Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  Scotty ordered the boatswain off deck. Only the crane operator remained in the vicinity of the lift-up. Scotty grabbed the deck phone and asked Furst if he had rigged the hose. Furst replied affirmatively. Scotty ordered the crane operator to bring the material up.

  The hose was out of the water a short time later.

  "Get it on to the tender," Lefebre ordered.

  The crane operator swung the rigged hose into position over the tender tug, which was also clear of deck hands.

  Scotty stared at the swinging hulk of hose, but the hose was too far away for him to make any kind of appraisal.

  Girard climbed down onto the tender tug, eased the hose into position on a rack, and disattached the lift line. Then he covered the hose with a tarpaulin.

  Scottv. jumped on to the tug. Lefebre stepped into his way.

  "Off the tug," Lefebre ordered.

  Scotty tried to pass him. "I want to look at that hose."

  Lefebre again interceded. "No one looks at the hose. Those are Mr. Whittenfeld's orders."

  Scotty stiffened. "I've had just about enough of you, Lefebre."

  Lefebre smiled, his tobacco-stained teeth glaring. "I'm afraid that's too bad. Very surprising, too. I've been very nice to you, Bruce. Mr. Whittenfeld has ordered me to treat you gently. I have been doing so. If you find my good nature difficult to handle, I'm afraid you will not like to see my disagreeable side once more. No. You will not like to see that at all, and you will see it sooner than expected if you try to examine the control hose. It is to be covered and transmitted to shore at once. That is my responsibility, monsieur. I will see the responsibility carried out."

  "You're a pathetic man, Lefebre."

  "Foolish words are a fool's paradise. Now get off this tug."

  Scotty walked to the rug's edge, stopping, turning. "Now is not the time or the place."

  "For what?" Lefebre asked pointedly.

  "To allow you to try and fulfill your deepest desires. To allow you to try and break my neck."

  Lefebre sniffed at the cool air. "I told you, I court the day. Pray for it."

  "It will come. And I may very well boot your ass back to Africa."

  Lefebre's expression changed: he was startled. Had he said too much too soon, Scotty wondered.

  The lift line moved over Scotty's head and back to the command vessel. Lefebre took two steps in Scotty's direction. "Get back to your duties, Bruce!" he said.

  Scotty felt his entire body freeze. He did not like being ordered around that way. Especially by Lefebre. The restraints popped off. Christ, he'd known he could only rationalize himself into inaction for just so long. He charged at the Frenchman but stopped dead in his tracks. Lefebre had unbuttoned his holster guard and had started to remove his gun. Girard was similarly set, hand on pistol.

  Scotty breathed deeply, realized he might very welI get shot, then stepped off the tug.

  The crucial exhibit in place, Lefebre ordered the pilot to take the tug to shore. Scotty remained on the diving vessel, supervising the change of diving teams and the return of the blowout preventer and associated guide frame to the surface. Then, after the tender tug had returned, this time without Lefebre, to take the additional material to base, he remained again to command the final phases of the operation.

  All the while thinking of the control hose.

  And Whittenfeld.

  And Pierre Lefebre as well.

  Scotty returned to base late that night. Whittenfeld was still in his office. Scotty barged inside.

  Whittenfeld was visibly disconcerted, nervous to excess.

  "Why wasn't I allowed to see the hose?" Scotty asked angrily.

  Whittenfeld's face drew blank. "What are you talking about?"

  Scotty reviewed the episode on the barge.

  "Lefebre exceeded his authority, Mr. Bruce. I told him to make sure no one on the crew saw the material. He was not supposed to inhibit you."

  Was this bullshit? Scotty asked himself. Maybe, maybe not. Although Whittenfeld had kept parts of his past a secret for whatever reason, Whittenfeld had not yet lied to him about anything substantive in Inverness. "Lefebre has a way of exceeding authority," Scotty declared.

  "Fortunately, no harm was done. And no guns were actually pointed."

  "Can I see the hose?"

  "It's gone. I sent it to our Aberdeen research complex this afternoon. It will be analyzed there."

  "Furst still insists the hose looked chewed, that something alive chewed it!"

  "The hose was severely damaged. Furst's conclusion is off the cuff, an inexpert opinion. Until the hose is analyzed, there's no way to tell what happened."

  Scotty stared. Whittenfeld's hands were shaking badly. His skin was anemic, almost white.

  "Did you tell Furst to keep his observations to himself due to the sensitivities?" Whittenfeld asked.

  "Yes," Scotty replied. "Is the work finished?"

  "Almost. We have another dive or two to do."

  Whittenfeld stood and held out his arms, almost begging. "Then let's both go home and get some sleep. It's been a long day."

  Scotty stood, too. Thoughts were cascading through his head, a review of recent events. "All right," he said reluctantly.

  Whittenfeld was obviously barely hanging on to the edge of control. He'd had the shock of his life.

  There was no reason to pursue the subject any longer.

  Chapter 18

  The helicopter landed on the Geminii roof.

  Scotty stepped out. It was warm, but he welcomed the slumberous air after six blistering days out on the Moray Firth, supervising the inception of a new seismic study.

  He breathed deeply, looked around—the bubble and its contents were still there—then walked toward the roof staircase, setting time and place. The last two weeks, starting with the recovery of the control hose section, had tumbled by as if they'd been weighted with barbells. Yet, instead of being easily defined, they'd passed as a peculiar blur, punctuated by a maze of questions.

  As soon as Whittenfeld had been notified that the hose section had arrived in Aberdeen and had been placed under lock and key, and when he learned that the final group of divers had been unable to locate any other critical material, he called a staff meeting to discuss the remaining phase of the investigation. Then he followed the hose section east, accompanied by Pierre Lefebre, who had packaged the control hose section himself to ensure its safety.

  In retrospect, Whittenfeld's discomfiture, annoying insistence on airtight security, and decision to subject the hose to classified scrutiny away from Inverness had not really surprised Scotty. Again, Whittenfeld's "child" had come under attack, along with the Columbus; clearly, the nature of the control hose's damage had visibly unhinged the man. Scotty had no doubt that Whittenfeld had already been painfully trying to come to grips with the inevitable conclusion Scotty had reached from the first—that there was a strong possibility something alive had eaten through the control hose.

  Certainly his phone conversations with Whittenfeld had only reinforced his suspicions.

  While the final phase of the inspection was winding down and a preliminary report was being written, he'd had several such exchanges, but every time he'd asked about the control hose analyses, Whittenfeld had said only that they were continuing to study the specimen and had not even reached any preliminary conclusions as of yet.

  Christ, the charade had been obvious. Whittenfeld's voice, its nervousness, its echo of paranoia, had been unmistakably evasive. So had Whittenfeld's behavior.

  The week before, Whittenfeld had scheduled a brief return to Inverness. Scotty had expected to hear something definitive. However, prior to Whittenfeld's arrival, a telex had arrived, sent from Aberdeen, requesting Scotty to proceed out on to the North Sea to hook up with one of the company's North Sea seismic teams. The order had confused him. Although they'd completed the investigation, the last place he'd expected to be sent, or expected to be needed, was the North Sea. Nevertheless, he hadn't quest
ioned Whittenfeld's order and had helicoptered out to the work site the following day.

  Between that day and this, Whittenfeld had been in and out of Inverness twice, but though he'd spoken to Whittenfeld three times ship to shore, Whittenfeld had continued to be evasive, paranoid, a bundle of nerves.

  Whittenfeld had sent him away for a purpose—he suspected that the man did not want to face him—intending to keep him away until the start of the commission hearings.

  The question was why.

  Christ, he knew the realities were terrifying. And the ramifications mind boggling. But the inordinate subterfuge had stupefied him. He wasn't about to start wild rumors without proof. And as far as he could tell, Furst and Blasingame had kept their mouths shut as well.

  He entered the deserted building. It was Saturday. A lone guard, stationed at the end of the third-floor hall, appeared.

  He walked into his office. Mail was stacked. So were phone messages. He examined both stacks and then phoned Tony Spinelli, who informed him he'd just completed a final meeting with the inspection team and that they had reviewed all the documentation intended for the commission tribunal. Scotty asked for copies. Spinelli said copies were already on his desk.

  Scotty located the copies and returned to Travis House. Mrs. Munro met him at the door. Giving her the day off, he secluded himself in the den and read the fact sheets, reports, and test data. All checked out. His work was only interrupted by thoughts of Mary MacKenzie, whom he had not seen in quite a while. He did not call her.

  Finishing the review just after sundown, he fixed himself something to eat, then decided to go into town. Hell, he'd been on a boat for almost a week. He was in sore need of a pub.

  Scotty walked into the pub next door to the railway station, sat at the bar, and ordered a lager. The pub was crowded.

  When the lager arrived, he sipped off the head and swiveled around, facing smiles, animated eyes.

  Hugh Sutherland was staring at him. Sutherland was seated at a corner table, alone.

  Surprised, he bowed; Sutherland ambiguously moved his head.

  He walked to the table. "Mind if I sit?"

  Sutherland shrugged. "No. But why would you want to?"

  "I have no quarrel with you."

  "You say that with great pain, Mr. Bruce."

  "Not at all. I want to talk."

  Sutherland pointed to a facing chair; Scotty slid on to his rump.

  Neither moved. Neither spoke. Sutherland's mug sat untouched on the table. Scotty sipped from his.

  "You said you want to talk," Sutherland finally said. "So talk."

  "I'm thinking of something intelligent to say."

  "Try a confession. Try admitting you were involved in the burglary, after all. I invited you to visit our offices. You took me up on the invitation—surreptitiously."

  "Sorry. Can't admit that. 'Cause it's not true."

  Sutherland smirked, staring ahead. He looked even more .ghastly than Scotty had remembered—his cheeks sunken down to the bone, his forehead roadmapped with crossing veins, his lips chapped, stained with tobacco, covered with remnants of recently used rolling papers.

  "I've been gone from Inverness awhile," Scotty declared.

  "Good for you," Sutherland countered cheerlessly.

  "Before I left, I read the newspapers. I read about you. This New Jacobite group."

  "Do you believe everything you read?

  "I believe the truth."

  Sutherland lit a cigarette. "For what earthly reason should I discuss this with you, Mr. Bruce?"

  "There's none."

  Sutherland lifted his mug and drank. He wore a gray cardigan. It had several holes, a button missing. "You read some truth. There is an organization called the New Jacobite Coalition. I am a member. I am a radical nationalist." He paused, swallowing heavily. "I am also a member of the Transport Workers. I am a senior rep for them."

  "Still?"

  "For the moment. Though that status may unfortunately change. I am attempting to see it doesn't. I may fail. You see, Mr. Bruce, unions are very conservative organizations; no matter that they are usually considered to be of the left. Apart from their own parochial concerns, they have few interests and very little guts."

  "Then why do you want to remain a member?"

  "It's my job. I believe in the union's work. I desire to serve it."

  "As well as the New Jacobite movement?"

  "Yes."

  "The article said the New Jacobites have been implicated in several murders."

  "The word 'implicated' implies an absence of proof. The New Jacobites have never been positively tied to any murders. Nor certainly have I. And to answer your next question even before you ask it, the New Jacobites and I had nothing to do with the destruction of the Columbus. Nor with any of the incidents which took place on board."

  "But you did compose threatening notes!"

  "I know nothing about notes—any notes."

  "If you're so inactive, what are you doing in Inverness?"

  Sutherland chafed, his face reddening. "I was sent here as a union rep! I came here to do a job. As a free man, an honest man, I can go wherever the hell I please, whenever the hell I wish!"

  "Well said!"

  "Is that all?"

  "No. I have a question."

  "Then ask it and leave me alone."

  "Do you believe in violence?"

  "As a means to an end? The philosophical answer is yes."

  Scotty shifted uncomfortably. "Violence does not earn respect. Nor does it lead to rational compromise." He thought back to his own rebellions; they'd always been relatively peaceful, based on facts, reason, dialogue. "Ever."

  Sutherland started to laugh. "What in God's name are respect and reason?"

  "Relationships are based on respect and reason. The world runs according to their dictates. And as a union rep, you've resorted to dialogue, the use of reason to compromise. Give and take. Mutual respect. Nonviolent sit-downs at worst."

  "Mr. Bruce. You are talking about business. The Jacobites are involved in politics. In politics, respect is irrelevant. So is reason. The political world runs on fear. Strength and power beget fear. Violence begets fear. An oppressor will only negotiate when confronted with strength and power. Where they are not present, negotiation is a sham. No, in the face of such disdain, one must then resort to the threat of violence and possibly violence in fact until enough fear is instilled that the oppressor will cower and submit." He shook his head; his face was a mask of ridicule. "Go. Talk of respect and reason. Go talk like a fool. But you are not talking about this world. You are not talking about the subjugation of Scotland by England."

  "Scotland united with England in 1707 to save herself from ruin. It was not subjugated!"

  "Nonsense!" Sutherland nearly screamed, his face turning a shade of crimson. "The two countries were united by status-seeking traitors—nobles in Edinburgh who wanted to take their phony pomp to the English court. Scotland was betrayed, not saved. Scotland could well have survived without England—alone, allied with France—in so many, many ways. And it can certainly survive without England now!"

  "You sound like a bitter man."

  "On the contrary, I'm a happy man, a man at peace with himself. I am content in the political world because I have learned the glory of resistance. I have tasted the buds of freedom!"

  "What do you want of Geminii?"

  "I want Geminii to disavow the English. To get the hell out of Scotland. To leave Scotland's oil for the Scots."

  "Then there would be no jobs for your people."

  "Wrong. We or our representatives, maybe even a company such as Geminii working by our rules, would provide all the jobs needed."

  Scotty shook his head. "You don't have a rat's ass chance with your political demands because Geminii does not have the right to grant them."

  "Maybe."

  "And as a Jacobite, Geminii won't listen to you."

  "Why is that?"

  "Geminii does
n't respect you, and you do not have sufficient strength and power to make it submit."

  Sutherland stood. "Mr. Bruce. It's time I should be going."

  Scotty stared. "If Geminii won't listen to you because you don't have the strength and power, then you must, according to your own admission, resort to violence."

  Sutherland put his empty mug on the table. "I said I believe in violence philosophically, but I reject it as a human being and a dreamer. I recognize the truth, but I am far too weak to exercise it."

  "Then why be a Jacobite?"

  "To try to explain the truth. No, Mr. Bruce. If you're looking for a violent act from me or my associates, you'll grow old fast. I only hope to explain to Geminii what it can expect and might already have received from radicals far less human and idealistic than I or my other Jacobite associates."

  "You're contradicting yourself," Scotty challenged. "Resortlng to the very thing—reason—you believe to be impotent."

  Sutherland smiled sadly. "Good night, Mr. Bruce," he said, and left the pub abruptly.

  Scotty jogged Sunday morning, played soccer with several Geminii engineers—he needed the exercise—slept most of

  Sunday afternoon—he needed the rest, too—and then, after dinner, fell asleep.

  He arrived at his office the next day, midmorning.

  A message was waiting; Whittenfeld wanted to speak to him.

  He immediately went to Whittenfeld's office.

  "Sit, Mr. Bruce," Whittenfeld said as he stood behind his desk.

  He dropped into one of the lounges.

  Whittenfeld looked as if he'd been through the wringer, far worse than he'd looked the day they'd spoken after the recovery of the hose. He hadn't shaved in a week. His eyes were red. His hands were shaking ever so slightly. Even his tie, which was always knotted perfectly, was slightly askew.

  "Don't mind my appearance," Whittenfeld said disconcertedly. "I flew in late last night from Aberdeen with Mr. Lefebre, and I spent the rest of the night reviewing the investigation documentation."