And there it was, the dreaded "M" word. Loch Ness was synonymous with Monster, and Monster meant Nessie, a cryptozoologist's dream, a marine biologist's nightmare. Nessie was "fringe" science, an industry of folklore, created by tourism and fast-talkers like my father.
Being associated with Nessie had destroyed many a scientist's career, most notably Dr. Denys Tucker, of the British Museum of Natural History. Dr. Tucker had held his post for eleven years, and, at one time, had been considered the foremost authority on eels… until he hinted to the press that he was interested in launching an investigation into the Loch Ness Monster.
A short time later he was dismissed, his career as a scientist all but over.
Being linked to Loch Ness on a National Geographic special could destroy my reputation as a serious scientist, but it was already too late. David had led me to the dogshit, and, as my mother would say, I had "stepped in it." Now the goal was to keep from dragging it all over the carpet.
"Let me be clear here," I proclaimed, my booming voice threatening Hank's wife's microphone, "I was never actually one of those 'Nessie' hunters."
"Ah, but you've always had an interest in Loch Ness, haven't you?" David crowed, still pushing the angle.
He was like a horny high school boy, refusing to give up after his date said she wasn't in the mood. I turned to face him, catching the full rays of the setting sun square in my eyes — a fatal mistake for a migraine sufferer.
"Loch Ness is a unique place, Dr. Caldwell," I retorted, "but not everyone who visits comes looking for monsters. As a boy, I met many serious environmentalists who were there strictly to investigate the Loch's algae content, or its peat, or its incredible depths. They were naturalists, like my great ancestor, Alfred Russel Wallace. You see, despite all this nonsense about legendary water beasts, the Loch remains a magnificent body of water, unique in its—"
"But most of these teams came searching for Nessie, am I right?"
I glanced in the direction of David's boyish face, with its bleached- blond mustache and matching Moe Howard bangs, but all I could see were spots, purple demons that blinded my vision.
Migraine…
My skin tingled at the thought. I knew I needed to pop a Zomig before the brain storm moved into its more painful stages, yet on I babbled, trying desperately to salvage the interview and possibly, my career.
"Well, David, it's not like you can escape it. They've turned Nessie into an industry over there, haven't they?"
"And have you ever spotted the monster?"
I wanted to choke him right on-camera. I wanted to rip the shell necklace from his paisley Hawaiian shirt and crush his puny neck in my bare hands, but my left brain, stubborn as always, refused to relinquish control. "Excuse me, Dr. Caldwell, I thought we were here to discuss giant squids?"
David pushed on. "Stay with me, kid, I'm going somewhere with this. Have you ever spotted the monster?"
I forced a laugh, my right eye beginning to throb. "Look, I don't know about you, Dr. Caldwell, but I'm a marine biologist. We're supposed to leave the myth chasing to the crypto guys."
"Ah, but you see, that's exactly my point. It wasn't long ago that these giant squids were considered more myth than science. The legend of the Scylla in the Odyssey, the monster in Tennyson's poem, The Kraken.' As a young boy growing up so close to Loch Ness, surely you must have been influenced by the greatest legend of them all?"
Cody Saults was loving it, while tropical storm David, located in the latitude of my right eye, was increasing into a hurricane.
"…maybe hunting for Nessie as a child became the foundation for your research into locating the elusive giant squid. I'm not trying to put words in your mouth, but—"
"Butts are for crapping, Dr. Caldwell, and so's everything that follows! Nessie's crap, too. It's nothing but a nonsensical legend embellished to increase Highland tourism. I'm not a travel agent, I'm a scientist in search of a real sea creature, not some Scottish fabrication. Now if you two will excuse me, I need to use the head."
Without waiting, I pushed past David and the director and entered the ship's infrastructure, in desperate search of the nearest bathroom. The purple spots were gone, the eye pain already intensifying. The next phase would be vomiting — brain-rattling, vein-popping vomiting. This would be followed by weakness and pain and more vomiting, and eventually, if I didn't put a bullet through my skull, I'd mercifully pass out.
It was misery, which is why, like all migraine sufferers, I tried to avoid things that set me off: direct lighting, excessive caffeine, and the stress that, to me, revolved around the taboo subject of my childhood.
My stomach was already gurgling, the pain in my eye crippling as I hurried past lab doors and staterooms. Ducking inside the nearest bathroom, I locked the door, knelt by the toilet, shoved a sacrificial digit down my throat, and puked.
The intestinal tremor released my lunch, threatening to implode the blood vessels leading to my brain. It continued on, until my stomach was empty, my will to live sapped.
For several moments I remained there, my head balanced on the cool, bacteria-laced rim of the toilet.
Maybe Lisa was right. Maybe I did need to loosen up.
It was dark by the time I emerged on deck, my long brown hair matted to my forehead, my blue eyes glassy and bloodshot. The migraine had left me weak and shaky, and I'd have preferred to remain in bed, but it was nearly time to descend, and I knew David would grab my spot aboard the sub in a New York minute if I waited any longer.
A blood-red patch of light revealed all that was left of the western horizon, the sweltering heat of day yielding to the coolness of night. Inhaling several deep lungfuls of fresh air, I made my way aft to the stern, now a hub of activity. The ship's lights were on, creating a theater by which four technicians and a half dozen scientists completed their final check on the Massett-6, the twenty-seven-foot-long submersible now suspended four feet off the deck like a giant alien insect.
Able to explore depths down to thirty-five hundred feet, the Massett-6 was a three-man deep-sea sub that consisted of an acrylic glasslike observation bubble, mounted to a rectangular-shaped aluminum chamber, its walls five inches thick. Running beneath the submersible was an exterior platform and skid that supported flotation tanks, hoses, recording devices, gas cylinders containing oxygen and air, primary and secondary batteries, a series of collection baskets, arc lights, a hydraulic manipulator arm, and nine 100-pound thrusters.
I caught David leaning against the sub, hastily pulling on a blue and gold jumpsuit — my jumpsuit — when he saw me approach. "Zack? Where've you been? We, uh, we didn't think you were going to make it."
"Nice try. Now take off my jumpsuit, I'm fine."
"You look pale."
"I said I'm fine, no thanks to you. What was all that horseshit about Loch Ness? You trying to discredit me on national TV?"
"Of course not. We're a team, remember? I just thought it made for a great angle. Discovery Channel loves that mysterious stuff, we can pitch them next."
"Forget it. I've worked way too hard to destroy my reputation with this nonsense. Now, for the last time, get your scrawny butt outta my jumpsuit."
"We're ready here," announced Ace Futrell, our mission coordinator. "Mr. Wallace, if you'd care to grace us with your presence."
The cameras rolled. David, back to playing the dutiful mentor, animated a few last-minute instructions to me as I slid my feet into the jumpsuit. "Remember, kid, this is our big chance, it's our show. Work the audience. Relate to them. Get 'em on your side."