A screech of wrenching steel pierced the night as the cleat and part of the transom wall behind the outboard motors began peeling away from the hull's mainframe.
"Christ, it's tearing my vessel apart!" The captain grabbed the radio. "Mayday, Mayday, this is the Wiley! Mayday… "
Having made it to the Nessie III's berth, I hid behind a piling to listen. I could hear voices belowdecks, but they were muffled.
Seeking a better vantage, I climbed over the rail, creeping forward into the pilothouse.
The tiny cabin was crammed with aluminum equipment cases, stacked high along the back wall, partially covered by a gray tarp. Curious, I pulled back the covering, reading one of the invoice tags in the dim light.
UHF Master Radio Link. Property of NIST.
It was equipment for the sonar arrays' master analysis station.
"…David, stop!"
Hearing Brandy's voice, I dropped to my knees and pressed my ear to the deck.
"What's wrong?" David cooed.
"Slow down a wee bit, I'm no' yer whore!"
"Whore? Brandy, you and me, we're a team, partners on a great adventure. When viewers see me, they'll see you. That's the association I'm going for… unless you aren't up to it? I mean, if that's the case, tell me now, because there must've been a hundred applicants dying to be my partner on this gig, but I picked you."
"Why? So ye could get intae my knickers?"
"Of course not. You and me, we have a chemistry. I know you feel it, too, don't you, babe?"
I clenched my fists, ready to storm her cabin.
"Maybe if ye'd slow down a bit, I'd feel it more, yeah?"
"Okay, I'll slow down, but this is the fast track to stardom. You and me, we're gonna be famous. We'll be Hollywood's next power couple. You, uh, do want that, don't you?"
My veins burned as I heard them moaning and kissing.
And then I heard something else — a mob of people, running down the pier.
It was the captains and crew of the three research vessels, all hurrying to make way. A dozen more civilians were heading for the Nessie III, led by the Highland provost.
I was trapped.
Wedging myself into the far back corner of the pilothouse, I dragged the metal cases around me to form a blind, then draped the gray tarp over the top of the stacks.
"Dr. Caldwell! Dr. Caldwell, are ye aboard?"
I heard David stumble up the stairs. "This really isn't a good time, Owen."
"We jist received a Mayday call from a local cruise ship. They claim they've hooked Nessie!"
From a slit between the stacks I saw Brandy dart inside the pilothouse, her shapely legs exposed clear up to the tail of David's dress shirt, which barely covered her buttocks.
The engine sputtered twice, belched a cloud of noxious fumes, then chortled, rattling my skull against the back wall. David entered the pilothouse, shirtless, followed by Owen Hollifield, who barked out orders to Brandy. "Head south, their last reported position wis jist north of Urquhart Bay."
The notion that maybe they'd made a big mistake was firmly planted in Ron Casey's mind as he watched sections of plank tear away from the transom, the rotting fibers disguised behind a fresh coat of paint.
"Chad, hit it again!"
Exhaust billowed from the port outboard as Chad Brager took another whack at the steel cable with the hand axe. "No good, I can't get any leverage, it just keeps bouncing off. If we can …"
Chad paused, he and Ron staring at the cable, which had suddenly gone slack. "What happened?"
"Don't know. Either the cable snapped underwater, or …"
Free of its biological anchor, the Wiley leaped forward and accelerated.
Chad and Ron looked at one another, unsure, then backed away from the transom, their eyes searching the water.
Chuck Jones leaned over the captain's shoulder, staring at the red blip chasing after them on the fish finder. "What do you mean it's rising?"
"Look for yourself, hotshot. It can't free itself by going deep, so now it's coming after us."
The captain stared at the fish finder's depth gauge as its numbers rapidly spun backwards… 43 meters… 29 meters… 14 meters… "Sweet Jesus… hold on!"
Captain Lindner veered hard to port.
Wha-boom! The starboard flank exploded out of the water as if struck by a tank, the blow driving the already listing boat beyond its center of gravity.
The vessel rolled, sending its captain falling sideways as a wall of frigid black water burst through the pilothouse windows. He tumbled in blindness, unable to right himself as the Wiley continued to roll hard to port, seeking its new equilibrium.
Wood and steel groaned in his ears, was muffled, and then the pilothouse settled underwater beneath its breached hull.
The captain pulled himself to his feet, stunned to see the inverted pilothouse filling rapidly with water. Heart pounding, his hands and arms burning from the cold, he pressed his face to the floorboards above his head and sucked in several desperate breaths of air, his mind racing.
Sparks of light sizzled in protest along the navigational consoles. Cans of beer free-floated past his face, startling him in the darkening cabin. The water level continued rising, forcing him to swim in order to breathe. Somewhere below his kicking feet was the ceiling and the sound of a creaking door — his escape route.
Below and to the right.
Captain Lindner ducked his head and kicked for the cabin door. Feeling for the knob, he managed to push it open, then froze.
It was passing beneath the boat, its form revealed in the moonlight. The thickly muscled back was chocolate brown in color, adorned with a horsehair dorsal fin that tapered back to a finless rounded tail. As long and wide as two tour buses connected end to end, the creature moved left, then right, left, then right as it swam, twisting with snakelike undulations.
It passed quickly, and though he had just missed seeing its head, Pete Lindner knew he had seen a sea serpent, as cold as the devil, as ancient as time itself.
His heart thundered in his chest and his lungs threatened to burst, but still the captain refused to venture out, intent on giving the dreadful animal another twenty seconds to vacate the area.
Instead, the cabin, along with his exit, spun counterclockwise and out from under him, and then the capsized boat lurched forward, dragged stern-first through the water by the powerful creature still leashed to its transom.
Trapped underwater, enveloped in darkness, Lindner groped at the suddenly alien walls, desperate to relocate an air pocket that no longer existed. His palms banged awkwardly against the inverted forward windshield, and then he gagged, belching bubbles as he fought blindly to untangle himself from the languid remains of Chuck Jones.
Unable to reason, unable to see, he clawed in ever-tightening circles, fumbling through the suffocating blackness for an exit.
Spent lungs expelled primal gurgles.
Arms stopped moving, eyes ceased seeing.
Silence took the Wiley as the Loch's icy claws reached out once more to claim its dead.
Chad Brager surfaced fifty feet from the capsized boat. Years of playing ice hockey on frozen lakes had acclimated him to the sudden cold, and his lifeguard training at USC kept him from panicking. Treading water, he called out for his companions.
"Chucky! Ron!"
Steam dissipated from his head, his body losing heat rapidly. Gotta get out of this cold water before hypothermia sets in.