.

  He looked over to where the wreckage of all that remained of the boat lay. What could float was already spreading out in a widening circle, the water had a covering film of oil and grease, and there was no sign that anything, such as their kit bags, was going to be salvageable.

  Besides, I don’t have time for that.

  “Sarge, you take point. There’s a road a hundred yards or so away up the slope to the north if my bearings are right. Wiggo, you and I have got the auld man here. We need to get him to a doctor at Castle Urquhart, and we need to do it right now. Move out.”

  Wiggins was on the verge of tears, and Banks thought he might join him if it came to that.

  Get them moving. Think—and drink—later.

  He stepped over to Seton. The older man was still out, although his breathing seemed to be coming slow and steady.

  “One on each side of him, and up the hill we go. Are you with me, Wiggo?”

  The private was still looking out over the water, as if expecting McCally to wade out to join them.

  “Wiggo, get your arse over here right now. That’s an order, private.”

  The voice of authority cut through Wiggins’ grief and got him moving, for now, and he came over to help heave Seton up from the stones of the small beach. They carried him between them, with their rifles in their free hands and their ears pricked, ready to turn and fire at the slightest indication that the beast was making a reappearance.