Loch, The Page 3

“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.”

  “Chill out, David. This isn’t an infomercial.”

  The hatch of the Massett-6 was located beneath the submersible’s aft observation compartment behind the main battery assembly. Kneeling below the sub, I poked my head and shoulders into the opening and climbed up.

  The vehicle’s interior was a cross between a helicopter cockpit and an FBI surveillance van. The claustrophobic aluminum chamber was crammed with video monitors, life-support equipment, carbon dioxide scrubbers, and gas analyzers, along with myriad pipes and pressurized hoses. Conversely, the forward compartment was a two-seat acrylic bubble that offered panoramic views of the sub’s surroundings.

  Taking my assigned place up front in the copilot’s seat, I tightened the shoulder harness, then inspected the controls of my sonic lure, which had been jury-rigged to the console on my right. Everything seemed stat. Looking above my head out of the bubble, I watched as a technician double-checked the lure’s underwater speaker, now attached to the vessel’s exterior tow hook.

  Donald Lacombe, the sub’s pilot, joined me in the cockpit, wast­ing little time in establishing who was boss. “All right, boy genius, here’s the drill. Keep your keister in your seat and don’t touch any­thing without being told. Capische?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And nobody likes a smart-ass. You’re in my vessel now, blah blah blah blah blah.” Tuning him out, I turned to watch Hank Griffeth as he climbed awkwardly into the aft compartment. A crewman handed him up his camera, then sealed the rear hatch.

  The radio squawked. “Control to Six, prepare to launch.” Lacombe spoke into his headset, clearly in his element. “Roger that, Ace, prepare to launch.”

  Moments later, the A-frame’s crane act
ivated, and the submersible rose away from the deck, extending twenty feet beyond the stern. The Manhattanville’s keel lights illuminated, creating an azure patch in the otherwise dark, glassy surface, and we were lowered into the sea.

  For the next ten minutes, divers circled our sub, detaching its harness and rechecking hoses and equipment. Lacombe kept busy, completing his checklist with Ace Futrell aboard the research ship, while Donald showed me photos of his children.

  “So when will you and this fiancée of yours start having kids? Nothing like a few rug rats running around to make a house a home.”

  No problem havin’ children, runt. The Wallace curse skips every other generation.

  “Zack?”

  “Huh?” I shook my head, the lingering ache of the migraine scat­tering my estranged father’s words. “Sorry. No kids, at least not for a while. Too much work to do.”

  I returned my attention to the control panel, forcing my thoughts back to our voyage. Descending thousands of feet into the ocean depths was similar to flying. One is always aware of the danger, yet comforted in the knowledge that the majority of planes land safely, just as most subs return to the surface. I had been in a submersible twice before, but this voyage was different, meant to attract one of the most dangerous, if least understood, predators in the sea.

  My heart pounded with excitement, the adrenaline escorting Angus’s words from my thoughts.

  Ace Futrell’s commands filtered over the radio. “Control to Six, you are clear to submerge. Bon voyage, and good hunting.”

  “Roger that, Control. See you in the morning.”

  Lacombe activated the ballast controls, allowing seawater to enter the pressurized tanks beneath the sub. Weighed down, the neutrally buoyant Massett-6 began to sink, trailing a stream of silvery air bubbles.

  The pilot checked his instruments, activated his sonar, engaged his thrusters, then turned to me. “Hey, rookie, ever been in one of these submersibles?”

  “Twice, but the missions were only two hours long. Nothing like this.”

  “Then we’ll keep it simple. Batteries and air scrubbers’ll allow us to stay below up to eighteen hours, but maneuverability’s the pits. Top speed’s one knot, best depth’s thirty-five hundred feet. We drop too far below that, and the hull will crush like a soda can. Pressure will pop your head like a grape.”

  I acknowledged the pilot’s attempt to put me in my place, counter­ing with my own. “Know much about giant squids? This vessel’s twen­ty-seven feet. The creature we’re after is more than twice its size—forty to fifty feet—weighing in excess of a ton. Once we make contact with one of these monsters, be sure to follow my exact instructions.”

  It’s okay to use the “M” word when attempting to intimidate.

  Lacombe shrugged it off, but I could tell he was weighing my words. “Three hundred feet,” he called out to Hank, who was already filming. “Activating exterior lights.”

  The twin beams lanced through the black sea, turning it a Mediterranean blue.

  And what a spectacle it was, like being in a giant fishbowl in the middle of the greatest aquarium on Earth. I gawked for a full ten minutes before turning to face the camera, doing my best Carl Sagan impression.

  “We’re leaving the surface waters now, approaching what many biologists call the ‘twilight zone.’ As we move deeper, we’ll be able to see how the creatures that inhabit these mid-water zones have adapted to life in the constant darkness.”

  Lacombe pointed, refusing to be upstaged. “Looks like we’ve got our first visitor.”

  A bizarre jellylike giant with a pulsating bell-shaped head drifted past the cockpit, the creature’s transparent forty-five-foot-long body set aglow in our artificial lights.

  “That’s a siphonophore,” I stated, fully immersed in lecture mode. “Its body’s made up of millions of stinger cells that trail through the sea like a net as it searches for food.”

  Next to arrive were a half dozen piranha-sized fish, with bulbous eyes and terrifying fangs. As they turned, their flat bodies reflected silvery-blue in the sub’s beams.

  “These are hatchet fish,” I went on. “Their bodies contain light- producing photo-phores which countershade their silhouettes, allow­ing them to blend with the twilight sea. In these dark waters, it’s essential to see but not be seen. As we move deeper, we’ll find more creatures who rely on bioluminescence not only to camouflage them­selves, but to attract prey.”

  Jellyfish of all sizes and shapes drifted silently past the cockpit, their transparent bodies glowing a deep red in the sub’s lights. “Pilot, would you shut down the lights a moment?”

  He shot me a perturbed look, then reluctantly powered off the beams. We were surrounded by the silence of utter blackness.

  “Watch,” I whispered.

  A sudden flash appeared in the distance, followed by a dozen more, and suddenly the sea was alive with a pyrotechnic display of bioluminescence as a thousand neon blue lightbulbs flashed randomly in the darkness.

  “Amazing,” Hank muttered, continuing to film. “It’s like these fish are communicating.”

  “Communicating and hunting,” I agreed. “Nature always finds a way to adapt, even in the harshest environments.”

  “Two thousand feet,” the pilot announced.

  An adult gulper eel slithered by, its mouth nearly unhinging as it engulfed an unsuspecting fish. All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better performance.

  But the best was yet to come.

  It was getting noticeably colder in the cabin, so I zipped up my jumpsuit, too full of pride to ask the pilot to raise the heat.

  Hank repositioned his camera, then reviewed the list of prompts Cody Saults had given him. “Okay, Zack, tell us about the giant squid. I read where you think it might actually be a mutation?”

  “It’s just a theory.”

  “Sounds interesting, give us a rundown. Wait ... give me a second to re-focus. Okay, go ahead.”

  “Mutations happen all the time in nature. They can be caused by radiation, or spontaneously, or sometimes by the organism itself as a form of adaptation to changes within its environment. Most muta­tions are neutral, meaning they have no effect upon the organism. Some, however, can be very beneficial or very harmful, depending upon the environment and circumstance.

  “Mutations that affect the future of a particular species are heri­table changes in particular sequences of nucleotides. Without these mutations, evolution as we know it wouldn’t be possible. For instance, the accidents, errors, and lucky circumstances that caused humans to evolve from lower primates were all mutations. Some mutations lead to dead ends, or extinction of the species. Neanderthal, for instance, was a dead-end mutation. Other mutations can alter the size of a particular genus, creating a new species altogether.

  “In the case of Architeuthis dux, here we have a cephalopod, a member of the family teuthid, yet this particular offshoot has evolved into the largest invertebrate on the planet. Is it a mutation? Most certainly. The question is, why did it mutate in the first place? Perhaps as a defense mechanism against huge predators like the sperm whale. Was it a successful mutation or a dead end? Since we know so little about the creatures, it’s impossible to say. Then again, who’s to say Homo sapiens will be a success?”

  The pilot rolled his eyes at my philosophical whims. “We just passed twenty-three hundred feet. Isn’t it time you activated that device of yours?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Reaching to my right, I powered up the lure, sending a series of pulsating clicks chirping through the timeless sea.

  I sat back, heart pounding with excitement, waiting for my “dragon” to appear.

  * * *

  “Yo, Jacques Cousteau Junior, it’s been six hours. What happened to your giant octopus?”

  I looked up at the pilot from behind my copy of Popular Science. “I don’t know. There’s no telling what kind of range the lure has, or whether a squid’s even in the area.”

  The pilot returned t
o his game of solitaire. “Not exactly the answer National Geographic’ll want to hear.”

  “Hey, this is science,” I snapped. “Nature works on her own sched­ule.” I looked around at the black sea. “How deep are we anyway?”

  “Twenty-seven hundred feet.”

  “Christ, we’re not deep enough! I specifically asked for thirty- three hundred feet. Giant squids prefer the cold. We need to be deeper, below the thermocline, or we’re just wasting our time.”

  Lacombe’s expression soured, knowing I had him by the short and curlies. “Six to Control. Ace, the kid wants me to descend to thirty-three hundred feet.”

  “Stand by, Six.” A long silence, followed by the expected answer. “Permission granted.”

  * * *

  A half mile to the south and eleven hundred fathoms below, the monster remained dead still in the silence and darkness. Fifty-nine feet of mantle and tentacles were condensed within a crevice of rock, its 1,900-pound body ready to uncoil like the spring on a mousetrap.

  The carnivore scanned the depths with its two amber eyes, each as large as dinner plates. As intelligent as it was large, it could sense everything within its environment.

  * * *

  The female angler fish swam slowly past the outcropping of rock, dangling her own lure, a long spine tipped with a bioluminous bait. Attached to the underside of the female, wagging like a second tail were the remains of her smaller mate. In an unusual adaptation of sexual dimorphism, the male angler had ended its existence by bit­ing into the body of the female, his mouth eventually fusing with her skin until the two bloodstreams had connected as one. Over time, the male would degenerate, losing his eyes and internal organs, becoming a permanent parasite, totally dependent upon the female for food.

  Feeding for two, the female maneuvered her glowing lure closer to the outcropping of rock.

  Whap!

  Lashing through the darkness like a bungee cord, one of the squid’s eighteen-foot feeder tentacles grasped the female angler within its leaf-shaped pad, piercing the stunned fish with an assort­ment of hooks protruding from its deadly rows of suckers. Drawing its prey toward its mouth, the hunter’s parrotlike beak quickly crushed the meat into digestible chunks, its tongue guiding the morsels down its throat, the meat actually passing through its brain on its way to its stomach.