The Last Second

by Catherine Coulter

  He heard the rotors of a helicopter starting up.

  Come now, Grant, get up, there’s a good lad.

  He managed to get a knee under him, braced an arm on the wall. The noise was deafening now; he realized it was coming down the lift shaft. He smashed the button, but nothing happened. The lift wasn’t working. He’d have to take the stairs. Hurry. Hurry.

  He could barely handle his weapon. He fumbled the gun into his hand, braced himself against the wall, and entered the stairwell.

  It was dark, but his eyes had adjusted. At the final landing, he stood, hand on the door’s handle, breathing hard, hyperventilating to sharpen his awareness.

  He was buffeted by a gust of wind when he flung open the door. The helicopter he’d heard was taking off. No one shot at him, good luck there, so he threw himself out of the stairwell onto the deck. The chopper—in the darkness its lights looked like the outline of a Sikorsky X2, but he couldn’t be entirely sure—was already a hundred feet off the deck and moving away, fast.

  He knew he should shoot at it, but his finger wouldn’t move quickly enough, and the chopper was out of range before he had enough control.

  The deck was dark, but he managed to pick up a Maglite rolling around in the wind of the chopper’s backlash. He smelled blood, the acrid odors of death that made him want to retch. He shined the light on the ground and saw a lump that must be Devi, Broussard’s mistress. He’d seen her go into the dining room in that dress. It was the only way he could identify her. She’d been shot in the face and wasn’t recognizable anymore.

  Grant felt for her pulse anyway, not surprised when he found nothing.

  His brain was still foggy, his breathing harsh and ragged, but he was starting to get his wits back. Someone had attacked the ship and stolen something. He could only assume it was the strange box with the stone inside, the stone Broussard claimed was the Holy Grail. And he wondered yet again, how could a stone be the Holy Grail? Everyone knew the Grail was a cup, right? He’d seen no cups, only that huge ugly sphere and the ancient box Broussard had brought out from the inside.

  He shook his head, trying to ignore the buzzing in his ears. Focus, mate.

  Devi was beyond help. The chopper was gone into the night.

  The boat itself was quiet, so quiet he knew immediately there was a problem.

  As he turned back toward the stairs and the lift, he saw a bright flash of light. Was the helicopter coming back?

  No, it was a thousand times worse.

  The light grew closer and with it came the high-pitched whine he recognized from every combat zone he’d ever fought in.

  An incoming missile.

  He had only enough time to think, We’re dead, we’re all dead, Kitsune, I love you, I’m sorry, before the missile struck the side of The Griffon with an ear-splitting whump that immediately became a raging, white-hot fireball.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The explosion deafened Grant, the light blinded him, and the concussion from the blast knocked him backward ten feet to the deck. The Griffon, mortally wounded, listed to the side immediately. Grant started to slide, arms scrambling for any purchase. He slipped through the railing and knew he was falling. The toe of his boot snagged on a launch rope and he was swinging upside down over the water now. He saw the fire below him. If he fell, he was dead.

  His senses, still dulled by the drugs, went into overdrive, delivering a massive dose of adrenaline. He used his momentum to swing toward the deck and grab the railing, where he clung like a monkey until it became too hot to hold. He pulled himself through and fell back to the deck, hitting his head hard. The deck was now at a sharp angle to the water.

  No time, no time. The yacht was on fire, taking on water, he could feel it groaning beneath his feet.

  They were sinking.

  Where was everyone?

  He stumbled across the deck to the stairs, started down. He had a horrible moment of panic at the idea of the water rushing in and trapping him in the space, but pushed through his fear.

  It only took him a few minutes to get back to the dining room.

  It looked like a horror film—bodies everywhere, slumped in chairs or on the floor. He went to Broussard first, found his pulse thready and weak. He knew what to do, but he needed to get his carry bag. He had Narcan, it would help reverse the ketamine effects. Where was his bag? Not on his hip where it should be. His mind couldn’t quite grasp where. He mentally retraced his steps—yes, the stairwell, near the lift to the helipad.

  He hurried through the room, felt a few more necks. Not everyone was dead. Some were, and there were a few who were past his help, but Broussard was still breathing, and the priority. Get him awake, get the crew awake, evacuate as many as they could before the freezing waters claimed the yacht and all aboard.

  He took a deep breath. Someone else must be awake. The engine room maybe, or the bridge. Someone had to have been sailing the ship during dinner, yes? Or not.

  His bag was on the floor in front of the lift, a blessing he didn’t have to run up those close stairs to the chopper deck again. He grabbed it and staggered back to the dining room. He shot Narcan into Broussard’s arm. Should he give himself a shot, too? No, it wasn’t worth the risk, his adrenaline was pulsing through him like a strobe. He would keep moving.

  Broussard started to revive. Grant left him, found the rest of his team, got them shot up with Narcan. They began coming out of it. After a few minutes, he’d used all the Narcan he had, so the rest were on their own.

  Four were dead and the rest of the crew were in varying degrees of drug-induced delirium, beyond high. Yes, definitely ketamine, he thought.

  Broussard began coughing. Grant gave him some water, told him to get it together or they’d die, repeating the words over and over until Broussard’s eyes opened.

  He drank more water, then sat up, eyes still unfocused. “Thornton. What happened?”

  “Listen to me carefully. The ship is sinking. We have to evacuate.”

  “Abandon ship?”

  “Yes. How do we do that?”

  Broussard’s head lolled back. Grant slapped him until he came to again.

  “What’s happening?”

  “We were attacked, drugged. The boat is sinking. Get it together, mate.”

  “Devi. Where’s Devi?”

  “I’m sorry, but Devi is dead, and we will all join her soon if you . . . Don’t. Wake. Up!”

  The yacht groaned again, its internal gyroscope off and twisting, and the room shifted, hard. That woke Broussard.

  “The lifeboats. We need the lifeboats. And the submersible can take up to six people.”

  “Show me.”

  Grant’s people were staggering around now. He clapped his hands to get their attention.

  He shouted, “Emergency protocol seven, immediately! The ship’s been hit, is going down. Get as many people as you can to the lifeboats.”

  His people started moving, slowly, but they were moving.

  Grant said, “There are a few fatalities among the crew as well from whatever we’ve all been dosed with, I’m assuming ketamine. But Devi was shot to death. Someone came on board in a Sikorsky helicopter, and I’m pretty sure they took your Holy Grail with them. Then they shot us with what surely looked and felt like a Hellfire missile. Hit the side, near the stern. Come on, we have to get moving or we’re all going to die.”

  Broussard’s head lolled back again and he cursed in French. Odd how curses didn’t sound as bad in another language.

  “But who did this to us? Who could have drugged everyone?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Time to go.” He heaved Broussard to his feet.

  Broussard was slowly coming back. He looked around, confused.

  “Why are the engines off? The emergency lights aren’t on, either.”

  “Right. It happened before the missile hit us. Seems the ship was turned off somehow.”

  Broussard dragged in a breath, shook his head. “No, that’s impossible. Come with
me.”

  Together, they moved to the stairs, then up to the control deck on the bridge. There were no lights in the con, not from the screens or the generators. Grant could see flashlights bobbing. Good, his team was leading people to the lifeboats.

  “We can’t have more than ten minutes before the whole ship goes down.”

  “How the devil did this happen? The transponder has been turned off.” Broussard fiddled with it for a moment. “Not only turned off, it’s been tampered with.”

  It had to be said. “Was Devi capable of such a thing?”

  Broussard closed his eyes a moment, then shook his head. “No. She must have been in the wrong place when whoever it was came aboard.”

  Broussard was moving from station to station, screen to screen. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s more than a power outage. It’s almost as if we’ve been turned off purposefully. But how—”

  He grappled with something, then yanked it free. “Merde. Look.”

  Grant flashed his torch over Broussard’s hand. He held a small jump drive.

  “Not part of your standard operating system?”

  “No. I’ve never seen this before. I’m going to have to get us started by hand. I have a special deployment protocol programmed into the system, shouldn’t be compromised. It will allow the lifeboats out and inflate them. You need to tend to the rest of my crew. See who you can get revived enough to help me.” Before Grant could move, Broussard turned. Cursed. Grant looked over his shoulder to see a wall of flames. The missile’s fire had spread.

  “No time, no time, do it now or we all die!”

  Broussard smashed a foot through a panel to a red lever. He grabbed it with both hands and yelled, “Help me!”

  Grant got his hands on it, too, and together they pulled, wrenching the bar back until Grant felt the shudder of machinery and heard a few cheers, then directions being yelled to people to get into the freed lifeboats.

  “I’ve got to get Devi. I can’t leave her here. I’ll find Devi and get the Grail and meet you at the boats.”

  Grant grabbed his arm. “I’m afraid Devi is responsible for this. She was the only one unaccounted for in the dining room. She’s up on deck, or was before we tilted—no, you can’t go up there.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Whoever took your Grail and disabled your ship was talking to her before they shot her. I didn’t hear her calling for help. I heard her ask about her sister, I think. I’m still very fuzzy.”

  “But—how? Why? The Grail—”

  “The Grail is gone. Whoever took it killed Devi and is trying to kill the rest of us. Now go! We’ll figure everything out later.” He shoved Broussard back toward the stairs to the lifeboats. Looked back at the con. He needed to get word out somehow.

  “Do you have a ham radio?”

  “Of course, right there. It’s on a solar-power-generated battery pack.”

  “Should work, if there’s enough juice in the batteries. I’m going to try.”

  If what he’d heard was right, he had to warn the world. The ship being disabled electronically as it was, he hoped he wasn’t too late.

  He lit up an emergency channel, identified himself, and started to send the message—They have a nuclear EMP—when he realized his back was hot.

  “Too late!”

  Broussard grabbed Grant’s shoulder and heaved him to the ground as the flames leaped and danced toward them. They elbowed their way on their bellies to the stairwell. The flames were consuming everything in their path. They were out of time. Grant steeled himself and dove down the stairs. Broussard landed on top of him. They lay there for a moment, stunned, before Grant felt water. That brought him back fast. Drown or burn up. He dragged himself to his feet.

  Broussard looked dazed, a small trickle of blood streaming from his temple. Grant shook his arm. “We have to get to the lifeboats. Which way?”

  Broussard pointed, and Grant thanked all the heavens above the lifeboats were in the opposite direction from the wall of fire.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They clattered down stairwell after stairwell, the smoke thick and choking. Grant kept talking, anything to keep Broussard focused, anything to distract himself from the ship’s slow death slide into the sea. At four hundred feet, The Griffon was half the length of the Titanic—massive for a privately owned vessel—and the extensive aft ballast was keeping her afloat. The stern was missing, and the angle of the ship was becoming steeper and steeper. They were going down sooner rather than later. He kept pushing Broussard.

  They burst out onto the lacuna deck, where the starboard lifeboats were docked. The boat was listing badly now. Something swung from the railing above them. Grant looked up and wished he hadn’t. Devi’s lifeless body was dangling from the rail.

  Broussard cried out, “Devi!” But Grant pushed him forward again. “She’s gone, there’s nothing you can do. But I’m certain I heard someone from the chopper talking to her. Something about a nuke and an EMP.”

  “EMP?”

  “That’s the message I was trying to send, no idea if it managed to get out or not. The woman in the chopper said an EMP would go off, silencing the heavens, and then she would—fulfill her destiny? Something insane like that.”

  “Someone’s planning to set off a nuclear bomb?”

  “She said in four days’ time.”

  Broussard’s eyes were wild, reality setting in now. “The Grail. They took the Grail?”

  “I think they did.”

  When he met Grant’s eyes again, there were tears. And rage.

  “Why didn’t you go after them?”

  “In my invisible plane? They had a helicopter and I was still reeling from the drugs. Still am, actually. Now, let’s get you onto one of these boats—”

  Broussard shook his head. “Let’s take the submersible. It’s closer than the boat.” He pointed to a door.

  Just what I want, to be locked in a tiny submarine.

  Oh well. Grant said, “Let’s go,” and opened the door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The submersible wasn’t a coffin like Grant had expected, and dreaded. It was a good fifteen feet long, twelve feet wide, and seven feet tall. It had six seats—a pilot and five passengers—a wide, round bubble viewing area, and Grant knew it was rated for ten hours at a depth of up to one thousand meters. Still, he was surprised by the space. Two large men, one with weapons, had plenty of room to move inside. He stood back, let Broussard handle the controls.

  Broussard efficiently detached from The Griffon and motored them twenty yards away to meet up with the rest of the boats. Four lifeboats had launched. He did a quick head count—twenty crew, three Blue Mountain, and himself and Thornton. Four of his crew were dead. Jean-Pierre felt sick. He’d sailed with this crew for years. How was it possible that anyone, much less Devi, could do such a thing? Drug his people, not care if it killed them or not, steal from him—steal all hope from Emilie. No, it wasn’t Devi. It had to be someone else. She had to have been trying to stop whoever was behind this.

  He saw Cesar at the helm of the first boat. He’d seen to it all four boats were roped together.

  When Broussard and Grant stood side by side on the wide ladder, their heads out of the submersible, Cesar called out, “Sir, Mr. Thornton, thank heavens you’re both all right. Listen, the transponders were deactivated on all the lifeboats. Whoever did this was trying to make sure we all died.”

  “Four of our crew are dead.”

  Cesar’s face became stark with disbelief and pain. “Yes, I know. We had to leave them in the dining room. Everyone else is accounted for except Devi, sir. I’m sorry—we couldn’t look everywhere for her, we had to get off The Griffon or we’d all die. We’re damn lucky the seas are calm.”

  Grant couldn’t believe this. On his watch, and everything had gone south. As to the seas being calm, he decided calm must be in the eye of the beholder because the swells were at least ten feet high, making the boats and su
bmersible bob around like corks.

  Broussard’s face was gray in the darkness. Grant heard him whisper, “Devi, my beautiful girl.” But his voice was strong when he called back to Cesar, “Do we have any means of letting search and rescue know where we are?”

  Cesar shook his head. “A few flares, but they’ll need to be near enough to see them. Without the transponders, it’s going to be hard to locate us—and we’re adrift.”

  They’d already moved another forty yards away from The Griffon. The waves were pushing them, the currents running fast.

  Grant cracked open his satellite phone only to find it, too, wasn’t working.

  Grant shot a look at Broussard. It had to be said. He called out, “We fear Devi was responsible. She’s dead, shot by her accomplices, we think. We believe she drugged the food and drink. Did she manage to disable everything? Do you know?”

  Broussard raised his head. The blind grief was still there, but now his eyes were hard, his brilliant brain focused. He held up the small thumb drive. “I think she set off a small EMP inside the electrical systems of the boat, and it wiped everything.”

  Cesar said, “But why? I don’t understand. All of us liked her and, sir, she really liked you, everyone knew it.”

  Grant called, “Perhaps she was forced to do this. My recollections are fuzzy at best, but I think I heard her say something about her sister. She thought she was going with them, whoever they are, but they killed her.”

  Cesar looked stoic. “Well, whatever her motives, she nearly managed to kill us all. We won’t last too long out here. There’s a bad storm coming, a typhoon. I’d say we have twelve hours before we’re in trouble, and when the storm finally hits—no, let’s not worry about that now. We’ll be out of here long before it hits.”