The Kill Room by Jeffery Deaver
The one NIOS had gotten so wrong.
He recalled the intel about the chemicals for Moreno's IED--the nitromethane, the diesel fuel, the fertilizer--that were going to reduce the oil company's headquarters in Miami to a smoking crater. The intel about Moreno's vicious attacks on America, calling for violent assaults on citizens. The intel about the activist's reconnaissance of the embassies in Mexico and Costa Rica, planning to blow them to kingdom come too.
They'd been so sure...
And they'd been so wrong.
Wrong about avoiding collateral damage too. De la Rua and the guard.
The primary point of the Long-Range Rifle program at NIOS was to minimize, ideally eliminate, collateral, which was impossible to do when you fired missiles.
And the first time it had been tried in an actual mission, what had happened?
Innocents dead.
Shales had hovered the UAV craft perfectly over the waters of Clifton Bay in the Bahamas, sighted through the leaves of a tree outside with a clear infrared and radar vision of Moreno, double-confirmed it was he, compensated for wind and elevation and fired shots only when the task was standing alone in front of the window.
Shales knew in his heart that only Moreno would die.
But there was that one little matter that had never occurred to him, to anyone: the window.
Who could have thought that the glass would be so lethal?
Wasn't his fault...But if he believed that, if he believed he was innocent of any wrongdoing, then why had he been in the john last night puking?
Just a bit of the flu, honey...No, no, I'm okay.
And why was he having more and more trouble sleeping?
Why was he more and more preoccupied, agitated, heartsick?
Curiously, while drone operators are perhaps the safest of all combat troops physically, they have among the highest rates of depression and post-traumatic stress in the military and national security services. Sitting at a video console in Colorado or New York City, killing someone six thousand miles away and then collecting the kids at gymnastics or football practice, having dinner and sitting down to watch Dancing with the Stars in your suburban den was disorienting beyond belief.
Especially when your fellow soldiers were hunkered down in the desert or getting blown to pieces by IEDs.
All right, Airman, he told himself, as he'd been doing lately, concentrate. You're on a mission. An STO mission.
He scanned the five computer monitors before him. The one in front, black background filled with green lines, boxes and type, was a composite of typical aircraft controls: artificial horizon, airspeed, ground speed, heading, nav-com, GPS, fuel and engine status. Above that was a traditional terrain map, like a Rand McNally. An information monitor--weather, messages and other communications reports--was to the upper left.
Below that was a screen that he could switch from regular to synthetic aperture radar. To the right, at eye level, was a high-definition video view of whatever the camera in the drone was seeing, presently daylight, though night vision was, of course, an option.
The view now was dun-colored desert passing underneath.
Though slowly. Drones are not F-16s.
A separate metal panel, below the monitors, was weapons control. It did not have any fancy screens but was black and functional and scuffed.
In many drone missions around the world, especially combat zones, the crew consists of a pilot and a sensor operator. But at NIOS the UAVs were flown solo. This was Metzger's idea; no one knew exactly what was behind it. Some thought it was to limit the number of people who knew about the STO program and therefore minimize the risk of security leaks.
Shales believed, however, the reason was this: The NIOS director appreciated the emotional toll that these missions took and wanted to subject as few people as possible to the stress of STO killings. Employees had been known to snap. And that could have far-ranging consequences, for them, their families...and for the program too, of course.
Barry Shales scanned the readouts. He hit a button and noted several other lights pop on.
He spoke into the stalk mike, "UAV Three Nine Seven to Texas Center."
Instantly: "Go ahead, Three Nine Seven."
"Weapons systems green."
"Roger."
He sat back and was stung by another thought. Metzger had told him that somebody was "looking into" the Moreno task. He'd asked for details but his boss had smiled dismissively and said it was just a technicality. Everything was being taken care of. He had people taking precautions. He didn't need to worry. Shales wasn't satisfied. Any smile from Metzger aroused suspicion.
Shales himself had felt a burst of the same searing rage that he, that everybody, knew was the NIOS director's nemesis. Who was looking into the matter? The police, Congress, the FBI?
And then, the kicker, Metzger told him that he too should take some precautions.
"Like what?"
"Just remember that it'd be better if there was less...well, 'evidence' is such a stark word. But you get my meaning."
And Shales decided at that moment not to wipe the phone issued to him as Don Bruns. The data--and the emails and texts to and from Metzger--were encrypted, but Shales decided it would be a prudent idea for the evidence not to disappear. He also printed out dozens of documents and smuggled them out of NIOS.
Insurance.
And the fact he'd felt compelled to take those precautions made him think: Hell, maybe it was time to quit this crazy business. Shales was thirty-nine, he had a degree from the Air Force Academy and a postgrad in engineering and poli-sci. He could go anywhere.
Or could he?
With a resume like his?
Besides, the idea of no longer helping defend his country was almost unbearable.
But how do I help my country by accidentally killing a famous journalist and hardworking guard while I'm on a mission to assassinate an unpleasant but innocent loudmouth? What about--
"Texas Center to Three Nine Seven."
Like flipping a switch. Barry Shales was all go. "Three Nine Seven."
"You are ten minutes to target."
The operation command center near Fort Hood knew exactly where his drone was.
"Copy."
"Visual conditions?"
A glance to the monitor at the right. "A little haze but pretty good."
"Be advised, Three Nine Seven, eyes on the ground report that the task is alone in target structure. Individual who arrived an hour ago has left."
The task...
"Roger, Texas Center. I'm taking the aircraft," Shales said, disconnecting the autopilot. "Approaching Lucio Blanco International airspace."
Reynosa's airport.
"Friendly nation ATC has been advised of your flight route."
"Roger. Descending to two thousand feet. EAD on."
The engine audio deflectors would reduce the decibel level of the drone's engine to about one-tenth of the regular sound. These could only be used for a short period of time, though, because they tended to make the engines overheat and there was a power loss, which could be dangerous in rough weather. Now, though, the sky was clear and virtually no wind would trouble the craft.
Five minutes later he guided 397 to about fifteen hundred feet above and a half mile from the safe house where al-Barani Rashid was presently planning or perhaps even constructing his bomb.
"In hover mode."
Teasing the joystick.
Shales painted the target safe house with a laser. "Confirm coordinates."
The longitude and latitude of what he'd reported would be matched to those of the stats known to be the target in NIOS's mainframe--just to make sure.
"Texas Center to Three Nine Seven, we have geo match. Target is confirmed. What is your PIN?"
Shales recited the ten digits of his personal identification number, verifying he was who he was supposed to be and that he was authorized to fire this missile at this target.
"Positive ID, Three Nine Seven.
"Copy. Three Nine Seven."
He slipped up the cover over the arming toggle for the Hellfire missile and pressed the button.
Shales stared at the image of the safe house. Still, he didn't push the launch button just yet.
His eyes took in the windows, the doors, the chimney, the streaks of dust on the sidewalk, a cactus. Looking for a sign. Looking for some indication that he should not launch the deadly package.
"Three Nine Seven, did you copy? Payload launch is authorized."
"Confirmed, Texas Center. Three Nine Seven."
He inhaled deeply.
Thought: Moreno...
And lifted the second cover, over the launch button itself, and pressed down.
There was no sound, only a faint rocking of the screen as the 110-pound missile dropped from the UAV. A green light confirmed release. Another, ignition.
"Payload away, Texas Center. Three Nine Seven."
"Roger." In the most bland of tones.
There was nothing more for Shales to do now, except watch the safe house disappear in a flash of flame and wash of smoke. He turned to the video.
And he saw the back door to the house open and two people exit into the courtyard between the house and garage. Rashid was one of them. A teenage boy was the other. They spoke briefly and began to kick around a soccer ball.
CHAPTER 70
BARRY SHALES FELT THE SHOCK like a physical blow.
He cracked a thumbnail jamming the digit into the red button in the middle of the weapons control panel labeled simply STOP.
This sent a signal disarming the warhead in the Hellfire. But the missile was still a deadly mass of metal and propellant, streaking at nine hundred miles an hour toward a building with less-than-perfect accuracy. It could easily kill everyone inside even if the explosives didn't detonate.
Shales pressed the autopilot button for the drone itself and overrode the automatic guidance for the missile, taking control of the Hellfire with a small trackball on the weapons panel.
A camera rested in the nose of the missile, not far from the high-explosive payload, but at this speed and with the marginal resolution of the lens you couldn't fly the projectile very accurately. Shales had to rely on the radar in the drone and a feed from Mexican air traffic control to steer the deadly cylinder away from the safe house.
He glanced at the monitor to the right--the drone's camera, which was still pointed toward the soccer players. He noted Rashid pause and look up to the sky. Squint. He would have heard something, seen a glint perhaps.
The teenage boy, about to kick the dusty ball, paused too, regarding the Arab cautiously.
Behind them, Barry Shales could see, a small girl appeared and stood in the doorway of the safe house. She was smiling.
"Texas Center to Three Nine Seven, we read payload path deviation. Please advise."
Shales ignored the transmission and concentrated on trying to steer the Hellfire, twice as fast as any jetliner, away from populated areas in the target zone. It wasn't easy. This part of Reynosa wasn't as dense as to the east but there were still plenty of homes and businesses and traffic. The radar gave a clear image of airliners nearby, which Shales could steer clear of, but the system didn't reveal what was on the ground--and that was where he needed to crash the missile. And pretty damn fast; soon the propellant would be expended and he'd lose control.
"Three Nine Seven? Do you copy?"
Then on the small screen revealing what the nose camera in the missile was viewing, the image faded as it headed into overcast. He was flying blind.
"Jesus Lord..."
Words that Barry Shales, who attended church every Sunday with his wife and young sons, did not use lightly.
"Three Nine Seven, this is Texas Center. Please advise."
He thought angrily: I'm advising you to go fuck yourself.
The haze broke for a moment and he saw that the missile was heading right for a residential development.
No, no...
A tweak of the trackball changing the course farther west.
The haze closed in again.
A glance at the radar. The terrain was mapped out but it wasn't a satellite image, merely a traditional map, and gave no clue as to what was on the ground ahead of the Hellfire.
Only seconds remained until the propellant was gone and the deadly tube would come to earth. But where? In a child's bedroom, in a hospital, in a packed office building?
Then an idea occurred to Shales. Releasing the missile trackball for a moment, he typed fast on the computer keyboard in front of him.
In the information monitor in the upper left-hand corner, Firefox popped up. This was completely against procedure. You couldn't go online with a commercial browser in a GCS while a drone was operational. But Shales could think of no other option. In an instant he'd called up Google Maps and clicked on satellite view. A photo image of the ground around Reynosa popped up, houses, foliage, roads, stores.
Looking back and forth from the radar panel to the map, lining up roads and other landmarks, he estimated the Hellfire's location.
Christ! The missile was right over another residential subdivision northwest of Reynosa. But according to Google, to the west was a large empty area of beige-and-yellow desert.
"UAV Three--"
Shales ripped off his headset and flung it away.
Right hand back to the trackball.
Gently, gently--man, it was easy to oversteer.
Looking from radar to Google, he saw the Hellfire's path veering away from the houses. Soon the direction was due west, toward what the satellite map promised was nothingness. The nose camera in the missile still showed only haze.
Then the altitude and speed began to drop fast. The propellant was gone. There was nothing more Shales could do; he'd lost control of the missile. He sat back, wiped his hands on his slacks. Staring at the monitor of the view from the Hellfire's nose camera. He could see only overcast.
The altitude indicator showed: 1500 feet.
670.
590...
What would he see as the Hellfire crashed to earth? Empty desert? Or a school bus on a field trip? Farmworkers staring in horror at what was falling toward them?
Then the haze broke and Shales had a clear view of the missile's destination directly ahead.
However loud and spectacular the impact eighteen hundred miles away was, it registered in the NIOS Kill Room as a simple, silent change of image: from a barren plain of dirt and brush to a screen filled with flickering black and white, like a TV when a storm takes out the cable.
Shales spun back to the drone controls, disengaged the autopilot. He looked at the camera's monitor, still focused on the courtyard of the safe house. The children were still there, the boy, presumably the brother, gently kicking the ball to the girl, who chased after it like a driven terrier. A woman stood in the doorway watching them both, unsmiling.
Jesus Lord, he repeated, not wondering or caring who they were or how they came to be in a safe house that the "impeccable" intelligence had assured was occupied only by a terrorist.
He zoomed out with the camera.
The garage door was open. Rashid was gone. Of course, he would be. The wary eyes earlier had told Shales that the terrorist suspected what was happening.
He scooped up the headsets and placed them on his head. Replugged the jack.
"--opy, Three Nine Seven?"
"Three Nine Seven to Texas Center," he snapped. "Mission aborted at operator's discretion. Returning to base."
CHAPTER 71
DO YOU WANT SOME SCOTCH?" Rhyme asked, from the center of his parlor, near a comparison microscope. "I think you need some."
Looking up from her desk in the corner of the room, where she was packing up files, Nance Laurel swiveled toward Rhyme with furrowed brow, wrinkling a crease into her makeup. He suspected a lecture on the unprofessionalism of drinking on the job would be forthcoming.
Laurel asked, "
Rhyme replied, "Glenmorangie. Twelve or eighteen years."
"Anything peatier?" she wondered aloud, to his additional surprise. Sachs's too, and amusement, to tell from the faint smile on his partner's face.
"No. Try it, you'll like it."
"Okay. The eighteen. Naturally. Drop of water."
Rhyme gripped the bottle and clumsily poured. She did the water herself. His bionic arm lacked sufficient subtlety. He asked, "Sachs?"
"No, thanks. I'll get something else." She was organizing evidence bags and boxes, which--even in cases that were falling apart--had to be meticulously cataloged and stored.
"Thom and Mel?"
The tech said he was fine with coffee. Thom too declined. He'd grown fond of bourbon Manhattans lately but had explained to Rhyme that drinks that involved a recipe should only be enjoyed on weekends, when no business was likely to intrude.
Thom pulled a bottle of French Chardonnay from the refrigerator in which blood and tissue samples were often stored. He lifted it toward Sachs. She said, "You read my mind."
He opened and poured.
Rhyme sipped some of the fragrant whiskey. "Good, no?"
"It is," Laurel agreed.
Rhyme reread the letter about Moreno's renunciation of his U.S. citizenship. He was as angry as Laurel that this technicality had derailed the case.
"He hated the country that much," Pulaski asked, "that he'd give up his citizenship?"
"Apparently so," Laurel said.
"Come on, boys and girls," Rhyme chided, then sipped some more whiskey. "They won round one. Or the first inning. Whatever cliched figure of speech and mixed metaphor you like. But we still have a perp, you know. Unsub Five Sixteen, responsible for an IED in a coffee shop and the Lydia Foster homicide. Those are Major Cases. Lon Sellitto'll assign us to work them."
"It won't be my case, though," Nance Laurel said. "I've been told to get back to my regular caseload."
"This's bullshit," Ron Pulaski spat out, surprising Rhyme with his vehemence. "Moreno's the same person he was when he got shot--an innocent victim. So what if he wasn't a citizen?"
"Bullshit it is, Ron," Laurel said, her voice more resigned than angry. "That's exactly right."
She finished her whiskey and walked over to Rhyme. She shook his hand. "It's been a privilege working with you."