Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Loch Ness

“The wedge-shaped head finally swooped down in another attack, but Tor had been waiting for it. He stepped nimbly aside and brought his sword down in a cut that would have cleaved a man in half. The blade rang as it struck but it was as if he’d hit a wall. The weapon bounced back, the impact and vibration so severe it sent Tor staggering backward. The blade did not break, but it thrummed for several seconds in his hand, sending shaking vibration and tingling all up his sword arm. It momentarily weakened him, and he was too off balance to prevent another Viking from being swept up from the deck and into the great maw. He only saw the man’s legs kicking even as he was swallowed whole with a single gulp.

“The attack seemed to have been going on forever, but Tor realized it had only been a matter of seconds. The rest of the crew were only now rousing from their oars and joining in the fray. Several spears struck at the serpent’s head, but they had as little impact as Tor’s sword. One of the men stepped over Tor and struck at the beast’s left eye, but yet again, despite being aimed directly in the center of the iris, the point of the weapon met only with a surface as hard as any stone. The beast was unscathed and scooped the attacker up, biting off his head with a sickening crunch and spray of blood.

“Tor managed to steady his stance his sword raised again, but he had no deal how to fight such a seemingly indestructible foe. And Skald was no help; he stood at the stern, his gaze blank, his eyes fluttering, lost in the Wyrd even as his crewmates fought and died around him.

“And then there was no more time to even fend the thing off. The serpent surged high out of the water and a full half of its considerable bulk fell right onto the stern of the longboat. The back end went down, the prow went up, and everything aboard — Vikings, oars, weapons, and pillaged loot — was tossed into the water like strewn pebbles.

“Tor landed in the black waters of the loch with a splash that momentarily knocked the wind from him, but he had enough presence of mind to hold onto his weapon; it might well be the only thing between him and death in the next few seconds.

“To shore. To the north shore,” he shouted. He knew from the splashing and cursing that there were men in the water all around him, but how many there were was something he could not know. He could only hope that the remaining crew had heard him and were able to do something about it. He swam forward, kicking with his legs and paddling with his spare arm. His hand hit a timber the length of a man, a piece of the longboat which he guessed was now mostly at the bottom of the loch. Using the timber as a float, he hung on tight and kicked with his feet with all his strength, heading toward where he thought, hoped, the northern shore might be.”

“Is that it?” Banks asked, as the story ended far too abruptly.

“That’s all there was. But you see, there was a monster, if not an otter of any kind, here all that time ago, if this is to believed. I think the occult influences around the area of Boleskine house predate Crowley by centuries. But as I said before, it was only after 1933 that the reports around here started to get more frequent, and more specific, only after Crowley’s great experiment.”

“And do any of them since the Viking’s ‘walrus’ mention your proposed giant otter?”

“In fact, there are several over the years that are remarkably similar. And many more reports of three humps moving as one. Have you seen an otter swim when it is traveling with purpose, Captain? There’s a small hump for the head, a large one for the body, and a third where the tail is curved and upraised acting as a rudimentary rudder. Even for a normal-sized otter, it’s the classic ‘lake monster’ profile. I suspect many of the purported photographs of Nessie are simply of an otter with nothing else in the picture to give a sense of scale.”

“What about those scientific investigations a few years back? The ones Peter Scott was involved with. Didn’t they photograph what looked like a plesiosaur flipper? That might have been more akin to your admittedly outlandish Viking story?”

“They said they did, certainly,” Seton replied. “But those photographs were inconclusive at best, and a hoax at worst. I am far more inclined to believe in an overly large modern mammal than in a 200 million-year-old dinosaur miraculously surviving into the modern era without ever being seen properly by anyone.”

“But if it is a giant otter as you say, how did it get so bloody huge? And how has it survived for a hundred years?”

Seton smiled.

“I don’t know, but as I said last night, I suspect it might be some form of alchemical experiment of Crowley’s gone wrong. Alchemy’s history is replete with tales of homunculi and chimeras being raised to gigantic proportions, and of them being unnaturally long-lived, almost immortal.”

“This alchemy, though? It’s all just chemistry experiments when it comes down to it, isn’t it?”

“No. Just as there was in the tale I just told of the vikings, there’s a large element of mysticism and the occult in the mix too. If I’m right, the beast is as much formed by magic as it is by natural forces. That’s why I’m hoping my area of expertise will come in useful if we come across it out here.”

“I still can’t say that I’m convinced. But I’ll take any help I can get right about now,” Banks replied.

He had just lit the second cigarette of the morning, and was studying the water between the boat and the bank to his right through Seton’s binoculars when McCally shouted from up front.

“Some fog ahead, Cap.”

He looked forward. It looked like a gray wall stretched across the deep valley from shore to shore and up over the hills on either side.

“How far to the head of the loch?” he asked.

“Another 10 miles or so,” Seton replied. “I can navigate just fine in fog though, so don’t worry about that. Still want to go all the way up?”

Banks nodded.

“A full sweep is what I told the colonel, so that’s what he’ll get. I’m not sure we’ll see much of anything in there though.”

“Morning fog rolling down from the firth past Inverness,” Seton replied. “It might burn off quickly if we’re lucky.”

Seton studied the fog through the binoculars. It looked thick, almost solid from this distance, not like anything that was going burn off fast.

“Let’s hope we’re lucky.”

Seton took them into the fog two minutes later.

Banks’ descended from the top deck and went to join Hynd at the rear of the boat. Visibility was down to 10 yards, and the only sound was the low thrum of the boat’s engine; Seton had cut speed, and they were now moving at little more than a brisk walking pace. That suited Banks just fine, as he knew there were large rocks breaking the surface in the shallows near the shore, and he didn’t fancy hitting anything at speed.

He took a smoke when Hynd offered.

“Do you buy any of the wee man’s story, Cap?” the sergeant said as they lit up.

“Not that alchemy bullshit and mumbo-jumbo, no. Well, not really. But the bit about it being a fucking huge otter rings true given what we’ve seen so far. Plus, having a lend of his boat for the day is handy, so I’m not about to argue too much with him just yet.”

“I’ve been thinking, Cap. He seems like he’s a smart man. Maybe it wasn’t a total coincidence that we found him last night.”

“Aye, the thought had crossed my mind too. Maybe he found us. But either way, we’re out on the water where we want to be, and so is he, so nobody’s losing out of the deal. Keep an eye on him though. I’ve got a feeling things might turn hinky. Antarctica-type hinky.”