The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(44)
“I can, we have the range to accomplish that. Though I’d like to wait to know my crew is being rescued, and then we can head off immediately. I need someone tracing the Grail. I must find it. I must retrieve it. It’s critical.” He paused, then, “We’ll find the woman responsible, too.”
“Sir, there’s the distinct possibility an EMP is going to explode, maybe tomorrow, we’re not sure, so we need to get back to land, warn the authorities, and find whoever is behind it. And stop them.”
“But the Grail, my crew—”
Mike said, “Mr. Broussard, there was a nuclear signature at your launch on July 14 from French Guiana. We believe it was aboard the satellite you were putting into orbit. Obviously, the company who owns the satellite is being investigated as we speak, but we need to find out who might have planted it, and who wants to set it off. Getting a nuclear bomb on a satellite isn’t an easy task, as you’re well aware.”
“I don’t know the first thing about getting a nuclear bomb on a satellite. And it’s impossible one of Galactus’s rockets had anything to do with this.”
He was exhausted, obviously brokenhearted over the death of his lover, Devi, everything was lying in ashes at his feet. But there was more, Mike sensed it, and it had to do with the Grail. She softened her voice. “And yet, sir, it seems you are involved, and someone clearly wants you dead. There’s more going on here than you realize.”
As she spoke, they heard the familiar whomp whomp whomp of a helicopter’s rotors through the open top of the submersible, closely followed by cheers. The cavalry had arrived. Hopefully they wouldn’t be swamped by a rogue wave, too.
Nicholas stood. “Looks like we’ve saved ourselves a trip under the sea. Let’s divert one of the rescue helicopters and get ourselves back to Kuala Lumpur, and the jet.”
Broussard asked, “Where do you plan to go?”
She looked from Broussard to Grant. “Lyon, France. We need to go to Galactus headquarters, find the people responsible for the launch. Can you tell us the name of the person in charge of that launch?”
Broussard said, “My second-in-command is Dr. Nevaeh Patel. She will certainly open an investigation as soon as she’s warned. When we reach the helicopter, we can radio ahead—”
Grant whirled around. “Jean-Pierre, what did you say her name was?”
“Nevaeh Patel. Dr. Nevaeh Patel.”
“I hate to tell you this, Jean-Pierre, but I didn’t understand at the time that what I heard was a name. I only thought it was something weird—‘Nevaeh’ is what I heard Devi say before the helicopter blew up your ship.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Boston
July 26, 2012
Dr. Fontaine was right about one thing. A sensory deprivation tank was the closest she could get to being in space. Maybe it would bring the Numen, and there would be real communication, not short simple bursts.
After she left Dr. Fontaine, Nevaeh flew to Boston. She had friends at MIT, so she knew she could borrow a few hours in the psych lab’s sensory deprivation tank. She’d done some research, debated on chamber versus flotation REST—restricted environmental stimulation therapy—and decided for her purposes, flotation REST was the best option. She wanted to get herself into the theta brain-wave stage as quickly as possible, a meditative state that existed when she was not quite asleep, but relaxed and calm. From her experience with sensory deprivation, she’d always done better in water than a darkened room. She was an astronaut, after all—being weightless was second nature.
Even though she was a graduate of MIT and could have walked in the front gates with no problem, she didn’t want to be on anyone’s radar, particularly NASA’s, so she talked to one of her former professors she trusted not to give her away, and he set up an appointment in the lab. For good measure, she paid off the lab tech and went to the facility in disguise, a long wig and black glasses. She liked the way the glasses looked, thought she’d add them into her style rotation, but the blond wig made her look sallow, perhaps unwell. Perhaps she was. Hopefully she was about to find out.
The lab tech had been quite pleased with the money and more than happy to stay late and let her in, then let her out when she was finished. He brought her to the room, gave her a fluffy white bathrobe—as if she were entering a high-end spa—told her to press the button on the wall when she was ready for him to close her in, and disappeared to play a video game.
The sensory deprivation chamber looked like a silver coffin. She took off the wig and her clothes and changed into a bathing suit. She put in earplugs, tucked her long black hair under a cap so it wouldn’t float around her body and distract her, and climbed in.
The water was warm, heavily laced with Epsom salts, and the high saline content would keep her afloat. All she had to do was keep her face above water.
She relaxed back, resting her head against a pillow, let the water embrace her. The tech knocked on the door. “You ready?”
“I am.”
‘You didn’t press the button.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. You want me to stay? It can be kind of freaky the first time.”
“No, thank you, I believe I’ll be fine.”