Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Loch Ness

“I’m too important, is that it, Cap?” McCally said with a grin.

“Aye. You’re the only that makes a decent cup of coffee. So do me a favor and don’t get eaten, big man.”

He sent McCally back to his port side post, then climbed up to the top deck to take the wheel. The controls were simple enough to get to grips with, and a minute later he had the anchor raised and the engines running, his gaze set down the vessel and over the bow to the whole length of the loch.

“Wiggo,” he shouted. “It looks quiet at the moment. See if you can rustle us up a sandwich and a mug of tea… or even just more of those chocolate biscuits. And smoke them if you’ve got them, lads. It could be a long afternoon.”

As it turned out, a cheese sandwich, a cup of weak coffee, courtesy of Wiggins rather than McCally, and a smoke proved to be the highlights of the next few hours. They slowly crisscrossed the north end of the loch with nothing to see but the wind on the water and a nasty-looking front of dark, looming cloud slowly advancing from the southwest. A cold breeze blew up ahead of the front, making the water even choppier and biting through Banks’ clothing.

After a while, the wind came even colder, driving straight into his face. He abandoned the top pilot deck and went below to the safety of the cabin and the interior wheelhouse at the front of the living space. The view over the loch wasn’t nearly as good, but the relative warmth more than made up for that.

He allowed the squad to come in, one at a time, to fetch their waterproof fleeces, but kept them out on deck; he needed as many eyes on the water as they could muster, and Seton wasn’t going to be of any help. The older man had taken to the whisky with gusto, and was now lost in what looked to be a mercifully painless sleep, flat out across the bench beside the kitchen table.

They had another coffee and smoke break in the early afternoon, just past the midway point of their trip down the loch. There had been no sign of the monster.

“Probably still chewing away at that fucking chopper,” Wiggins said as they all converged on the rear viewing deck for a smoke. “I don’t want to know what’s in its shite the next time it goes.”

“Stupid bloody reporters who should have kent better,” Hynd said.

Banks didn’t admonish the men for their tastelessness. Gallows humor was a survival tactic for men who had to face danger on a routine basis, an ‘if it’s happening to somebody else, it’s not happening to us’ mentality that allowed them a buffer against harsh reality.

Besides, the BBC men really should have bloody known better.

By the time they finished their coffee and smokes, the line of the dark front was almost directly overhead. The wind got up, disturbing the water even more, and rain splattered in heavy drops. By the time Banks got back to the wheel, the window in front of him was awash. The whole sky had gone dark, slate gray, and the rudimentary wiper blades he had at his disposal did little to clear the view from rain that was being blown almost horizontal in the face of the window.

He had to drop his speed to half of what he’d been doing earlier. There was little chance of maintaining their crisscross searching pattern, for turning side on into the wind caused them to rock and roll alarmingly, threatening to tumble the men outside off and over the rail.

Bugger this for a game of soldiers.

He set the boat’s nose directly into the wind, ran up the engine as far as he dared, and headed, he hoped, in the general direction of Castle Urquhart.

Over the next half an hour, the weather deteriorated until he could only see a few yards ahead of the nose of the boat. Hynd came in from the rear deck. Although he wore the waterproof fleece with its hood pulled over his face, rain dripped from his nose, his cheeks looked as if they’d been sandblasted, and he gave every impression of being seriously fed up with life.

“Can I bring the lads in, Cap? It’s not fit for man nor beast out here.”

“It’s the beast I’m worried about,” Banks replied. “But you’re right, there’s fuck all to see anyway apart from rain. Bring them in and get a brew going to warm you up. I’ll keep an eye out up front, and one of you three watch out the back door. But if it decides to attack us in this weather, we’re fucked anyway; we’ll never see it coming.”

“Let’s hope chewing on yon chopper gives it the shits, keeps it busy, and far away.”

“We’re supposed to be hunting it,” Banks said with a thin smile.

“Aye, because that’s been working out well so far,” Hynd replied, and left to fetch McCally and Wiggins.

Seton woke up as the others were coming inside and sat up to make room at the table, his face pale and a mask of pain after the effort.

“What did I miss?” he asked, his voice little more than a croak.

“A fuckload of wind, a shitload of rain, and fuck all of anything else,” Wiggins replied.

Banks turned to Seton.

“Yep, that about sums it up. As far as I can tell, we’re headed directly for Castle Urquhart. Shouldn’t be too long, as long as I don’t run us ashore in the meantime.”

Seton insisted on getting up to join Banks at the wheel, although the effort clearly pained him enough that he needed another slug of whisky before he was able to speak. He looked at the map of the loch that was pinned above their heads, checked the compass and GPS, and nodded.

“You’re a tad off. Bring her to port, ten degrees or so, and you’re heading straight there. Remember to stop before you hit the castle.”

Wiggins came over and passed them each a coffee. Seton put a slug of whisky in his, but Banks refused when offered.

“You can buy me and the lads a drink when this is all over, and we’ll listen to your stories all night, but best we all stay sharp right now. The weather might be just the cover this thing needs; we know fuck all about its attack patterns.”

“At least we know it disnae like helicopters,” Wiggins said.

Banks’ tension headache from peering through the window ratcheted up again, and he ceded the wheel to Hynd for a spell before going to stand guard at the open rear door to have a smoke. At first, he was looking almost northeast while he stood in the relative cover of the doorway, but when he turned to flick the butt of the smoke away when he was done, he looked northwest, in line with the rear of the boat.

The beast was there, right behind them.

Although visibility was low, he saw the length of the creature clearly, the three dark, almost shadowy humps swimming along in their wake, keeping pace with the boat some 20 yards behind.

He unslung his rifle, taking aim, but didn’t shoot. With a beast this big, he’d need to get it in the eye or straight down the gullet to put it down fast; one or two bullets were only likely to enrage it. The chances of a decent shot were slim to nil. All he could see were the humps, and with the boat rocking and bouncing, and the gloom gathering, he wasn’t even sure of hitting it in the first place.

He turned back to the cabin and called inside.

“Sarge, stay at the wheel, keep us on the straight and narrow. The rest of you; grab your guns and get out here. We’ve got a visitor.”

“Stay put, auld man,” Banks said to Seton. “The excitement won’t do you any good.”

“At my age, any kind of excitement is better than none at all,” Seton replied.

The older man pulled an oilskin rain jacket over his shoulders and came out with McCally and Wiggins. They all stood at the rear deck looking at the beast while rain lashed against their backs. If the weather bothered the creature, it showed no sign of it, maintaining the same steady pace in their wake.