"Of course," Lansing agreed, pleased that she was being amenable. He procured a maps from among the myriad papers on his desk marked with the locations. It wasn't a numbered list, but many of the location weren't exactly named, and she'd be able to make more informed decisions this way. He also pushed forward the stack of files for her perusal. "These are the people we have on hand. You'll be selecting teams from among them."
She'd have better insight than he would as to who would work best together, and what the numbers should be. While he didn't want to sacrifice too many resources to this particular cause, the end result of shortchanging the teams with too few actual bodies could be worse. They'd need enough people to protect themselves, but not so many as to draw attention.
There was a delicate balance in minimizing the loss of human life in dangerous endeavors. Someone need to be callous, removed enough to ascertain the number of what acceptable losses would be. Lansing's stated goal was an honest one: keep as many of the living alive as they could. Sometimes that was at odds with certain objectives, however.
In the matter of the cows, acceptable losses would have to be minimal, as far as he was concerned. He meets her gaze over the paperwork. Steady, unblinking eyes that were much darker than his son's. The cool gray of storm clouds or asphalt. Eyes that didn't tend to sparkle with humor or light up with warmth. However, there was a slight uptick on one side of his mouth indicating that it was capable of smirking, perhaps even smiling when the situation called for it. "You can be honest in this report, Ms. Sharpe. Even blunt. If by your estimation the risk is too great, let me know. I'm trusting you not to tell me what you think I want to hear."