ABOARD SF COMMAND TRANSPORT 3, OVER TURKEY
Corrine pushed the headset closer to her ear, having trouble hearing despite the fact that the volume was adjusted as loud as it would go.
“Please repeat,” she told Van Buren.
“We have material at the base,” he repeated. “Cesium in one of the buildings. Looks like medical waste. They’re checking out the possible work site now.”
“How much material?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
“They weren’t transporting medical waste,” she said.
“I understand that. They’re still doing the recce. There’s a possible cave at one end of the base where most of the waste may be.”
Corrine pushed forward, leaning over the console in the jet. She had been looking for it all to tie into a neat bow, but that wasn’t going to happen.
She had to make the call. Just her. And it wouldn’t be neat, no matter what she did.
Suddenly, she realized why the president had sent her to Russia when she could have run the mission back home.
Maybe the thing about proving herself was real, but more importantly, he wanted her to make the call on the mission—and not be pressured by the people around her at the CIA or Pentagon. If she were in the White House situation room, or the Tank, or anywhere, generals would be barking at her, cabinet members looking on, their underlings all taking notes.
Here, it was pretty much her, with no one of enough rank to awe her.
“Proceed with the mission, under my authorization.” She glanced at her watch to take note of the time for her log.