"No, guess that makes sense. Hey, what're all these bright objects on your screen?"
"Sonar buoys. Power pack gives off thermal radiation. The Loch's lined with 'em now, but I don't think they've become active yet. Just as well. All that pinging scares away the big fish."
Dr. Michael Newman, associate director at the National Institute of Standards and Technology, waited impatiently on the dock as two local delivery men stacked the last of the seven aluminum crates into the Nessie III's pilothouse. Newman scrawled his name in triplicate on the offered invoice, then turned as David Caldwell and the local woman made their way, arm in arm, toward the berth.
"Ah, there's Dr. Newman now. So, Doctor, is everything hooked up and ready to go?"
"No, everything's not hooked up and ready to go. The equipment just arrived, it took six hours just to get it out of customs, and another two hours to find a delivery company, all of which you were supposed to handle. We need to speak."
"Speak."
"In private."
"It's okay," Brandy said, "I'll see ye on board." As the two men watched, she removed her spiked heels, hitched up her dress, then climbed over the rail.
David watched her climb aboard the Nessie III. "God, what a package. So Newman, what's up?"
"I can see what's up. Look, Caldwell, when you came to the NIST seeking help, we agreed to lend you our equipment, not risk it."
"How are you risking it?"
"Are you kidding? This boat's older than dirt and about as buoyant. The engine's on its last legs, the interior's way too small for our needs, the electrical system's been hot-wired and it's totally inadequate, the bilge pump's shot, and I've seen logs with better stability."
"Yes, but you're forgetting the importance of keeping the locals involved. It's good PR, plus it opens doors."
"I know what door it's opening. I've also seen plenty of local fishing boats that would easily meet our needs."
"Maybe, but I'm dealing with television and the global media, and the Nessie III's owner's got a body on her that can boil water."
Newman slammed his clipboard against a piling. "Listen here, Caldwell, I will not risk tens of thousands of dollars worth of state- of-the-art sonar equipment just so you can get laid."
"Shh, geez, calm down. Look, first thing in the morning, I'll get the Inverness Council guy to requisition a new generator. That'll solve your power needs, the rest we'll figure out as we go."
"This is ridiculous."
"It'll all work out, trust me. Meanwhile, go check in. Order some room service and a movie or something, then get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
I remained hidden beneath a grove of pine trees, watching David converse with his obviously agitated companion.
He was not the only one who was seething.
First, David had used me as a scapegoat, costing me my job with FAU. Then my so-called colleague had taken credit for my Architeuthis lure at his press conference.
Now he was stealing my girl!
Okay, maybe Brandy wasn't exactly my girl, but she certainly didn't belong with that scumbag.
I ground my teeth, watching as the man David had been talking to left Brandy's boat and headed down the dock to the hotel. David waved half-heartedly, then climbed aboard the Nessie III.
"Look at that cocky bastard. Now he thinks he's gonna sleep with her."
I pulled out my cell phone and tried calling True again, but there was still no answer at the lodge. Probably getting hammered at Sniddles.
Or maybe it's a sign, the right side of my brain whispered to me. Don't just sit around and let this candy-ass move in on your girl. Get off your butt and do something about it!
Leaving my backpack beneath the trees, I hurried down the hill, then crept quietly onto the pier.
Pete Lindner's heart jumped a few beats as the red blip materialized on his fish finder. "Hey… hey!" He banged on the back window of his pilothouse, getting Chad Brager's attention. "We've got company."
Brager hurried into the pilothouse. "What is it?"
"Hard to tell. Look for yourself." He pointed to the screen where a red blip was shadowing the Wiley. "It's pretty deep, two, maybe three hundred feet down and still a ways back, but we've got its attention."
"Jesus. How big's this thing?"
"Big, too big, which is why you shouldn't get too excited yet. It's probably just a school of char, they like it about those depths. Just the same, tell your photographer buddy to keep shooting, maybe he'll get lucky."
Chad hurried from the pilothouse and returned to the stern. "Captain says there's something big following the bait. It's either a school of fish, or… "
"Yeah!" Jones pumped his fists. "A hundred and fifty thousand pounds. What's that in dollars, Casey?"
"Who cares? Will you quit jumping!" Casey hunched over his camera, his right thumb pressed against the free end of the cable lock, keeping the telephoto lens open. "Damn it, we're starting to bounce again. Chad, go tell the captain to cut his speed."
"What am I, your errand boy?"
"Just do it."
Ron Casey returned his right eye to the telephoto lens. As he watched, the bait suddenly disappeared.
"Whoa."
"Whoa what?"
"Either our bait sank, or it was just snatched."
"Look!" Jones pointed to the length of steel cable as it strained against the cleat. "We hooked it, baby!"
Fiberglass moaned, then began cracking along the edges of the cleat.
Casey looked at Jones, a lump in his throat. "I thought you said this boat could handle a big load?"
"It can, I mean it should. The monster must've gone deep. Maybe the—"
Captain Lindner bounded from the pilothouse. "What the hell's going on back here?"
Casey pointed to the line. "We think we hooked Nessie."
"Hooked? You never said anything about catching it!"
The boat lurched, causing the tripod to tip.
Casey caught the camera as the stern dipped hard to starboard.
The captain fell sideways against one of the outboards, then held on tightly as he examined the cleat. "Are you assholes crazy? The transom's not made to drag this kind of weight."
The boat rolled back to port, the steel cable catching the starboard engine's propeller, sheering off two of its blades.
"Son of a bitch! I just had that prop rebuilt!" The captain hurried back to the pilothouse, Chuck Jones trailing.
"Skipper, relax, you're about to be famous. All we have to do is haul this monster in, and we'll have enough money to buy you a dozen new props."
Lindner shut down the starboard engine, then pushed down on the port throttle, his vessel straining to move against the ungodly force. "Haul it, Mr. Jones? Haul it where?"
"Into the shallows. The Bona Narrows."
"By the time we reach the narrows, this boat'll be kindling."
The vessel rolled hard to starboard again, sending both men caroming across the navigational console.
The captain grabbed hold of the wheel, yanking it hard to port. Pushing down on the throttle, he accelerated, his lone engine fighting to achieve six knots. "Your plan's got a few holes in it, hotshot. For one, whatever you hooked weighs more than my whole damn boat. For another, it ain't too crazy about having a hook in its mouth."