Entering the geologist's office, Scotty watched Bill Nunn catalogue some cuttings, then wandered outside toward the drill floor and exchanged some drill-bit penetration data with Tony Spinelli and Mike Grabowski. It was just after midnight. According to a new procedure, he would be spending at least two nights a week aboard the drill ship, carefully monitoring operations. This was tour number one.
Leaving Spinelli and Grabowski, he walked to the bow past a heavily armed security guard. The night was cold and windy. The loch current was strong, and whitecaps rose high, their movements a rhythmic assault against the hull.
A strange sensation of light caught his attention. It was situated along the north loch shore beyond Urquhart Castle, about three miles toward the west and partway up the mountainside. He unsuccessfully tried to determine the source. Then he turned away as the light flickered and darted in the direction of the wind.
The station wagon moved slowly down the unlit street, passing merchant vesels moored to empty docks. Hugh Sutherland was seated in the rear. There was another man in front alongside the driver.
The wagon reached the end of the street and pulled into a parking zone behind a boarded warehouse. The zone was jammed with cars, all empty, all dark.
Sutherland climbed out of the wagon, accompanied by the
man; they walked toward the warehouse entrance.
"What time is it?" Sutherland asked.
"Twelve-ten," the man replied.
Sutherland knocked on the warehouse door. The door swung open, held by a bald, emaciated worker. Sutherland entered alone and then, as the door closed behind him, walked down a corridor and stepped into one of the warehouse's main storage areas.
The area was packed with men seated on folding chairs. They were lower class, poorly dressed. Though some were whispering, most were quiet.
Sutherland walked along the front row, shaking hands, then mounted a makeshift stage.
"You don't seem as angry as you should be," he said, staring, "but you will become angry. You must first learn to think in angry terms. For too long have we walked like lambs under the heavy feet of oppressors. For too long have we allowed our blood to be sucked by the English vampires." He pointed to the banner. "All of you are Jacobites. It is through us that Scotland shall be reborn." His voice began to rise, his mannerisms becoming more exaggerated, more forceful. "Where are your jobs? How do you support yourselves, your families? The jobs have gone to foreigners, and you cannot support anyone!" He listened as voices responded, cries, agreement; men began to stand, to feel, emote. "Where is your oil? It is in England. Where is your future?" He pointed out. "You have no future. None. Unless you act!"
Pierre Lefebre buttoned his jacket over the bulge of a shoulder holster. A Gitanes cigarette dangled from his lips. Girard stood just inside the security office door along with two other security men.
Lefebre opened the door and ushered the men outside. They climbed inside a waiting car, which roared off.
"When did the meeting start?" Lefebre asked.
"Ten minutes ago," Girard replied.
Lefebre pinched the end of the cigarette between his colorless lips, then spat a sliver of tobacco on the floor. "Who is the tail on Sutherland?"
"MacNamara," Girard said.
Lefebre smiled. "Good," he declared. "One of their own. It is poetic." He hummed a few bars of the "Marseillaise."
"Any idea what they're up to?"
"No," Girard said. "But they've rounded up every unemployed oil and mechanical worker in the region."
"Interesting."
"Maybe they just want to hear themselves talk?"
"No," Lefebre said, slowly savoring his words. "Sutherland is not a talker. He is a man of action. He issued an ultimatum; he meant it." He looked at Girard. "You are too ignorant to understand, Mr. Girard. But I respect this Sutherland. Even though he is proud of a stupid, weak people, he has my admiration."
Lefebre glanced at the passing streets as he removed a small knife from his jacket and began to clean his nails, the Gitanes still dangling from his lips.
Several minutes later, the car stopped; Lefebre stepped out. Girard joined him.
"Where's the warehouse?" Lefebre asked.
Girard pointed to a protruding side of a building. "There. We can wait by the fence."
Lefebre ground the Gitanes into the cement. His face twitching, he followed Girard across an esplanade, then eased unseen into the shadows.
A shaft of light interrupted the darkness for an instant; two men squeezed out of a nearby doorway. Girard pointed, then called. The men approached.
"Who's the man with MacNamara?" Lefebre asked.
"A contact," Girard replied.
Lefebre listened to the night sounds. "What's your name?" he asked as MacNamara and the contact stepped alongside.
"Reynolds," the man replied; he was the emaciated worker who had opened the door for Sutherland as well as the man Girard and Lennox had nearly beaten to death on a lonely hill several months before.
Lefebre turned to Girard. "Reynolds?"
"Yes. We've slowly educated Mr. Reynolds. He's a very valuable ally now."
Lefebre smiled; Girard's initiative had pleasantly surprised him. "What's going on in there, Mr. Reynolds?"
"Sutherland's inciting the crowd."
"To do what?"
"To turn against Gemintl. He wants to use Geminii to create a rallying flag for the nationalist movement. That's why the Jacobites are here. That is why Sutherland was sent."
"When is this to happen?"
"Tonight!"
"By what means?"
"They're going to seize the drill ship, claim her for Scotland."
Lefebre could not help laughing.
"These mice?"
"They're going to use the boats in the Urquhart Bay marina and board the ship."
Recalling his laughter into a sadistic smile, Lefebre grabbed Reynolds by the hair and pulled back his head. "You will be there, too, Mr. Reynolds," he said. "You will be with us. You will watch us teach a lesson to these foolish Scotsmen once and for all."
Releasing his hold, Lefebre pressed a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth, then walked back toward the car.
Hugh Sutherland's face was a maelstrom of movement, the furrows and crags carrying streams of perspiration. His once-powerful voice had grown hoarse, though it still could be heard above the frenzied cries. Before him, two hundred angry men were screaming, waving fists, having lost the ability to reason and think. And that was precisely what he had wanted. Emotion had replaced all else.
"Violence is the only true language, the only universal tongue." Sutherland was screaming as he raised a lead bar in his right hand. "It earns respect. It earns victory. It forces the adversary to listen. Talk cannot gain attention. Talk is not power. Scotland has been talking too long. You've been cowed like sheep. Brainwashed to believe you can reason your way out of two centuries of servitude." He angrily smashed the bar against the lectern. "You cannot reclaim what is yours by begging. You must take what is yours with force. You must cry your defiance!"
He raised the lead bar in the air; a deafening roar erupted. He could almost smell the hatred, the anger.
He smiled.
Puzzled, Scotty leaned against the bow rail. The mountain light he'd been watching for the last half hour had moved down to the water. However, it wasn't the only disturbing stimulus. Cars had begun to arrive at the Urquhart Bay security installation, and the ship's communications officer had been unable to raise the installation radio as of yet.
He scanned the darkness; he could see the sonar tugs. He listened; someone called his name. He turned; Tony Spinelli moved toward him, carrying a pair of binoculars.
"The infrareds," Spinelli said, placing the binocular strap around Scotty's neck.
"They get to shore yet?"
"No."
"What about home base?"
"Base doesn't know a damn thing. They're trying to raise the installation, too."
<
br /> Scotty trained the binoculars on the loch shore; the infrared lenses peeled away the darkness. The light was emitted by small fires. There was movement, too, although the resolution was not quite strong enough to give him definition.
"Torches," he announced.
"Are you sure?" Spinelli asked.
Scotty held out the binoculars. Spinelli looked through, then agreed. Scotty turned the lenses toward the shore installation.
"Trouble," he declared.
"What?"
"About sixty or seventy men with clubs!"
"Why the hell don't they answer our calls?"
"Maybe they don't want to."
Spinelli looked down at the drill floor. The crew was drilllng ahead, though they had noticed the shoreside commotion as well.
"Get Grabowski," Scotty said. "Take the launch in. I want to know what the hell's going on."
Spinelli retreated. Scotty climbed on to the forward helipad. Finding a good observation point, he trained the binoculars on the shore installation, then moved them toward the northwest. The torches had come closer together; several seemed to have moved on to the water.
He was even more confused now.
Dressed in flowing white robes, Father MacPherson stood on the jagged shoreline like a Biblical prophet, his hands raised toward the sky, his white mane unfurled from his scalp by a fierce shoreward wind. He was a dance of flames, reflecting the light of a hundred burning torches, held by fanatic, white-gowned followers.
They had all moved toward the shore down the mountain, overcoming a Geminii shore guard. There they had waited while MacPherson had prayed.
Before them, bobbing on the water, was a huge wooden raft that they had assembled.
"Jesus walked on the water," MacPherson began suddenly. "So shall we. So I have been commanded by the Lord God. And woe be to him who is clutched by the beast. And woe be to the world, for the manifestation of the false prophet stands before us."
The men and women prayed. The wind howled. Leaves blew.
"There!" MacPherson cried, pointing into the darkness. "See. The heavens have opened. There is the white horse. There is the Rider Faithful and True. Justice is His standard. Look! See! The cloak! It is dipped in blood. His name is the Word of God. Behind Him is the army of heaven. The soldiers are riding white horses. They are dressed in white. There is a sharp sword. Look! There is a name on the cloak. King of Kings and Lord of Lords."
"Hallelujah!" the man beside MacPherson cried.
The crowd echoed the call. They moved in around MacPherson. MacPherson was crying, wailing.
"God's glory shines. The image of' the Christ has appeared. We have been blessed. We have been called into His service. We are the armies of the Almighty. We are His sword. We ride behind the Rider Faithful and True. We shall slay the manifestation of the false prophet, and then we shall follow the Christ into war against the beast itself."
The clamor grew. Screams echoed. Benedictions arose.
MacPherson climbed down from the rock and walked through the crowd to the raft. A tiller man was already on board. There were also a half dozen oarsmen.
MacPherson stepped on to the wooden planks. The torchbearers followed. The planks groaned. The raft settled. Water trickled over the side. MacPherson took his position along the forward edge. An oarsman threw the raft's tether line ashore; the tiller man pushed them off. The raft floated on to the loch; the current grabbed it. The torchbearers began to pray. Torches flickered.
MacPherson turned to the host. "I command you to battle," he cried. "In the name of God and Christ."
The helicopter maneuvered over the main road to Urquhart Bay. Below it, a stream of cars raced westward.
"They're below me!" Whittenfeld said.
Whittenfeld had been awakened less than a half hour before; he had ordered Lefebre to deal with Sutherland without the assistance of the police.
"Have you notified the Magellan?" he asked, speaking into the helicopter's comm-phone.
"No," Lefebre replied above the static. "I was waiting for you."
"Call the ship. They are to continue operations. Assure them we will handle the problem. Then order the sonar tugs to station themselves between the shore installations and the drill ship. Give Captain Hamgan strict orders. No one is to reach the Magellan."
Whittenfeld clicked off the microphone and turned to the pilot.
"Take us down," he said.
The pilot dropped the chopper to the fore of the lead car and switched on the floods. The car was encased in light.
The occupants of the car looked up. Sutherland was seated in the front. The rear of the car was filled.
Captain Eamonn Harrigan, an impressive man with an Irish-red beard, a peasant's earthy complexion, and a decathlete's body, stood in the guard tug's bridge watching readouts and displays on a dizzying array of scopes and meters.
Seated before him were six technicians monitoring the heat and noise detect scopes and the elaborate, multidimensional sonar systems. Two other technicians sat at a data panel tied to the underwater sensors.
The first officer called. "Mr. Lefebre is on the wire."
Harrigan quickly moved across the bridge and put on a headset. "Yes?"
Lefebre relayed Whittenfeld's message.
Harrigan asked if he should issue weapons.
"Yes," Lefebre replied.
Harrigan signaled the crew. "Swing us around!" he ordered.
* * *
Scotty and Bill Nunn moved quickly along the main-deck catwalk, avoiding several security men who had positioned themselves next to the starboard rail, facing the shore, then climbed on to the drill floor and notified the driller to prepare to close the blowout preventer. If the situation worsened, they would shut down the rotary and the bore.
The roar of ship's screws neared. The three sonar tugs were rounding the drill ship, heading for a position between the ship and the shore.
"Here they come," Bill Nunn suddenly said, pointing. What had been a distant glow suddenly became discrete headlights, cars snaking inbound to Urquhart Bay. A helicopter, which had been hovering over the installation, landed. Scotty looked through the binoculars. Lefebre's security guards were strung along the road between the installation and the marina. In order for anyone to reach the boats, they would have to fight through a gauntlet of club-bearing men.
He left Bill Nunn and headed toward the radio room. A light caught his eye. Christ, he'd forgotten the torches, and now, incredibly, the torches were burning on the loch. He raised the binoculars again, and then, gasping, climbed up on to the forward helipad to get a better view.
A raft was heading toward the ship; on the raft, a hundred men and women, holding torches, were dressed in white. Among them stocd Father James MacPherson, his arms raised high, his head bobbing wildly about, along with the violent sway of the raft.
The sonar tugs had taken their new positions. They could not be moved. The radio was worthless. There was nothing he could do about the priest. He remembered: MacPherson's threat to destroy the new drill ship.
He held his breath, incredulous.
The goddamn lunatic was going to try and burn the Magellan.
Hugh Sutherland opened the car door and stepped out. A line of autos stretched behind him. He held up his hand. Other doors opened. Men appeared holding pipes and bats, then moved forward, gathering around the lead car. Sutherland pointed toward the drill ship.
"There is your trophy," he cried. "We take that ship, we bring the oil company to its knees. We take her, we seize the media. We take her, we seize history." He looked around;
there was no one in sight. "Hold your clubs ready. They will fight!"
They reached the marina perimeter moments later.
The marina fence was lined with security guards. Lefebre stood in front. Whittenfeld sat in the rear of a guarded sedan, parked off to the side. Spinelli and Grabowski were standing helplessly nearby.
"I would suggest you return to your cars," Lefebre announced
, once more dangling a Gitanes between his lips, his hands wrapped around a club. "Although I would personally like to crack your skull, Sutherland, we must put Geminii first. Go home. Take these fools with you and let them return to their families."
No one moved; Sutherland stepped forward.
"Get away from the fence!" he cried.
"Go home," Lefebre ordered. "We do not want to see anyone hurt."
Suther!and inched forward again and raised his club.
"We're going to take the ship," he warned. "Step aside or we go over you."
Lefebre tightened his grip on his club. A smile creased his lips. The wind tossed his hair. His face twitched angrily.
Sutherland looked behind him at the workers. He had driven them into a frenzy, and now their anger was waiting to explode.
He pointed out toward the drill ship. "Take that sacrilege!" he cried. "For Scotland!"
A wild whoop erupted. Clubs raised high, the men stormed toward the gates, Highland clansmen reborn, screaming for blood.
Lefebre and the security police moved forward. Suddenly, bodies melded. Clubs flashed. Blood trickled, flowed. Men dropped to the ground. Wails rose. Hell broke out.
Whittenfeld locked the door of the sedan. But he couldn't lock out the sounds. Moments after the battle started, he heard it, the scream of police sirens.
Captain Harrigan stood watching on the deck of the lead sonar tug. He was wearing a holstered automatic pistol. Two crewmen, holding rifles, were next to him. Set on either side of the lead tug were the other two guard vessels.
He'd taken a position to intercept. However, he doubted they would be forced to act.
Although he could see the violence, no one had reached the boats and barges, and there was still a reserve force of security men positioned behind the lines on the docks.
Most important, a large detachment of constabulary police had already left their vans and were proceeding toward the melee.
The first officer moved to his side. "What do we do now?" he asked.
"We hold," Harrigan replied.
Scotty peered down from the helipad. A lifeboat moved away from the side of the drill ship, heading toward MacPherson and his raft, its crew prepared to stop the priest from reaching his objective.
Monster: Tale Loch Ness Page 25