Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  Simpkins pointed, moving his arm toward the west. "No, first it was moving. Kind of zigzag. Then it disappeared below the surface, popped up once more for just a second, and was gone for good before I could puff a breath again."

  "Did anyone else see this thing?" Reddington asked.

  "No," Grabowski advised. "I've already checked every member of the crew."

  "How long was it on the surface?" Reddington questioned, scanning the horizon.

  "Maybe ten seconds," Simpkins replied.

  "And you didn't call for anyone?"

  "You have a good sense of humor, Mr. Red. No. I was shaking like hell. Couldn't talk. Besides, I was trying to get my camera working."

  "You took its picture?" Scotty asked.

  "Sure enough."

  Simpkins handed Scotty a Polaroid glossy. Scotty and Reddington looked close. Oh, the hump was there all right, but it looked more like a floating log than a big monster.

  "This doesn't help us much at all, Mr. Simpkins," Scotty said, commenting on the poor resolution.

  "I didn't say it would, sir. I only said I took the monster's picture."

  Scotty looked out toward the south shore. There was no sign of any floating riffraff. "Beats me." He turned to Reddington. "What about you?"

  "Beats me, too."

  "Well, it was there," Simpkins said, defending himself.

  Reddington nodded. "How long have you been on shift?"

  "Six hours."

  "Then you're relieved. Go down and relax for an hour or two."

  The crew members began to congratulate Simpkins. Then, as Simpkins started off the helipad, he turned. "Can I have my picture, sir?"

  "Of course," Reddington said, handing Simpkins the undistinguished glossy.

  Simpkins put the snapshot in his pocket. The clutch broke up. Scotty and Reddington remained on the helipad, searching the horizon.

  Whittenfeld's chopper appeared. Turning to each other, they laughed, then moved off the pad to clear the chopper's approach.

  A chill wind had begun to gust mercilessly across the main deck as Whittenfeld, Lefebre, Foster, Reddington, and Scotty Bruce emerged from the bridge deck after an exhaustive meeting.

  "I want one guard stationed in the moon pool area at all times," Whittenfeld was saying as they stopped alongside one of the deck cranes. "And the other two on the stern and the bow."

  "Two shifts?" Reddington asked.

  "Yes," Whittenfeld replied. "Twelve hours each to run concurrently with the drill-crew tour."

  Reddington looked up at the drilling platform. One of the guards was already in position, holding an automatic rifle; the others were below deck in the cabins assigned to security.

  Whittenfeld turned to Reddington. "The guards have been instructed to inform you of anything suspicious. If that occurs, you are to call home base and speak to Lefebre." He looked down the catwalk. "Is the launch ready, Scotty?"

  "Ready and waiting," Scotty said.

  Whittenfeld smiled. He hadn't smiled much during the meeting. He'd been very businesslike, very preoccupied. "Then let's go for a ride," he said.

  They walked to the gangway, then carefully descended on to a motor launch, moored to the ship's side.

  "Take us out," Scotty ordered.

  The launch pilot steered the launch away from the drill ship and then, several minutes later, pulled up to the sonar tug.

  They climbed aboard. The tug was rolling heavily on the swells. The tug captain, a stalklike Norwegian named Sven Olafsen, ushered them into the bridge room and

  them to the sonar engineer.

  "You all set?" Whittenfeld asked, examining and scope displays.

  "Absolutely," the engineer said, flipping a switch. "We've got passive sound, side scan, and heat detect." He pointed to a panel of instruments. "That's the passive. Standard Navy issue, antisubmarine. It's a basic sonic receiver. Paticularly sensitive to engine noises. If anything with a shaft and propeller comes waltzing along, we're going to pick her up." He pointed to another scope. "Again, Royal standard issue, antisubmarine ordnance. It's a heat seeker. It will spot any mechanical vehicle, even if the vehicle's running silent."

  "Will it Pick up the Columbus?" Reddington asked.

  "Sure," the engineer replied. "But We have a clear picture of the Columbus's pattern, so we can factor out its influence. However, the drill vibrations will give us distortion on the side scan." He moved to another console. "We've got a high-resolution, computerized Marine Tech, Model 800 Side Scan sonar on board, equipped with a very advanced sonar fish, which we're trailing a couple of hundred feet behind the tug."

  "How reliable is the unit?" Foster asked.

  "As reliable as they come. We used its forerunner to survey the Loch bottom when we were try'rog to fix a position for the Columbus."

  Whittenfeld impatiently walked out of the cabin, followed by Olafsen and the rest of the group.

  "I want the system on 'go' at all times," he said after everyone had returned to the launch.

  "Of course," Olafsen replied from the tug.

  The launch returned to the Columbus.

  "Are you coming back with us?" Whittenfeld asked as he, Lefebre, and Foster marched to the helipad's steps.

  "No," Scotty said. "I'm going to hang around for a while."

  Whittenfeld stepped on to the pad along with Foster and climbed aboard the helicopter. Lefebre remained on the steps, staring down at Scotty, motionless. Lefebre had not said a word since arriving on board. In fact, this was the first time Lefebre had even looked at Scotty. The look was not pleasant.

  Scotty restrained himself; God how he wanted to unload on the bastard!

  The helicopter loudspeaker belched Lefebre's name; Lefebre hopped on to the helipad and disappeared as well.

  Moments later, the helicopter was gone.

  At eight o'clock, Scotty called Geminii base and spoke to the director of helicopter operations. Since Whittenfeld's departure, a heavy fog and drizzle had socked in the loch. Both agreed visibility was unfavorable for shipboard landing. Scotty decided to remain on board until the morning and joined Bill Nunn in the lounge.

  Reddington appeared moments later.

  "One of the sonar scouts just called," Reddington cried. "They've got something already."

  "What?" Scotty asked, standing.

  "They're not sure. But they want us out. Right now."

  Leaving Nunn, they hurried topside, climbed on to the launch, and raced toward the tug, whose night lights were shining a half mile away. Once aboard, Captain Olafsen led them onto the bridge.

  "We don't know what the hell we've picked up," Olafsen stammered, "but it's very strange."

  "How many tracings?" Reddington asked as they poked through the doorway.

  "Several, so far."

  Three crew members were huddled together behind the sonar engineer, who was carefully monitoring scopes

  "What's up?" Scotty asked, pushing to the fore.

  The engineer glanced over his shoulder. "Take a look at these printouts."

  Scotty and Reddington leaned over the side-scan display.

  "It looks like a Rorschach of a big eel," Reddington said. "What is it?" Scotty asked.

  "I don't know," the engineer replied. "But whatever it is, I think we've just picked up part of it. You can see the trace broadening out as it leaves the paper."

  Reddington breathed deeply. "Could it be a submersible?"

  The engineer emphatically shook his head. "No submersible traces like that. First of all, if the thing was inanimate, its trace would be composed of straighter rebound lines. No, I'd bet it's alive, whatever it is."

  "Is it moving?" Reddington asked.

  "Yes," the engineer replied. "Straight down! And no submersible dives straight down. Especially at five hundred and fifty feet per minute!"

  Scotty pointed to the displays. "Could the thing be a fish or a school of fish?"

  The engineer tried to increase resolution. "I doubt it. The rate of descent ma
kes it unlikely."

  Reddington moved closer. "Are you sure, absolutely sure, the traces aren't being made by a submersible?"

  The engineer annoyedly pointed to the other displays. "The sound detect hasn't registered a damn thing other than the drill ship's drilling track. There are no motors running. No propellers turning. There's negative on heat. There's nothing mechanical down there, period!"

  Seconds later, another trace plotted out. The engineer analyzed it.

  "My guess is the object's in excess of one hundred feet. And it's moving at close to seventeen knots."

  Reddington flinched. "Seventeen knots? Over a hundred feet long?"

  Stunned, they huddled around the instnunents.

  "It must be gone," the engineer finally said shortly before ten o'clock, a half hour after the last trace had been taken. "Whatever it was has headed for the hills."

  Scotty tore off the trace sheets, folded them, and placed them in his pocket.

  "You've been doing this for a long time?" he asked.

  "That's correct," the engineer replied.

  "Then tell me. Have you ever seen traces like these before?"

  "No. Absolutely not."

  Scotty turned to Olafsen. "We'll be on the drill ship. If the object returns, call us immediately."

  "Of course," Olafsen declared.

  Scotty and Reddington returned to the launch.

  Reboarding the Columbus, they entered the supervisor's office. A tremendous jolt hit the ship moments later, throwing them off their chairs and against the cabin wall, upending every standing piece of furniture in sight.

  "What the hell!" Reddington said as he struggled to his feet.

  Another jolt hit, shoving the drill ship sideways, once more adding to the disarray.

  They ran out the door. Bill Nunn intercepted them on the main-deck catwalk.

  "Man overboard!" he cried. "The jolt knocked him off the forward helipad."

  "Who?"

  "We don't know yet."

  Reddington pushed close. "Have the floods picked him up?"

  "No. The fog's too thick for visual contact. We don't have much time. There. Listen. You can hear his screams."

  "The life rafts?" Scotty asked.

  "They're being lowered."

  "Any damage to the ship?"

  "Don't know yet, either."

  "Something hit us?"

  "No one's sure."

  Scotty and Reddington raced to the gangway. A sizable portion of the crew had already crowded around. The life raft was in the water. Scotty and Reddington jumped aboard with two other men. They listened. They heard cries. Scotty pointed. They began to row, accompanied by the hazy lights of the ship's floods and their own torches.

  "We're coming," Reddington cried.

  No response.

  "Can you hear us?"

  Splashing sounds echoed, then screams.

  "Hang on!"

  Water spat up into the raft, water cold, damn cold, as was the air, thick as shit, as Nunn had said, visibility nil.

  "To the right," Reddington ordered.

  "We're coming," Scotty repeated, responding to a cry.

  Goddamn if they would ever reach the man. The current was strong, swells heavy. They were confused, too.

  An echo reverberated, a cry.

  "Hang on."

  Suddenly, the raft set into a peculiar position as if it had been sucked downward. Water spilled over the sides. The raft lurched rightward, spun hard, then moved quickly against the current. Terrified, they held on tight, sensing something might have moved with great force beneath them, causing an underwater wake, which had grabbed the raft.

  A terrible yelp of pain, a death cry, refocused their attention on the lost crewman.

  "Can you hear us?" Scotty called.

  Another call of pain and then nothing. They continued to search. They found a torn-off shirt sleeve covered with blood. Nothing more. Concluding they'd done all they could, they returned to the ship.

  Grabowski walked down the gangway to meet them. "We've got an ident," he said.

  "Who?" Scotty asked.

  Grabowski paused, then said, "Simpkins."

  "The man who thought he saw the monster?"

  "Yes."

  Simpkins!

  The flat light of the Scottish morning highlighted William Whittenfeld's features as he sat behind his desk, examining the sonar traces.

  "This is it?" he asked.

  "Yes," Scotty replied.

  Whittenfeld's thoughts were flying. "Positive traces. No mechanical echo. Negative heat report."

  "We all agreed. The object was alive, very big and very fast."

  Whittenfeld laughed. "The Loch Ness monster?"

  Scotty shrugged. "I don't know."

  Whittenfeld dropped the traces on the blotter, then stood. "Scotty, I put the tug out there to watch for submersibles, not monsters."

  "I know. But those traces were recorded. They exist. They are reality."

  "Scotty. They are nonsense. A school of fish. An electrical error. Flotsam. But not a monster."

  "The sonar engineer considered every possible alternative."

  Whittenfeld shook his head. "I want this matter deep sixed. I want you to inform the sonar tug team to deep six it, too. There are no monsters in Loch Ness. No one at Geminii can ever infer such a thing. One word of this and every Nessie freak in creation will descend on the loch. The environmentalists and the university community will go berserk, and we could have our asses reamed right out of here."

  "But how do you explain the traces?"

  "I told you. A school of fish. Mechanical error. Or perhaps the work of saboteurs."

  "Saboteurs?"

  "Think, Scotty. They try to wreck the Columbus. They fail. Then they decide to introduce something to the loch which will record unnaturally. Suggest a monster. Everyone knows we've put the tug on line. It's the next logical move. Create a monster, a rallying flag. Cause the government to review our environmental impact report in light of developments. And then stick it up Geminii's ass!"

  Was Whittenfeld serious? "You're assuming vast technical knowhow."

  "I'm assuming the obvious."

  "Suppose we pick up similar traces again?"

  Whittenfeld smiled. "I expect you will." He tore up the trace pages and threw them in the wastepaper basket. "Then we'll file them away just like I filed these." He laughed again. "Don't worry. We haven't destroyed the world's only record of the Loch Ness monster. There are books and books written by monster freaks filled with similar stuff. Buy some. Read them. They're great fiction."

  "I may just do that."

  "Now, more important. What about this man who drowned?"

  "His name was Simpkins. We did not find the body."

  Whittenfeld solemnly shook his head. "This is a risky business."

  "Very risky."

  "Does he have family?"

  "Yes."

  "Are we helping out?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Poor man! Damn accident!"

  "It wasn't an accident. Something hit the ship."

  "Yes, I know. But what? The sonar tug picked up nothing near the Columbus."

  "That isn't conclusive. The tug might have been scanning the wrong sector at the time."

  "Did anyone see anything?"

  "No."

  "Was a calling card left?"

  "No."

  "Then let's label the incident unexplained and file it away. Or, at worst, attribute it to the work of our saboteurs."

  "The dead man's shirt was covered with blood."

  "He probably injured himself in the fall."

  "I think the ship is in danger."

  "We've recognized that as a matter of operating policy."

  "I think we should cease operations temporarily."

  Whittenfeld flushed. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Scotty. I'll pretend it was never suggested. Nothing stops operations. Ever." He paused, then approached, put his arm around Scotty's shoulder, and
said, "Scotty. This is natural. Everyone gets this goddamn monster bug sooner or later. There've been sightings, sonar contacts, pictures. Rubbish. As soon as something happens to defy explanation, the monster is blamed. It's an out. An excuse. And a poor one. You, an experienced engineer, should know better. Clear your head and address reality. The last thing any one of us can do is to engage in fantasy, and I must be very firm about this because I cannot allow it to happen. The world is full of the jealous, the weak. It is not full of monsters." He paused. "Now please, forget about this monster." He led Scotty to the door. "You're an important man. Think about important things."

  Scotty walked out but stopped halfway down the hall, looking back.

  Important things? Yes, Whittenfeld was right. He had to think about important things. Only he suspected Whittenfeld had not focused the emphasis in the right place.

  The death of the man was important. The cause of the death even more so. And possibly the man's claimed sighting the most important element of them all.

  For some strange reason, he was convinced of it!

  Chapter 9

  Scotty drove the jeep along the Dores Road and the loch shore. The view was breathtaking, almost mystical, the road seemingly churning into eternity. And Christ, he was actually starting to feel at ease behind the wheel as well.

  Stopping once or twice to look back at the Columbus, still visible at its moor site, he whisked through Inverfarigaig, then bypassed Lower Foyers, guiding the jeep up the mountainside to the Cam Dearg Inn, a provincial little cottage with a woven thatch roof. Leaving the car in the empty parking lot, he entered the inn's pub. It was only ten A.M. The place was empty, quaint, very parochial. There were tables for dining and others for dominoes, though the only domino pieces in sight had been molded into a sculpture of a Highland clansman. Music was playing in the background, too, and a hypnotizing shaft of light was dancing colors in the middle of the room.

  "Is anybody home?" he called, settling on to a bar stool. He lit a cigar and let his mind wander. The place reeked of history. Of Highland clans. Battles. Shifting tartan colors. "Hello?" he called out again; he'd heard movement inside the inn proper. "You've got customers."

  The bar door opened. Mary MacKenzie entered. Seeing Scotty, she froze.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.