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 yards.”

“Copy, Four Eight One. Close DFT to one thousand yards.”

“Roger, Florida Center. Four Eight One.”