Lincoln Rhyme 10 - The Kill Room

by Jeffery Deaver

  Rashid nodded toward the room where the Mexican hostages were being kept. He asked the Fat Man, “His company has come up with the ransom?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s confirmed. The family’s been told. They can leave tonight, as soon as the last of the money is transferred.” He regarded Rashid closely. “It’s only business, you know.”

  “Only business,” Rashid said, thinking, No, it’s really not.

  The Fat Man walked to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and, surprising Rashid, took out not a beer but two cartons of Greek yogurt. Eyeing the Arab, he peeled back both tops and ate one then the other with a plastic spoon, standing in the middle of the room. Then he wiped his mouth with a paper towel, tossed the empties into the trash and sipped from a bottle of water.

  “Señor, I will see you soon.” They shook hands and he stepped outside, waddling on shoes with heels worn angular.

  After the door closed Rashid stepped to the window and looked out. The man climbed into a Mercedes, which sagged port side. The diesel purred to life and the black vehicle bounded down the drive, leaving a dust cloud.

  Rashid remained at the window for ten minutes. No sign of surveillance, no neighbors glancing uneasily as they passed by. No curtains dropping back over windows. Dogs stood about unsuspicious and no disembodied barks suggested intruders in unseen places nearby.

  From the bedroom suite he heard voices. And then a soft noise he couldn’t place at first, uneven, rising, falling in volume and tone. It grew regular and he knew the sound was a child’s crying. The little girl. She’d been told she was going home but she wouldn’t appreciate that. She wanted to be there now, with her stuffed toy, her bed, her blanket.

  Rashid thought of his sister, who, with two schoolmates, was killed in Gaza. His sister…not much older than this girl. She hadn’t had a chance to cry.

  Rashid sipped more tea and examined the diagrams, listening to the mournful sound of the girl, which seemed all the more heart wrenching for being muted by the walls, as if she were a ghost trapped forever in this dusty tomb.

  CHAPTER 69

  THE PHRASE “KILL ROOM” suggested something out of a science-fiction movie or the operations center in the TV show 24.

  But the National Intelligence and Operations Service’s Ground Control Station was a dingy space that looked like a storage area in a medium-sized insurance business or ad agency. It was housed in a fifteen-by-forty-foot trailer and was divided into two rooms. The office area was where you entered from the NIOS parking lot. Lining the wall were cardboard cartons of varying ages, cryptic writing on them, some empty, some containing documents or paper cups or cleaning supplies. A communications center, unoccupied at the moment. Computers. A battered gray desk and brown chair were in one corner and old, unclassified files littered it, as if a secretary had grown tired of finding the right drawer for them and had just given up. A broom, a box of empty Vitaminwater bottles, a broken lamp sat on the floor. Newspapers. Light bulbs. Computer circuit boards. Wires. A Runner’s World magazine.

  For decorations, maps of the Caribbean, Mexico, Canada and Central America, as well as of Iraq, and several OSHA posters warning about the dangers of lifting heavy loads with a bent back and not drinking enough water on hot days.

  The place was dim; the overheads were rarely on. As if secrets kept better in hinted light.

  You tended not to notice the shabbiness of the office, however, because of the other half of the trailer: The UAV operations station, visible through a thick glass wall.

  Men and women like Barry Shales, the pilots and sensor operators, tended to refer to the operations station as a cockpit, which nobody seemed to mind, though the word “drone” was discouraged. Maybe “unmanned aerial vehicle” sounded more sophisticated or sanitized. This term was certainly better—from a public relations view—than what UAVs were called among those who flew them: FFAs, or Fuckers From Above.

  Wearing dress slacks and a tie-less short-sleeved blue plaid shirt, slim Barry Shales was sitting in a comfortable overstuffed tan leather chair, which was more like Captain Kirk’s in Star Trek than a seat in a jet’s cockpit. Before him was a three-foot-by-eighteen-inch tabletop metal control board, bristling with dozens of knobs and buttons, switches and readouts, as well as two joysticks. He was not touching them at the moment. The autopilot was flying UAV N-397.

  The computer’s being in charge was standard procedure at this point in a Special Task Order operation, which involved just getting the bird in the general area of the target. Shales didn’t mind being copilot for the moment. He was having trouble concentrating today. He kept thinking about his prior assignment.

  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 scu
ffed.

  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 résumé 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. Payload launch is authorized.”

  “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 im
age 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.