Monster: Tale Loch Ness (35 page)

They ate dinner together at the inn. They did not mention MacPherson again. In fact, as soon as they had left the parish, Mary MacKenzie's entire mood had changed. She was now smiling, upbeat. It was as if the visit to Loch Meiklie had purged emotions.

After dinner, she conscripted him for service in the pub and then, after closing, retired with him to the inn's drawing room along with a bottle of wine.

The room was attractive, its decor subdued, mixing tones of brown and beige. The furniture was old, the atmosphere intimate.

"Can I ask a question," he asked after they had settled in.

"Of course."

He poured two glasses of wine.

"Remember the day of the
Columbus
funeral service? Remember our conversation, how I'd guessed you'd had a bad emotional experience and that's why you'd closed yourself off."

"Yes."

"I never asked for specifics."

"I know."

"I'm asking now."

"Why?"

"Because I care about you. Because I'm not as uninterested as I made myself out to be. Because I'm human."

"There was no experience," she said, touching his hand, running her nails softly along the inside of his fingers very sensually.

"At least not with a man."

"Then with what?"

"A city—London—a country, England."

"I don't understand."

"Sometimes, when I think back on it, I don't, either."

"You were in London at the time?"

"Yes. I was a student at the London School of Economics, I felt the experience would be good for me, that a taste of England would expand my horizons. And my father was there quite a bit—a member of parliament."

"What happened?"

"Culture shock! Mr. Bruce, whether you know it or not, we Highlanders are very provincial people. London was a revelation. I was just twenty-two years old and had grown up with very narrow ideas. I was raised in a provincial nationalist home with a very rigid outlook. London and the ideas I found there were very different."

"You began to understand the English."

She seemed embarrassed. "Yes, but London seduced me. The night life seduced me. The good times seduced me. To this day, I don't know how it happened."

"It happens to young women all the time."

"But it shouldn't have happened to me. I was too committed. Too dedicated."

"Did your father find out?"

"Yes. He was hurt and angry. He was convinced I had desecrated the spirit of our nation, desecrated our dead. We argued incessantly. I was temporarily insane. But I woke up with a jolt. I came out of a restaurant one night with some friends. A young couple was waiting for a taxi. They were wearing tartan colors. They were attacked by an English street gang because of the colors. I tried to stop the brutality. Others did, too. It was terrible, a nightmare. The young boy died in my arms."

"And you blamed the English?"

"No. Of course not. Just like I wouldn't blame the Scots if some Scottish ruffians killed an English tourist. But I was jolted nevertheless, reminded of what I am, what Scotland is, what I had subconsciously chosen to forget."

"And you reacquired your burden?"

"Yes."

He laughed to himself. "Then it wasn't a man, a boy friend." This then was the betrayal of trust she'd spoken of at Culloden.

She grinned teasingly. "Oh, I've had boy friends. You know that. It just wasn't a boy friend until you. You've caused me to let some of the burden slide again. That frightens me."

His face registered recognition.

"You were seduced by a country. I was consumed by ideals."

"Your causes. The pursuit of the truth."

"And a headlong rush to disaster."

He sat quietly, thinking, then took her step by step through the
Phoenix
incident. He was convinced he had to provide her with the last piece in the complex puzzle that was his life. Sooner or later, she would learn the truth about Loch Ness, learn that he had kept critical information from her. The
Phoenix
incident might help her to understand and accept his actions, and so might the eventual revelation about the death of Max Furst. He was convinced she'd instantly attempt to short-circuit the loch project if she knew the truth. He was also convinced she might then be in terrible danger. If Whittenfeld and Lefebre had disposed of Max Furst, they would certainly be capable of eliminating her—or him, for that matter. No, if and when the time came for action outside the company, he would approach a broad spectrum of governing authorities. No matter that Mary MacKenzie might hate his guts afterward; she was going to be the last one to know. She was not going to become a footnote on one of Lefebre's casualty lists!

She embraced him as soon as he had finished the recitation. "We all make mistakes," she said.

"Not all of us," he replied. "Some of us are just destined."

The New York-compiled dossiers arrived the following day. They were painstakingly complete.

Scotty delivered them to Whittenfeld, who reluctantly authorized the project and then informed Dr. Rubinstein and Dr. Fiammengo. The researchers were elated. They instructed Geminii procurement to obtain the chert-silica blocks and set out to assemble the drill apparatus in a basement lab provided by the company. When the blocks arrived three days later, the apparatus had already been completed.

It took thirty-six hours to prepare for the actual recordings. Dr. Rubinstein estimated the entire process would last two days.

The recording sessions began.

Scotty entered the lab during an early recess and invited Dr. Fiammengo to the executive lounge for coffee.

"Tell me more about Dr. Rubinstein," he said. "Tell me how you met."

"I was doing graduate work at Harvard. He was on the faculty. He was giving a lecture series on unexplained phenomena. I caught his second session on UFOs."

"Does he believe in them?"

"Yes."

"UFOs and the Loch Ness monster. What about the Abominable Snowman?"

"He's skeptical there. But on most things Dr. Rubinstein has a very open mind. He accepts possibilities until they are conclusively disproven. He is a very thorough man."

"A nervous man as well."

"Call him energetic. He has more than enough energy for ten men. And he's an achiever. That's what attracted me to him. Immediately. And that's what attracted us to you. Your activist past. You are a doer, too."

They finished their coffee and left the lounge. Dr. Fiammengo returned to the lab.

Later that day, both researchers joined Scotty in his office.

"I would like to procure this vehicle for the enterprise," Dr. Rubinstein began after placing a submersible spec on Scotty's desk. "The submersible is the MV-7. I've carefully studied the alternatives and our requirements, and I'm convinced it's the best vehicle I can obtain for the price and the job."

Dr. Rubinstein handed Scotty a booklet. Scotty scanned it.

"Impressive," Scotty said.

"I have used the vehicle before," Dr. Rubinstein declared. "It is reliable and very advanced."

"The crew?"

"The best. The pilot is a Liverpudlian named Malcolm Conner. The engineer and copilot is a Dutchman named Johannes Aard. I know them both. They are crack."

"Who owns the sub?"

"London Surveying and Marine."

"I assume it's available."

"Yes."

"Have you spoken to them?"

"Yes."

"When can it be here?"

"They promised they can fly it in within twenty-four hours of commission."

"Get it!"

Two days later, Dr. Rubinstein completed the recording procedures. The submersible arrived at the airport, and Scotty ordered it helicoptered into the loch. Then he and Dr. Rubinstein welcomed the submersible team to Geminii base.

Johannes Aard and Malcolm Conner were the most conspicious members of the group. They were outgoing, garrulous, confident, radiating the aura of men who knew what they were about, adventurers, daredevils.

Scotty liked them immediately.

He also liked Conner's ribald sense of humor as well as the information he read off their resumes.

"So what is this all about?" Aard asked, burying his words in a jarring Dutch accent.

"You'll find it interesting," Dr. Rubinstein predicted.

"The company doesn't know why the submersible was chartered."

"That was intentional."

"They told us," Malcolm Conner added, "that if we don't like the assignment, we can turn it down."

"That was the deal," Scotty explained.

"Then let us hear," Aard said, draping his body over a chair and stroking his beard.

"This conversation is confidential," Dr. Rubinstein advised them.

"Of course," Conner assured.

Dr. Rubinstein explained the nature of the assignment. Aard and Conner were astonished.

Dr. Rubinstein asked if they would accept.

Aard and Conner just stared.

Submersible planning commenced. Apart from the two operators, the submersible team was kept in the dark about the ultimate objectives.

A command barge was floated and placed on line. Several planning sessions were conducted. Captain Harrigan was included, though he was given only a minimum of information.

One week after Whittenfeld had given his authorization, they were ready. Scotty notified Whittenfeld, whom he had barely seen in the intervening days, of the status.

Whittenfeld gave final clearance.

Scotty informed all the participants.

They would begin operations the following morning.

Scotty paced down the street. Travis House stood in the background. Rarely had he ever felt so unhinged.

The moon was out, and the sky was clear. Weather service had predicted a perfect day for the first dive.

He looked at his watch. It was time to go to bed, but he was too keyed up.

He returned to Travis House, said good night to Mrs. Munro, then retired to his room and called the Cam Dearg Inn.

Mary MacKenzie answered; she was in the Cam Dearg pub, working.

"I love you," he finally said, tearing down the last remaining emotional block between them.

A long pause intervened.

Then she said, "I love you, too. Very much."

The day was perfect, the loch's surface uncharacteristically quiet.

The command barge and the twelve-ton, thirty-foot-long, deep-water probe were the only vessels in the active drilling sector apart from the drill ship and lead sonar tug. For purposes of secrecy, the two support sonar tugs had been docked.

They were nearly ready. Soon the submersible would start its engines and descend to one hundred and fifty feet. Then the
Magellan
's crew would stop the rotary system, the submersible would begin to broadcast the lab recordings, and if anything alive appeared, it would be photographed by the submersible's ejectable cameras as well as by surface-supported camera equipment previously lowered into the loch.

The plan seemed perfect.

"They're ready in the probe," Dr. Fiammengo called as she entered the cabin.

"Good," Dr. Rubinstein observed. He was perched in a chair behind the console, his bald spot concealed by a woolen ski hat. "Turn on the surface camera."

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.