Operation: Loch Ness

- 7 -

From straight in front, the huge, slightly flattened head looked almost dog-like, although it was five feet and more in width, with a mouthful of teeth in a smile that creased from ear to ear. McCally was closest, and he raised his rifle, taking aim.

“Don’t shoot,” Seton pleaded. “Captain, tell them not to shoot.”

The creature was almost on them, and would surely swamp the boat in seconds, but before Banks could reply, Seton shouted, two ringing words that sounded like a command.

“Dhumna Ort!”

The beast’s forward motion stopped and its head went down so that only the eyes and snout showed above the surface, the long body swaying from side to side in the water to maintain its position. Its ears perked up, listening. The boat rocked alarmingly below them from the waves caused by the beast’s surging attack and it was several seconds before they were on an even keel.

“Cap, do we put this fucker down or what?” Wiggins shouted.

“Don’t shoot!” Banks replied, and Seton added his own two words immediately afterward.

“Dhumna Ort! Dhumna Ort!”

The beast raised its head just long enough to emit two loud barks in reply, excited, like a dog expecting a treat. The loch fell quiet. The beast lay still in the water, never taking its gaze from the boat, its eyes just inches above the choppy surface. Every few seconds, a small whoof of thin steam showed at its nostrils as it breathed, but that was the only indication it was actually alive. Even the tail was still, lying straight out behind it.

“Now what?” Banks heard Hynd say.

“It’s our move,” Seton replied. “Let’s hope we have the best hand to play.”

The older man moved around to the port side so that he was standing directly in front of the beast’s gaze. He sang again, softly this time, like a mother to a small child, the same words and tune as before.

“Ri linn cothrom na meidhe, Ri linn sgathadh na h-anal.

“Ri linn tabhar na breithe Biodh a shith air do theannal fein.”

The beast let out a huffing snort that would have been almost comical in other circumstances, but every nerve in Banks’ body was tingling now, and he had an itchy trigger finger. He knew the other men would be feeling the same way.

Come on, wee man. Whatever you’re going to do, do it now.

He was going down the ladder to Seton’s side to try to speed matters up when a new sound broke the silence on the loch. He recognized it immediately as the chop and whop of an approaching helicopter.

It’s not one of ours. The colonel would have told me anything was incoming. So much for the fucking List D notice.

The noise got louder quickly, and Banks kept one eye on the beast; if it got agitated now, it was too close to the boat for them to take it out before it got them. For a few seconds, the chopper seemed as if it was going to pass straight over them and keep going. But the pilot or passenger obviously spotted the beast lying just of their port side, and quickly circled around and came back overhead, descending, intending to hover in position above it. A side door slid open, and a figure leaned out precariously, aiming a camera at the beast below.

“Fuck off, you stupid bastards,” Wiggins shouted, as all of the squad struggled to keep standing, buffeted by the downdraft from the rotor blades. The new wind set the boat rocking and rolling as if in a heavy swell.

When Banks caught his balance, he looked up again, and now he clearly saw the BBC logo on the chopper’s flank.

The fucking idiots are going to get us killed.

The cameraman turned toward the pilot and motioned that they should descend to get even closer. But the beast had other ideas. As the chopper came down to within 20 feet of the boat, the creature surged up and out of the water, showing Banks and the squad its belly of paler fur. Its tail thrust it in a lunge that took it up, and up. Its mouth opened, baring its teeth. Banks saw that the head looked less like that of an otter in profile, and more like a huge, enraged, horse, nostrils flaring, lips pulled back and with a rough mane of hair down across its shoulders. The front legs reached up and taloned paws grabbed the chopper on either side. Metal shrieked as huge claws pierced the chopper’s body and tore.

The cameraman dropped his camera, which bounced off the beast’s snout and fell between it and the boat with a loud splash, then he squealed, just once, as he lost his seating and tumbled out of the door. He wasn’t as lucky as the camera; the creature had its mouth open, waiting for him, and he fell into the maw as if he’d been aiming for it. One bite was all it took. Banks felt blood spatter down on his face as he watched the thing swallow, once, twice and the cameraman was gone.

The chopper still had power, and the engine wailed with a high whine as the pilot tried to turn aside, but he was far too late. The beast’s jaws clamped down on the cockpit. Glass shattered, metal bent and tore, and the chopper fell out of the air, trailing dark smoke as the creature dragged it back into the sea with a splash that rocked the boat, almost tipping it over.

When the beast fell, it twisted and turned. As it gripped the frame of the chopper tighter and dived down into the water with the crumpled fuselage, its tail swung round, thicker than a tall tree and just as solid. It struck Seton in the upper torso, throwing him all the way back along the boat to land in a crumpled heap against the bow rail.

It had all happened so fast that yet again no one in the squad had had time to raise their weapon, let alone fire a shot. Banks looked over the side. Two large air bubbles rose up from the depths and burst at the surface. And as quickly as that it was over, leaving only silence, a scum of oil and floating fragments of seating material on the surface to show where the chopper had been.

I wonder if they were going out live? If so, that’s definitely the end of yon List D notice.

Seton, almost miraculously, was still alive when Banks reached him, and even trying to stand, although there were flecks of blood at his lips and he was in obvious pain.

“The bugger stove my ribs in,” he said, wheezing. “I’ll live. But there’ll be no more singing or chanting for a while.”

Barns checked for other broken bones, but found nothing. When he examined the ribcage, Seton gave out a whelp of pain.

“I reckon you’ve got two, maybe three broken ribs there, Sandy.”

“Aye, that’s what I thought too. Get me back to the cabin. There’s bandages in the first-aid kit.”

“It’s a doctor you need,” Banks replied.

“Aye, but do you see one here? You lads have had field medic training, right? Patch me up. I’m seeing this out for the duration.”

“Only until we get to Caste Urquhart,” Banks replied. “There’ll be a proper medic there with the colonel’s team.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Seton said. “Now all I need is something for the pain. Lead me to the whisky, there’s a good chap.”

Banks gave Seton a shoulder to hang on to before turning to the squad.

“Cally, you’re with me,” he said. “Let’s get the auld boy here patched up. Sarge, Wiggo, keep your eyes peeled, and if the big bugger comes back, don’t bother singing to it. Put a volley down its gullet and don’t wait for an order.”

While McCally wrapped bandages around Seton’s thin, and soon to be a multi-colored hue of bruises, torso, Seton called the incident in to the colonel.

“Best tell the BBC that their crew is down,” he said after relating the basics.

“Aye, we heard already. They started to send a streaming video back to their van here. I got a good look down your monster’s gullet before the picture went. What were they thinking? Stupid, stupid, bastards. They were told to keep well away.”

“Aye, I’m sure they were, sir. Has it caused a stushie?”

“Luckily, they weren’t live on air,” the colonel replied. “If they had been, I wouldn’t be talking to you now, I’d be getting my arse reamed by the brass. But it’s just another thing to deal with here, and the press boys are straining against an increasingly short leash. We need a big win, Captain, and we need it fast.”

“As I said, sir, we’re working on something, or we were before that fucking chopper tuned up and screwed it up.”

Banks told the colonel about the singing, and how it had calmed the beast.

“You should have put the fucker down right there and then,” the colonel said. “That’s what I sent you out to do, not to sing to the bloody thing.”

“Aye, maybe I should have at that, sir,” Banks said dryly. “I hope to get another chance at it on the way back down the loch.”

He signed off before adding anything he’d regret later.

Or then I’d be the one getting his arse reamed.

“Let me guess,” McCally said as Banks turned back, “the boss isn’t a happy man.”

“No, he isn’t,” Banks replied. “And that makes two of us. Getting civilians killed on my watch wasn’t in the script.”

“Nor mine, Captain,” Seton said. He had a whisky bottle in one hand and he wasn’t bothering with a glass, necking it down in gulps that would have floored Banks if he tried it. “This is my fault.”

“No, it’s mine,” Banks said. “Mine for indulging a dangerous magic trick with a violent beast. I’m sorry, wee man, but I’m writing that one off as a failure.”

“But it was working,” Seton said. His attempt at raising his voice brought him a flare of pain that needed more whisky to quell it.

“Right up until it wasn’t,” Banks replied. “I’m not about to let any of my lads end up as otter food for the sake of another experiment. You’re in no fit state for any more of your hocus-pocus anyway. We’ll do this the hard way.”

“I could teach somebody the chant? I heard Corporal McCally say he recognized it. It wouldn’t be hard for a highlander to master.”

“There can be only one,” Wiggins said with a grin until Banks stopped him with a stare.

“There’s no time,” Banks replied to Seton. “You need some rest. Try not to move and maybe you won’t pierce a lung. We’ll head for Castle Urquhart, going across the loch a few times on the way down, but if you need us to speed up and go straight there, just shout. And pray we get lucky and come across it again before it kills anybody else. My conscience is going to be in a bad enough state as it is without adding any more weight to it.”

Banks motioned for McCally to follow and left Seton in the cabin with the whisky. Banks knew the pain of broken ribs of old; the liquor, then sleep was probably the most comfortable outcome the old man could hope for until they got him proper treatment.

And that’ll have to wait. I’ve got a monster to find.

“The auld fella’s right though,” McCally said. “I nearly ken that chant already. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to get it down pat.”

“We don’t have minutes to spare, Cally. And I’m not about to use you as bait for the fucker.”

“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.