The Kill Room

hovering over the Caribbean Sea, a thousand miles away.
    “Gone completely,” said a NIOS communications specialist at a control panel beside him, a young woman with hair pulled back in a bun that looked painfully tight. The comspec’s voice was unemotional.
    The scene on the monitor revealed clearly that, no, there was nothing left, other than an oil slick, some debris.
    And smoke. A lot of smoke.
    Gone completely…
    Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs, along with Metzger and the comspec, were in the outer office of NIOS’s Ground Control Station trailer, on Rector Street in lower Manhattan. In the parking lot.
    Rhyme squinted at the bits of wood and plastic and rocking sheen of oil, which had until thirty seconds ago been the 110-foot Dominican cargo ship that Robert Moreno’s friend, Henry Cross, aka Enrico Cruz, had guided toward the Miami Rover , the American Petroleum Drilling and Refining oil rig off the coast of Florida.
    The comspec touched her earphones. “Reports of a second detonation, underwater, Director. About eight or nine hundred feet depth.”
    A moment later, they could see on the high-resolution monitor a slight bubbling up of the water on the surface. That was all. Rhyme supposed that however large the second bomb had been, intended to destroy the rig’s wellhead, he guessed, so much water had quite a mitigating effect.
    Rhyme looked through the glass wall dividing the trailer in half: the Kill Room of the GCS. He noted in the dim light the man who had just caused the devastation—and saved the lives of the people on board the rig, as well as much of the east coast of Florida.
    Oblivious to those observing him, Barry Shales was at the drone operations station. To Rhyme it seemed like a freestanding airplane cockpit. Shales was sitting forward, apparently quite relaxed, in a comfortable tan leather chair, facing five flat-screen monitors.
    The NIOS officer’s hands gripped joysticks, though he would occasionally twist or tap one of the other hundred or so knobs, dials, switches and computer keys.
    Rhyme noted that somebody had affixed a seat belt to the chair. It dangled to the floor unlatched. A joke, surely.
    Shales was alone in the dim room, which was soundproofed, it seemed, presumably so that he wouldn’t be distracted by noises from associates—or visitors like Rhyme and Sachs today. Delivering deadly messages from on high undoubtedly required supreme concentration.
    The comspec, who also had a live link to the American Petroleum security people on board the oil rig, tapped buttons herself, asked some questions and announced to Metzger, Rhyme and Sachs, “Confirm no damage to Miami Rover or blowout preventer. No injuries, except a few earaches.”
    Not unexpected when a massive fertilizer bomb detonates a half mile from you.
    As he’d been reviewing the evidence a half hour ago, Rhyme had suddenly realized that some things didn’t add up. He’d made a half dozen calls and deduced that an attack might be imminent. He’d contacted Metzger. Feverish debate in Washington and at NIOS ensued. Scrambling air force fighters required too much authorization from the Pentagon on up; hours would be wasted getting the approval.
    Metzger, of course, had a solution. He’d appealed to Barry Shales, who was en route to headquarters anyway to collect his personal belongings—Metzger explained that the pilot had decided to leave NIOS.
    Given the horrific consequences if the pending attack was successful and the approaching deadline—a matter of minutes—the former air force officer had reluctantly agreed to help. He’d flown the drone from Homestead to a spot just over the cargo ship and hovered. The ship was apparently abandoned; they’d seen the crew get into a speedboat and flee. When the radio hails, ordering the cargo ship to come about, were ignored, Shales had launched a Hellfire, which struck the forward hold, where Rhyme speculated the fertilizer bomb had been placed.
    Bull’s-eye.
    Shales was now turning the drone in a different direction and began following the small boat that contained the crew, who had abandoned the vessel twenty minutes earlier. Into view on the monitor came the black, long-nosed speedboat, crashing over the waves away from the rig and the explosion.
    Rhyme heard Barry Shales’s voice over a ceiling-mounted speaker. “UAV Four Eight One to Florida Center. I’ve got secondary target in range and acquiring lock. Distance from target eighteen hundred