WASHINGTON, D.C.
Corrine went home to her condo after the president spoke with her, intending to go right to bed though it was still early. She hadn’t had much sleep in Cuba or over the last few days, and she knew she was beyond tired.
But she couldn’t settle down enough to rest. The idea of being involved in a CIA-Special Forces operation both thrilled and terrified her. As counsel to the Intelligence Committee, she had occasionally daydreamed about what she would have done in different situations that were presented in reports and briefings. That was just a fantasy, though—she didn’t have the background or training to be a CIA case officer, let alone get involved in SpecOps warfare.
Then again, the problem here wasn’t expertise, it was oversight. And judgment.
She went upstairs and changed into her flannels. Corrine started to pull back the covers on her bed, but as soon as her fingers slid below the fold of the sheet she realized she couldn’t settle down. She paced the hallway, went down to her living room, and put an aerobics video into the machine, thinking to work off some energy and put her mind on hold. But rather than soothing her, the workout left her more agitated.
She went to the closet and took out some of her dumbbells, starting her regular routine—“regular” being a relative word since she’d started at the White House. After curls and alternating presses she skipped to some lat work, loading up the small metal bars and finally starting to sweat.
Then she realized she was still in her pajamas.
It was too late to change—she worked through the rest of the workout, pushing for a few extra reps on each set, putting her muscles into it, trying to work fast enough so that the rhythm of her breathing kept her from talking out loud.
Not talking—more like ranting. She’d been bamboozled into a no-win job. The president wanted her to be his personal spymaster.
Corrine imagined the congressional hearing when this all hit the fan. There’d be knives in her back from the CIA, the Pentagon, USSOCOM, the Democrats, the Republicans. Hell, even the DAR would find a way to blackball her.
But if she didn’t take the job, who would? Because McCarthy would find someone to do it. He was determined to protect America, and that’s what Special Demands was designed to do. Not break the law, just skirt around it when necessary.
If the right person kept it on track, it would succeed.
Why not her? Passing a Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) session and surviving Q Course wasn’t what was important—they already had a host of people who could do that. They had hardware, intelligence, muscle—what they needed was conscience.
And actually, she had taken their stinking SFAS, the three-section, twenty-one-day physical and psychological exam that weeded out individuals for Q Course, which all SF soldiers had to pass through before wearing SF tabs. She’d volunteered as part of her first congressional committee job during one of the debates over allowing women in SOF combat units. Corrine had insisted on the full damn thing, and hung in there when they were all smirking behind their face paint.
Not that her showing had done anything for the debate.
Nor did she think that she was really qualified—just that she could take what the bastards dished out.
She would have liked to try the Q Course, though, just for the hell of it.
If I don’t take the job, who will? The idea stung her brain, just as the gradually building acid in her muscles stung her shoulders and arms. Tired at last, Corrine left the weights in the middle of the floor and went upstairs to her bath, filling it with warm water as she stripped off her clothes. She slipped into the water, easing back against the side of the tub.
Who, if not me?
Someone Slott could twirl around his finger. Then things would be even worse—they’d be cowboys with the imprimatur of the White House.
Corrine’s agitation began building again.
She’d have to do something right away to get their attention and respect. She wasn’t going to be one of the guys—that wasn’t possible, and not just because she was a woman. She didn’t want to be. They were never going to like her. But she had to show them that she had balls.
Or whatever gender-inappropriate sneer they were using these days.
She’d run the surveillance mission herself. That would prove her bona fides.
More likely, it would make her look like an ass. Corrine put the idea out of her head, then rose, pulling the plug on the drain. She actually felt tired, finally.
Too bad. There were phone calls to make, things to do. Corrine wrapped a towel around her and went to make a pot of coffee.