Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  "The chert-silica samples are identical," Nunn declared as he led Scotty, Dr. Rubinstein, and Dr. Fiammengo into the base geology office.

  Numa broke open a package he had in his hand along with several he'd removed from the cutting shelves. He placed four samples on a microscope stand.

  "The two on the left," he explained, "were taken from the return flow of mud at the time of the first attack. The two on the right came out an hour ago. I took the initiative. The rotary is down."

  Scotty looked through the microscope and manipulated the slide. "That's it!" he declared.

  Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo looked next. They agreed. Nunn read his composition breakdown; it matched the controls.

  "Does this mean we're on?" Dr. Rubinstein asked, knowhag the answer already but wishing to hear it out loud.

  "Yes," Scotty said. "As soon as we get the Lyon bit in place, we're on."

  Chapter 29

  The submersible swung into position, Johannes Aard noted the fathometer reading and set the ballast tank controls to depth.

  Dr. Rubinstein's voice echoed through the communications equipment, corroborating a position fix.

  Malcolm Conner, who lay next to Aard, looked out the forward porthole; as usual, visibility was minimal.

  The air-purification unit hummed softly. Static rippled through the comm-phones. Sound blips ticked off the control meters.

  Conner reset the position of the exterior tape cameras. Aard put on a sonic receiver headset. He listened to the purr of the Magellan's mud pumps, then checked his sound-oriented DME. They were three hundred feet due south of the Magellan's riser, lying two hundred feet below the surface. All propulsion systems were still active. If anything was sighted approaching, they would shift position to intercept, manipulating ballast and thrusters.

  Aard felt the buoyancy, the sensation of weightlessness. One never quite got used to it. He could also feel their center of gravity shift counter to the intermittent upthrusts of the engines, which held the submersible in position against the current.

  He and Conner had both felt uneasy that morning. It wasn't the operation's requirements. Rather, it was the whole concept. Though they had enthusiastically accepted the assignment, they'd begun to have second thoughts. Neither could pinpoint anything in particular that had set them off. Nothing extraordinary had happened yet; rather, their imaginations had started to run rampant. Damn, it was creepy—the anticipation of a confrontation with the unknown.

  Aard moved close to the observation window. He could see suspended particles of peat dancing in the water. Christ, what a hell hole. That something huge might live in it was almost unimaginable.

  Almost!

  Scotty mated disjointed stimuli, the movement of the barge, the sight of the floating pontoon rafts, the sense of tension in the command room, snips and pieces of conversation. Alone, they meant little; together, everything.

  He placed his hands on Dr. Fiammengo's shoulders. She looked up, touched his arm. She was dedicated, as hardworking as Dr. Rubinstein, who was running back and forth across the room, supervising the start-up. It occurred to him he'd never gained an insight into the mechanism that drove the researcher. All he knew was that a man of boundless scientific skill had decided to devote a large portion of his time to monsters.

  Dr. Rubinstein approached, holding out a clipboard. Scotty grabbed it, and taking off his headset, picked up a different set of communication gear. It was time to contact the sonar tug and the Magellan.

  They were ready!

  Captain Eamonn Harrigan felt a surge of excitement. Several seconds before, he'd received Scotty Bruce's operational command.

  He looked out the window toward the Magellan. Off her port, the submersible was lying waiting, its position indicated by the radio buoy. He glanced at one of the side-scan printouts. There she was, the sub, her needle-shaped nose pointed toward the deep loch trench.

  He massaged the curled ends of his beard. There were beads of sweat on his palms. He hadn't been told anything specific, but Mr. Bruce had made it clear they were looking for something other than a submersible.

  He looked up—ominous black clouds, borne by fierce winds aloft, traversed the Scottish sky—then walked through the bridge cabin, his communications headset linked to its console by a long cord. He scanned several scopes and monitors, sat, removed a rubber band from his pocket, wrapped it around his fingers, and began to wait.

  * * *

  A communications officer relayed Scotty Bruce's operational order. Tony Spinelli, who'd been given only the bare essentials of information, walked toward the drilling platform.

  "Start the rotary," he ordered.

  Moments later, a roar of machinery exploded, and the rotary table began to turn, twisting the Lyon TX-1 bit at the bottom of the bore.

  It had begun.

  Johannes Aard listened carefully to the sounds punching through the headset. He could still pick up the muffled roar of the Magellan's mud pumps, but the preeminent sounds were now issuing from the rotary engines and the drill itself.

  He glanced at Conner. Conner seemed transfixed, his face pressed up against the viewing porthole.. Aard looked out, too. Nothing.

  "Anything worth hearing?" Aard asked, taking off the headset.

  Conner cracked a smile.

  "No. Not really."

  "You're smiling about something."

  "I'm trying to keep my mind on the job," he said. "On this thing out there, assuming it exists. And I get funny thoughts. Kind of ridiculous."

  "Like what?"

  "I have a vision of a beautiful mermaid swimming up to the front porthole and embracing the manipulators."

  "You're nuts."

  "It's no more unimaginable than the chance of a giant wanker appearing. And I'd much rather have the mermaid. This wanker may not be very cordial. It wasn't to the Colmnbus."

  "We're mobile. The Columbus wasn't."

  "How mobile?"

  "Mobile enough."

  "No bets! We're going to stick ourselves right in the wanker's way if it appears—if it exists—and the wanker may not like it. You think about that. I'll think about mermaids. At least till we're put to the test, I'll keep me cubes warm."

  Aard laughed.

  "Captain!" the chief sonar officer screamed.

  Harrigaa appeared. "What?"

  "Take a look at these printouts and sectascans."

  Harrigan studied several traces. "What's its position?"

  The engineer pointed first to one set, then another. "Here it's right in the center of the trench at about eight hundred feet. Here it's at six fifty. Here it's at the same depth, but it's moving northwest."

  "Toward the Magellan?"

  "Can't tell yet."

  Harrigan checked with the other engineers. Nothing had shown up on their heat or noise scopes, and as expected, nothing had registered on the subsurface sensors, either. Harrigan called the command barge.

  "How big is it?" was Scotty's first question.

  Harrigan caucused with the sonar engineers. More traces had been taken. The velocity of the target object had increased. It had also moved up to six hundred feet, and its direction was now more determinable. It was heading right for the Magellan.

  "An estimate? A hundred feet or more."

  Harrigan checked the printouts again, then, biting his lip, nervously, walked to the bridge cabin door. He looked at the loch. It seemed so serene, so peaceful.

  It was hard to believe they were confronting the unknown beneath its waters.

  The tension was palpable. Technicians worked in a frenzy. The cabin was nearly silent.

  Aard and Conner had been informed the target object was rapidly moving in their direction.

  The television eyes had not yet picked up anything. Neither had the barge's own simple sonar unit.

  Scotty felt a lump rise up his throat, cutting off the air, a feeling of suffocation.

  He looked at Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo. Both were white, drained o
f color.

  The lead sonar tug relayed additional data.

  The target object had moved closer.

  Tony Spinelli nervously peered out at the command barge. One. Two. That was it. Two blips from the barge's beacon.

  "Shut down the rotary," he ordered.

  * * *

  Johannes Aard and Malcolm Conner quickly worked their controls while watching their sonar unit and the view through the porthole.

  Moments before, they'd started to broadcast the vibrations, coincident to a shutdown of the Magellan's rotary.

  "Anything yet?" Scotty asked, his voice their only contact with the surface.

  "We have it on sonar," Aard replied.

  "It will be coming up below you just a bit," Scotty advised. "About two hundred feet off your bow and a hundred feet beneath."

  "Affirmative," Conner said haltingly, "but we have no visual contact yet."

  "Hold it!" Scotty said, pausing. "Sonar advises target object has now moved under you and is stationary. Do you confirm?"

  Aard and Conner checked their instruments.

  "We're not picking it up anymore," Conner said. "It must be inside a dead cone for sonic."

  "Hold for instructions," Scotty advised.

  Captain Harrigan raised the command barge on the comm-phone.

  "Mr. Bruce?"

  "This is Bruce."

  "We've got a strange trace here. Can you verify?"

  "What have you got?"

  "The target object is pointed up like an arrow, right into the center of the submersible. We have it just floating there as if it were taking aim."

  Scotty's voice cracked back. "Affirmative for us."

  "We'll continue to monitor," Harrigan said.

  Aard and Conner had just received a relay from the command barge when the jolt hit, turning the submersible over on its side.

  Sparks erupted from the instruments. The sonar unit and several of the submersible's directional controls shorted out. A small fire ignited. Conner instantly extinguished it while Aard informed the surface that they'd been hit.

  "Is your sonar unit working?" Scotty frantically asked.

  "No. And some of our stabilizers are out. Though we have our engines and directional and surfacing controls."

  The submersible, which had been listing severely, suddenly righted itself. Aard reported the curious recovery.

  "Can you see out the portholes?" Scotty asked.

  "No," Conner replied. "It's just black out there. Our floods must be out."

  Scotty shot back. "Sonar informs us that the target object is directly in front of you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Get the hell out of there!"

  Aard turned off the vibration broadcast, then hit the thruster controls. The thrusters surged, but the submersible didn't move. He unloaded ballast. Still no movement. He tried several pitching maneuvers. Nothing. He reported their inability to navigate.

  "Are your controls inoperative?" Dr. Rubinstein asked, having cut into the circuit.

  "No," Conner replied, checking electrical connections. "Everything is working. But we can't move!"

  Surface checked sonar again. Aard and Conner regauged their instruments. They listened. The silence was eerie. They exchanged transmissions. Then the submersible began to rock.

  They were thrown against the bulkhead. More sparks flashed. Bleeding heavily from a gash on his forehead, Conner passed out. Terrified, Aard called to the surface.

  "What is it?" Scotty cried.

  Aard tried to answer. His headset popped off. More shorts and small fires flashed. Frantic, he tried to regain control of the craft.

  Suddenly, a hideous sound ripped through the cabin, the skirl of metal buckling. The hull started to collapse. Water poured in.

  Aard looked up.

  There were teeth! Hideously sharp! Extending into the cabin through the shell!

  Aard grabbed the headset while jettisoning the sub's cameras.

  "It's bitten through!" he screamed. "We're in its mouth!"

  Scotty Bruce, Dr. Rubinstein, and Dr. Fiammengo boarded the sonar tug and followed an officer into the bridge cabin.

  Captain Harrigan and the chief sonar engineer were huddled over a slew of sonar records.

  Harrigan pointed. "Look at those!"

  They carefully examined the printouts.

  The truth was obvious. The creature had the submersible's nose in its jaws and was dragging the sub down into the deepest loch trench.

  They watched the printouts, scans, and holograms. Depth readings continued to advance. The submersible went down,

  dragged by the unknown. Then, suddenly, it disappeared.

  "Where'd it go?" the sonar engineer asked.

  "God knows," Dr. Rubinstein struggled to say.

  Scotty slammed the cabin door. "We're going to shut down the Magellan and keep her shut," he screamed.

  Dr. Rubinstein charged back. "Think, man. Think about the opportunity!"

  "I am thinking!" Scotty screamed, shaking. "I'm thinking about the two men who just died. Thinking about the crew of the Columbus. I don't want any more corpses."

  "Let's wait until we see the pictures," Dr. Fiammengo pleaded.

  "I don't need any pictures. Forget it! The Magellan is down."

  Dr. Rubinstein grabbed Scotty by the arm, turning him face to face. "You can't do this! You can't shut down!"

  Scotty looked deep into the man's eyes. He did not like the view, but he should have expected it. "Why not? You have what you wanted. We've found the creature. Identified it. Taken its picture. Obtained enough information to orchestrate the salvation of the Magellan and her men. And if I remember correctly, you were going to walk with me into constabulary headquarters. Walk with me en masse!"

  Dr. Rubinstein did not reply.

  Dr. Fiammengo stepped forward, glancing out the cabin window at the launch, which had just returned with the submersible's tape cameras.

  "Now is not the time to argue this out," she suggested. "There's too much emotion at play. Let's wait. Then talk. Let's allow the emotion to die. Then we can reason. Use logic."

  Scotty stared. "Logic?" he asked, his voice dripping with anger.

  Chapter 30

  The examination table came to life with a spray of fluorescent light. Dr. Rubinstein hovered close, waving a pointer. The table was divided into two sections, one containing selected sonar records, the other an extensive series of glossies.

  Dr. Rubinstein traced the sonar material chronologically, tying the records to actual communications, which were reflected in the transcripts he held in his hand.Then he turned to the glossies.

  "It wasn't until we'd returned to the command barge that we realized the crew had been able to jettison their interior and exterior tape cameras," he was saying, his usually agitated voice pulsating with excitement. In fact, since the loss of the submersible the day before, he hadn't slept or eaten, having spent most of his time poring over notes, command barge records, sonar data, and the recovered prints. "Fortunately, Aard and Conner had their wits about them in the face of almost certain death. Or else we wouldn't have had these fantastic exhibits. Fortunately, too, I chose the MV-7 submersible laboratory, among whose prominent systems were the detachable tape units with flotation jackets." He paused, obviously proud of himself, then forlornly shook his head. "I was well aware there might be considerable danger, and I wanted to make sure there'd be a recoverable record even if something went wrong below."

  He glanced at Scotty, who was standing at the end of the table next to Tony Spinelli and Jerry Foster. Scotty glared back, a prophecy of imminent explosion written across his features.

  "The pictures on the right were obviously taken by the exterior tape cameras and the ones on the left by the interior system. Let's look at the exterior views first."

  Whittenfeld focused his attention on the exhibits. "Go ahead," he said, opening his collar button and loosening his tie.

  "Look at this," Dr. Rubinstein said, po
inting, "This frame shows part of the creature's body. Notice the scales; they are very reptilian. You can also see part of a flipper. We think the flipper may be vestigial, but of course we can't be sure." He swung the pointer with precision. "This is interesting. The appendage is an upper arm, and if you look behind it, you can see part of a flipper, too. We think it's the same flipper we saw in the previous picture. In fact, the proximity of the two appendages has led us to the vestigial theory."

  "And this?" Whittenfeld asked, tapping a glossy.

  "That is a claw," Dr. Rubinstein declared. "A huge one. One of several that sit at the end of each armlike appendage." He shifted his eyes, looking into space, almost into another dimension. "What a fantastic creature!"

  Dr. Fiammengo slid along the table; she also had a pointer. "Notice these shots," she suggested. "They capture the head. The speck in the corner of this frame is part of the eye. And these blurred white lines were made by teeth moving rapidly by the lenses."

  "How big are the teeth?"

  "Six or eight inches."

  "And the size of the open mouth?"

  "Let's say big enough to surround the nose of the submersible, whose diameter was six feet."

  Whittenfeld examined several other prints, interior views. "Fascinating," he said.

  "We've even been able to determine exactly what Aard and Conner were doing at each interval," Dr. Rubinstein advised. He moved closer to the table, explaining each frame, finally pinpointing the concluding print. "Notice the hull impacting," he said. "You can see the first hint of water entering. And there. The white points. Believe it or not, they're teeth. Coming through the hull. Just thirk of the power in that bite. It's a wonder it didn't bite the Columbus's marine riser in two."

  "It didn't have to!" Scotty said caustically, his downbeat voice intruding into the euphoria.

  Whittenfeld shut off the fluorescent examination, light, glanced at Lefebre, then turned to Scotty Bruce.

  "So," he said. "This thing of yours exists."

  "Yes," Scotty replied coldly.

  "What do you suggest we do?"

  "I don't suggest anything. What I have to say is a demand. We're going to stop operations before the Magellan is destroyed. Before more innocent men lose their lives."