Monster: Tale Loch Ness (4 page)

Scotty stood. "It's a big staff for an exploratory base."

Whittenfeld shook his head. "The company is very optimistic. We're sure there's plenty of oil here." He put on his jacket. "Shall we?" he asked, indicating the door.

They walked out into the secretarial area. Pierre Lefebre was waiting for them.

"I was told Mr. Bruce had arrived," Lefebre said in an appealing but heavy French accent. "So I came up to meet him."

"I'm glad you did," Whittenfeld declared, introducing the two men.

"It's a pleasure," Lefebre announced with a flourish. "I've heard a lot about you, Monsieur Bruce."

"I hope not all bad," Scotty said.

"All good!"

Impossible, Scotty thought, allowing a touch of realism to invade opening-day pleasantries. "Thanks" he said.

Lefebre was slim, scarred, blandly complected. At first glance, he looked the type of man who would rarely smile. But he was smiling effusively, almost overdoing it.

"So good," Lefebre continued as he buttoned the bottom button of his tightly tailored, epauletted Eisenhower jacket. "I'm anxious to discover if the man lives up to the legend."

"Don't believe all the propaganda," Scotty declared. Was the Frenchman referring to his football and engineering careers or his infamous reputation for corporate radicalism, his addiction to anticorruption crusades and causes?

"Propaganda or not, I look forward to working with you."

"Thanks. The feeling is mutual." They entered the hall.

Whittenfeld turned to Lefebre. "What are you up to?"

"A security check."

"Can it wait?"

"Sure."

Whittenfeld pointed to the elevators. "Good. Come along and help me introduce Scotty to the base."

Shortly after two o'clock, Scotty, Whittenfeld, and Lefebre returned to Whittenfeld's suite.

They were joined moments later by Tony Spinelli, the senior district engineer, whom Scotty had akeady met downstairs.

"I made the arrangements," Spinelli said, spanking out a precise English accent. He was Italian by race, British by birth. "They're preparing the Black Isle hole. We'll give them a sendoff next week. We'll also copter over to Beauly Highpoint, which is near depth. Then we'll check Highland B, which is about a third of the way along."

"Sounds good," Scotty declared. "Though I want to make sure I spend as much time as I need on the
Columbus
first."

"No problem."

Whittenfeld interceded. "A dignitary named Farquharson arrives tomorrow. He's a Scottish Office undersecretary. He has considerable clout in energy matters, though he's never been near a rig in his life. I want the
Columbus
team to give him a thorough indoctrination. Since you'll be going out today, prep Reddington and the crew."

Scotty bit off the end of a new cigar. "It's as good as done."

"I also want you to be on board in the morning."

"I'd intended to stay out overnight, anyway."

"Good. And I want you to act as Farquharson's tutor. Teach him something. It will be a good way to orient yourself, make yourself at home."

"I'll do my best."

Whittenfeld gestured to Lefebre. "I want you there as well."

"Of course," Lefebre said.

Whittenfeld turned to Scotty again. "Why don't you join me for lunch?"

"I'd rather have a raincheck," Scotty declared. "I'd like to get out to the ship."

"Right to work," Whittenfeld said with a smile. "That's what I love to see. Raincheck given."

The helicopter hovered momentarily over the Geminii complex, then pitched southeastward.

"Look at those thunderheads," Scotty said, pointing toward the northeast.

The chopper pilot shook his head. "Just window dressing. I spoke to flight service this morning. The prevailing winds will take them due south through the North Sea sector."

Scotty looked at the surrounding countryside. Damn beautiful, he thought. High mountains. Acres of green pasture land. Bare granite pinnacles. Fingers of firths and inlets along the rugged west coast.

The pilot gestured. "There! The peak. It's Ben Nevis, the highest in Scotland. The city just beyond is Fort William, right at the west end of the Great Glen."

Scotty glanced out the side window. Below them was one of the company's seismic vessels, trailing its long hydrophone cable, picking up echoes for geophysical interpretation.

"We're home!" the pilot announced a short time later.

Scotty looked ahead. The
Columbus
was less than a half mile away, perched just beyond the mouth of Urquhart Bay. She looked magnificent, her huge derrick and drilling assemblage sticking high into the air above the moon pool, the midship access hole down through the hull to the water.

The pilot maneuvered the chopper over the forward helipad and set the bird down. Scotty opened the side door and stepped out. Bob Reddington rushed up and embraced him.

"You old grizzled son of a bitch!" Reddington said, laughlng.

"Me? Old?" Scotty pulled away. "Why, you big jerk. I ought to heave you into the moon pool!"

Reddington suddenly lay down on the side of the helipad, bracing his elbow and raising a massive forearm. "Ready?" he asked.

Scotty dropped down, too, grabbing Reddington's extended palm. "You bet your ass. This one's for a case of beer!"

"Why not two?"

"Two? You'd think I'd never beaten you before."

"You haven't!"

Scotty gritted his teeth. "Well, I've been practicing."

Several crew members gathered. The chopper pilot lifted off but hovered nearby to watch the outcome. The arm wrestling match was over in seconds.

"All right," Scotty said, rising. "I owe you two cases."

Reddington could not stop laughing. "You've been practicing?"

They climbed down from the helipad and walked toward ship center, passing several roustabouts who were unloading one of the
Columbus
's supply tugs.

"That's one hell of a way to greet your best friend," Scotty said. "And your boss!"

"What do you want from me?" Reddington asked coyly. "You named the price and took the challenge. It's not my fault you're a schmuck!"

Scotty put his arm on Reddington's shoulder. "I took this job because of you. But now I'm having second thoughts."

"Here comes the bullshit," Reddington said, still laughing.

Climbing on to the drilling platform, Reddington introduced Scotty to the members of the current shift who were pulling the drill pipe out of the well.

"Why the trip?" Scotty asked, referring to the maneuver. "We lose a bit?"

"No," Reddington explained. "We hit some hard chert-silica strata, and we need a real chomper down there or we'll be here forever."

Scotty watched the movement, listening. He loved the noises, the smells, the chatter.

"I saw the kids before I left," he said.

"You did?" Reddington asked, beaming. "How'd they look?"

"Great. I've got the two handsomest godchildren in the world."

"Did they tell you I'm bringing them over in July?"

"Sure did. They also asked me to ask you if you'd bring over mama, too."

Reddington frowned. "That's some thought. I've got the divorce papers back in the apartment and a slew of letters from Margaret's lawyers as well as a couple of nasty ones from Margaret herself." He shook his head, leaned against a deck crane, which was offloading a supply tug, then looked out toward Drumnadrochit, a small village nestled in the crook of Urquhart Bay. "You should have married her yourself. She was your friend." He shook his head again, as if to clear it. "All right, what's done is done. So let's forget the bullshit. You're here, you bastard. Right here. I told you one day we'd work together. I told you I'd make it happen." He punched Scotty in the arm, a habit retained from the days he was fourth-string defensive end at USC, a pincushion for weekly simulation drills. "So let's go. Into the valley of death. I've got a load of executives waiting on pins and needles for your appearance. They think some godlike football hero is going to walk into the room."

They climbed down from the drilling platform, entered the executive quarters beneath the forward helipad, and walked through the dining, rec, and radio rooms. Reddington introduced Scotty to the staffs, then accompanied Scotty into the superintendent's office, where Bill Nunn and Mike Grabowski were waiting.

"These are the slaves," Reddington announced as he slid his way into a chair. "Bill Nunn, our well-site geologist. Mike Grabowski, our engineer." He pointed to Scotty. "The hero. Scotty Bruce." He laughed as the three men shook hands, exchanging quips. "Careful, Scotty. Don't make the standard operating error. Don't mistake Grabowski for a rabbi. I know he looks it, especially with the beard, but he's not. Though his parents never got over the fact that he didn't become one like the rest of his brothers. Grabowski will tell you. His parents nearly croaked when he burned his yarmulke and announced he was going to spend his life drilling holes."

"Is that so?" Scotty asked, stern faced, positioning himself at a work table, which was covered with the drill ship's mud and bit records, the morning and daily drilling reports, and the team's most recent blowout-prevention calculations.

"Red has a way of exaggerating," Grabowski said.

"The hell!" Reddington declared, looking at Scotty for support.

"Grabowski's parents made life so miserable for him in the States, he had to pack his bags and transfer here to Inverness. In fact, he arrived just in time to watch Bill Nunn confront the Free Church."

Nunn cringed. "Oh, Christ, must you," he said. "I'd almost forgotten the damn incident."

"Bull," Reddington snapped. "Scotty, Nunn may be a geologist, but once he reaches shore, he Dr. Jekylls into a regular A. J. Foyt, equipped with a suped-up motorcycle and black crash suit. He plays the trumpet, too, though we had to prohibit the thing from the
Columbus
because the men started to complain." Nunn shook his head in mock disbelief. "Anyway," Reddington continued, "Nunn got drunk one Sunday and rode his cycle into town, taking the trumpet, too. Now that might be okay in some places, but this is Inverness. The Church of Scotland is bad, but the Free Church is comatose, and they control Inverness with an iron fist. They hate tourists. They hate noise. They're even against heavy breathing." He laughed. "Well, Nunn slurped a couple of beers, roared the motorcycle up to the gathering hole of the Free Churchers, and blasted the 'Star Spangled Banner' on the horn. The parishioners stormed out like rabid dogs. Undeterred, Nunn drove the motorcycle through the church. Well, there was some uproar. Whittenfeld's as religious as Karl Marx, but after the Free Church threatened to boot every oil worker out of the region, Whittenfeld gathered the entire company and gave a fire-and-brimstone speech. You should have seen his face! I nearly laughed my balls off. But Nunn didn't. Whittenfeld almost guillotined him."

"I see you survived," Scotty said, patting Nunn on the back.

"Barely," Nunn observed.

"Where's the trumpet now?" Scotty asked.

"Locked in my closet. I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid."

"And you, Grabowski? You none the worse for wear?"

"I'm breathing."

Scotty smiled. He'd expected Reddington to bombard him with a story or two; Reddington had always had a penchant for whacko tales.

He picked up the drilling reports, mentioned Farquharson's impending visit, his own lack of familiarity with the drill ship's progress, Whittenfeld's concern for precision and preparation, and then pointed toward the work table.

Reddington glanced at Nunn and Grabowski. "Recess is over, gentlemen," he said.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon. The dark, majestic mountains surrounding the loch looked stern against the colored sky. The temperature had dropped suddenly. Scotty raised his collar and buttoned his jacket. He was dressed in his habitual jeans and boots. Hell, even back in the days when he'd roamed the clubs with the other football players, he'd been most comfortable in Western garb.

He smiled, examining the last trace of his reflection on the polished bulkhead wall. There were few streaks of gray in his hair and only several lines under his eyes. Not bad. Even nearing forty, he still looked young.

He turned, staring first toward the east, then the west. Loch Ness was one of the most magnificent places he'd ever seen. It was a sanctuary, and the sound of drilling, the movement of men, made him very aware they were intruders.

Yet there was something about this place that reminded him of home, the small town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains outside Denver where he'd grown up as an all-American jock. There was a serenity that seemed to have already taken an enormous weight off his back. Never again would he allow himself to be the professional hero, the rallying flag for all kinds of causes, the conscience of his peers. He'd never been cut out for it. Had never aspired for it. It had just happened. Christ, that one crack-back block in Philadelphia, that one broken neck, that one poor bastard confined to a wheelchair, had changed his life. Led to martyrdom. The pursuit of his conscience. And what had he accomplished? Not much. He'd made a lot of noise. He'd punched out some crooked asshole executives who'd deserved a good thrashing. He'd uncovered some legitimate wrongs and cabals, pursued some worthy causes along with the bogus, those figments of his imagination. And he'd ultimately screwed up his life but good, been fired from a handful of companies, been branded a pariah.

Now he wanted peace, quiet. He did not want to confront management, any management, anymore.

He just wanted to do his job.

Geminii might very well be his last if he fucked up again. He wasn't kidding himself. He'd disrupted too many corporations already. He'd caused too much financial and personal damage. And private consultancy had been a sham. He hadn't been able to get an assignment in two years. So what if the populace and the press considered him a crusader, a hero? He was broke!

Thank God Reddington and Whittenfeld had come to his rescue. And even though he wasn't sure why Geminii had gone out on the limb to hire him—hell, there were better, certainly less controversial petroleum engineers around—he damn well was going to keep his nose to the grindstone, avoid questions and controversy, become a normal wage-earning executive once again.