Monster: Tale Loch Ness

by Jeffrey Konvitz

  "Is it safe to put out another ship?" Scotty asked.

  "We'll make it safe!" Whittenfeld said. "You will help make it safe. Everyone in this room and on this base will help make it safe."

  "Absolutely," Scotty said, struggling to agree.

  John Fallworth called from London. Whittenfeld placed Fallworth on the speaker box so everyone in the room could hear. Fallworth offered his congratulations and challenged the staff to a renewed effort—it was a good company pep talk.

  Whittenfeld returned to business, then dismissed everyone except Scotty.

  "You don't seem enthusiastic or joyous, Scotty," Whittenfeld declared as he sat behind his desk. "I want you to welcome the future."

  "I'm very conservative," Scotty replied. "I remember the past too well, and I'm afraid of the danger up ahead."

  "That is why I like you as much as I do. That is why I trust you. Regard you so highly. You care. You're concerned. You are a very valuable man. I doubt we could function without you. But you're being overly cautious, and there's no need to be. I promise, saboteurs will not reach the Magellan. We will be ready. I also promise you we will identify the men who attacked the ship and killed its crew. We will exact revenge. I give you that commitment. In return, I want yours. I want you to steam ahead. Refrain from looking back. I want your emotion. I want you to help us reach the wealth below the loch. I want you to help reach 'my child.' "

  Scotty was sickened. Whittenfetd's approach, the way he formed ideas, was now so obviously contrived, so self-serving. He would have to do all he could to prevent himself from throwing up.

  Whittenfeld apologized for his recent behavior; the terrible truth had demanded secrecy while frazzling his nerves; Scotty

  accepted the apology, knowing otherwise.

  "Could I see the report?" he asked.

  Whittenfeld handed over the manuscript. He read. Part I contained the gist of the public findings. Part II was as announced. Part III had gone unnoted. It was the minority report, written by Droon and MacKenzie. In general, it accepted the committee's findings but violently objected to its recommendations. Droon and MacKenzie critically opposed allowing Geminii's return to the loch. The new drill ship would be in danger. No matter the cause of a future disaster, the results would be the same. There were also reasons to doubt the evidence presented at the tribunal. They questioned the curious deaths of the two divers and Whittenfeld's handling of the most crucial piece of evidence: the blowout preventer control hose.

  He gave the report back to Whittenfeld and announced he was ready to proceed full blast. Satisfied, Whittenfeld advised he was heading home.

  "I want to see you here tomorrow morning," Whittenfeld concluded, "raring to go!"

  Whittenfeld smiled. Scotty did not.

  "Ay, Mr. Bruce," Detective Superintendent Angus MacGregor trumpeted as he walked back and forth behind his desk like a moving metronome. "This is a sad day for Scotland. For the Scots. For Geminii. For all of us."

  "Yes," Scotty said.

  "Mr. Bruce, I asked you to come here because I'm going to need your cooperation, because my job and the job of the Special Branch is not going to be easy. We have no leads. No clues. Oh, yes, we do have some slithery radical groups in the region, as I've mentioned before, and we will be grilling them like a piece of haggis, but I'm sure you can well imagine that we're going to have our work cut out for us without more specific directions."

  "What about the Jacobites?"

  "They're about. Purring like garden cats. Right proper little angels."

  "I take it you've spoken to Sutherland."

  "Of course. We interrogated him before the tribunal proceedings, and I've also spoken to him since. No, I've got a good bead on Sutherland, and he is a right proper Scottish radical with all the standard prejudices and hatreds. But I can find no link between Sutherland, his New Jacobites, and the Columbus disaster. And as I'm sure you're no doubt aware, in this society, we cannot incarcerate people for their thoughts or speeches. Though, of course, we can watch them carefully."

  "You'll be watching Sutherland?"

  "We and the Special Branch will be watching everyone who deserves watching, including Sutherland and his Jacobite friends. This is where you come in. Once you begin operations again, I want you to watch, also. I want you to keep an eye open and let me know if something—anything—out of the way occurs. Even little things—"

  "Such as?"

  "Suspicious occurrences. Conversations. The like."

  "I will do anything I can to help you."

  MacGregor pounded his fist on the desk. "Now you are a man I can count on." He walked around the desk and sat in the seat next to Scotty. "Before I let you go, I want to ask you something about the tribunal proceedings, specifically your reaction to Mr. Whittenfeld's testimony."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I was watching you carefully while Mr. Whittenfeld was speaking. I watched your face when he announced his findings and conclusions. You did not look pleased."

  Careful, he thought. The Phoenix! "I was disturbed."

  "I seemed to see something else. Anger. Disagreement. Disapproval. All of those things. Did I read you right?"

  "No."

  "You weren't angered? You didn't disagree? You didn't disapprove?"

  Scotty stood. "No to all of those things. I was disturbed. That's it. That's all."

  MacGregor stood, too. "Thank you, Mr. Bruce," he said abruptly. "I appreciate your time and consideration."

  "Anytime," was Scotty's reply.

  Scotty closed the front door of the Cam Dearg Inn. The reception parlor was deserted. He pounded the desk bell. Mary MacKenzie appeared.

  "Hello," he said.

  She smiled. "That's right quick of you."

  "I had the accelerator pressed to the floor."

  "You didn't have to call first. You could have just stopped in."

  "It's not proper."

  "I did it to you. You had one coming in return to me."

  "I guess we can talk now, be seen together. Even though your minority opinion poked at every one of us at Geminii."

  She breathed deeply. "I guess we can."

  She led him into a lounge, a lovely little room with comfortable furnishings. He looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty. She must have just closed the pub.

  "Where's your niece?" he asked.

  "Staying with friends," she replied.

  "You mean we're alone?"

  She glanced at the picture on the wall. "Not quite. My father is watching us."

  He looked at the picture, too. MacKenzie's father was wearing a kilt, bonnet, kilt jacket, and sporran.

  "Handsome man," he said.

  "He was."

  "I like his kilt. His sporran, too. I have a particular thing for sporrans. Mrs. Munro, my houselady, made one for me, though she was disappointed I didn't have a kilt to wear with it."

  "Do you have one now?"

  "No. I can't bring myself to get one. I guess I don't feel like the kilt type."

  "You'd look good in one."

  "I can't see it," he said, shrugging, touching her hand. "You know, I have an admission to make."

  "What?"

  "It wasn't easy to sit in front of you during the inquiry."

  "Well, it was kind of uncomfortable for me, too."

  "I don't mean the question and answer part. I mean the emotional part. I wanted to reach out and put my arms around you. I want to now."

  She blushed. "I'm still torn between where I sit with you. There are conflicting feelings. Conflicting thoughts."

  He kissed her gently. "I have none. You shouldn't, either."

  She touched his lips with her hand. "We're just two people? Plain and simple?"

  "Yes."

  "But that's not true. That's not the way it is. There are things between the strong emotions."

  "Then you admit it. There are strong emotions?"

  "Yes."

  He kissed her again. Once more she resisted, fought hers
elf. Then she submitted. She put her arms around him, holding him tight. Touching her skin, he kissed her neck, her face, her lips, pulling tighter and tighter.

  And suddenly the conflict was gone.

  The morning sun held little warmth. The sky was clear. He stood in the open field, pummeled by a frigid wind. The skin on his face was cold; he'd shaved the beard off the night before. Scores of gravestones lay before him, the final resting place of the Columbus's crew. Some of the gravestones were marked. Robert Warren Reddington's was specifically drawn. ROBERT WARREN REDDINGTON . . . PETROLEUM ENGINEER . . . FATHER . . . HUSBAND . . .

  HUMAN BEING.

  A wreath of flowers sent by Reddington's children lay on the ground.

  The memory of the Phoenix rattled through his mind once more. He could not allow another Phoenix incident to occur. One more screw-up, one more self-induced eruption over any scheme, let alone an imaginary one, and he'd be through. On the other hand, he could not let a real danger perpetuate itself right before his eyes.

  Was he imagining all of this? The hose? The nature of Furst's death? Maybe. Maybe not. But he would have to find out, especially since the lives of the crew of the new drill ship might well hang in the balance.

  If ever there was a reason to investigate a horror, this was it.

  What had Whittenfeld said? He was a gunfighter who had put away his guns for good. Yes, that's how Whittenfeld had phrased it. Very clever.

  But Whittenfeld had also told him to keep the guns ready. Invited him to take them out of mothballs if the need arose.

  The need might very well have arisen.

  All he needed was proof.

  Part Ill

  THE

  MAGELLAN

  Chapter 21

  The driller pushed the control levers. The Magellan's engines roared. The rotary table began to turn.

  Isolated on the drill ship's forward helipad, Peter "Scotty" Bruce listened to the sounds while shielding his eyes from reflected sunlight. The loch was covered with small craft, packed with spectators. There were a dozen crowded company vessels, and the road around Urquhart Bay was jammed with cars.

  Scotty positioned himself on the helipad staircase. The engine noises suddenly ceased; the machinery had only been activated briefly for public display. Because of safety and legal requirements, actual operation would wait until all noncertified persons had been removed from the ship.

  He could clearly hear Whittenfeld's voice. The project manager was situated on the drill floor, surrounded by dignitaries from the Scottish Office, the Highland Council, the Department of Energy, the Northern Constabulary, and the Ministry of Defence. There were also several shadowy figures who had accompanied the defense specialists and who were reputed to be members of MI5. Fortunately, though, the defense and secret service operatives were scheduled to depart as soon as the ceremonies had been completed.

  The constabulary contingent, however, would remain, pursuing its investigation. Although squads of detectives had fanned throughout the region, the constabulary had uncovered no leads. He was convinced Geminii would be inundated with police operatives for the foreseeable future. He also suspected their investigation would be a total waste of time.

  He searched for familiar faces. Bill Nunn and Mike Grabowski were both present, having assumed their normal duties. Tony Spinelli was there, too, having replaced Bob Reddington. And, of course, Jerry Foster was aboard, scooting about like a roadrunner.

  He marked the absentees. Undersecretary Farquharson, who had been scheduled to attend, had conveniently begged off, ostensibly bedded by the flu. Peter Droon and Mary MacKenzie weren't there, either. He couldn't speak for Droon, but he knew MacKenzie had declined the company's invitation, determined not to impart the slightest suggestion of approval to the Magellan.

  There was another familiar face, too: Malcolm Abercrombie, the reinstated local representative of the Transport and General Workers Union. However, it was not Abercrombie's presence but Hugh Sutherland's absence that augured trouble. Relieved of official duties because of his New Jacobite connections, Sutherland had refused to recede into oblivion. Rather, he'd been waiting in the wings, quietly counseling unemployed local oil workers.

  Listening to the pop of champagne corks—the strict alcohol taboos had been suspended for the occasion—he noted he'd almost forgotten the most significant celebrant of them all, Pierre Lefebre, who was standing alongside the drill floor. The ship was brimming with security guards; the base itself had become an armed camp. And Lefebre had been given control of a vast assortment of intricate ordnance, supplied by the Ministry of Defence, the most notable being Dover class, tube-launched, heat-seeking torpedoes and fathom-rated depth charges, both under the supervision of defense personnel, permanently assigned to the drill ship.

  The inclusion of the depth charges intrigued him. Only if a non-heat-producing target was sighted would they be preferable to the torpedoes. The Ministry of Defence had argued against their deployment. Whittenfeld had countered, demanding maximum potentialities. Whittenfeld had won the joust, won it without revealing the precise reasons for the requisition.

  Other than Whittenfeld and Lefebre, he, alone, knew them.

  He turned the binoculars on the tower of Urquhart Castle. He could see Father James MacPherson's angry face. MacPherson, who had occupied the ruin along with his parishioners at the inception of shipboard ceremonies, had conducted a ritual mass, damning the false prophet, the beast, and their various manifestations, all under the scrutiny of constabulary police and Geminii security guards.

  It was all very peculiar. Almost comical. A circus. Frightening.

  He glanced around.

  Three new sonar tugs were on line, under the command of Capt. Eamonn Harrigan, a retired Royal Navy antisubmarine specialist with unblemished credentials. Each tug was assigned to a sector and equipped with far more sophisticated equipment than Captain Olafsen's tug had been, including high-frequency, short-range Sectascan sonar, 3-D display stacked profile plot systems, and advanced acoustic imaging hologram units.

  Sonic listening devices had also been imbedded beneath the Magellan on the loch floor. There were two surveillance helicopters permanently berthed just beyond the shore of Urquhart Bay in a newly built security installation, and loch shore security itself had been augmented with additional guards and special surveillance teams at each intersect point on the Caledonian Canal, preventing any transglen barge or work ship from carrying a submersible into the loch.

  In fact, Scotty couldn't imagine anyone getting anything into the loch undetected anymore, except perhaps if delivery were made by a helicopter or airplane, and even that contingency had been blunted by the presence of the security choppers and their radar tie-ins.

  Geminii was ready for almost anything.

  He descended into the moon pool. There was no one about. He could hear the laughter and noise above. He could see the marine riser ahead. He watched the loch water lick against the riser's shell, then sat on the moon pool railing and stared. It had been three weeks since the Columbus tribunal report had been issued. He'd made no progress toward finding hard proof to support his suspicions, nor did he have any fresh insights concerning a new direction in which to proceed. Yet he did have a haunting fear, a fear that if there were to be a breakthrough, it would be provided by a new attack on the drill ship. The terror dream had kept him awake, sleepless through many long nights.

  He expected it would continue to do so.

  Shortly before six, Scotty returned to Travis House. A van was parked in front of the main gate; a man and woman stood alongside. The man was holding a small black suitcase.

  Scotty walked toward the front gate.

  "Mr. Bruce?" the man asked with a heavy New York accent.

  "Yes," Scotty replied.

  The man was thin, studious in appearance, balding. "Could we possibly have a word with you?" he asked.

  "About what?"

  "Your cooperation," the woman said.

 
The man smiled aggressively. "My name is Dr. Allen Rubinstein. This is my associate, Dr. Janice Fiammengo."

  Scotty bowed. "You want my cooperation?"

  "And your help."

  "To do what?"

  "To save the Magellan!"

  Scotty had already started to ease toward the mansion's door; Dr. Rubinstein's statement stopped him in his tracks. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  Dr. Rubinstein removed his bifocals and placed them in his pocket. "Mr. Bruce, unless we can secure your cooperation, the Magellan will be destroyed just like the Columbus. It'll be sent to the bottom of the loch and all its crewmen will die."

  "What makes you think—?"

  "I don't think! I know."

  Scotty stared at Dr. Rubinstein, then Dr. Fiammengo. "Haven't I seen you before, Dr. Rubinstem.

  "Perhaps," Dr. Rubinstein said. "If you had scanned the gallery at the Columbus hearings. I was there. At first, just a curious spectator. But then a very concerned one."

  "And what inspired this miraculous transformation?"

  Dr. Rubinstein could barely hide his excitement. "A long conversation with Max Furst."

  Scotty's interest intensified. "When did this take place?"

  "Several days before he died."

  Scotty turned to the woman. "Were you at the hearings, too?"

  Dr. Fiammengo parted her lips. Tall, dark-haired, dark complected, she was regally built with long arms and legs and had very sensual bohemian features, though her tortoiseshell eyeglasses gave her a studious appearance. "No," she said, bearing the remnants of a Georgia twang, "but I arrived soon after the hearings had adjourned."