Operation Loch Ness

by William Meikle

  *

  Luckily, the slope wasn’t severe, and, following a deer track, they were able to carry Seton without too much effort, for the old man was small and slight, and was less of a burden than carrying their packs would have been. They got to the top of the slope, clambered over a guardrail, and found that the sarge had already flagged them down a ride, a large black sedan with the driver, an elderly woman, the only occupant. There was plenty of room for Banks, Wiggins and Seton in the back, and Hynd up front.

  The woman took one look at Seton and caught the urgency of the situation immediately. The road was quiet due to the weather, and she drove as fast as was safe in the conditions, lights blazing, hazard lights flashing and horn deployed to move aside anyone who dared to try to slow her down.

  “This is about that stushie on the other side of the loch, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Aye,” Banks replied. “But we can’t talk about I’m afraid.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I’m just happy to do my bit.”

  What she thought her ‘bit’ was in the cause of, Banks never found out. When they got to Castle Urquhart, they found six large tents and a portable office truck set up in the castle grounds. They bundled Seton off to a medic straight away, and by the time Banks thought to look for the driver and thank her, she’d already gone.

  *

  The doctor pronounced Seton alive and not in any danger of dying. By the time Banks was able to arrange a meeting with the colonel, the older man was awake and talking, although still in some degree of pain.

  He looked around, smiled when he saw the three of them at the bedside, then frowned.

  “Where’s the big man?” he said, looked at Banks, then went quiet. The answer must have been plain on the captain’s face.

  Seton tried to get out of bed, and a medic pushed him, none too gently, back down.

  “We’ve got enough morphine in you to kill the pain,” the medic said. “It’s going to knock you out any minute now, but at least it’ll make sure you get some rest.”

  Banks took the squad outside, and left a morose Hynd and Wiggo having a smoke outside a makeshift mess tent, then went to have the talk he’d been dreading all the way down the road in the woman’s car.

  It went about as badly as he expected.

  “So what you’re telling me is that you gave in to an old hippie weirdy-beardy, tried to stop the beast using bloody witchcraft or some such rubbish, and you lost a man? And the beast is still out there on the loch?”

  “Not exactly, sir, and—”

  “I don’t give a shit about ‘exactly,’ Captain. And neither will poor McCally’s family. You had the perfect chance to take the thing out, and you screwed up, that’s the long and short of it.”

  “Yes, sir, but it’s injured now, the lads will want a chance to get some payback for Cally and—”

  “If there’s payback, it won’t be from you or your men. You’re suspended, pending a full investigation. Now get your arse out of here before I decide the brig would be a better place for you.”

  *

  Hynd and Wiggins didn’t take it well. He met them inside the mess tent and joined them in a plate of fried chicken and chips, the first decent meal he’d had since this shitstorm started.

  “Suspended? He’s got to be fucking kidding. Cally deserves better than that,” Wiggins said.

  “Unless you’re planning on going A.W.O.L and stealing a boat, I don’t see that we’ve got much option,” Banks said.

  “Actually, that might not be a bad idea, Cap,” Wiggins started. Banks waved him to silence.

  “We’re soldiers, son, still subject to military justice. Our superior officer has given us an order. Ours is not to reason why and all that happy shite. Be thankful we’re still out in the free air.”

  “Aye, well sometimes it fucking sucks,”

  “So what else is new?” Banks said. He patted his rifle. “Just be glad we’re not completely busted. If the colonel was really pissed off, he’d have taken our guns too.”

  They finished their meals in silence and went back outside for a smoke. Night was falling, a dark gloom settling over the loch that matched their mood.

  One of the medics they’d left Seton with walked toward the tent. Banks stopped him at the opening.

  “How’s the wee man?”

  “Constitution of an ox,” the medic said. “But he’s got three broken ribs, and possibly a concussion. He’ll definitely be out for a couple of hours, and there’s an ambulance coming down from Inverness for him. When he gets his back braced, he’ll be sore, but walking, by tomorrow. Oh, and he asked me to give you this.”

  The medic took a thumb drive from his chest pocket and passed it to Banks.

  “He was doing something on our laptop, and wouldn’t go down and under until it was done. He says C is for the chant, and D is for the command. I don’t have a clue what that means.”

  “I think I might. Thanks,” Banks said. He passed the drive to Wiggins.

  “This’ll give you something to do, lad. Find us a laptop, and see what’s on this. If it’s what I think it is, it might come in handy.”

  He thanked the medic again, and left Hynd and Wiggins by the mess tent.

  He needed to clear his head.

  *

  Banks felt at a loose end, his nerves frayed and buzzing. The vision of the beast chewing down as it carried McCally away remained big in his mind. He walked past the other tents, along the side of the truck carrying the temporary office, up a narrow gravel track, and onto a mound overlooking the castle. The rain had eased back to thin drizzle, although with the wind it still felt harsh against his cheeks. He turned his back on it, and lit a cigarette in cupped hands.

  The tumbled ruin of the castle was still lit up for visitors, although Banks had the place to himself. It was normally a tourist trap. In high summer, there would be rows of coaches in the area the colonel had chosen for his H.Q., and scores, even hundreds, of people would be milling around the grounds and gift shop. Banks wondered what they’d think, them with their wee plush Nessie toys, their porcelain ornaments, tea towels and postcards all showing the now traditional, serpentine, cute, and often green monster. What would they make of the raging dark beast that had so easily overcome the boat, had so casually taken the life of his corporal?

  And there I am already, back worrying at it again.

  The colonel was right; from his perspective, Banks had been negligent in not taking the shot when Seton had the beast calmed.

  But I promised the wee man I wouldn’t. And the day my promise means nothing is the day I quit.

  But there was still the direct line that ran from letting the beast lie there as if asleep, and the later events that led to McCally’s death. Part of him wanted to lay the blame at the door of the BBC reporters in the chopper, but they too were dead. Anyway, he knew that in the long nights when sleep wouldn’t come, McCally would be there with him, in line with the other men he’d lost over the years, all ready to ask why.

  Because we chose the life.

  That was the real answer, one that all soldiers, if they were honest to themselves, knew. But that didn’t stop them lining up at three in the morning to admonish him. And it didn’t stop the guilt.

  He smoked two cigarettes while standing on the mound in the rain, face turned toward the castle but not really seeing it, lost in thought, of times spent with McCally in the field, in bars, and just hanging out around the pool table in the mess.

  Christ, I’ll miss him.

  He ground the butt of his second smoke out on the gravel and finally turned back into the wind and rain, heading for the tents to find out what Wiggins made of the thumb drive. They might be suspended, but that didn’t mean they had to just sit quietly on their arses.

  *

  He found Hynd and Wiggins in the mess tent again. They sat side by side at a laptop. As Banks approached, he noticed that the thumb drive was installed on its right-hand side.

  “The colon
el’s secretary has gone home for the night,” Hynd said, “so we helped ourselves to a wee lend of her machine. Would you believe her password is ‘password12’?

  “And what about the drive? Anything on it?”

  Wiggins turned the laptop so Banks could see. There was a small blue window in the center of the screen, with just two round red buttons, one labeled ‘C’ and one labeled ‘D’.

  “It’s a wee simple JavaScript routine, attached to two .mp3 files,” Wiggins said. “A piece of piss for a programmer, but not something I expected the wee auld man to be capable of.”

  “I think wee Sandy kens a lot more than he’s let on,” Banks replied. “But does it work?”

  “Aye, well, it’s him singing that Gaelic stuff right enough, and shouting the two words. I heard it in the headphones earlier, but it’ll work just fine through the speakers. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Wiggins clicked the mouse before Banks could stop him. The sound of the Gaelic chant, slightly tinny, and hoarser than they’d heard it previously, came clearly through the speakers.

  “Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.

  “Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.”

  A loud bark echoed from out on the loch in reply.

  - 10 -

  “Oh, fuck,” Wiggins said. “What do we do, Cap? Leave it on or switch it off?”

  The two lines looped ‘round again.

  “Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.

  “Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.”

  And again a loud bark came in reply. They were not the only ones to hear it. People came out of tents to gather in the open area, bemused by the sheer volume of the beast’s call.

  “Leave it on, Wiggo,” Banks said. “This might be the only chance we get.”

  “Has that fucker been following us or what? And how the fuck can it hear it? It’s hardly loud enough to carry outside the tent,” Hynd said.

  “Maybe it’s fucking Supernessie,” Wiggins said.

  “Stow it, lads. Let’s take the laptop down to the shore, see if we can bring this fucker to us. If it comes, we’ll put it down hard this time.”

  “What about the colonel?” Hynd asked.

  “We’re doing this for Cally,” Banks said. “Fuck the colonel.”

  “You’ll have to get in line for that,” a voice said in the tent opening. Banks looked up to see his superior officer glaring in at them.

  The two lines of the chant looped ‘round again.

  “Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.

  “Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.”

  The bark came in on the last syllable. It sounded closer now.

  “This is your doing?” the colonel said.

  “It’s just something the man Seton left for us,” Banks said. “I had no idea it would bring the thing here, with all these people about.”

  “Aye, well, it looks like you might have done something right after all, and saved us a night on the loch in the dark looking for it. Did I hear you say you were going to the shore?”

  The bark came again in response to the next looped chant. It was definitely closer now.

  “Yes, sir. And I think we’d better do it soon, before we have a bloody big angry visitor.”

  “I’ll get you some backup,” the colonel said, and turned away from the door.

  “You heard the boss,” Banks said. “To the shore it is, double time, lads. Let’s nail the fucker once and for all.”

  *

  Wiggins held the laptop open in his left hand. The chant kept looping, and the barking got ever closer. Several people had already moved down to the stony beach, staring out over the dark loch.

  “Get the fuck back, you idiots,” Hynd shouted. “Either that or get a weapon. This thing’s not a fucking cuddly toy.”

  Nobody paid him any notice, and by then it was too late anyway. Somebody, Banks guessed it to be at the colonel’s order, swung one of the floodlights around so that it lit up the shore and the surface of the loch beyond. The beast lay in the deeper water some 20 yards offshore, the now telltale three humps all that could be seen of it, its head toward shore, tail end swaying slowly from side to side as it maintained its position. The sound of the chanting from the laptop was almost obscured by the click of photographs being taken, and yells of what sounded more like awe than fear. As the chant reached the end of another loop, the huge head came up, just for long enough to give out an answering bark before lowering again.

  “Wiggo,” Banks said. “I’m going to give it a poke. If it starts to come forward, try that other button and see if it stops. If not, you have my permission to shoot the fucker. Let’s do Cally proud.”

  Banks raised his rifle and took aim. He waited for the last syllable of the looped chant to come ‘round, anticipated the head coming up, and fired three quick shots that echoed and rang across the water.

  As before, the reaction was immediate; the beast came forward, as solid and implacable as an oncoming steam train, nostrils flaring, mouth agape, the mane flying behind the huge head.

  Banks tried to take aim right down its throat, but the gawpers on the shore had suddenly realized their peril, and in their flight ran right in front of him. To make matters worse, Wiggins got knocked by a flailing arm, and the laptop went flying, landing with an ominous crack on the rocks at their feet. Hynd at least got three shots in, but if they hit the beast, it didn’t show it.

  They were out of time; the thing was almost on them. Banks threw his body to the ground and tried to take aim in the same motion. Hynd and Wiggins both leapt and rolled aside as the beast reached them. Banks tried to get his weapon up, hoping at least to do some damage before he got flattened, but the beast raised its head, barked—more like a roar of defiance—and kept on going. Banks had to roll away fast as a foot that would have caved in his chest stamped down where he had just been, then had to roll away farther when the tree-trunk thick tail whipped just in front of his eyes. He smelled it as it passed over him, musky and thick, and felt its heat as if he stood near a roaring fire.

  Then they were left on the shore as the creature headed directly for the tents of the camp, scattering people ahead of it. One poor sod was too slow, and the beast, barely slowing, barreled directly over him, leaving only a trampled, broken sack of flesh behind it.

  “It’s heading for the lights,” Hynd shouted.

  Banks rolled to his feet. Wiggins had bent to the laptop but left it on the ground, taking only the thumb drive from its socket and stowing it in his flak jacket.

  “It’s buggered, Cap.”

  “And so are we all if we don’t take that thing down right now,” Banks replied. “With me, lads.”

  He set off at a run, heading back toward the camp.

  *

  The creature had already trampled or torn down most of the tents, and was in the process of biting down hard on the largest of the floodlight gantries. The light itself wobbled then fell to the ground with a crash that could be heard all over the camp. The power to the other lights shorted out with a crack and flash of blue sparks. The beast immediately turned its attention to the portable office, perhaps thinking it to be an enemy, for it was little more than a long, squat, shadow in the darkness. Banks saw the tail swing ‘round, as effective a weapon as a swung iron bar, caving in the whole of one side of the trailer and sending the vehicle rolling and tumbling across the car-park in a screech of tearing, buckling, metal.

  The squad was too far away to get a clear shot now that the camp was in almost total darkness. The only light came from the road beyond and the assembled news crews. Banks waved forward six other armed men who looked to be seeking an order, any order.

  “With me,” he shouted. “Try to distract it from the civilians.”

  But that option was already gone; the car park lit up in a cluster of flashes as the massed ranks of press tried to get a picture
. The beast reacted as if it had been shot again, and launched itself out of the car park and straight at the press corps.

  *

  The carnage started with the demolition of a BBC van that lasted even less time than the helicopter had earlier; when the beast moved on, there was only a flattened and torn pile of bloodied scrap left behind. The reporters had packed themselves so tightly across the narrow roadway that they had nowhere to go, nowhere to run. The beast rampaged through them, tossing vehicles and bodies aside, tearing flesh and bone apart with teeth and claws, and feeding as it tore a bloody swath 20 yards long along the road.

  Banks fired three shots toward the beast even as he ran toward the carnage, aiming high so as not to hit anybody.

  “Hey, come on, you fucker,” Wiggins shouted. “I’m tastier than any of those wankers. Come and get a bite out of me.” He too fired high, but the beast seemed too intent on feeding to take any note.

  “If you don’t get back here, I’m going to put a round up yer arse,” Wiggins shouted, and fired again, but the beast did not turn. It continued to rend and tear in frenzy, its excited barks even louder than the terrible wails and screams from what remained of the press corps.

  It was Hynd who surprised them all by shouting out, not a curse, but the Gaelic command they’d heard Seton use earlier.

  “Dhumna Ort!” Dhumna Ort!”

  Everything fell quiet save for wails and weeping from the dying and injured. The beast stopped feeding and turned slowly. It looked straight at the armed soldiers. Banks motioned that they should form a line across the road, cutting off the thing’s path back to the loch.

  The beast, wary now, backed away slowly. In the gloom of the night, and at still 30 yards away, it was a looming, black shadow, although the glint of its eyes as it stared at them could be clearly seen.