Blissfully Unimportant.
Hunnigan likes her office. It's a sort of soundproofed cave. She can leave the door open or turn on the hallway monitor if she wants to know what's going on outside. It's a little claustrophobic, what with the radio and satellite monitoring equipment taking up one wall and three computer monitors on her desk.
What she really likes is the way it's just part of the honeycomb. There's cubicles around her space, offices to the left and right. There's no nameplate on her door or her desk. It's not really personalized, either. The only place her name appears is her mailbox and her co-worker's heads.
Let Leon have the high-profile activity. She's part of a team.
Which is one reason why she doesn't really like this.
She's taken the elevator down three basement levels to a smaller lift that runs a few times a year. There's one monitor on it, but it's tied to a log that nobody ever bothers to look at.
The doors slide slowly open, and Hunnigan steps out into the lower levels of the bomb shelter. There's one lower, but that one requires a special key to get into.
It smells close, but not too musty. She gets her flashlight from her keychain and walks down the bare concrete hallway, listening to her shoes echo. There's doors to the left and right. Some have locks.
It's a good place for a bolthole. She opens one of the doors and checks inside. There's a small bathroom to one side, door open. She can store a duffel bag there, if necessary. She knows when the next sweep of this area is scheduled, nine months from now. Simple matter to arrive, get her gear, leave, and drop it off again when they're gone.
She gets the PINpoint for the room, stands for a minute in the close dark thinking of teams and solitude and life and death, and then goes back into the hallway and closes the door firmly behind her.
What she really likes is the way it's just part of the honeycomb. There's cubicles around her space, offices to the left and right. There's no nameplate on her door or her desk. It's not really personalized, either. The only place her name appears is her mailbox and her co-worker's heads.
Let Leon have the high-profile activity. She's part of a team.
Which is one reason why she doesn't really like this.
She's taken the elevator down three basement levels to a smaller lift that runs a few times a year. There's one monitor on it, but it's tied to a log that nobody ever bothers to look at.
The doors slide slowly open, and Hunnigan steps out into the lower levels of the bomb shelter. There's one lower, but that one requires a special key to get into.
It smells close, but not too musty. She gets her flashlight from her keychain and walks down the bare concrete hallway, listening to her shoes echo. There's doors to the left and right. Some have locks.
It's a good place for a bolthole. She opens one of the doors and checks inside. There's a small bathroom to one side, door open. She can store a duffel bag there, if necessary. She knows when the next sweep of this area is scheduled, nine months from now. Simple matter to arrive, get her gear, leave, and drop it off again when they're gone.
She gets the PINpoint for the room, stands for a minute in the close dark thinking of teams and solitude and life and death, and then goes back into the hallway and closes the door firmly behind her.