Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  One of the technicians hit a switch. A television monitor flashed. The interior of the submersible's command module appeared on the unit, photographed by an interior television that transmitted pictures through a tether while the submersible was moored. Conner and Aard were both visible, prone, facing the sub's controls, which operated the vessel, its video, floodlight, and sonar systems, as well as its telechiric arms.

  The submersible's surface officer ran a checklist with the crew. The systems okayed, Dr. Rubinstein assumed command.

  Scotty walked out of the cabin.

  The submersible was moored. He peered through one of its portholes, able to see Aard and Conner. He retreated to midship, and moments later, the boatswain untethered the probe. Easing out of the barge's way, the probe executed a series of maneuvers, then descended, leaving its radio communication buoy bobbing on the surface.

  The test would last two hours.

  Capt. Eamonn Harrigan wound a rubber band around the fingers of his right hand as he oversaw the operation of the lead sonar tug. Ahead, he could see the command barge and the Magellan.

  He scanned the water. As expected, he saw nothing; the submersible had disappeared more than ten minutes before. He was uneasy. He had attended three planning sessions during the week, but they had only been peripherally informative. He still had no idea what the barge team was actually doing or why Geminii command had placed strict security over the entire operation. He had been told just to record; he had not been told what to expect. It made their work all the more difficult, all the more nervewracking.

  God Almighty, he thought he'd been employed to protect the drill ship from saboteurs and submersibles, not religious and political fanatics and imponderables!

  He walked onto the bridge, entered the observation area, and examined a side-scan printout. The Magellan's riser was visible. So were the television cameras suspended from the flotation pontoons and the submersible.

  He checked his watch.

  They had an hour and forty minutes to go!

  Scotty looked out the window at the Magellan—she was a beautiful sight on a beautiful day—then scanned his instruments, finally focusing, for want of anything else to do, on his hands.

  They were strong hands, covered with calluses and bruises. Years on the football field had gnarled them into abstract sculptures. Strangely, though, his fingers were trembling. Even though he'd always considered himself impervious to pressure, the incredible tension in the cabin had apparently gotten to him, too.

  A technician called out the operation time. They were an hour into the exercise; absoluely nothing had happened yet.

  A short time later, though, the sonar tug's crew informed them that they had picked upa suspicious trace. The barge team sprang into action; the tension level rose precipitously. Ten minutes into the alert, however, the sonar tug radioed command that the trace had been incited by a school of fish.

  Dr. Rubinstein called off the emergency.

  Scotty telephoned the submersible team.

  "Sorry about the false alarm," he said.

  "So are we," Conner countered. "We're getting lonely. Hell, it seems this creature of yours isn't very friendly."

  "It's shy. It has to be coaxed. It likes music. So keep playing."

  "It's one hell of a tune."

  Scotty took a breath, stood, poured himself a cup of coffee, then returned to his seat.

  "That's it," he announced some forty minutes later.

  "Damn!" Dr. Rubinstein declared.

  Scotty put on his headset. "Conner. Aard," he called. "Bring the probe up."

  Dr. Fiammengo swiveled toward him. "Can't we hold? Just a few more minutes."

  Scotty shook his head. "Whittenfeld gave us two hours. We interrupt operations any longer and there's going to be a clash." He glanced at Dr. Rubinstein. "There's always tomorrow."

  Submersible operations continued the following two days. The results were the same, nothing. The sonar tug recorded no traces of significance. The barge crew itself showed little for its labor.

  Scotty arranged a breakfast meeting with Whittenfeld.

  "So where is this huge monster, Scotty?" Whittenfeld began.

  Scotty noticed the "Mr. Bruce" had been dropped for the moment. "I don't know."

  Whittenfeld buttered a sweet roll. Behind him, a bright glare of sunlight invaded through the suite's picture window. "Perhaps even monsters take vacations. This one seems entitled. It has worked very hard on the imaginations of my executives."

  "I saw it."

  "Of course."

  "You know damn well I didn't imagine it."

  "Of course."

  Scotty sat back in his chair, staring.

  Whittenfeld leaned forward after loosening his carefully knotted tie. "Why don't we cut through the pretense. Speak in confidence? Just between ourselves?"

  "I'm game."

  "All right," Whittenfeld said. "I substituted the phony control hose. I took the hose Furst and Blasingame had recovered and destroyed it. Then I had Lefebre create a counterfeit." He punctuated the admission with a pause. "I hope that clears the air?"

  "Why'd you do it?"

  "I told you the world is illogical, its population nearly devoured by its own stupidity."

  "I remember."

  "And that fortunately there are enlightened men determined to see the battle through against onerous odds."

  "So you said."

  "The commission was an illogical exercise. Its members were stupid. They would illogically and stupidly have cut their own nation's life line. They might well have stopped loch operations if I had allowed them to draw the illogical conclusion I knew they would draw."

  "What conclusion?"

  "They would have ruled a living thing had attacked the Columbus."

  "A living thing did attack it."

  "Scotty. This is the twentieth century. Dinosaurs and sea monsters do not exist. However, if the commission had seen the real hose, they could not possibly have arrived at the truth."

  "And you know the truth?"

  "Yes. And I'll say it again. The Columbus was sabotaged, and the sabotage vehicle was designed to simulate the appearance and work of a monster."

  "You don't think the commission could have seen that?"

  "No. These are superstitious people. Their history is filled with tales of dragons, goblins, creatures. Subconsciously and maybe even intellectually, they can well accept the existence of a monster. Scotty, I really did nothing wrong. In fact, I helped the tribunal arrive at the truth. I eliminated a hose which would only have confused them and substituted one which more accurately reflected actual events."

  What a crock of shit, he thought.

  "What about Furst?"

  "His death was an accident. There was no reason to prevent Furst from testifying. The hose was right there. Living proof. If Furst had raised objections, the conditions of his inspection could have been brought into question as well as his motives. As you are aware, Mr. Furst was a Nessie aficionado."

  "So I'm told."

  "Lefebre and Girard were also there to corroborate my testimony."

  "How fortunate."

  "And, as an added precaution, we paid Mr. Biasingame a certain sum of money to impugn Furst's testimony."

  "How clever."

  "Unfortunately, the accident intervened."

  "Unfortunately."

  "Scotty. My friend. You gave Dr. Rubinstein the drilling data. You said you were acting in the company's best interests. When I gave the tribunal a torched hose, I was acting in the company's best interests, too."

  "But I acted for the men. For their safety."

  "Didn't I?" He smiled. "Look what I've accomplished. The Magellan is guarded like a saint. What does it matter if we are preparing for a monster or a submersible? Protection is protection. We have it."

  "We have what you wanted. Continued operations. If the commission had found evidence supporting the existence of a creature, they would have closed us down. And th
at's precisely what you could not allow."

  "Because I had the good of the company in mind."

  "No. The good of the company is safety. The good is a shutdown of operations."

  "Our opinions differ here."

  "They differ across the board because the sabotage theory doesn't hold."

  "Oh?"

  "For the hundredth time, I saw it!"

  "You saw something. Perhaps the same thing that severed the control hoses. The thing made to look like a monster. You saw the thing under less than ideal conditions. It was pitch black. You were far away. There was a great deal of confusion, trouble on shore. And there are no survivors to corroborate your observations. In short, there is still no proof."

  Scotty was aware of it. He was also aware Whittenfeld was trying to manipulate him, appease him, keep him quiet by admitting the incontestable truth, the control hose substitution, and then coloring the truth with praiseworthy objectives to destroy any inference that there had been self-serving and heinous reasons behind the deed. But did Whittenfeld truly think he would buy this bullshit about disguised submersibles? Did Whittenfeld think anyone would?

  "We'll find the proof," Scotty declared as he watched a desperate man grasp at random defenses helter skelter.

  "How? By continuing to sit like nesting chickens on the loch? By broadcasting foolish noises, a symphony for fish? Please. Have some regard for my intelligence. And my difficult situation. I can only conceal a drill shutdown for so long. Sooner or later, some cost-conscious, ambitious desk worker in London is going to notice the lag. When I'm asked about it, what am I going to say? We're out looking for a monster?"

  "No, you can say we're conducing additional security tests. It will hold."

  Whittenfeld looked out the window, shading his eyes. "I'm sorry you have so little trust and faith in me."

  Scotty refused to comment. "We want to continue the tests," he said.

  "Your symphony?"

  "In part. But the recorded sounds won't do the trick alone. We want to locate an actual chert-silica formation and use the Lyon TX-1 bit to create a tremendous vibration on the loch's rock bottom to draw the animal. Once the animal approaches, we'll shut down the Magellan's rotary and switch

  to the less powerful matching recorded broadcast."

  "You want to drill? Endanger the ship?"

  Scotty smirked. "How in the hell can we endanger the ship if there is no creature to attack it? This sinister submersible of yours won't know the game plan. So if we're wrong, no monster will appear, and you'll have your proof. But if we're right, something will appear. We'll close down the rotary before anything reaches the Magellan. We'll photograph and identify the creature, and then we will have our proof."

  Whittenfeld unsuccessfully tried to hide signs of anger, "And if I say 'no'?"

  "You won't. For fear I may march into the constabulary."

  "I'll give you one dive. One shot."

  Scotty damn well knew that Whittenfeld's only safe out was their inability to find the creature. Whittenfeld would patiently wait, popping mad theories. It was only after definite proof existed that Whittenfeld might be forced to act, and only then did Scotty suspect he might be in danger. "That's all we need," he said.

  Chapter 27

  "Take a team through those reeds and rushes," Detective Superintendent MacGregor ordered as he closed the top button of his raincoat and drew his hat closer to his eyes. "And check that bog area just behind."

  Chief Inspector MacKintosh led several investigators off the dilapidated jetty, located just inside the entrance to Inverness harbor.

  MacGregor turned; a fine spray of mist tickled his face. At the end of the jetty, three detectives entered a utility shed. Beyond the shed, several patrol cars sat on a dirt access road. Heavy clouds massed overhead. There were no spectators. It was still early morning. A man's body lay on the end of the jetty; it had been fished out of the water less than an hour before. The man had drowned. Apart from the anonymous message received by the police that morning indicating the dead man had been forcibly held under water, the police had nothing concrete.

  MacGregor looked at his feet. His socks were uncomfortably wet, and his shoes were covered with dark clay. Walking landward, he glanced through a note pad and then moved under the eave of the shed.

  A police car appeared moments later. It stopped alongside the jetty. A plainclothes officer stepped out, leading Scotty Bruce, who had also eased out of the car, to the shed.

  "Mr. Bruce," MacGregor said, extending his hand.

  Scotty ignored the gesture. "Why the hell was I dragged out of my house at six o'clock in the morning?"

  MacGregor smiled; his teeth looked severely white against the backdrop of unshared cheeks. "You weren't dragged. You were invited to come."

  "Why?"

  MacGregor pointed to the covered body. "There's been a drowning. And, as of now, the presumption is murder."

  "What does this have to do with me?" Scotty asked.

  "Would you please follow?" MacGregor said, delaying an answer.

  Scotty slid behind MacGregor to the side of the corpse. MacGregor pulled back the corpse's shroud. The victim was Hugh Sutherland.

  MacGregor smiled obliquely. "The fanatical Mr. Sutherland, who, I'm sure, has not been held in the highest esteem by Geminii management."

  "Nor by the Transport and General Workers Union. Nor by the SNP. Nor by any number of radical national splinter groups. Nor most probably by his own opponents within the New Jacobite coalition. He failed, didn't he?"

  MacGregor lit a cigarette, saying nothing.

  Scotty stepped around the body. "Why am I here?" he asked.

  "You're our prime suspect."

  "What?"

  "Why do you look so surprised?"

  Scotty flicked some water off the edge of his Stetson. "I think the answer is obvious," he said angrily.

  MacGregor smirked. "Where were you at three this morning?"

  "Where the hell do you think I was?"

  "Here?"

  "No! I was in bed!"

  MacGregor ground out the cigarette after just two puffs. "You seem to have made a habit of pursuing Mr. Sutherland. First the break-in at the union offices. Now this."

  "I told you! I was in bed."

  "Do you have a witness?"

  "No."

  MacGregor covered the body. "Well, we have one. An anonymous one, but one nevertheless."

  "What do you mean?"

  "A phone caller told us he'd witnessed the murder. Unfortunately, the caller wanted to remain anonymous, didn't want to become involved. Nevertheless, he told us he saw two men remove an apparently unconscious man from a tan jeep, drop him in the bay, and hold him under the water. You have a tan jeep, Bruce. And as a member of Geminii, you certainly had no love lost for Sutherland."

  "Look, you," Scotty said evenly. "There are probably a hundred tan jeeps in Inverness."

  "By registration? Only three. We already checked. And the other two owners are well known in the community and highly respected, I might add."

  "I didn't do this!" Was the presence of a tan jeep a coincidence? he asked himself. Or had he been set up, presumably by Whittenfeld and Lefebre? Christ, a setup made absolutely no sense. Whittenfeld and Lefebre might have wanted to get rid of Sutherland, but implicating him served no purpose whatsoever. It could not possibly seal his mouth about the control hose fraud and the presence of a creature, and it had certainly served to draw unwanted police attention to Geminii once again.

  "Mr. Bruce. Believe me. I am not conducting a vendetta. I have nothing personally against you, nor am I intent on making you an example. But I have a very difficult job which is getting more and more difficult with each passing day. There is still the Columbus investigation, our number-one priority, and so far it has been unsuccessful. There is a continuing query into the circumstances surrounding Father MacPherson's death. And now, there is Mr. Sutherland. Geminii lies at the heart of each of these matters, and unfortun
ately, you have not been in an unassailable position. So bear with me."

  MacKintosh returned from the shore side, acknowledging Scotty. "There are no tire tracks anywhere," he said, gesturing to MacGregor. "The jeep must have remained on the road. Sutherland must have been carried or dragged, though it doesn't look like he was unconscious at the time. There are a lot of scuff marks and movement. No, the caller was mistaken. We'd bet a good lager that Sutherland was alive when he was placed in the water."

  "Anything else?"

  "We've taken casts of the footprints."

  "Any bits of clothing? Paper? Whatnot?"

  "Nothing."

  MacGregor thanked MacKintosh, who then retreated.

  "Mean business, murder," MacGregor declared. "I've seen a few in my time, but I never get used to it. No one can. Don't you think?"

  "Superintendent, what do you want from me?"

  MacGregor led Scotty back to the patrol car, then allowed him to get back inside with two of the officers.

  "I want you to answer a question."

  "All right."

  "Where were you last night at three in the morning?"

  Exasperated, Scotty replied, "For the last time, in bed."

  MacGregor stared hard. "Thank you, Mr. Bruce. You may go.

  MacGregor signaled the driver; the patrol car pulled away.

  Scotty liked the prospect of noise. It would help him forget the incredible pressures. Goddamn day had just crawled. MacGregor had set the snail's pace. Nothing had altered it. Not even a planning session for the next dive.

  He crossed the parking lot toward the pub door of the Carn Dearg Inn. The windows were ablaze with light. There was movement, too.

  He entered. The pub was jammed, as it always was at nine, evening time. He grabbed the only available bar stool. Mary MacKenzie was standing over a booth. She did not see him.

  He called to her, but she did not hear him. He noted the paradox—she was one of the region's most powerful political figures, but she was also an innkeeper, bartender, barmaid. Only in Scotland, he thought.

  She suddenly approached the bar. "I didn't think you'd be here so early," she said, pleasantly surprised.