The Last Second

by Catherine Coulter

  “This is Flight. T-minus one minute.”

  Nevaeh couldn’t help it, she always held her breath. So much could happen in a single instant, so many things could go wrong.

  In her ear, “T-minus ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five—”

  The engines, already running in preflight mode, roared to life, billowing steam and fire, and lifted the rocket into the sky, making the ground shake. Nevaeh’s heart pumped hard as she watched the rocket—her special rocket—her focus now on the launch commander running through his postlaunch checklist. Cheers nearly drowned out his voice, but she listened carefully as he ticked off each benchmark.

  Less than a minute later, the rocket was supersonic; another minute and the booster engines throttled back and separated from the main capsule that contained the twelve-foot-wide comms satellite.

  Eight minutes after launch, the capsule was in orbit, and the fairing—the protective shield above the satellite—opened. The satellite was propelled into space, where it would take its place among the more than two thousand other satellites sending radio signals back down to Earth.

  When the final stage broke away, there were cheers from the engineers in the flight center. Relief coursed through her. They’d done it. She looked down, saw that sometime during the launch she’d broken her pencil in two.

  She grinned at the launch commander and rose and raised her fist to the rest of the room. She gave them a small bow and some applause of her own.

  She called out, “Success. A beautiful launch. Thank you all for your hard work.” She gave them all a thumbs-up and added, “Merci beaucoup.”

  Nevaeh walked from the command center to her small office. Her primary office was, of course, at the Galactus headquarters in Lyon, France, but she maintained space in French Guiana when she was able to be here for launch supervision.

  It now fell to her team of engineers to activate the satellite and triangulate it into its final position.

  She smiled. Not one of the engineers, not one of the technicians, no one except Kiera Byrne, her bodyguard and companion, knew she’d altered the computer code to put this particular satellite into a spot selected by her—not the company who’d paid for it to be launched. There was a special payload on this run-of-the-mill satellite, and only she and Kiera knew. No one else needed to know what was in the lead-lined box. Not until she was ready.

  In two weeks’ time, her nuclear bomb hidden aboard the satellite was going to set off an electromagnetic pulse that would change the world, and Nevaeh would remake it in her own image.

  CHAPTER TWO

  An EMP is a high-intensity burst of electromagnetic energy caused by the rapid acceleration of charged particles. The electromagnetic shock disrupts electronics, such as sensors, communications systems, protective systems, computers, and other similar devices. It is a pulse that flows through electricity transmission lines—damaging distribution centers and fusing power lines.

  —www.heritage.org

  As a woman in the space industry, one of the few female corporate leaders, Nevaeh had to be one step ahead of her male counterparts at all times. Even though she was light-years ahead of many of them intellectually, had experience none of them would ever have after her stint on the International Space Station—not to mention the multiple degrees and extensive schooling under her belt—she still had to work twice as hard to maintain her position as head of Galactus.

  Only you are brilliant, Nevaeh. It’s why we chose you. You are going to bring peace to those who wish it, and death to those who resist. You will rule with us at your side. Now set off the bomb, destroy all the incessant noise in the heavens, and we will come for you.

  The familiar melodious voices of many and yet only one in her head made her square her shoulders. Any time she felt a moment of weakness, of self-doubt, her astral friends would remind her of her purpose, remind her of what was important.

  Of course, she never told her boss, Jean-Pierre Broussard, founder and owner of Galactus, about how she spoke with the Numen. He knew all about her claims nearly a decade ago of communicating with astral beings on the ISS, and it had made him more excited to hire her, not less. She had wondered many times what would happen if she announced to the world that a glorious new day was coming. But she knew. She’d be laughed at, declared insane, space crazy. She thought of that bitch, Rebecca Holloway, the vaunted shrink at NASA, who’d managed to have her grounded for good with her lies about Nevaeh’s mental status. She’d overruled Franklin Norgate, the flight director, Nevaeh’s friend. But then again, maybe she was wrong about Franklin, maybe he did believe Holloway’s judgment. At least Holloway couldn’t have openly declared her insane, no, that had remained internal, but what she’d done was just as bad. She’d made sure Nevaeh was denied what she’d desired more than anything else—to be in space. Where she belonged.

  But who cared about Dr. Rebecca Holloway now? She’d gotten what she deserved and that made Nevaeh smile.

  Did Jean-Pierre believe her experience in space? It didn’t matter. Happily, he wasn’t ever in her face. He stayed out of the way of the people who knew how to run the business. Unlike some of the stories she’d heard about other private space companies, Jean-Pierre was not a hands-on owner. His was a light touch, and he gave her free rein. He’d built the Galactus company from scratch, raised the money to get the first rockets off the ground, then found her. Together they’d assembled the best and the brightest to run Galactus. He was only involved when there were PR problems, or when he felt the need to touch base with the angels—venture capitalists who invested in the company from time to time when they were needed. He had an almost inexhaustible bank account himself and was smart enough to know what to spend it on. With her at the helm, Galactus stayed flush.

  Broussard’s dedication was always to the bottom line. He wanted Galactus to be the most respected, the best. Galactus wasn’t the only private aerospace company in Europe, but they’d taken the lead because Nevaeh had found ways to launch satellites quickly, with reusable rockets. Had she stolen ideas from SpaceX, one of the most successful private space companies in the world? “Certainly,” Jean-Pierre loved to say, winking at the cameras. “When the best exists, you might as well learn from them. Galactus will be to Europe what SpaceX is to America. There’s room for all of us in space. It’s infinite, after all.”

  After Jean-Pierre had hired her to run his company in 2013, knowing she was more than capable, he’d sailed off on his megayacht, The Griffon, to search for treasure buried in the sea. The arrangement worked wonderfully for them both—Nevaeh hated oversight, and Jean-Pierre hated day-to-day business management.

  It was The Griffon Nevaeh now contacted to report to Jean-Pierre, as always, about the successful launch.

  She dialed, the satellite uplinked to the yacht, and Jean-Pierre’s handsome face appeared on her computer screen—tanned, dark eyes, white teeth flashing, salt-and-pepper hair mussed from the salt spray, his Roman nose slightly pink from too much sun. His beard was beginning to gray a bit, but it only added to his charisma. He was so very French. When she’d first met him, he’d looked exactly like what she would expect from a billionaire playboy who’d parlayed his life into treasure hunting on the high seas. But he wasn’t a playboy. He was whip-smart, and proved it because he’d instantly seen her potential. Whenever a competitor made a snide comment about her, one even going so far as to call her crazy, Jean-Pierre had dealt with them immediately.

  Of course she wasn’t crazy, she wasn’t. What would he say if he knew who and what she really was? What she really wanted? From him? No matter what happened, she would always be grateful to him, no, worship him, for what he’d taught her, what he’d enabled her to understand and believe in—the Holy Grail. Ah, she’d doubted and argued, but he’d shown her document after document, until she finally believed the Grail existed. “It will make one who is worthy immortal,” he’d said over and over, and she knew he believed it. Was he so anxious to live forever? He never said. But then she
realized what it would mean—the Numen were immortal and she could be as well. She would be with them forever.

  “Nevaeh, ma chérie, you’re smiling from ear to ear. I can assume then the launch, as usual, was perfect?”

  “Perfection personified, Jean-Pierre. To think, this is almost becoming routine. We’re on schedule for ninety-six launches this fiscal year, as you expected.”

  “Wonderful. Congratulations to us.”

  “Yes, absolutely. The engineers are maneuvering the satellite into position and they will report in when they’ve finished, but I anticipate no problems.” She paused an instant, then asked what she really wanted to know about, what the Numen were always asking now. “How is the search going?”

  Jean-Pierre’s face changed, suffused with a sort of light she imagined only existed in the passionate and the mad. Perhaps she looked the same when she thought about her own extraordinary path.

  “This is classified, Nevaeh, and for your ears only, of course—” The words burst out machine-gun fast, so great was his excitement. “I believe we may have found the Flor de la Mar, the ship matches her specs perfectly. She rests on the seabed below our current location and is in marvelous shape, considering how long she’s been down there.”

  Her pulse began to pound. “Since November of 1511, correct?”

  “Yes, the ship went down in 1511 in the Strait of Malacca, where we are now. As I told you, they were hauling treasures taken from the King of Siam back to Portugal. Our cameras show the ship is caught on a ledge, and some of the treasure is certainly lost in the trench below. We are undertaking a deep dive with the submersible today to take a closer look.”

  Her mouth felt dry. She whispered, “And the Grail? Immortality?”

  “You know the Grail brings more than immortality, Nevaeh. I’ve told you countless times. The Grail brings the holder whatever it is he desires most. But only if he is worthy, and that is the key—being worthy.”

  Had she acted too impassioned? She forced a laugh. “Only ‘he,’ Jean-Pierre? The Grail is sexist?”

  He laughed back. “Ah, Nevaeh, so many have failed, as you know, and I believe to my soul it stayed hidden because none of those people were worthy of finding it, claiming it.”

  She wanted to say yeah, yeah, blah, blah to his philosophical nonsense. She really wanted to scream at him, I’m worthy, what I want is worthy, the Grail is meant for me. But instead, she said dutifully, “If anyone is worthy, Jean-Pierre, it’s you.”

  “Honeyed words, but appreciated. Now, I will let you get back to Lyon, and I will get back to my ship. À bientôt.”

  Nevaeh said, “Happy hunting,” and reached for the button to end their call. As she did, she saw Jean-Pierre turning toward the doorway as an excited-looking young man entered waving his hands. She heard the very words she’d been waiting for, three years now, and her heart leaped into her throat.

  “We’ve found it, sir! We’ve confirmed this is the Flor de la Mar, and there’s something big in the hold, bigger than—”

  The call went dead.

  The clear sibilant voice in her head said, They have found what we seek. It is time, Nevaeh. With the Grail, we will succeed, you will be with us forever.

  She sat for a moment, thinking furiously. And then she placed another call.

  “Flight command, what is the status of our satellite?”

  The man’s voice was grave. “I was about to call you, Dr. Patel. There seems to be a problem. The satellite missed its insertion point. Apparently, it’s an issue with the code telling the satellite to unfurl its solar panels. Because of this—”

  “How could this happen? The code has been programmed for weeks. This is the easiest part of the launch. Who is responsible?”

  “I’m not sure, but I will let you know. I am so very sorry. We will begin diagnostics to determine what happened. As far as we can tell, the code coordinates were incorrect, but a check of the original code is correct. I have no idea how it happened, but we will get to the bottom of it. Might take a few weeks, but we’ll figure it out.”

  Of course, she knew exactly what had happened. She smiled into the phone as she said, her voice hard, “See that you do. I am very disappointed. It was such a perfect launch.”

  She didn’t slam the phone down, but gave it a good snap. Good, let them stew. She gathered her things and headed to the plane. By the time she was back in Lyon, the satellite would be written off as a complete loss, and she could begin her work placing it in a new elliptical. With Jean-Pierre’s discovery of the Flor de la Mar, she sent a prayer heavenward. Let it be the Holy Grail.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sky News

  July 15

  In aerospace news today, France’s private space company Galactus announced that despite a picture-perfect launch yesterday, the payload, a telecommunications satellite, failed to deploy in the proper elliptical orbit. According to a statement released by the company, the failure was caused by a faulty fairing atop the nose cone of the rocket, damaging the satellite payload as the final separation occurred. This prevented its solar panels from deploying.

  “The value of the satellite was estimated at thirty million euros, and is considered a total loss. Despite the failure, Galactus confirms there is another launch scheduled, this time with the top secret government payload rumored to be a French spy satellite.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  T-MINUS 120 HOURS

  Home of Grant and Kitsune Thornton

  Capri, Italy

  July 23

  Special Agent Mike Caine sat on a stool by the elevated countertop, her foot up, resting her healing broken ankle. She sipped her champagne as she watched Kitsune arrange tomato and mozzarella slices for a caprese salad. She started to stretch forward to hand Kitsune the olive oil when Kitsune waved her away. “No, don’t move, Michaela, your ankle’s nearly healed, no setbacks allowed. Your only job is to sit there and watch the master chef at work, and, of course, admire.”

  “Can I at least drizzle on the basil and olive oil?”

  “You’re not French, you wouldn’t get the amounts just right.” They were laughing when Grant Thornton, Kitsune’s husband of three months, came into the open kitchen carrying a platter of grilled lobsters. Mike breathed in. “Goodness, that smells like heaven. Careful, Grant, Nicholas and I might move in.”

  “You’d be welcome, but I doubt you’d be here long before haring off on your next adventure,” Grant said. “Smell that lobster. Nothing like local, you’ll see. Where is Nicholas? I thought he’d be back by now.”

  Mike said, “I thought he was part of the male grilling party.”

  Grant set the platter on the counter. “He told me it looked to him like I had things well in hand, said he had an errand to run and he’d be right back.”

  “He did mention he needed to call his mom back,” Mike said. “She’s solving a mystery in their local village of Farrow-on-Gray, something she excels at. Our families, his and mine both, seem to take turns calling. Even Horne, his parents’ butler, and Nigel—he’s Nicholas’s butler in New York—and no, please don’t mention Nigel, Nicholas would be horribly embarrassed. They all want to know where we are, what we’re doing, and is my ankle healed yet. My dad’s all into hearing about my scuba diving off Santorini and the Gorgeous Rebecca, my mom, wants more photos of the Palace of Knossos on Crete. And as I said, Nicholas’s mom has this new mystery to solve.”

  Kitsune said, “Nicholas told me you looked just like your mother—the Gorgeous Rebecca.”

  “Nah, Mom’s a knockout, I’m only a vague copy.”

  Kitsune shook her head and smiled. “What’s his mother’s mystery involve?”

  “When he comes back from his errand, whatever that could be, ask him. I don’t have a clue yet. He’s told me he gets his love of solving mysteries from her. She’s quite the sleuth at home.” She grinned, dropped her voice. “Or maybe, Kitsune, Nicholas is off searching out a missing Rembrandt.”

  “Sorry, he’ll be ou
t of luck,” Kitsune said. “I never bring my work home. Even the Rembrandts.”

  Grant said, “There’s a pity, I’d like to have a Rembrandt on the wall. No, make that a Vermeer.”

  Mike laughed and slid off the stool. “I’ll go see if he’s back.”

  “Lunch in ten minutes,” Grant called out.

  Mike walked through the large main level, open on all sides. She couldn’t help herself and paused to admire the vast sea views. The house itself was four stories of white stucco, built into the Capri cliffside. It was lovely, very private. It was, she knew, their sanctuary as well as their home. She stepped onto the bougainvillea-covered veranda and breathed in the sweet scent and thought about Kitsune and Grant—an international thief and a former Beefeater, now an international security expert—how they’d found each other and gotten married. It boggled the mind.

  Mike called for him, but Nicholas was nowhere to be seen.

  Now, what was he up to? Giving his mom advice?

  Mike made her way back to the open kitchen, retook her seat on the stool, and took a sip of champagne.

  Kitsune asked, “Find him?”

  “Nope.” She grabbed her phone and sent a text. “Why didn’t I think of this before wandering around?”

  Where are you? Lunch is almost ready.

  With you in a moment.

  Mike said to Grant, “He didn’t say what he was doing?”

  “Nope.”

  Mike said, “What man disappears from a lunch party with fresh lobster heading the menu to run an errand?”

  A man’s voice said from the doorway, “The kind who wants to surprise the wild woman with the nearly healed ankle.”

  She turned to see Nicholas holding a bouquet of blush-pink and white roses, peonies, and sprigs of delicate lily of the valley, all wrapped in fine blue gauze the same color as the Bay of Naples.

  Nicholas held out the flowers. “For you, Agent Caine.”