Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Loch Ness

“A gateway to hell you said?” Banks asked Seton.

“Not my words, but Crowley’s,” Seton replied with a grin. “But as you said yourself, that was a hundred years and more ago — maybe it’s frozen over? Now are we going to stand around here chatting, or are we going down to find the beast?”

As before, Seton refused to consider staying up top to wait.

“If this is Crowley’s pit, then you might need my expertise, or at least my opinion. It’s my ribs that hurt, not my legs. I’ll manage stairs just fine.”

Wiggins passed Seton a pair of night vision goggles, helped him put them on and quickly explained their operation, then Banks had Hynd lead the way, with Wiggins following.

“Ladies first,” he said to Seton and ushered him forward, waiting until the old man’s head was below the level of the floor before taking his first step down into the dark.

The night goggles gave everything a greenish cast, and Hynd’s gun light showed almost brilliant white some 10 yards below. They descended in a narrow passage, hardly any wider than the width of their shoulders, the steps steep enough to make them move cautiously, for although the stone was dry and not slippery, none of them wanted to tumble way and down into an unknown darkness.

Hynd came on the headset after a few minutes.

“Something on the wall the auld man should see, Cap. It’s about 20 steps below your position. We’ll hold here until he gets to it. Follow Wiggo’s light. Nothing ahead yet but more steps.”

By the time Banks reached the other men’s position, Seton was already studying the wall on the left. It appeared to have been daubed with crude paintings in red and creamy-white, of both men wielding spears and animals running, mostly deer by the look of it.

“Your man Crowley’s work?” Banks asked.

Seton took long seconds to reply.

“No, Captain. These are thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of years old. It is a major archaeological find all in its own right. Done by members of an ancient hunting cult if I’m not mistaken.”

“But hunting what?” Wiggins asked. “There’s nae deer down here.”

“Maybe they were holding their initiation rituals, down here in the dark. Caves are often seen as liminal places, where the border between natural and supernatural is thin. The Greeks, for example—”

“Maybe later, Sandy, eh?” Banks said, tapping at the wall. “Interesting as this may be, we’re after bigger prey.”

Wiggins turned his light away from the wall, and that was the signal for the descent to begin again.

As they went deeper, the air got thicker, and Banks now smelled a definite odor of animal, and, strangely, tasted salt at his lips and tongue. At the same time, Hynd came back on the con. He was almost whispering.

“It’s opening out ahead, Cap, and there’s dim light ahead. Thirty steps down from you. I’ll provide cover for all of you, but probably best to keep things quiet on the way down.”

Banks moved forward to tap Seton on the shoulder, and, with a finger to his lips, caution the man to silence when he turned. They continued down, slowly. They could no longer see the brilliant white of the sarge’s gun light below, but the opening they were making for glowed dimly, a wavering green aurora like the faintest of Northern Lights.

They found the source of the light show when they stepped out of the stairwell, and onto a wide rocky ledge overlooking a shimmering underground lake.

The lake itself was the source of the luminescence, either by some quality of the rock, or by a biological agent, Banks couldn’t tell. He only knew it was strangely beautiful and was held rapt by sight of the wide, cavernous area, the size of two football fields at least. The water was 10 feet or so below his feet. The rocky roof of the cavern hung 10 yards above them, reflecting some of the lake’s shimmer back on itself. Pale and ghostly thread-like stalactites dropped down over the water like some rough upended pincushion. Banks was so enamored of the scene he almost didn’t spot that Seton had moved along the ledge to their left to study a tall stone cross that had been erected on the edge above the water.

“This isn’t thousands of years old,” Banks said as he stepped over for a look. “Is this one Crowley’s doing do you think?”

Seton had a close look at the carvings that ran the full height.

“No, this is Pictish. And it’s not thousands, but probably at least one thousand years old, maybe a tad older. We’re not the first to be dazzled by the beauty of this place. As I said, many cultures revere caves and caverns, and to them, this must have appeared a truly magical place.”

“They weren’t the last ones here before us either,” Hynd said from behind and to their left. “Have a look at this.”

A secondary, small cave, not natural but hewn out of the rock by metal tools judging by the strike marks, sat, almost hidden in shadows, where the ledge met the main cavern wall. There was nothing in it but two slightly rusted iron cages, each of them the size that might contain a large dog. The floor, both in and outside the cages, was strewn with the bones and skulls of small animals. Banks was no expert, but it looked like they might be rabbits and sheep, and possibly a few dogs and cats.

“This, on the other hand, is most probably Crowley’s doing,” Seton said. “Remember I told you that the locals were reporting missing pets?”

“What the fuck was he doing keeping animals way down here in the dark?” Wiggins asked.

“I told you that before too,” the older man said. “Alchemical experimentation, with the required result being a chimera, of some kind, and the end result being immortality for Crowley himself.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work out too fucking well for him? He’s been dead a while now, hasn’t he? I’m glad the fucker didn’t succeed. Cruel wanker.”

They had been speaking in whispers since arriving on the ledge, but Banks’ wasn’t sure it was necessary. When he went back to look over the lake, he could see that nothing disturbed the water, not even a ripple; it looked like a sheet of smoky green glass with only a thin film of liquid on top. The sides of the cavern ran smooth and sheer into the water around the edges, and there was no sign of any other ledge, or any cave entrances that he could see.

“It’s here, somewhere,” Seton said at his side, still whispering. “Can’t you smell it?”

“Aye. I smelled the stench most of the way down yon steps. That, and salt water. I’m guessing there might be something to yon theory about an underground channel to the sea?”

“I think it’s more than likely the passage in and out to the firth is here somewhere,” Seton replied. “But as I said, it hasn’t taken flight, maybe because you injured it in the fight at the castle. Whatever the case, it’s still here. And if we can smell it so clearly, it’s close and hiding, suddenly cautious. I doubt it has ever encountered a gun before.”

“Aye, about that,” Banks said. “Do you have any idea why our shots to the body had so little effect?”

“Fat, probably,” Seton replied. “Otters, and indeed most aquatic mammals, have a very thick fatty layer. It would be like firing into a big lump of solid lard trying to get to the actual meat, bone, and sinew on the other side of it.”

That made sense of what Banks had seen at the castle site. A direct shot to the head had been the only thing to give the beast pause. He turned to Wiggins.

“Here that, Wiggo? Headshots only.”

“Aye, Cap. Either that or a couple up the jacksie should get the job done.”