Operation: Loch Ness

- 3 -

Banks rose quickly, squirmed out of the sleeping bag and rose, his rifle already, instinctively in hand. He went with McCally to the doorway, careful not to kick anything loose that might give away their position. Hynd stirred but didn’t wake, and Wiggins’ snoring didn’t miss a beat. He left them sleeping.

“No sense waking them if it’s a false alarm,” he said quietly and McCally nodded.

“It might just be a stray dog,” the corporal said. “I heard loud barking, twice, the second time closer than the first. But the weird thing is, I think it was coming from out on the loch rather than on land.”

“Fisherman with his dog in the boat maybe? You know some lads like a bit of night fishing?”

“Aye, maybe, but there’s been no other sounds, no light of any kind. It’s got me fair spooked, and I’m not feert to admit it.”

They stepped through the rubble and ventured to the open wall looking out over the loch. The rain had stopped, but there was still cloud cover, so no chance of moonlight or stars to shed any light on the dark waters.

“Barking, you said?” Banks asked.

“Aye, Cap. And just like a dog. Not angry, just curious.”

As McCally spoke, Banks heard it for himself, a sharp but deep-throated bark. Then there was a loud splash, not too far out on the loch. Banks switched on his gun light and panned the beam across the surface, catching an outward roll of large ripples from a point no more than 10 yards away. Whatever had made the disturbance in the water had to have been huge, but there was no sign of anything there now. The ripples lapped against the shore, the first few of them raising small splashes on the bank, then everything fell quiet again.

“What the fuck was that, Cap?” McCally said. “A big seal maybe?”

“We’re a hell of a long way from any access to the sea,” Banks reminded him. “I can’t see a seal getting over the hills, can you?”

“Otter then?”

“It would have to be a bloody big otter to make a splash like yon.”

McCally’s voice went quiet, higher pitched, almost childlike.

“Maybe it was a kelpie.”

Banks looked over at him in the darkness, checking to see if the corporal was kidding, but he appeared to be deadly serious.

“Don’t talk pish, man. That’s just a story to frighten the bairns.”

“You’re not from the Highlands, Cap,” McCally replied. “There’s more things in this land than we know, or care to know. My auld great gran worked a croft on her own out on Lewis after Great Granddad never came back from the war. She had stories to tell that would turn your hair white, of handsome young men by loch-sides who turned into vicious, horse-like monsters if you gave in to their advances, kelpies that were fiercely territorial, and murderous as hell. She said that everybody out on the islands knew about them and avoided dark pools at night. But every so often a bairn would be taken anyway and, man, was I scared that one day I would be one of those bairns, because I saw the truth of her stories in her eyes.”

“I don’t believe in such things.”

“Aye, and I don’t believe in Nazi ice zombies, giant sea lice, snakes the size of trains, or fucking abominable snowmen, but look where that’s got us these past few years.”

“Changing your bet from big cats, are we, Cally?” Banks said, trying to lighten the corporal’s mood, but the big man was clearly rattled. Banks had seen him stand up, not fazed in the slightest, under an attack of hundreds of Afghan mountain bandits. To see him so disconcerted by little more than a splash in the water had Banks confused. He covered his confusion by offering McCally a cigarette, and they smoked in silence for a bit.

“I’m just saying, Cap,” the corporal said, breaking the quiet, “here in the Highlands, we’ve sometimes got other things to worry about than the purely physical. If my auld grannie was still here, she’d say we’d just been given a sign, a portent, and that we shouldn’t dismiss it lightly.”

“Still, fucking kelpies? That’s a stretch even for us, isn’t it, Cally?”

“All I’m saying is we should keep an open mind,” McCally replied. “Until we ken better.”

“And there you have got something we can agree with.”

Banks checked his watch. Two-thirty, and he was now wide awake.

“I’ll take the early shift,” he said. “Let Wiggo snore. Just fetch me a coffee first, then you get your head down for a bit. We’ll see what there is to see in the morning.”

After McCally brought him a coffee and returned to his sleeping bag, Banks stood at the open wall, looking out toward the loch. Once his eyes adjusted properly to the gloom, he was able to see as far as the edge where it lapped against the bank so if anything did come from that direction, he’d see it coming. But the night had fallen completely still now, only Wiggins’ snoring carrying through from the back of the cottage. He sipped his coffee, smoked a cigarette down to the butt, and waited for a recurrence of either the barking or the splashing, but none came.

By around four, the coffee had worked its way through and he felt the need to go. He walked over to the bank and did his business in the loch, sending ripples back out toward where the splash had been earlier.

Still nothing replied.

“Here I am, pishing in your wee pond,” he said out loud. “Does that not bother you?”

He’d have got a shock if anything replied, and as he turned back, he was thankful for the continued silence.

The night was turning toward dawn when Wiggins finally woke, crawled out of his bag, and headed to do the same thing in the loch that Banks had done earlier. As he came back to join Banks in the doorway, he already had a cigarette in his mouth, puffing away on his first of many for the day.

“All clear, Cap?”

“Just about, Wiggo,” Banks replied. “There was a splash in the loch in the early hours. Cally thinks it’s got a kelpie in it.”

“What’s one of them when it’s at home?”

“A water spirit; a handsome man that turns into a spectral horse after it lures the unwary to their deaths.”

Wiggins laughed.

“Just as well, we’re not partial to handsome men, or are particularly fucking unwary then, isn’t it?”

Banks left the private on watch and went to get a pot of coffee on, then wake the other two. The fire was almost out, but he didn’t bother stoking it; he intended to be out on the hill as soon as the sun was fully up.

Breakfast was a simple one of coffee, dry biscuits, and another smoke, then they quickly packed up their gear and headed out into thin, watery sunshine.

Fifteen yards to the left of the cottage, just on the edge of the loch shore, they found evidence that their visitor in the night had been closer than they had thought.

“That’s a lot of shite,” Wiggins said as they stood around a medicine ball-sized pile of dark faeces. The thick grass of this flat patch between the loch and the copse of conifers had been flattened down, as if something heavy had lain there for a while.

“The bastard was here watching us, while we were watching for it,” McCally said.

“Sure looks that way,” Hynd said, then bent and retrieved a dead branch from the longer grass, using it to sift through the pile, spreading shit around to examine the content. The rest of them stood back as a vile stench rose up from below and stung at their noses and throats.

“What are you now, Sarge?” Wiggins asked, putting a hand over his nostrils and mouth to try to mask the smell. “The shite whisperer?”

Hynd ignored the private and spoke to Banks.

“There’s crushed bone in here, and it’s definitely a meat-eater. At a guess, I’d say this is what’s left of the rest of yon polar bear.”

“A pretty good guess, I’d reckon. Looks like our big pal is as curious about us as we are about it. Eyes open, lads. This thing might not be too far away.”

Banks kept a close watch on the loch as they made their way along a narrow animal track that ran along the water’s south side, but nothing stirred, not even a fish after a fly. At least the walking was more comfortable than the day before, with watery sunshine replacing yesterday’s persistent drizzle, but Banks’ thoughts kept turning to the pile of crap, and just how close the beast that left it there had been to the cottage and the squad. He remembered Wiggins’ quip about being unwary.

Maybe we’re not wary enough.

McCally dropped back to Banks’ side as they left the loch behind and started to climb into the hills beyond.

“Sorry about the funk last night, Cap,” the corporal said. “I got spooked like a big daft bairn. Dark water at night has always had that effect on me, since hearing the old woman’s stories. That, and being a Highlander in general means I’m just a moody, superstitious sod sometimes. It’s in my blood, I can’t help it.”

Banks clapped him on the shoulder.

“Chin up, man,” he said. “Did your grannie ever speak of kelpie shite?”

McCally laughed.

“She left that bit out.”

“There you go then. It’s just a big stupid animal that took a shite on our doorstep. Nothing to worry about.”

They spent the morning wending their way to and fro across hillsides and into valleys, tracing the route Banks had planned from the OS map. Several times they stopped to investigate areas where he’d marked an X on the map, trying to flush something from patches of shrub and woodland, old quarries or wetter, more persistent areas of bog. They scattered a small herd of red deer, one old ram, and several families of rabbits in the course of the morning, but nothing bigger. By noon, they still had no luck, with no trace of the beast, and not even a single track in the muddy ground.

At least there’s been no more of yon toxic shite.

Banks allowed the men some respite, having a rest and coffee stop on the top of a rocky outcrop overlooking a long, narrow valley. From this point, they had their first view of civilization of the day, in the form of a marching line of power pylons that stretched across the valley floor and northward up over the hill to their right. In the misty distance at the far end of the valley, the gray ribbon of a country road crossed north to south, some five miles distant. Banks didn’t intend to go that far; the next quadrant to be swept was up the hill at their back to the north. At some point in the evening, they were going to be high enough, and far enough north, to look down into Loch Ness itself, but there was a lot of climbing and walking to be done between here and then.

“I get a feeling that we’re all by our lonesome out here, Cap,” McCally said. “Whatever was around last night has well and truly buggered off.”

“What, no kelpies?” Wiggins said with a grin, and got a slap on the side of the head for his trouble.

Banks took a long drag of the cigarette he’d lit to accompany the coffee.

“I thought that last night too,” he replied, “right up until it crapped at our door. Let’s not let our guard down just yet.”

They each had a hot pouch of meat stew from their rations and another coffee to wash it down, then they moved out onto the hill for the second half of the day’s walk, their packs only marginally lighter for having had a lunch out of them.

The going got tougher the higher they climbed. Wet moorland gave way to heather and gorse, with few tracks through it that they could follow for any length of time. It became more of a trudge than a walk, one foot after the other trying not to think of the weight of the pack or the fact that feet seemed to have turned to blocks of stone. The current hill they were on seemed to have gone on forever; every time they crested what they thought might be the top, it was only to see another slope rising above them. McCally had point, and Banks felt a small wash of relief when the corporal called them to a halt.

“We’ve got something on the hill ahead, Cap. Some kind of animal, but it’s not moving.”

Banks strode up to McCally’s position and followed the line of his pointing finger. A dark, hump-like shape was outlined against the sky on the next ridge above them. It looked too big, too bulky to be a deer or a cow, the biggest things he might have expected to see on this hill.

“Our boy, do you think?” McCally said.

“Maybe,” Banks said, keeping his voice low. “And we’re downwind of him, so if he hasn’t seen us yet, let’s keep it that way. Sarge, you take Wiggo and come round and up on the east flank. Cally and I will go straight up from here. If he comes anywhere near you, take him out and we can worry about what the fuck he is later.”

Hynd and Wiggins moved away to the right and Banks and McCally started climbing toward the humped figure, keeping low. But they didn’t have to go far before they realized they hadn’t found their quarry, only more of its lunch.

What remained of a large male bison lay on the hillside. Like the polar bear before it, it had been almost hollowed out, and most of the meat had been stripped from the bones, leaving only the head, horns, and an empty shell draped with bloody strips of skin. Both back legs were missing, torn roughly from the hipbones that showed white amid the gore.

“I’ll say one thing for the boy,” Wiggins said. “He likes his grub.”

“Take a smoke break, lads. I’ll call this in,” Banks said.

He put in a call on the sat phone back to base in Lossiemouth. He got as far as explaining about the dead bison when the orderly on the other end interrupted him.

“I’ll let them know at the Wildlife Park and they’ll get someone out to those coordinates,” he said, “but the colonel’s been going spare all morning trying to get you. You need to get yourselves over to Foyers, right bloody quick. There’s tourists dead and torn up, others missing, press and TV all over the shop and top brass shitting themselves.”

“Has this got to do with why we’re out here in the first place?”

“Not a clue,” the orderly said. “All I know is that it’s a bloody mess. Just get your arses over there. The colonel is on site, and he’ll brief you.”

The fact that the colonel had left the safety of his office sent a chill down Banks’ back. The man spent his whole working life behind his desk since redeployment from Northern Ireland and didn’t move barring a disaster. Things had just got a lot worse.