Corrine was just turning her car out of the parking lot when her cell phone rang.
“Sergeant Rankin wants to talk to you on a secure line,” Corrigan told her. “He says it’s pretty urgent. I can hook up a sat phone call.”
Corrine had the phone in her pocketbook. She’d have to find a spot to pull over, a place where she could think.
“Can it wait a few minutes?” she asked.
“Not a problem.”
“Can you call me in fifteen minutes at my office?”
“Perfect.”
Exactly fifteen minutes later, out of breath, Corrine rushed into her office at the White House. Corrigan had set up the connection to the Peleliu and put her through as soon as she called.
“Sergeant Rankin?”
“Ma’am, sorry to bother you.”
“It’s not a bother, Stephen. What can I do?”
“Ch’o—the scientist we picked up—he’s bugged out. Spooked. Like from shock, either from what he’s seen or what he’s gone through or just being here. I don’t think the CIA debriefer really understands the situation,” said Rankin.
“I heard that there’s a psychologist on his way,” said Corrine.
“Yeah. The shrink. But I had another idea,” said Rankin. “It might be faster. Because, you know, we don’t know if there’s a time limit or something.”
“What’s that?”
“If we could get someone he already trusts.”
“Who?”
“Thera.”
“Did you talk to Slott about it?”
“Am I supposed to? Ferguson usually—”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “Don’t worry.”