Operation: Loch Ness

- 4 -

Banks checked the map. If they pushed hard, they’d make it back to their vehicle at the reservoir in six hours from where they were, then it was another hour more to drive back to Foyers. A four, maybe five-hour hike north across the hill would bring them down to Foyers far sooner than that.

“Gear up, lads, we’re moving out hard and fast.”

The squad had relaxed to have a smoke while Banks was on the phone, and now got back into their rucksacks and crowded around him as he traced a route on the map. “We head over the hill to here at Errogie, then we’re off the rough stuff and can make double time down the farm roads to the loch-side. I want us there before it gets dark.”

The squad had only heard his side of the conversation on the phone.

“What’s going down, Cap?” Hynd asked.

“The shite has hit the fan over at Foyers. They didn’t say so, but my guess is that our boy’s been moving faster than we have, and he’s found something else he likes to snack on. The colonel’s waiting on scene for us.”

“The auld man’s out of the office? Things must be bad.”

“Aye, and the shite will be flowing downhill fast again, so let’s try to avoid it and get a move on. Cally, lead us out.”

Now that they weren’t actively searching for anything, they made good time, although by the time they topped the largest hill on their route two hours later, Banks’ calves were crying out for relief, and the pack felt like he was carrying a large man along with him. They’d managed to follow a deer track for the last few miles, which had made the going slightly easier. It had also allowed them to find two more piles of faeces as big or even bigger than the one that had been left at the cottage.

“Are you not stopping, Sarge?” Wiggins said as they passed the first one. “I thought shite inspection was your thing.”

“Nah, I see enough of that on your underwear in the laundry,” Hynd replied. “Besides, we can guess what’s in this one. More polar bear, and maybe a bit of some of yon deer we saw dead back at the park, and plenty of it. He’s making room for the bison to move through.”

Banks allowed them a quick stop for a smoke at the top of the hill. There wasn’t a view to appreciate, for the clouds had drawn down again, lowering gray overhead, lending a trace of moisture to the breeze and spreading a misty dimness across the landscape. With clouds that low and added mist, dusk was going to come all the sooner, and they had miles to go yet.

They headed out as soon as they finished their smokes.

Banks’ sense of direction proved up to the task, and they only had to stop twice to check the GPS on the sat phone. They arrived at a gate out onto a tarred farm road at Errogie at a quarter to four, and set off faster, almost jogging, on the downhill tracks that led them out at the side of Loch Ness in the middle of Foyers village just after four-thirty.

Almost immediately, they had to fend off the attentions of reporters and TV crews. Microphones were thrust in their faces and questions were shouted at them that they had no answers to. Banks didn’t even bother with a bland ‘No comment,’ just plowed his way through the crowd until he came to a security barrier. A young corporal from their own base was manning it with two privates, and Banks’ squad got waved through, much to the chagrin of the reporters who were immediately closed off from following.

They found the colonel standing with a senior policeman and another man that Banks only recognized from the TV as the local member of the Scottish Parliament.

“You took your damned time,” the colonel said.

“Sorry, sir,” Banks replied. “We were off the gird. We came as quick as we could.”

“I suppose so,” the colonel said. “And the bloody tourists were already dead before I tried to call you anyway, so there was nothing you could have done. Anything to report?”

The colonel led the squad away from the policeman and the MP, and heard Banks’ report in silence.

“And you’ve still no idea what it is?”

“No, sir, beyond that it’s big, and it likes meat.”

“I knew that much already,” the colonel replied. “It flattened a campsite in the field beside the church here just before dawn this morning. Luckily, it’s late season so it was relatively quiet, but there’s six dead and two missing. One of the missing is a five-year-old child.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Not a one. A local heard a rumpus, but by the time he got to the site, there were only trampled tents and the dead to see.”

“Prints?”

“Same as the ones you reported,” the colonel said and ran a weary hand through his thinning hair. “The government is going to slap a List D notice on the whole thing, so the press will have to keep their mouths shut for the time being. We’re going to seal off the road and start to evacuate everybody on this side of the road from Inverness down to the bottom end until we know it’s safe, but that’s going to take most of the night. I need you and your men to find this bloody thing and take it out before panic spreads any further.”

“Yes, sir,” Banks replied.

“And the first man that mentions Nessie gets a long spell in the brig. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Banks said, knowing better than to argue, although he didn’t have a clue where they might make a start.

“We’ll be sealing off all local roads up the hills too, to keep nosy buggers out, and placing men all along the loch banks at strategic points north and south. The police will be scouring the countryside looking for the missing woman and child, and I’ll be setting up a base of operations for the duration at Castle Urquhart. You’ve got a roving brief. Do what you need to do, no questions asked. Just don’t piss off too many people, don’t get dead, and get the job done fast before the story gets too big to contain. Understood?”

“Understood, sir,” Banks replied, and the colonel returned to his conversation with the policeman and the politician, leaving Banks to wonder, yet again, where they might make a start.

His first move after briefing the squad on the colonel’s orders was to lead them over to the small field by the church for an inspection of the campsite. Tall, trailer-mounted floodlights lit the scene, and the rhythmic thud of a generator echoed ‘round them as they stood over what had once been a family tent. The canvas was torn to ribbons, bloodied in places, and the ground had been heavily gouged, the thin grass now churned and muddy. Two other tents lay in a similar state, circled by crime scene tape, some 10 yards away closer to the church, but it looked like the forensics teams were finished here, as the squad had the area to themselves. Something caught Hynd’s eye and the sergeant bent down for a closer look at a track in a smoother patch of mud.

“Same as before, Sarge?” Banks asked.

“Aye, Cap, and there’s something else.” He traced the outline of the splayed toe marks and drew their attention to a marking that looked to have been made by a fold of skin between each of them. “I’m not surprised you heard something in the loch last night. I think these are webbed feet.”

“So what is it then? A giant fucking duck?” Wiggins said.

“It’s a mammal, it’s a carnivore with a newly acquired taste for long pork, and it’s at least semi-aquatic,” Banks said. “That’s three things we know about it. Let’s hope we find some more answers. The colonel gave us a roving brief, so let’s rove. This bloody generator thumping is giving me a right headache.”

“What’s the plan, Cap?” Hynd asked.

“I’m making this shit up as I go along, Sarge. But we need to start thinking like a hungry predator,” he replied, “and try to second guess where it’ll be next.”

“Somewhere it can get an easy meal,” Hynd said.

“Aye, and given its methods so far, I’m guessing it’s a tad shy and only on the move when it’s dark and quiet, which rules out another attack here, at least while these lights and generators are running and there’s so many folk about at the barriers. Let’s get out of the village where it’s calmer and darker, have a wee walk up the shore, and see what’s what while I’m thinking.”

The village of Foyers was already falling quiet as they walked out of the small campsite. The sound of departing traffic was all that was left of the squads of reporters and TV crews, and the security barriers were gone and would no doubt be reinstalled farther up and down the loch road. There were no lights in any of the houses, and Banks guessed that the evacuation had already been effected here. Several Army trucks still sat in the main road, and a group of 20 or more soldiers stood around waiting for orders. Banks looked, but didn’t see the colonel.

He led the squad north, and they were out of the small village only a minute or so later, walking in almost darkness with the black waters of the loch on their left and a slope of a rhododendron-covered hillside on the right. McCally had point and used the light on the barrel of his rifle to keep them straight on the road. They stopped at a lay-by for their first smoke for several hours.

“I fancy a cuppa to go with this,” Banks said as he took in a long draw. “Cally, get a pot of coffee made. We’ll stay here for half an hour until they’ve completely stopped fucking about back in the village. Our beastie isn’t coming out until it’s sure of some peace and quiet.”

It was proving to be a damp, chilly night, with mist rolling in waves off the loch, but the coffee, and some more biscuits, five minutes later did a lot to dispel that. Over on the north bank, lights showed among the trees where traffic moved along the main Inverness road. It was the only sign of life they could see, and even that was becoming harder to make out as the mist thickened and swirled.

“We could be in for a long night, lads,” Banks said as they finished the coffee, had another smoke, and got everything stowed away again. “I’m thinking we should find a quiet spot to declare as center of operations and ditch the rucksacks there so we can move hard and fast if we need to. I’ve lugged this crap around on my back as much as I want to for one day.”

Nobody disagreed, so he led them out again, still heading north, but with an eye open for a safe place to call home for the night. *

They saw the sign in the gloom ahead long before they were close enough to read it, a pointer at the roadside to a site of interest for tourists. This one read ‘Boleskine House’ and the words tickled something in Banks’ memory that wouldn’t come fully to mind; all he knew was that he’d heard the name before. McCally filled in the blanks for him.

“I remember this; it’s an old manor house or something. Burnt down in a fire some years back and made a splash on the news at the time. It’s famous; I think it used to be owned by Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin.”

“Aye,” Hynd replied. “And it’s always had a bad rep, even before that. Some big scandal back in the early part of the last century. I read about it in a magazine a while back.”

The sarge didn’t get time to elaborate, for they were all looking up a long driveway that ran off the road, and they all saw the dancing beam of a torch being played around somewhere up the slope.

“Could be one of our lads, or a local cop?” Wiggins said.

“I doubt it,” Banks replied, “but let’s go and see anyway. If we get lucky and chase a reporter off, it will put us back in the colonel’s good books, for a wee while anyway.”

McCally switched off his gun light and, using the torchlight up the slope as a beacon, they went quietly and quickly up the driveway. The roofless ruin of a large house loomed above them, a darker shadow in the night. Whoever was waving the torch about was inside to their left, behind what had been a large bay window. Banks drew the men close and spoke softly, just loud enough for them to hear.

“Cally, Sarge, round the back and cut him off in case he does a runner. Wiggo, you come with me. And for fuck’s sake, don’t shoot anybody.”

Banks and Wiggins made their way quietly to what had been the main door of the old house. The light was still coming from their left, and now that they were closer they heard someone shifting rubble, as if searching for something in the ruins.

They crept forward, keeping to the darkest of the shadows, and made it all the way up to a doorway leading into what had been a large room without giving themselves away. A dark figure was bent over, using the torchlight to study something on the floor.

“Hands up! You’re under arrest,” Wiggins said.

There was a loud thud as the torch fell to the floor. It hit hard, they heard the tinkle as the bulb went, and the room was plunged into darkness.

“Wiggo, you tosser,” McCally said from a far side window, and then the room was dimly lit by the wash of his rifle light. Banks switched on his own light, and they caught the intruder in the crossbeams.

A small, wiry man in a tweed suit and with a mop of red hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee stood up straight and smiled at Banks. He looked to be in his 60s at least, but full of health with it, and even in the dim light his eyes showed, piercing blue, crinkled in wrinkles at the corners as he smiled. If he was at all perturbed at being caught, he didn’t show it.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for Her Majesty’s finest?”

“You can tell us what you’re doing fucking about here in the dark for starters,” Banks replied.

“That’s rather a long story, I’m afraid,” he said. Banks couldn’t quite place his accent. It was definitely Scottish, but with a hint of a drawl that might be American, and he had a slightly formal, slightly detached manner that reminded the captain of his colonel. “I have a wee boat moored down by the loch that might be more comfortable if we are telling tales. I can’t offer you much in the way of food, but I have coffee, or something stronger if you wish. I even have a heater.”

Banks certainly didn’t fancy quizzing the man here in the dark dust and ruin, and there was no sense in taking him back to the village, which would surely be empty by now. By all rights, they should just see him on his way and get on with looking for the beast, but Banks’ gut was telling him stories again, and he trusted his instinct.

The wee man might know something that we need to know.

He made up his mind quickly.

“We’ll go down to your boat, see what’s what, and then, if your story convinces me, you can be on your way,” Banks replied.

“Oh, I can be very convincing,” the man said. “Lay on, MacDuff, and don’t spare the horses.”

The wee boat proved to be a 20-footer. Banks recognized the type; tourists could hire them at ports at either end of the Ness for cruising trips, and at high summer the locks of the canal at the southern end were packed tight with their coming and going. This late in the year they were rarer, and seeing one operated by just one man rarer still. It didn’t feel right, and Banks’ gut was still telling him there was more to this wee man than met the eye.

Their captive was right about the coffee though. The squad was soon packed into the small living area cabin of the cruiser, taking advantage of the brew, the heat, and respite from carrying their packs, which they had left lying on the viewing deck at the back of the boat.

“I still haven’t got your name, or what you’re doing here,” Banks said once they were settled.

“Ah, the easy ones to start with,” the older man said, taking out a pipe and stoking it with rough black tobacco. “My name is Alexander Seton; you can call me Sandy. As for what I’m doing here, I’m after the same thing as you I suspect. I’m after Nessie.”

Banks almost laughed. He’d expected Wiggins to be first to be told of the colonel’s threat of the brig. He could hardly use the same threat against their captor.

“I don’t think the monster, if it exists, spends its time rummaging around in the ruins of old burned-out houses,” Banks replied.

Seton’s grin widened as he replied.

“It might… if it was born there.”