The Last Second

by Catherine Coulter

  “Work, like therapy? With you?”

  “With me, or a psychologist near where you live. There’s nothing inherently special about this kind of therapy, Nevaeh. We use it all the time for PTSD, from which I believe you are definitely suffering. We can desensitize you to the event, making the trauma less traumatic, and eventually, you’ll be able to think about it without creating a barrier of fiction around your thoughts. You will be able to remember what really happened, and you will heal. I can make recommendations of colleagues who specialize in this treatment back in Texas, if you want to start therapy at home. It might be easier to see someone close.”

  She didn’t move, and Dr. Fontaine sighed. “There is something else you can try.”

  “What?”

  “Sensory deprivation. You say you heard the voices clearly when you were in a zero-sound environment, and you need calm and silence to communicate with them now. Sensory deprivation is a version of regression therapy. We put you in a flotation tank and see what happens when you’re able to re-create how it felt for you in space the moment you became untethered. Then, using those thoughts and feelings, we slowly bring you back to a more realistic scenario of what actually happened.”

  “They used them in our training. I know what it feels like. It’s—not the same as being in space.”

  “But it’s close enough that NASA, as you said, used it in your training to help you with the feeling of sensory deprivation.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The doctor closed her notebook, rose, straightened her dress. “Our time’s up. Would you like to make another appointment?”

  Nevaeh slowly rose. She said automatically, “I’ll call and set something up. I need to think.”

  They shook hands. “Good luck, Nevaeh. Don’t forget, it’s always darkest before the dawn.”

  Now, wasn’t the dear doctor clever? “Actually, Dr. Fontaine, it’s much darker in outer space.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  T-MINUS 50 HOURS

  Sky News Coverage of Typhoon Akari

  July 26

  This is our continuing coverage of the typhoon bearing down on the search and rescue area where Galactus founder Jean-Pierre Broussard’s yacht, The Griffon, was last seen on radar. The storm has now been named Akari, which we’re told means “red storm.” Gale-force winds are expected to top two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour, which places it squarely in the Category Four classification. The storm has already moved through Indonesia and is now approaching Singapore. While this first landfall caused it to weaken, it is expected to reach peak winds as it moves into the Strait of Malacca. Rescuers will have to stop the search as the waters will be too dangerous.

  “Rescuers are in a race against time and the elements to find the founder of Galactus and his crew. Sky News has learned a pilot on a Singapore Airlines plane flying overhead saw an explosion in the general vicinity of The Griffon’s last known whereabouts. This, in addition to the storm, makes this situation even more dire.

  “We’ll continue our coverage after a break.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  T-MINUS 49 HOURS

  The founding of Kuala Lumpur was almost an accident. In 1857, 87 Chinese prospectors in search of tin landed at the meeting point of the Klang and Gombak rivers and set up camp, naming the spot Kuala Lumpur, meaning ‘muddy confluence.’ Within a month all but 17 of the prospectors had died of malaria and other tropical diseases, but the tin they discovered in Ampang attracted more miners and KL quickly became a brawling, noisy, violent boomtown, ruled over by so-called ‘secret societies,’ a network of Chinese criminal gangs.

  —LonelyPlanet.com

  Kuala Lumpur

  Malaysia

  Mike didn’t know what to expect when she stepped off the plane in Kuala Lumpur—imagine living in a city whose name meant “muddy confluence.” She’d imagined it would be exotic, different spices scenting the air. It would be unique.

  The smell was not exotic. Instead, the air was heavily scented with gasoline and asphalt—the universal language of tarmacs everywhere. It was hard to breathe the thick, heavy air. The sun was up, though Mike could feel the heavy pressure in the air, the skies were gray, cloudy, the rain from the storm imminent. And it was hot and muggy. Both Nicholas and Mike pulled off their jackets. They followed Poppy to the cars to take them to the chopper, all of them carrying their go-bags. As they walked, Mike touched Nicholas on the shoulder, showed him her phone, the radar image of the typhoon. The storm was growing stronger, clear to see, strengthening, coalescing, forming an eye. The path was going to take it right across Malaysia into the Strait of Malacca and out to the Bay of Bengal—precisely the direction they were going to be in searching for The Griffon.

  “Nicholas, it’s heading right for the area where Adam found Grant’s last fitness tracker signal.”

  “How long?”

  “This area will be affected in half a day, maybe? Depends on if it slows down or speeds up once it hits water again. We need to hurry. I have no desire to be lost at sea in a typhoon.”

  He saw her worry, and at the same time, saw her excitement. His danger junkie. He hugged her to him. “Nor do I, Agent Caine. Nor do I.”

  She looked up to see shadows under his eyes. They were probably under hers, too—they hadn’t gotten much sleep on the plane, only catnaps here and there. His beard was growing in, the stubble thicker around that infernal dent in his chin that always made her want to lean up and kiss him. “I like the scruff, makes you look like a dangerous playboy.”

  A black brow went up.

  She poked him. “You’re distracted. What are you thinking about?”

  “How to keep us out of trouble if there is an actual nuclear EMP floating around up there.” He pointed toward the heavens. “Depending on where it goes off—if it goes off—the nuclear explosion itself could have little effect on areas outside of its initial range. The real issue is the aftermath of the EMP. The blast will knock out anything electronic in its path for a good fifteen hundred miles in any direction. Without the most basic electronics, the entire supply chain stops. Food can’t be shipped. Water treatment plants will go offline—”

  Mike said, “And electric grids will fail, and people will be in the dark, and it’s three days to anarchy. Yes, I’ve had all the same briefings on EMPs you have. We’d be so screwed.”

  He said, “If there is an EMP and it affects the communication satellites, I think we’ll have anarchy faster than three days. We can only hope if it goes off, it does so above a less populous area.”

  “Still, Nicholas, no matter where it goes off, there’ll be no phone connections and that means no Facebook, no Twitter, no selfies—yes, there will be chaos.”

  Her teasing distracted him for a moment. “I’ve never seen you take a selfie, Mike.”

  “Probably not. Now, what’s really bothering you?”

  He smiled, but his eyes were still distant. “Honestly? I’m not sure. It’s a bad feeling, something I know is out there—and I know we don’t know everything we should know.”

  “We’ve been knowless many times, Nicholas. It’ll come.”

  Nicholas said, “Still I hate going into this half-blind.”

  Poppy pointed to a huge black SUV. Nicholas laughed. “Oh, now this beauty isn’t at all conspicuous.”

  Mike said, “And here I thought bigger was always better.”

  “You would know, well, better than I, Agent Caine.”

  They both laughed, and Poppy blinked at them, made them laugh harder.

  “Come on, guys, what’s the joke?”

  Mike shook her head. “I think we’re a little punchy, not enough sleep the past few days. Where are we headed now?”

  “The car will take us out to the coast where they’ve based the search and rescue operation. Nothing coming in from the planes that have already gone out, but they’ve held back a chopper waiting for you two.” Her brows knit together. “Are you absolutely sure you want to go
out there?”

  Nicholas said, “Yes, of course we do. We consider it a personal mission to rescue Grant anytime he gets himself into trouble. Makes us feel important.”

  Poppy said, “I think it makes you certifiable. You should let the experts handle this.”

  “Probably,” Mike said. “But the fact is, Grant is our friend, and neither of us could live with ourselves if he was hurt and we didn’t do everything in our power to help him. Plus maybe helping all the people aboard The Griffon. We’ll be fine.”

  Poppy said, “Remind me to be very good friends with the two of you from now on.” She shifted the Glock on her hip as she climbed into the vehicle. Mike knew this woman was lethal and more than capable of taking care of herself, and maybe them, too. Mike wouldn’t mind having her on their Covert Eyes team. But she supposed there was a reason Poppy was in the private sector. She reminded herself to do a background check on her later. If they made it back to land, that is.

  They climbed into the SUV behind her, nodded to the large man in a black suit behind the steering wheel. He turned and gave them a nod. “Agents. Roderick Grennan, Blue Mountain. We’re thirty minutes to the staging area in Putrajaya. They’re waiting for you.” And he slammed the SUV into gear and squealed off the tarmac, into the insanity of Kuala Lumpur.

  Nicholas said, “Now, let’s call Adam, see what’s happening with our coordinates.”

  Adam was in their offices at 26 Federal Plaza, looking infinitely more relaxed than when they’d talked to him last. Gray Wharton was on-screen as well, looking rumpled and windblown, as if he’d just stepped off the Staten Island Ferry and had forgotten to smooth down his hair.

  “What sort of trouble are the two of you getting into now? Kuala Lumpur? It’s a far sight from Rome and chowing down gnocchi on the Piazza del Popolo.”

  Mike waved. “Hello, Gray. Good to see your face. We’re about to do something foolhardy, possibly certifiable, to end our long, so very boring vacation.”

  “Well, there’s something new. Latest update, the coordinates from Grant’s fitness tracker have moved a bit. Why? Our best guess is they’re in life rafts, floating near where the ship was last seen.”

  Mike asked, “Why haven’t the Malaysian SAR folks found them yet, then? If they have a spot to look for, they should be able to zero in on them with no issue.”

  Adam said, “There’s one easy answer. I think you need to be prepared for the idea that Grant lost his tracker.”

  Nicholas said, “Bollocks. You’re wrong, you have to be. We’re heading out now to join the search. Keep feeding us coordinate updates.”

  “And weather updates,” Mike added. “This typhoon looks nasty.”

  “Will do.” They punched off the phone just as they arrived at the heliport.

  Poppy said, “I’m going to stay on land with Roderick and monitor the storm and coordinate with the search teams from here.” She paused. “Too, I have no desire to launch myself out over the ocean.”

  “No worries,” Nicholas said. “Stay in touch.”

  Mike was glad to see the chopper was military, being piloted by the Malaysian Coast Guard. Once they were suited up and strapped in, the pilot, introduced as Musa bin Osman, spoke over their headsets in very good English.

  “We’ve narrowed the search to a two-hundred-and-sixty-kilometer area, but haven’t had any luck yet. I fear the yacht has gone down, and the seas have been kicking up because of the storm. MMEA—that’s the Malaysian Maritime Enforcement Agency—is in the lead for the SAR. We have four boats in the region, all searching with our own people. The U.S. Navy is sending ships from the Bay of Bengal, out of the U.S. Pacific Fleet. Over eighty thousand ships pass through the Strait of Malacca a year, and The Griffon was last seen heading into the Singapore Strait two weeks ago. Of course, the Blue Mountain people have kept us updated. Still, there’s nothing yet. But I have faith we’ll find them. It will take us an hour to get out there. Off we go.”

  The chopper launched into the air. Ten minutes later, they were over open water, flying north.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  T-MINUS 45 HOURS

  Strait of Malacca

  Off the Coast of Sumatra

  Grant was beyond thirsty but he didn’t care, he wanted to make sure the rest of the people in their four boats had enough. He’d fared better than most of the crew from the drug overdose—the combination of alcohol, drug, sun, and waves was now making some of them even sicker. The heat was brutal, the waves two meters high. Surely someone was looking for them by now. He thought of Kitsune, knew she had no idea what had happened to him, and prayed.

  He kept looking, but the vast waters remained empty. He didn’t want to ask Broussard how much more fuel they had before the sub was in danger. They could always join the others on one of the boats, but Grant had to admit the sub was a better option. At least it could waterproof itself. The rest of the crew were hanging on to the edges of the life rafts, their jackets puffed around their necks, water splashing on them, looking both miserable and stoic.

  Jean-Pierre was holding it together, but Grant could tell the man was fading, too. He’d forced him to take a nap, because they needed rest, but as the leader of the crew, Broussard wasn’t the kind to let Grant take control of things. He’d finally agreed to rest for an hour, leaving Grant alone with his thoughts. Dire, scary thoughts. And always Kitsune, her wonderful laugh, her immense love for him, his heart.

  He had one purpose now: keep these people alive long enough for them to be rescued.

  Not being able to call for help was the worst. The sat phone in his bag was toast, further cementing the idea that Devi had set off some sort of EMP in the boat disabling all of their comms. Grant knew his bosses would be searching by now, but worried they might be too late.

  He had no idea where they were in the ocean, either, which was causing him no slight bit of panic.

  He’d lost his fitness tracker sometime back when the boat was going down, and he used it as a watch to tell the time, too, so he was reliant on Broussard for time updates, which had been driving both of them mad. With Broussard asleep, all he could do was stare into the milky gray skies and estimate.

  The sun was high above, burning them even through the haze, and the salty waves made his skin crack. How long would they be able to manage out here without being rescued? He didn’t even want to think about it.

  He shifted uncomfortably, and Broussard came awake.

  Broussard stretched and yawned. “Nothing new?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Broussard’s face fell, but he gestured to the small pillow he’d been using. “You should get some sleep, Grant. I’ll keep an eye on things. Oh yes, no more ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Broussard.’ Call me Jean-Pierre.”

  Grant smiled. “Very well, Jean-Pierre. The waves are getting worse. Do you think the storm we saw coming has strengthened?”

  Broussard shrugged, his face once again emotionless, his eyes hard. “Probably. There is nothing that can be done to change our circumstance, Grant. We must make the best of things. Do get some sleep, it helps, if only to escape for a while.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a fatalist.”

  Broussard shook his head, smiled. “I’m no fatalist. No, I’m a romantic. The way I look at it is if it’s my lot to die at sea, so be it. But I don’t think we’re going to die today. We can’t die today. We were in possession of the Grail. Even though it was for a short time, I’m thinking it still provides me protection. It welcomed me, Grant, recognized I was worthy, though I’m far from it, but then again, as I told the Grail, I am only the messenger.”

  “The messenger? For whom?”

  Broussard looked away, Emilie’s name on his lips. But no. “It is not important. Do you know, I still feel stronger than I should, and I don’t feel as hungry or thirsty as I should. I know the Grail gave me strength and it still lingers. Why, I don’t know.

  “Plus I’m sure someone is going to be coming for us. Your peopl
e, my people. They will be searching for us.”

  Grant wished he’d touched the Grail. Would it have made him as positive as Broussard? “But without any kind of tracking device, they’ll have to spot us by air. And I haven’t seen any planes fly over, and believe me, I’ve checked often. We mustn’t be in any normal flight paths.”

  “Perhaps not. But someone will come. I have faith. Faith is what got us here in the first place, and faith will save us. And the Grail.”

  Because Broussard had left the top of the sub open, they heard cries from the boats. They both looked out. Grant watched in horror to see the fins of two sharks begin circling one of the life rafts.

  “I fear our situation is going from bad to worse. Look at these waves. And now sharks?”

  “They’ll be fine. We will all be fine.”

  “Why did they unlash the boats?”

  “If they were still all connected, one big wave could topple a boat and it would be a domino effect. This way we can rescue from one boat to the other, if need be. And look.”

  Broussard pointed as Cesar, his dive captain, leaned out of the boat and shot one of the sharks. The other went mad, and the men in the boat cheered.

  “They’re sailors, Grant. They know how to handle themselves in open water. All will be well. The Grail rewards those who believe. Oh, I nearly forgot. You dropped this.”

  He handed Grant his fitness tracker.

  “I thought I’d lost it on The Griffon. Where did you find it?”

  “It was on the floor of the sub, under the seat. Covered in water, and I believe I was standing on it for some time, so it’s most likely ruined, but maybe you’d like to have it anyway.”

  Grant strapped it on, held his breath, and pressed the power button. The device flared to life. 12:25 p.m. He grinned. A silly thing to have missed, being able to tell the time.

  Broussard smiled at him. “See? Life, it isn’t all bad.”