Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  The blowout preventer had sealed off the well. "Goddamn riser is all over the place!" Scotty said. The drill pipe began to bang off the inside of the riser.

  "The drill pipe's bending," the driller cried. "This keeps up, we're going to be in big trouble."

  Below they could hear the top of the riser sloshing in the water in the moon pool, pushing the resisting ship farther out of line. The clanging of the drill pipe increased. The Kelly bushing, which held the drilling assemblage in the rotary table, shot out, nearly decapitating a rotary helper. The ship's movement eased momentarily. Then another jolt hit. Tools and pipes bounced off the derrick lattice. A tong smacked the tool pusher across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor, covered with blood. Several men moved to help, ducking beneath a swinging pipe, which pinned a roustabout against the rear stairwell. Mud shot up through the deck planks to the rear of the derrick, covering everyone with wet clay.

  Reddington closed down ship electrical.

  "A mud tank ruptured!" a derrick man called.

  "Get someone downstairs," Scotty cried.

  A crewman ran forward through the melee. "There's tremendous pressure on the other anchors. They're going to rip out, too!"

  The derrick started to vibrate. Tools secured to the upper derrick walkways showered down. Men cried out, running away from the downpour.

  "What the hell can we do?" Whittenfeld asked frantically.

  "Nothing!" Scotty advised. "We just wait."

  They watched the driller's controls. Listened to the clank of the drill pipe inside the riser. Felt the ship sway beneath them. Heard the creak of the anchor lines.

  Then, suddenly, the ship stopped moving; it was over.

  No one said a word. Everyone wiped the sweat and mud from their clothes and faces. The injured roustabout and tool pusher, both still bleeding heavily, stumbled off to medical, assisted by several crew members.

  Whittenfeld walked across the drill floor, eyes wild, hands clenched into fists, finally turning toward the bridge deck to return to Farquharson and the others.

  However, the bridge deck was empty.

  Undersecretary Farquharson, Mr. Droon, Mary MacKenzie, and Jerry Foster were all on the drilling-platform staircase, covered with mud, spackled with blood, staring.

  Chapter 4

  William Whittenfeld examined the equations on the lead page of the differential workout, then stopped pacing and returned to the conference table.

  It had been a week since the Columbus disruption. As expected, there'd been flak. Fortunately, though, there'd been no press leaks, and he'd been able to keep the interested parties on hold, pending the outcome of Geminii's internal investigation.

  "Continue," he said.

  Scotty glanced at Reddington, Foster, Lefebre. "Before we dispatched the contract diving team from Aberdeen," he said, examining several sets of documents, "we recalculated the mooring equations for the ship's six anchor lines. Those are the ones you just read. And you've seen the results. The anchor pattern was appropriate, and it was certainly capable of withstanding much higher current and wind forces than were being exerted at the time of the breakdown."

  Whittenfeld glanced at the equations again. "Agreed."

  Scotty looked at another document. "The divers carefully inspected the anchor hole and its cement plug. There was no sign of disintegration or decomposition. The plug itself was intact, and the anchor hole did not fail. We're certain something grabbed the anchor line and pulled the plug from the wall!"

  Whittenfeld was shocked. "Are you sure the Columbus's own movements couldn't have done it?"

  "Absolutely. The driller noticed the position display panel just before the disruption and the drill ship was right over the wellhead."

  "Were there any marks on the line?"

  "No. We ran microinspections. The line's clean."

  Whittenfeld turned to Reddington. "Do you agree, Red?"

  "Yes," Reddington said. "We're also convinced the jolts we felt on board were caused by the anchor wire being yanked against the weight of the ship."

  "Could there be another explanation?"

  "Not really," Reddington replied. "The direction of the ship's movements after the initial pullout jerk back were toward the anchor pile, and one member of the crew said he saw the shipboard end of the broken anchor line pull taut several times after it had certainly been ripped from its foundation."

  "What about the broken guide wires?" Whittenfeld asked.

  Scotty pulled a cloth off the center of the table. Beneath were four pieces of wire line, set in two parallel rows. "The points where the ends meet is where each wire was cut."

  "Cut? Not broken or tipped?"

  "No. Something cut the guide wires at approximately two hundred and ten feet. Fortunately, whatever it was came in from the side because if it was cutting indiscriminately, it might have axed the two blowout prevention control hoses."

  "What cut the wires?" Whittenfeld asked after placing two of the cut wire ends together.

  "A scissorlike tool," Scotty said.

  Whittenfeld thoughtfully tugged the cuff ends of his sleeves into alignment. He was relatively calm; he had not shown real anger since the day of the incident. "What about the riser?"

  Scotty placed the cloth back over the guide wires. "I said at the height of the confusion that I thought something was pushing the riser. Well, we're convinced of it now!"

  "Is there any firm evidence?"

  "No. Certainly nothing at the point of attack. We had the divers inspect the riser sections. There were no dents of any kind on the riser's steel shell, no remnants—paint, oil,

  grease—nothing."

  "Then how did you reach your conclusion?"

  "By carefully reviewing the facts. By questioning the crew, analyzing movement, the ship's momentum, direction, eliminating possibilities."

  "Did the riser come close to failing?"

  "No, but it was severely stressed. I had the divers inspect most of the joints. The joints were given a good jostling. The divers also did a magnetic-particle inspection for cracks. None were found. The drill pipe is okay, too. All in all, I think we got away lucky." He looked around the table. "Whatever pulled out the plug and moved the marine riser had tremendous power. Whatever cut the guide wires had a very sharp tool face. We have to make the assumption that all three events were initiated by the same culprit."

  "There were no unknown vessels on the loch surface at the time of the attack," Reddington added, joining. "No one on the ship saw anything other than our seismic boats, two of our tugs, and a transglen navigational barge. Since the guide wires were cut at over two hundred feet beneath the surface, we have to eliminate anyone breathing air because you just can't effectively use air diving systems at that depth. Scuba is out. Diver lockouts are out. So are wet vehicles."

  "No," Scotty said. "We've analyzed the information ad nauseam. The only culprit that makes sense is a manned submersible."

  "Are you serious?" Whittenfeld asked.

  Scotty shrugged. "We know it sounds incredible. And believe me, we're not comfortable with it. But yes, we're serious. It's the only conclusion that rings true. What we can't imagine is who would have been sophisticated enough to have gotten an operating submersible into the loch undetected."

  "A lot of people, Monsieur Bruce!" Lefebre suddenly said. "If you pay the price, you can buy anything you need. Submersibles. Experienced crews. Certainly secrecy!"

  Whittenfeld stiffened. "The Columbus was attacked by a submersible?" he asked incredulously, his anger beginning to resurface.

  "Yes," Scotty said.

  "Under whose control?"

  "I don't know."

  "Lefebre?"

  Lefebre stood. "The three guests come on ship," he said. "As soon as they get here, all hell breaks loose. Even an idiot would realize it was timed to happen." He jabbed the table. "Make a list of every radical nationalist group in the region. Make another which includes everyone who opposed the loch application. S
omeone on those two lists instigated the attack. And I wouldn't dismiss the two who were aboard the drill ship. This MacKenzie and Droon. I've dealt with fanatics all my life. They live for their causes. MacKenzie and Droon would have sacrificed themselves. I heard it in their voices. Saw it on their faces."

  "I want the Columbus protected," Whittenfeld snapped.

  "Shouldn't we notify the police?" Scotty asked.

  Whittenfeld vehemently shook his head. "No. The police will only interfere. We'll do what must be done ourselves. Lefebre! I want you to place armed guards on the Columbus and around the loch shore!"

  Reddington sat forward, distracted. "Armed guards on the ship can't protect it from a submersible," he said. "They'll just invite dissension."

  "From whom?"

  "The crew. The rig team. The union."

  Whittenfeld's expression hardened. "Geminii Petroleum. The Columbus. The completion of the Loch Ness exploratory well. Those have to be our priorities. Not the feelings of the rig crew nor the position of the union. There will be armed guards aboard the drill ship!" He pointed to Scotty. "I want a guard tug permanently on line as well. I know we don't have any to spare, so call Aberdeen or speak to the London office. Make arrangements. Get it here. And have it loaded with sonar equipment and stationed near the Columbus. If anything attempts to approach the riser or any of the anchors again, I want us to know about it before it reaches its target." He ambled toward the conference table. "The Energy Department license gives us four years to operate. If we comply with license conditions, we get an additional thirty. I don't want to see us closed down. I don't want to see us lose out when the Moray Firth offshore bids come up, either. And Lefebre is right. There are legions of opponents who would like to see us booted. They don't understand the real world. They're fanatics. And damn, I'm not going to let a bunch of fanatics delay or run us out!" He caught his breath. "There will be guards and sonar, and our installations will be protected!"

  "Do we try to track down the saboteurs ourselves as well?" Scotty asked, realizing Whittenfeld's protective decisions were realistic in view of the findings.

  "Yes," Whittenfeld replied, turning to Lefebre.

  "The environmentalists," Lefebre said. "The Scottish Nationalist Party. The radical nationals. The unions. It was one of them or all of them."

  Whittenfeld leaned toward his security chief. "You're to see that the ship and our other installations are guarded. Then you're to try and uncover the parties behind the attack. Do what must be done. But do it carefully. I don't want any

  confrontations. I don't want any violence. I don't want to alert the constabulary. And I certainly don't want to provoke the local governing authorities. No, I want done just what must be done to protect this project and this company. Only that!"

  Shortly after Whittenfeld had adjourned the meeting he had ended the discussions by commissioning Foster to compile a report on the Columbus incident for Farquharson as quickly as possible—Scotty accompanied Reddington to the roof, where a helicopter was waiting, then re-entered the building, taking an elevator down to the first floor.

  Locating Lefebre's suite, he entered. Lefebre's secretary was not at her desk, but Lefebre's door was open. The Frenchman was on the phone. Scotty began to retreat, but Lefebre waved him in.

  The office surprised him. He expected something sparse and uninviting. But this place was fascinating. There were potted plants about. Shelves filled with books. Hanging lithographs. An open volume of Shakespearean plays on a reading stand. A half-dozen mounted ivory carvings. And one carving in progress on a work bench in the corner.

  Lefebre ended the phone conversation—he'd been talking to a perimeter security officer—and put down the receiver. "Monsieur Bruce?" he said, smiling.

  "I was down the hall," Scotty explained. "I thought I'd drop in and sit for a minute. See your office."

  "Make yourself at home," Lefebre said, shifting in his scat. Behind him was a duty roster clogged with names. "Would you like something to drink? Some coffee, tea, water?"

  "No, thank you," Scotty said, looking about, admiring the carvings.

  Lefebre smiled. "I see you have a roving eye. See anything interesting?"

  "Yes. The ivory work."

  "My menagerie."

  "The elephant in particular. It's spectacular."

  "I appreciate the compliment."

  Scotty pointed to the work bench. "You carved these yourself?" he asked, very impressed.

  "With considerable difficulty."

  "Where'd you learn?"

  Lefebre paused, thinking, then answered. "In the army. In Marseilles. There was a soldier in my regiment who'd been raised in the Cameroons. He learned the skill from a native. I learned from him."

  "Are you from Marseilles?"

  "No, Calais. I was stationed in Marseilles. And I remained there after my discharge. Working."

  "For the Marseilles police?"

  Lefebre laughed. "You seem to be compiling a dossier. So please, allow me to complete it. Parents dead, childhood status: orphan. No wife. One child . . . a bastard . . . location unknown. Six years as security director for various industrial concerns. A tenure in the French army. A long career with the Marseilles police. A degree from the Sorbonne in classical literature."

  "Classical literature?"

  "Does that surprise you?"

  Scotty glanced at the shelves, the books. "Not really. I see the evidence." Lefebre's manner of speech included; it was perfect. "No, I guess I just find it incongruous that someone with a degree in literature would become a security man."

  "Life's convolutions can never be accurately foreseen. There are roadblocks, circumstances, twists of fate, which often lead men down uncharted roads. Yes, I enjoyed literature. I still do. But long ago I found other pursuits far more rewarding."

  "Like what?"

  "My job. This job."

  "I hope I'm not prying?"

  Lefebre shook his head, laughing. "I'm flattered by the attention." He extended a pack of Gitanes. Scotty declined. Lefebre pulled one out. "So," he said, lighting the cigarette and blowing a ring of smoke across the desk, "what else can I tell you?"

  Scotty looked about. The blotter was filled with papers. There were several books piled on a corner of the desk and, strangely, two boxes of chewing tobacco, something he would not have expected to find in the possession of a Frenchman. "Tell me about the submersible," he said.

  "What do you mean?" Lefebre asked as he flipped some pages of the Shakespeare compendium.

  "My conclusion."

  "I accept it."

  "Do you think it was right?"

  "If you're asking whether or not I think there could actually have been a submersible in the loch, the answer is 'yes.' If you're asking whether there are people who would attempt such an attack, I refer you to my speech upstairs, and again the answer is 'yes.' And if you're asking whether I will uncover the identity of the malicious parties involved, the answer is . . ."

  " 'Yes'?"

  "Definitely yes."

  The telephone rang. The secretary had not returned yet, so Lefebre picked up the phone himself. The caller was Whittenfeld. They spoke briefly; then Lefebre walked Scotty out into the hall.

  "Duty calls, my friend," Lefebre said. "But we should have lunch soon. Talk some more. Compare dossiers."

  "Absolutely," Scotty declared.

  The elevator arrived. Lefebre disappeared. Scotty sorted out impressions. Though Lefebre had tried to make a sincere and friendly impression, he'd failed. Scotty wasn't quite sure what he sensed, but he suspected a completely different kind of man lurking inside the smiling shell of the security chief.

  He left the building.

  It was raining the following morning when Scotty walked down the second-floor corridor past frenetic secretaries and popped into Jerry Foster's office.

  "You look bright eyed and bushy tailed," Foster observed as he collated some papers on his desk.

  "Hardly," Scotty said, picking up
the bottom of the drawn window blinds. "You going to show movies in here?"

  Foster laughed. "No. The rain depresses me. I also work best under artificial light."

  Scotty sat, noticing a ludicrous picture of Foster in scuba gear hanging on the wail.

  "That the Columbus report?" he asked, pointing at the papers.

  "You bet."

  "You have a full draft already?"

  "Already? Hey, Scotty, that's a funny one. I haven't ieft this place since yesterday afternoon." He glanced down at the report. "God knows if the damn thing makes any sense. I'm so bleary-eyed I doubt I'll be able to tell. And hell, a lot of the stuff is Greek to me."

  "You need my expertise?"

  "No. Whittenfeld will be down in a while to dot the i's. He's been hovering around me like a bat since I started this thing. But who can blame him. The ship gambit backfired. There's been pressure from New York and London. And while you and Reddington were working on the loch, Whittenfeld was fielding some stinging phone calls from the Scottish Office and the Highland Council. No, he has every reason to make sure this report hits the mark, some special incentive, too. Loch Ness, this place, this operation, all of it is very personal to him. He lives for it. Christ, I'm surprised he's been as restrained as he's been this week, though, I tell you, when you laid the submersible thing on him, I thought he was going to explode like a bomb."

  "Maybe I have a calming effect on him."

  "Could be."

  Thoughtful, Scotty picked up the draft, glanced over it, then laid it down and stood. "You call me if you need me."

  Foster stood, too. "You got it," he said, smiling.

  Chapter 5

  Several days later, Whittenfeld summoned the executive staff to his office and distributed the Columbus report. The report recapped the events aboard the drill ship, the results of the investigation, and the conclusions reached by management. It declined to point an incriminating finger but acknowledged the company was undertaking steps to ensure the safety of its installations.

  He asked for comments. There were none. He said he'd expected none, so he had taken the liberty of previously forwarding the report to Farquharson.