The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

  But everything she needed to know was all there in his eyes.

  “Hello, Cotten Stone,” John said softly, extending his hand as she came to stand before him.

  “Hello, John Tyler,” she said so only he could hear. Accepting his hand, they stood in silence for a moment.

  The Hall of Constantine erupted in applause, becoming awash in flashes and the brilliance of video camera lights.

  Then she let go of him for the last time.

  Cotten held the silver case out to John. “Your Excellency, I have the honor of presenting to the Universal Church, this blessed relic known as the Cup of the Last Supper, the Cup of the Crucifixion, the Cup of Christ, the Holy Grail.”

  [contents]

  The Last Secret © 2006 by Lynn Sholes and Joe Moore.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2010

  E-book ISBN: 9780738716305

  Book design by Donna Burch

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

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  Acknowledgments

  The authors wish to thank the following for their assistance in adding a sense of realism to this work of fiction.

  Capt. Jennifer Faubert

  Public Affairs

  North American Aerospace Defense Command

  Dr. Wayne D. Pennington, PhD.

  Professor of Geophysical Engineering

  Michigan Technological University

  Serafin M. Coronel-Molina

  Department of Spanish & Portuguese Languages & Cultures

  Princeton University

  Deanna Wesolowski

  Classics Department

  Marquette University

  A special thanks to:

  Harriet Cooper

  Lee Jackson

  Satan; so call him now, his former name

  is heard no more in heaven.

  —JOHN MILTON

  PARADISE LOST, BOOK V, LINE 658

  Prologue

  Since the dawn of time, there have been mysteries, unexplained phenomena, and strange occurrences that have haunted mankind. Some could be attributed to nature or the sciences. But a few myths—those passed down through generations—continue to persist even to the present. A few have never been explained.

  One comes from Genesis in the Old Testament and deals with a race of giants called the Nephilim—the Fallen Ones. Cast out by God for siding with Lucifer in the Great Battle for Heaven, the Nephilim were condemned to walk the earth in eternal damnation—able neither to die nor ever to enter Heaven again. Down through the ages, the Fallen Ones adapted to the ways of man in appearance and behavior until their presence was all but forgotten.

  Led by Satan, the Nephilim meticulously planned for the day they would strike back at God and take away the one thing he treasured most, his prized creation: man.

  The time for the final conflict was approaching. The gathering Dark Army of the Nephilim prepared. But one thing stood in their way. The only human ever to share their legacy and their blood. Cotten Stone had stopped them once before. The Fallen Ones would not make the same mistake again.

  Shootdown

  00:20:15

  The passenger in seat 2K in the business-class section of the Virgin Atlantic Airbus A340 stared through thick eyeglasses at the cockpit door. Only ten seconds before, his head had shot up from his copy of Newsweek at the sound of a loud bang coming from the cockpit.

  Now, along with those around him, he sat stunned as the pilot’s words blared from the intercom.

  “This is Captain Krull. We are experiencing technical difficulties. Everyone remain seated.”

  The captain had made other announcements during the flight from London to New York. But this time his voice sounded stressed, edgy.

  A flight attendant moved cautiously from the galley that separated first class and the cockpit. She stood silently in front of the heavily reinforced flight deck, still holding a towel that she had been using to clean a stain from her apron. The passenger in 2K followed her gaze to the lettering on the middle of the cockpit door, which read: Restricted area. No admittance during flight.

  As he watched, the flight attendant pulled a handset from the wall and pushed a button that he assumed connected her to the cockpit. She spoke into the receiver and waited for a reply. He saw her facial expression change as she listened. Then, slowly, she hung up the handset and covered her mouth with her palm. Her face paled as she turned toward the passengers.

  The man nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and started to stand.

  “Please stay in your seat, sir,” she said.

  “What’s going on?” a woman called out.

  “What the hell was that noise?” another passenger asked.

  Despite her order, passenger 2K rose. “Is there something wrong with the plane?” he asked.

  “No, the aircraft is fine,” she answered, still seemingly trying to digest what she had just heard.

  “Are we being hijacked?” he asked.

  She bit her bottom lip. “Captain Krull says he shot the copilot and is about to kill himself.” She took a step backward into the galley. “There’s no way to get into the cockpit and stop him.”

  00:12:06

  “Captain Krull, this is Thomas Wyatt.” Tall and trim in faded jeans and a denim shirt, Wyatt stood on the front porch of his cottage overlooking the dark waters of Alligator Lake in the backwoods of North Florida. “Can you hear me?” he said into the satellite phone.

  No response.

  “Captain, I’m here to help you.”

  Static.

  Wyatt knew there were at least a hundred people listening to the call that had been routed directly into the aircraft’s communications system. He pictured groups of military and civilians at the Department of Homeland Security, the Pentagon, DoD, NORAD, the FAA, and countless other agencies leaning toward the speakers of their electronic devices. And he was acutely aware that he had only a short time before things would turn tragic. Virgin Atlantic Flight 45 was squawking a 7500 hijack code and would not be allowed to land in or even approach New York with a suicidal pilot at the controls.

  Pressing the phone to his ear, Wyatt said, “Captain, no matter what brought you to this moment, there’s still time to
turn back. This is not only about you, Captain, but about two hundred and eighty innocent people onboard your plane. They don’t deserve to die. Whatever issue you have, they are not responsible. Let’s put it into the hands of experts who can solve it for you.”

  Wyatt glanced at his watch. He knew that two F-18 Hornets were vectored to intercept the airbus. They were under explicit rules of engagement regarding a 7500 code: force the plane to divert to a secure landing location or, if necessary, fire upon the aircraft and shoot it down. The airbus, big and lumbering, would present no challenge for the fighter pilots.

  00:11:04

  “Captain, you are a seventeen-year veteran,” Wyatt said, glancing at a three-page fax in his hand. “Your record is one other pilots aspire to achieve. You have a family—twin ten-year-old girls. Are you ready to leave them fatherless? Taking the lives of those innocent passengers onboard would affect hundreds, if not thousands, of lives as their friends and relatives grieve. And if you take this aircraft down with you, what about the lives on the ground? Why don’t you tell me what you want—I’ll do everything in my power to help you get it. It’s not too late.”

  Wyatt knew there were usually three reasons someone takes hostages: martyrdom, murder, or suicide. The information he had been given clearly indicated number three. And number three was Thomas Wyatt’s specialty.

  00:10:19

  “Captain, we’re running out of time here.” He pressed his palm to his forehead as he looked out over the glassy surface of the lake that reflected the tall pines and palmetto thickets surrounding it. His cottage was the only one for twelve miles. Wyatt managed to retreat to it a few times a year to relax and fish. There would be no fishing today.

  “Captain Krull, the world is a tough place. I know. Maybe the others don’t understand what stress can do to a man. But I do.”

  Thomas Wyatt scanned the faxes once more. There was nothing in Krull’s profile that he could determine might have made the pilot go over the edge. No marital or financial difficulties. No drug or alcohol abuse. And that made Wyatt’s task more problematic. He had nothing to hook onto, nothing to target to convince the pilot that Wyatt was his friend—perhaps the only one he had right now. Wyatt needed Krull’s trust, but without finding something he could use to lead the pilot into conversation, Krull would never see him as an ally. That was bad news. There would be little chance of talking him down.

  “Captain Krull,” Wyatt said, knowing this was his last opportunity to deter the pilot from whatever plan he had. “There are F-18 fighter jets approaching your aircraft from the rear. One is about to pull alongside and signal you to decrease your airspeed, drop to ten thousand feet, and follow him to an alternative landing site. Do you understand?”

  The silence was as empty as Wyatt’s hopes. He looked at his watch again. “Captain?”

  00:09:25

  “Oh God!” a woman screamed from a few rows behind where passenger 2K sat. She pointed out the window. “They’re going to shoot us down!”

  Within the last few moments, the anxiety level in the airbus grew from whispered concerns to panic. Now, as they all glared in disbelief out the port side of the aircraft, passenger 2K saw the threatening, sleek shape of a military jet fighter. Twin tail fins reminded him of knife blades. The long needle nose looked like an insect about to sting. Sitting inside the swept-back cockpit, the pilot motioned to attract Captain Krull’s attention.

  As passenger 2K glared out the window to get a better look at the fighter, he saw something that caused his pulse to quicken and his breath to be sucked from his lungs. Attached to the wingtip of the jet fighter was a small blue guided missile. Would it be the one used to turn Flight 45 into a raging ball of flames and drop the airliner into the cold waters below?

  “Holy shit,” a teenage passenger shouted.

  “Everyone remain calm,” the flight attendant shouted over the screams of the passengers. “This is standard procedure. That plane is just here to escort us safely to the closest landing site.”

  “Why?” the teen yelped. “What do we need an escort for? What’s wrong with landing at JFK?”

  “There’s another one!” someone cried from the opposite side of the cabin.

  The second F-18 was so close that the pilot’s face could be seen. Passenger 2K felt his knees give way as he slumped back into his seat. He took his glasses off and closed his eyes. Standard procedure? he thought. Escort us in? If the copilot is dead and the pilot is threatening to shoot himself, who will fly the plane?

  00:04:02

  “Captain Krull, I know that by now you can see the F-18s off each side of your aircraft.” Wyatt paced his deck as sweat formed on his brow. The weathered two-by-fours creaked under his boots. He heard the screech of blue jays as they argued over the peanuts Wyatt had thrown in the grass for them just before getting this call. If his problem could only be as trivial as theirs right now.

  00:03:23

  “Captain, those pilots are hearing every word I say. So is the NORAD commander. There will be no hesitation if he feels that you and I are not coming to terms. His sworn duty and that of his pilots is to protect the citizens of the United States. Captain, they are under orders that have no ambiguity, no flexibility. A single word from me and I can call them off. I know you’re a good man, a father, a husband. The lives of so many are now in your hands. Please tell me what you want. I’ll move mountains to get it for you. I can do that. I’ve done it for others. Just let me hear your voice.”

  00:01:02

  The muffled pop caused everyone in the business-class section to stop as if someone had pushed the pause button on a DVD player. A bitter taste rose into the throat of passenger 2K as he stood and took a step toward the cockpit door. His glasses fell to the floor. The flight attendant was two paces ahead of him, and another was coming up the aisle.

  “Let us in!” the attendant screamed, pounding on the door. “Open up!”

  Passenger 2K shoved the attendant aside and kicked the door with all his strength. He felt as if he had kicked a block of stone—his leg flamed with pain. Another passenger came from behind, a fire extinguisher in his hands. Using the bottom as a battering ram, he struck the door repeatedly, leaving behind only smears of red paint.

  Suddenly, the nose of the plane pitched down, causing everyone to tumble. At the same moment, a woman a few rows back yelled, “We’re going to crash!”

  The airbus pitched again.

  Luggage, blankets, pillows, drinks, and passengers dropped to the floor and slid toward the bulkhead.

  Passenger 2K was slammed to his knees as the man with the fire extinguisher fell onto him, the breath knocked from his lungs. He opened his mouth to call for the other passenger to get off when a sound like the crack of thunder struck his ears. He turned his head to look down the aisle. Without his glasses, what he saw was blurry, but he knew it for what it was. A wall of flame raged toward him like a searing, fiery wave. He cried as he took his last breath, knowing the small blue guided missile had found its target.

  00:00:00

  Gilley’s Fossels

  We are what we think. All that we are arises in our thoughts. And with our thoughts, we make our world.

  —BUDDHA

  Dinosaur Valley, Texas

  “The world is about to change, Ted,” Cotten Stone said into the cell phone. She held it in one hand and the steering wheel in the other as she drove the rental car along Highway 67 toward Glen Rose, Texas. “This will stand a lot of people on their heads.”

  “I’m impressed,” Ted Casselman said, his voice starting to cut out.

  Cotten looked at the signal-strength indicator on her phone. It flickered between one bar and none. She hoped she wouldn’t lose him. Ted had been her boss when she worked at the Satellite News Network. Even though she had landed the chief investigative correspondent job at NBC after leaving SNN, Ted remained her friend and mentor.


  “I’ve seen all the media blitz, Cotten, but of course it’s shrouded in mystery. They’ve done a great job of hyping your exclusive. And that’s what I thought it was—just hype. I had no idea. How long have you been working on this?”

  “Couple of weeks. I waited for the coverage on the Virgin Atlantic shootdown to cool off. I still can’t believe that a pilot of a commercial aircraft would do something so horrific. Don’t they get tested for mental stability?”

  “It’s interesting that the pilot recently went through his yearly evaluation with no problems. We’re continuing to do follow-up human-interest pieces on it. Having to shoot down a plane full of innocent passengers was a real wake-up call for a lot of folks. Even after 9/11, I don’t think anyone thought it would ever come to this.”

  “I understand the plane was transmitting a hijack signal.”

  “Yes,” Ted said. “They figure the copilot triggered it to get the attention of the air traffic controllers.”

  As Cotten Stone listened to Ted Casselman, she pictured the tall, forty-four-year-old black man. He was graying early, and she knew she could be blamed for many of those premature gray hairs. Wanting to move away from the tragic airliner incident and bring the subject back to her story, she said, “I feel really strong about my exclusive, Ted. It’s going to be amazing.”

  “More than amazing. You’re going to crumble an entire mountain of scientific data.” Ted laughed into the phone before sighing. “I hope it works out,” he said. “You’ve got a lot riding on this.”

  Cotten felt trepidation trickle through her veins as she caught a glimpse of the Paluxy River, now so shallow it couldn’t be paddled. But after a heavy rain, she’d been told, it transforms into raging white water—the only rapids in North Texas. Just as the rain transforms the river, she believed, her news story would bring about a drastic transformation as well.