"I thought some first-hand knowledge would be proper punctuation," he explained.
"An eyewitness?"
"Unfortunately so."
Houghton pulled back a dangling door and stepped into a small room lit with a solitary lantern. Scotty followed. Inside the room was a cot. On the cot, a black man, both his legs mangled.
"How are you, Kabugo?" Houghton asked, slipping the man a roll of sterling.
"Very good," Kabugo said, gutturally forming words by forcing air from his throat.
Houghton turned to Scotty. "You will have to be patient with Mr. Kabugo. He does not have the services of a tongue. It was summarily removed with a machete. But he has learned to overcome his disability through practice and the rejection of pain."
Kabugo smiled, then laughed. He had a patch over his eye. No right ear. No teeth. A massive scar crossing his face.
"Sit," Kabugo said, pointing to a pair of crates.
Houghton and Scotty sat down, their feet immersed in dust. Scotty lit a cigar, Houghton a cigarette, poised at the end of a holder.
"Mr. Bruce would like to know something about Pierre Lefebre," Houghton said.
Kabugo's smile turned to a scowl. "May he die. Die in pain."
Houghton glanced at Scotty. "There are many who have wished the same end for Lefebre." He gestured to Kabugo.
"Mr. Bruce would like to know specifics."
"Mr. Bruce wish to hear of the devil?"
"Yes, he wishes."
Kabugo's eyes blazed. "I only meet Lefebre once, but the name Lefebre known in Kampala like the name devil. Most evil man. But no one ever see. Head of torture at State Research Bureau."
"Go on," Scotty said, after Kabugo had paused, searching through memories.
Kabugo coughed consumptively. "Uganda bad place once Amin throw out Obote. Many die. Many tortured. But wife and I poor persons, no politic, so we never think there be a problem. But Amin a Moslem. And for Catholics like we, Amin no good." He lit a hand-rolled cigarette that soon emitted a distinctive odor—hash. "One day we at Makerere Church of Christ singing, and Amin's soldiers under orders from General Adrisis enter, searching for Pastor Musotebi. But Musotebi no there, being somewhere near Namasaga at time. Soldiers have arrest order charging Musotebi with treason. They ask us where pastor be, but we no say. So soldiers take us to basement of Research Bureau, the place of the dead." His speech became stuporous. "Nubians come and beat us with sticks. When no one tell where the pastor be, we be forced to lie face down on ground until we hear voice of Frenchman Lefebre. Frenchman say he want to release married couples and all those who be that should raise hands. I try to stop wife, but she raise hand, and then Lefebre pick us out and have us taken to a little room where we be tied to the wall. For whole day we hang, then Lefebre, the Satan, come in, smiling. He say I am to tell him whereabouts of pastor, but I no do. So Frenchman Lefebre, he beat me all over legs with lead bar while he laugh. He break legs, but I still no tell him nothing. Lefebre he come and go, and each time he come, he beat me more and cut my face with knife. Finally, he say, if I no tell him, he kill wife. I tell him pastor in Namasaga. Lefebre leave, then come back next day to tell me I lie." He stopped, choking, tears beginning to come down his cheeks. "Then he kill wife."
"Tell him how, Kabugo," Houghton prompted gently.
Kabugo wiped the tears from his face. "He dig out her heart and leave it at my feet."
Scotty nearly threw up. Unable to believe. Unable to fathom how such a thing could take place in this day and age.
"Tell him the rest, Kabugo," Houghton ordered.
Kabugo cleared his throat, trying to force more strength into the muscles. "Lefebre make me hang there another day with dead wife on floor; then he come back and tell me I am to be let go. But I am to be punished for lying." He began to cry again. Houghton soothed him, urging him on. "Lefebre, he cut out my eye, cut off my ear, then cut out my tongue. Lefebre leave. Nubians come and take me to Kampala hospital. And I no ever see Lefebre again."
"I can't—" Scotty tried to say, looking at Kabugo, trying to impart some sympathy.
Houghton stood. "Kabugo doesn't need sympathy. Sympathy does not buy food."
Squeamishly, Scotty handed the cripple a ten-pound note.
"You be a kind man," Kabugo said, rocking back against the wall.
The conversation ended abruptly; Houghton and Scotty returned to the limousine. Houghton ordered the driver to proceed to Grosvenor House. Scotty remained quiet, reflective, confused. As the car neared Park Lane, though, he turned to Houghton.
"Can I believe all this?" he asked.
"Of course," Houghton replied.
"Will you get me the remainder of the information?"
"It may take time, but I will get it."
Scotty glanced out the window as the driver pulled the limousine up to the hotel. "One more question, if I may."
"Of Course."
"Why is Lefebre loose?"
"There is a price on his head in Algeria and Uganda."
"No. I mean why isn't he in jail here?"
"He'd done nothing wrong."
"He's killed, tortured, maimed."
"In Africa."
"Africa exists. Africa has laws."
"Lefebre is in Great Britain. He has done nothing wrong here. Broken no laws. And as far as this society is concerned, he is thoroughly welcome."
Scotty stared. Houghton smiled. Houghton was a thorough professional.
He and Houghton shook hands.
"Thanks," Scotty declared, easing out of the car.
"You will hear from me," Houghton said in reply.
Scotty stepped back from the curb. Houghton bowed.
The limousine disappeared.
The Monday-morning session was the last on his schedule. He arrived early at company headquarters, the home base for Geminii's European and African business ventures, and left shortly before two, early afternoon. In the interim, he met with senior executives, discussing the exciting discoveries in Inverness. He truly admired the London contingent. They were professional, considerate, likable. And that was doubly true for John Fallworth, the managing director of Geminii International Limited, a man widely respected not only in the oil business but in the general community as well. Unfortunately, Scotty was ill at ease most of the time, painfully trying to refrain from asking any pointed questions about Lefebre. Of course, questions would have been ill advised. He was new to the company, and his relationship with Fallworth was still embryonic. As Houghton had said so pointedly, Pierre Lefebre had done nothing wrong in Great Britain, and for all he knew, Lefebre's background was known to top-level management, albeit the gruesome details submerged by time and distance.
He lunched with Fallworth and several other executives, spent most of the time dodging questions about the National Football League—most of the men were American—then returned to the hotel midafternoon, rested until five, and caught the company limousine to Heathrow.
He disembarked his British Airways' flight to Inverness shortly after nine o'clock. It was dark and cold at the airport, and his jeep, which he'd left in the terminal parking lot, was nearly frosted over. As he climbed inside, his thoughts rambling, he was unable to forget Kabugo.
Shivering, he headed toward home.
Chapter 12
Eyes closed, Bob Reddington listened to the soft music emanating from the cassette deck. It was dark. Quiet, too. He'd been lying on ks back in the cabin the last two hours half asleep. It had been a long day.
The door to the stateroom suddenly flashed open. A shaft of antiseptic light invaded the room. A derrick man followed.
"We've got problems," the derrick man said.
Reddington opened his eyes. "Like what?"
"Possible kick!"
Reddington jumped to his feet. "The indicators?"
"A drilling break and stroke increase."
"Has there been a change in the drill-pipe weight?"
"Yes."
Reddington put on
his clothes; something less buoyant than the drilling mud had entered the well bore, providing less support for the drill pipe and thereby increasing its observable weight.
"Did Grabowski and Nunn return to the ship?" he asked, bursting into the hallway ahead of the derrick man.
"No. They stayed on shore in the lab. The chopper returned, though, bringing out a new security guard."
"That's just what we need right now. Goddamn bastards!" They emerged from the cabin. Rain was pounding against the catwalks. The sky was darker than hell, the wind as fierce as legend.
Reddington climbed on to the drilling floor. Even through the fog and rain, he could see tense faces, trauma.
"Any primary indicators yet?" he asked.
"Not yet," the driller replied, nervously scanning his instruments.
Reddington looked downship. A helicopter was tied to the forward helipad. The crew seemed to be moving in slow motion. Off the ship, whitecaps were churning.
"Let's do a flow check," he ordered, moving between the tool pusher and the driller.
A roughneck appeared on deck, settling the issue. "We've got a volume increase in the mud pits," he screamed, trying to be heard over the howl of the wind. "And gas in the cuttings."
"It's a gas kick," the driller cried.
Reddington rushed to his side. "Shut the goddamn well and prepare to kill it!"
The shut in and kill procedure was dangerously complex. They had to close the blowout preventers, record bore pressures, calculate new mud weight, circulate heavier mud into the bore to kill the kick, then open the preventers again and proceed with normal operation.
The driller manipulated his controls, sealing the blowout preventer's rams.
"Close down the electrical," Reddington ordered, turning to a rotary helper. "You! Tell the radio operator to inform base we've taken a gas kick and we're now employing shut in and kill procedures."
The rotary helper raced to the radio room as Reddington ordered the drill-floor guard to leave the area.
"I'm under orders to remain at this post," the guard declared, confused.
"I'm in charge of this vessel," Reddington cried. "And I want you off!"
"Mr. Whittenfeld and Mr. Lefebre ordered—"
"I don't care what they ordered. We have an emergency. I don't want us blown away because of some fool mistake made by someone who had no reason to be here. Now get off."
The guard didn't move.
"I said off," Reddington screamed, grabbing the guard by the collar and hurling him down the steps. "And off means off!"
The guard reached for his gun. A tremendous wave swell hit the ship, upending him. Looking up at Reddington, he rose to his feet, then wobbled toward the cabins and disappeared.
Reddington returned to the drill floor. The driller had completed his procedures. Reddington recorded bore pressures, calculated the additional weight of mud required to kill the kick, entered the mud room, ordered the derrick men to add a required volume of solids, then set new pump rates and returned to the teeth of the storm.
Captain Olafsen leaned close to the cabin's window, staring at the beads of rain.
"Can't see a damn thing," he said, coughing. "What a night to be without a radio."
"I'm trying my best," the radio man said, his head obscured within an open console.
Olafsen lit a cigarette, coughed again—smoker's cough—then turned to the first officer. "You'd think we were out in the North Sea. The loch don't know how to treat visitors with respect."
The first officer laughed. The captain poured a cup of coffee, then roamed into the surveillance area where the sonar engineer was perched over the sensing equipment and sidescan displays.
"I'd like to. be back on shore with a good woman in a warm bed," the engineer said.
"Yah," Olafsen remarked as he sat down. "But then again, things could be worse. You could be on board the Columbus, fiddling with ice-cold pipe. Yah, think about that for a while and you'll be thankful you're at least in a dry cabin."
Laughing, Olafsen opened a magazine, scanned the pages, glanced up at the deck clock—eleven P.M.—then yawned.
"I can't fix her," the radio man announced a short time later.
"Keep trying," Olafsen called back, his worn, scarred features shifting slowly, experience called to thought. "We have plenty of time!"
The patter of rain grew heavier, almost hypnotic.
"We've got something!" the engineer yelled a short time later.
"Like what?" Olafsen asked.
"My God!"
Olafsen examined the side-scan printouts, then ordered a realignment of the mechanical fish.
"It looks like the same object we had last time."
"It is the same object!"
They examined the succeeding traces. The radio man joined them. Huge rebound images continued to plot out.
"It's starboard," the engineer said, examining the blips. "And it's turning toward us."
"A submersible?" the radio man asked.
Olafsen pointed at the other instruments. "No heat. No noise." He searched the side scan. "It's the same thing we had before! No mistaking it. The damn thing is alivet" He pushed the radio man back toward the cabin. "Get that radio fixed. I don't care what you have to do and what instruments you have to cannibalize but get it fixed."
The radio man disappeared. Olafsen leaned over the instruments. "It's diving," the engineer said, puzzled. "And twisting crazily."
Olafsen looked away, then shook his head. "Damn!"
Totally drenched, Scotty Bruce sloshed up the path to Travis House and knocked on the door, shielding himself under the eave of the building.
Mrs. Munro appeared moments later. "Mr. Bruce," she cried.
He slipped past her, dropping his bags in the foyer.
"I need to talk to you," she said.
"Not now," he said, removing his jacket. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from Mrs. Munro. "Let me clean up first."
"This is right urgent."
"What's the matter?"
She pulled a note from her pocket. "The people at Geminii just missed you at the airport. They called here and left a message. It says: 'Gas kick on Columbus. Shutting in and attempting to kill.' "
Startled, he suddenly put on his jacket once more. "When did it come in?"
"Five minutes ago."
He pointed to the phone. "Call the night operator at Geminii. Ask for helicopter operations. Tell them I'm on my way. Have them prepare a chopper. Immediately!"
Mrs. Munro hurried to the phone. However, by the time she had picked up the receiver, Scotty was gone.
Informed the mud weight had been increased as ordered, Reddington instructed the driller to begin kill procedure by pumping the mud down narrow tubes attached to the marine riser, tubes intersecting the bore below the blowout preventers.
Within minutes, the kick had been killed, and the gas in the marine riser had been evacuated. The well was dead.
Reddington rechecked pressures and inspected equipment. There was no damage. According to his readings, the downward weight of the new mud was now more than sufficient to overburden the upward flow of gas. Although they were still drilling through a section of very high pressures, the pressures were under control.
He ordered normal operations to resume.
The sonar engineer wiped away an accumulation of sweat.
"I've never seen anything like it," he said, mesmerized. "It's incredible."
"I know," Olafsen observed.
Reams of printouts lay on the floor, displaying unaccountable motion. First, the target object had dived, then ascended. Then it had seemed confused, even angered, moving in ever-narrowing circles.
"The radio?" Olafsen called, trying to be heard over the howl of the storm.
"Still out!" the radio engineer called back.
"Any progress?"
"No."
"Son of a bitch."
"It's gone under us," the sonar engineer cried.
"Wher
e's it headed?"
"To the Columbus!"
Olafsen raced forward to the wheel. "Full speed," he ordered, ignoring the weather danger.
The first officer pushed the throttle forward; the tug's engine roared.
"Take us in," Olafsen added.
"To base?" the first officer asked.
"No," the captain replied. "To the drill ship!"
Scotty emerged on to the roof of the Geminii office building. He'd just left the radio room. The radio operator had not been able to raise the Columbus.
The director of helicopter operations walked briskly out of his bunker.
"We set?" Scotty asked.
The director waved his arms. "You can't fly out in this."
"Don't tell me I can't!"
"The pilots have refused."
"Screw them!"
"Without them, you can't get out!"
"Give me the keys."
"What?"
"I'll fly her myself."
"Mr. Bruce—"
"I can handle a bird as well as any of your pilots!"
"It's suicide."
"My suicide."
"But my responsibility!"
Scotty entered the control bunker and grabbed a key off the call board.
"You can't do this!" the director cried, following him.
"You bet your ass I can. I'll take the responsibility. They're taking a kick out there. I'm going. Understand?"
The director stared, then nodded.
Scotty climbed into the chopper.
As the tug raced toward the Columbus, the sonar engineer called for the captain again.
"What is it?" Olafsen asked, approaching.
"Look!" the engineer cried, white as a ghost.
Olafsen examined the side-scan tracings. The drill ship's riser was clearly visible, descending from the ship to the well head. But there was something else, the target object, moving several hundred feet below the surface, heading directly for the ship at incredible velocity.
"Thank goddamn God!" Reddington cried, ignoring the stinging rain. He was thrilled. The kick had been killed.
The crew was elated, too; he could hear it in their voices!
Monster: Tale Loch Ness Page 13
