NEAR KASHI, KYRGYZSTAN
The marshaling yard was less than two years old, and while small by Western standards, it stretched out across the landscape like a city unto itself, with close to a hundred miles worth of track. Freight cars from all over Russia and Europe were scattered along the various spurs, each located and tracked by computer as massive freight trains were put together. Nearly all contained garbage.
The cars carrying the rad waste were in their own section of the yard, heavily guarded. They’d found a spot to watch the yard nearly two miles away from the perimeter of the facility, and though the view was unobstructed, Rankin had to sit on the roof of the car with his binoculars to see.
Corrine slept inside. Rankin had almost had to slug her to get her to take a rest. He was worried that she was going to burn herself out; she was clearly pushing herself because she thought she’d screwed up somehow losing the boxcar.
Rankin reached across the roof for the thermos of tea—coffee had become increasingly difficult to find—and poured himself a cup. He was just taking his first sip when the sat phone rang. To answer, he had to enter a personal ID code, then say his name into the receiver. The computer analyzed
his voice pattern; if it didn’t match its records, the phone was temporarily locked into transmit mode and Corrigan—or whoever was making the call—alerted. Once the embedded GPS device gave a positive marker on the phone’s location—a matter of two seconds—the person on the other side could decide how to proceed.
“This is Corrigan. We have new information,” he said. “There’s a former Soviet airbase in the southern mountains of Chechnya called Verko. Ferg’s en route to check it out, but we think they’re gathering their waste there. Van Buren needs Corrine to authorize the SF mission if it pans out.”
“She’s sleeping right now,” said Rankin.
“Well, wake her the fuck up,” said Corrigan.
“You sure it’s the place?”
“Just wake her up and let me talk to her. Her phone’s off-line.”
Rankin climbed down and tapped on the window. Corrine opened her left eye slowly, then closed it. He tapped again, then opened the door and gave her his phone.
“Corrigan,” he told her.
“Thanks,” she said sleepily. She pulled herself upright in the seat. “I’m here.”
“We think we know where the waste is headed. Ferguson’s on his way to check it out—it jibes with some information he already had. This could be it.”
“All right,” she said. “Tell Mr. Ferguson to proceed. Inform the assault group and give them whatever preliminary data on the target is appropriate. But no action until my authorization.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Corrine waited a moment before answering, reminding herself that not everyone was against her—and that even if they were, she wasn’t going to help herself by blowing up.
“I’m absolutely sure,” she said in an even voice. “I need you to get me on a plane out to Turkey to meet with the strike force ASAP.”
“Civilian or military?”
“What’s faster?”
Corrigan hit some keys on one of his computers. “I can
get you on a flight to Aktau, if you can get to the airport in fifteen minutes.”
“Where’s Aktau?”
“It’s on the Caspian. From there I can get you to Turkey, no sweat. Or Chechnya.”
“Turkey will do.”
“Someone will be there. It may be a contract; going to be hard to get a military plane in there without drawing attention. I’ll round up whatever I can.”
“You’re a regular travel agent,” she said, hanging up.