TWO MILES NORTHWEST of the White House sat the Naval Observatory, the official residence of the vice president of the United States. The large circular estate was located off Massachusetts Avenue on Embassy Row, atop a hill. Its many gardens and rolling wooded lawn provided a serenity and seclusion that was quite absent at the Executive Mansion.
Irene Kennedy drove north in her maroon Toyota Camry on Massachusetts Avenue. Every time Kennedy drove through this area of Washington she couldn't help but think that this one-mile strip of asphalt had to have the single largest concentration of electronic surveillance equipment in the world. With all of the embassies spying on each other and their host country, and the FBI, the CIA, the National Security Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and the National Reconnaissance Office all spying on the embassies, it was unlikely that any conversation went unrecorded.
As Kennedy continued north, the large plantation-style home of the vice president came into view on her left, its fresh white paint bathed in floodlights. Kennedy drove past the main gate and the slew of reporters and camera crews that had besieged the compound. Not far past the main gate, she took a left onto Observatory Circle and worked her way around the north side of the estate. A small unmarked gate appeared on her left, and Kennedy turned off the city street and onto the private drive. Four uniformed Secret Service officers and a German shepherd approached her car. The men all wore flak jackets over their white shirts. Kennedy rolled down her window and presented her credentials.
The officer looked at her ID and said, "Could you please pop your trunk Dr. Kennedy?"
After the dog had taken two laps around the small sedan and the trunk had been thoroughly checked, Kennedy was granted admission. Two white steel retractable bollards standing three feet tall and one foot wide dropped down beneath the pavement, and then the heavy black gate opened inward.
Kennedy maneuvered her car up the winding driveway and passed several of the outlying buildings that were used for offices. Near the main house she saw her boss's limousine and parked next to it. She was several minutes late for the nine thirty p.m. meeting.
The normal complement of uniformed officers was bolstered by the black-clad, machine-gun-toting men of the Service's Emergency Response Team. These heavily armed men could be seen patrolling the elevated tree line just beyond the fence. They moved ominously from shadow to shadow, determined not to allow another debacle to take place. A second line OF officers ringed the actual residence, and the vice presidential detail was inside the home, never more than one room away from their charge.
One of the vice president's staffers appeared in the entrance doorway, and Kennedy was ushered into the large foyer. Director Stansfield was sitting on a couch to the right with his legs crossed. He was, as always, wearing a dark conservative suit, white shirt, and striped tie.
Stansfield peered over the top of his spectacles when Kennedy entered, a questioning expression on his face.
Kennedy plopped down next to him and said, "It looks good. Mitch went over to the White House and checked out the fence line. He thinks they can get to the shaft without any problems."
Stansfield nodded thoughtfully.
"What do you think?"
Kennedy glanced up at the ceiling for a second.
"We need someone in there, and he's the best we have."
"What about bringing Adams along?"
"I'm not crazy about the idea, but again, I have to defer to Mitch. He's the one with the field experience." Kennedy looked at her boss.
"You seem to have some reservations."
Stansfield pondered the comment for a second and shook his head.
"No. I trust Mitch. How are you holding up?"
Kennedy rolled her eyes.
"I could use a little sleep, but besides that, I'm fine."
The sound of dress shoes clicking on the hardwood floor caught their attention, and both looked to see Dallas King coming down the hallway.
The vice president's chief of staff was dressed in a pressed French blue dress shirt and a pair of black slacks, looking dapper as always. King stopped about ten feet away and said, "The vice president is ready to see you."
Stansfield and Kennedy followed the swaggering young chief of staff down the hallway.
Without knocking. King opened the door to Baxter's private study, and Stansfield and Kennedy followed. Vice President Baxter sat in a large leather chair in front of the fireplace reading over the speech he was to give to the nation in a little over an hour. Upon seeing his guests, he set the speech and his pen down.
Stansfield and Kennedy sat on the couch, and King stood in front of the fireplace next to his boss. Baxter leaned forward and folded his hands.
"What would you like to talk to me about?"
"We think," Stansfield started, "that we may have found a way to get someone into the White House undetected by the terrorists."
"Really."
Baxter said, showing his interest by moving forward to the edge of the chair.
"How?"
Stansfield looked to Kennedy, and she said, "There is a ventilation system that circulates all of the air in the White House.
The main intake and exhaust ducts are located on the roof, but there is a backup duct that leads from the basement of the White House to an area on the South Lawn." Baxter looked at Stansfield and said, "I've never noticed any ventilation ducts on the South Lawn."
"Neither have I," replied the director of the Cia. "They're concealed with trees and bushes. We done a reconnaissance of the area and feel we can get to it without the terrorists being alerted."
"So what do you want to do?" asked King.
Kennedy remained focused on the vice president.
"Before we can consider staging a rescue of the hostages, we must know what's going on inside. Unless we get someone on the inside to coordinate an attack, our chances for success will be almost nothing."
"So, we're not talking about sending in a team of commandos."
Vice President Baxter squeezed his hands together.
"I want to be very clear about that. Until we're sure what he wants, I'm not going to rush into anything."
"We only want to send in one person." Kennedy spoke in a reassuring voice. She thought it would be best to leave Milt Adams out of the picture for now.
"Once that person has given us a clear picture of what we're up against, we will present you with a plan to retake the building by force."
"If needed," added King.
"If needed." Kennedy glanced up at King and then back to the vice president.
King placed one hand on the mantel of the fireplace and the other on his hip. He had a feeling he knew whom the CIA would use to check out the building.
"This person," King started to ask, "would he by any chance be that Mr.
Kruse fellow?"
Kennedy and Stansfield shared a look, and Kennedy replied, "Yes."
"Well, that's funny," said King in an off voice, "because I did some checking on your Mr. Kruse, and I don't think his dossier matches up with the man I met yesterday."
"Mr. Kruse' is an alias for the man you met," Stansfield answered flatly.
"What's his real name?" King asked.
"That's classified."
"Come now." King smirked.
"If we're going to risk the lives of all of these hostages by sending your man in, I think at the bare minimum we should know who he is."
Stansfield looked at King for a moment and then turned to the vice president.
"There is no rational reason that I can think of for telling you his name."
"I can" answered King with confidence.
"If we are going to stick our necks out, I want to know who this guy is and where he's from."
Secrecy was an issue Stansfield never budged on. Being a former field operative himself, he understood firsthand the perils of sharing information too freely. That, combined with the fact that King needed to be reminded of his station in life, caused the director to reply, "Mr.
Kruse has been sent on highly delicate missions by three presidents, and not one of them ever knew his real identity. I am not about to tell the chief of staff for the vice president—who, I might remind everyone, has a penchant for talking to the press—the real identity of one of my top operatives." Stansfield turned to Baxter and in the same even tone asked, "Mr. Vice President, maybe you and I should talk about this alone?" Baxter looked at King sideways. The message was clear-get back in your cage and stay quiet. Turning his focus back to Stansfield, Baxter said, "I don't need to know his real identity, Director Stansfield. I trust you. One thing, however, does concern me… this Mr. Kruse fellow seems to be a bit volatile.
Possibly uncontrollable."
"What are you basing that assumption on?"
"From what I saw firsthand at the Pentagon, yesterday."
"What you've seen, sir," answered Kennedy, "might lead you to believe he is uncontrollable, but in reality he is extremely reliable. He follows orders to a T, and, most important, he gets results." Kennedy knew her words were slightly skewed, but she also knew there was no one better suited for the job than Mitch Rapp.
"His only fault, which some would argue is why he is so good, is that he doesn't tolerate mistakes or stupidity." Kennedy stopped momentarily and then added, "In Attorney General Tutwilers case I think he proved to be correct."
Vice President Baxter nodded soberly.
"Yes, he did."
"Mr. Vice President," Stansfield interjected with finality.
"Mr. Kruse is one of the best operatives I've ever seen… and you know how long I've been doing this."
Baxter leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in front of his mouth.
"Are there any legal issues to be concerned about?"
"Such as?"
"Using an employee of the CIA for something like this.
The American people are very squeamish about your agency operating within our borders."
"Technically, I think we're fine, and given the circumstances, I don't think anyone is going to make an issue out of it."
"As long as he's successful," added King.
"Does the FBI know anything about your plan?"
"No."
The vice president stood and walked over to a window away from the group. Baxter thought about the potential pitfalls.
If this Kruse didn't perform as advertised, there could be some serious repercussions. Why wasn't someone from the FBI sent in? Why didn't they wait to see if they could get more hostages released? The questions would go on and on. Baxter saw a risk—hell, the whole thing was a risk, and his political instincts told him to protect himself. After another minute of thought, Baxter decided to walk that thin line again.
The vice president came back over and sat.
"Director Stansfield, I have given you…" Baxter paused, searching for the most innocuous word, "permission to collect intelligence in this matter. What you choose to do specifically is up to you. I don't need to be kept in the loop for every decision along the way."
Stansfield, an expert at interpreting political speak, understood the vice president clearly. It was another Iran-Contra.
Baxter wanted Stansfield and the CIA to stick their necks out, and if things fell apart, he would have his plausible denial.
Stansfield looked at Baxter and nodded his understanding.
There would be time to handle these details at a later point.
For now they needed to get the ball rolling.
Baxter continued, "I'm reluctant to do anything until Aziz releases his next set of demands, which, of course, will be tomorrow morning. If we can exchange more hostages for money, I'm inclined to do it."
"Sir," said Kennedy, "if I may be frank, I don't think he's going to keep asking for money."
"What do you think he will ask for?"
Stansfield leaned forward and fielded the question.
"That is anyone's guess." The director of the CIA wasn't about to divulge his ace in the hole, their custody of Fara Harut-especially to someone like Baxter.
"But, I would agree with Irene."
Baxter pondered what the next demand might be and then turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
"Who knows about your plans for Mr. Kruse?"
"General Flood, a select few others at the Pentagon, and us."
"No one at the FBI?" Baxter repeated.
"No."
"For now I think you should go about collecting your intelligence independent of the FBI.. They have enough to worry about."
Stansfield again read between the lines and nodded. The FBI was to be kept in the dark about Rapp. More proof that the vice president wanted to insulate himself from any potential disaster.
Baxter looked at Stansfield and asked, "Is that all?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Good. Thank you for keeping us informed." Baxter motioned for the door.
"Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to get ready to address the nation."
Stansfield and Kennedy stood and started for the door. As they neared it. Vice President Baxter called out, "If you decide to send your man in, please keep him on a short leash."
Stansfield gave his silent answer with a nod, then followed Kennedy into the hallway. THEY HIT THE first checkpoint three blocks away from the White House. A quarter of a moon shone in the night sky, and not a cloud was in sight. Rapp was riding in the backseat of the long, black Suburban with Milt Adams. Lt. Commander Harris of SEAL Team Six was in the passenger seat, and Chief Petty Officer Mick Reavers was driving.
Following the Suburban through the checkpoints were a plain blue van and a larger black box van. Lt. Commander Harris handled the D.C. Metro Police at the first two checkpoints and then the Secret Service agents at the last checkpoint. Word had been sent down from on high that the CIA was moving in some sensitive equipment to conduct surveillance.
Approaching the White House from the east, they pulled through the last checkpoint at Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street. Reavers, the large linebacker type that had been along on the mission to grab Harut, drove the Suburban onto Hamilton Place and continued past the southern edge of the Treasury Building. The White House was now in sight, ahead and to the right, the top floor of the mansion visible above the trees.
On the right was the entrance to the underground parking garage that the terrorists had used just yesterday to assault and take the White House.
A white Suburban was now parked at the top of the ramp, blocking its use. Straight ahead was a closed gate that led onto the south grounds of the White House. Reavers extinguished the headlights and turned left onto East Executive Avenue. Continuing south for another fifty feet, Reavers took a hard right at the direction of Milt Adams and pulled up on the curb, the front grill of the truck stopping inches from the heavy black fence. As had already been decided, the blue van backed up onto the curb about twenty feet to the north of the Suburban and stopped with its rear bumper almost touching the fence. The large, black box van parked on the street, right in between the two vehicles, creating a space in the middle that would shield the men from prying eyes.
Doors began to open, and bodies piled out of all three vehicles.
Everyone, even Milt Adams, was dressed in the standard black Nomex jumpsuits worn by Navy SEALS. Three of Harris's SEALS set up a security perimeter on the outside of the vehicles, while four more unfurled a massive black tarp. In a little over a minute they had the tarp stretched over the top of all three vehicles and secured. With the tarp in place, two of the men went to work on the fence. With a small handheld hydraulic jack, they began prying apart the vertical bars so Rapp and Adams could pass through.
Harris and Rapp approached the fence and tried to spy a look at the roof of the White House. The trees and undergrowth between them and the residence were dense, hopefully dense enough to conceal their movements.
Harris raised his small secure Motorola radio to his mouth and asked,
"Slick, whada'ya got for me?"
Lying on his belly less than a block away, Charlie Wicker peered through a pair of night-vision binoculars. Wicker was set up on the backside of the pitched roof of the Treasury Building. Arriving thirty minutes in advance of the others, he had been watching the terrorist sitting atop the roof of the White House, trying to discern any patterns. Wicker lowered the lip mike on his headset and said, "He has no idea you're there. He spends most of his time looking west, over at that ugly building on the other side of the White House."
"Good," replied Harris.
"Anything else to report?"
Wicker squinted as he looked at the hooded man no more than one hundred fifty feet away—the only thing separating them was a half inch of bulletproof Plexiglas. ""Yeah… I think I can take this guy out with a pair of fifties. "Wicker was referring to a .50 caliber sniping rifle.
The heavy-caliber weapon was used by Special Forces snipers to take out targets at distances exceeding a mile.
"I'll keep that in mind. Let me know if he starts looking our way.
Over." Harris turned to Rapp.
"So far so good."
"Good." Rapp led the way and he, Harris, and Adams walked over to the blue van. The side cargo doors were open, revealing an array of equipment stacked in electronic racks, or, as the man sitting behind the main console called them, "pizza racks." Marcus Dumond was a twenty-six-year-old computer genius and almost convicted felon. Rapp had brought Dumond into the fold at Langley three years earlier. The young cyber genius had run into some trouble with the Feds while he was earning his master's degree in computer science at MIT.
He was alleged to have hacked into one of New York's largest banks and then transferred funds into several overseas accounts.
The part that interested the CIA was that Dumond wasn't caught because he left a trail; he was caught because he got drunk one night and bragged about his financial plunders to the wrong person.
At the time, Dumond was living with Steven Rapp, Mitch's younger brother. When the older Rapp heard about Dumond's problems with the FBI, he called Irene Kennedy and told her the hacker was worth a look.
Langley doesn't like to admit that they employ some of the world's best computer pirates, but these young cyber geeks are encouraged to hack into any and every computer system they can. Most of these hacking raids are directed at foreign companies, banks, governments, and military computer systems. But just getting into a system isn't enough. The challenge is to hack in, get the information, and get out without leaving a trace that the system was ever compromised.
The wiry Marcus Dumond poked his head out the open door, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a pair of thick glasses perched on his nose.
"Commander Harris, can you tell your men to cut a hole in the tarp? I have to raise my communications boom."
Harris turned to one of his nearby men and told him to cut the hole.
Dumond then stepped out of the van with a large fanny pack. Over by the box van, a long folding table had been set up and a series of blueprints and schematics were being taped to the side of the van. Portable red-filter lights provided limited lighting and gave everyone's face an eerie, sallow look.
Setting the pack atop the table, Dumond opened it and extracted a small black object. Holding it in front of Rapp, Harris, and finally Adams, he said, "Micro video-and-audio surveillance unit. You guys have both used these, right?" Rapp and Harris nodded. The objects were about an inch and a half thick, about four inches long, and about three inches across.
At the top of the unit was a small, thin bump about the size of a pen tip. The tiny, highly sensitive microphone was encased in black foam.
Next to it was a thin three-inch fiber-optic cord, at the end of which was a tiny lens.
Dumond turned to Adams.
"These little babies have two settings, regular and pulse. The regular will last about three days, and the pulse will give you almost twelve.
The pulse still supplies full audio but only gives a snapshot every five seconds."
Dumond shrugged his shoulders.
"It's up to you guys how you want to use them, but I would suggest a little of both.. Just in case." Flipping the small unit over, Dusoaad said, "I've attached Velcro to the back of every unit. Here"-Dumond picked up a plastic bag—"are the corresponding Velcro patches. I've also thrown in these little alcohol wipes to clean the surface before you attach the Velcro patch, especially if you're in a place where there's a lot of dust, like a ventilation duct. I've packed twelve black and twelve white units."
Dumond turned to Rapp. "You know the routine. Install them at choke points and areas of high traffic. I can maneuver the cameras a little bit from remote, but I advise against it. It burns a lot of juice, so try to give us a good angle when you set them up. Any questions?" Dumond paused, giving them a chance, and then said, "Good, let's check your communications and get you on your way."
Dumond led the three men over to the blue van and retrieved two secure radios and headsets. Dumond had already checked out the units on the way over from Langley. Turning Adams around, Dumond placed the radio in a specially designed pocket that sat just above his left shoulder blade.
Dumond then placed the headset on Adams and showed him how to adjust the lip mike. In the meantime, Rapp placed his radio in his vest and turned his black baseball cap backward.
Over the top of the cap he secured the headset and checked the mike with Harris.
After they were positive the units worked properly, Dumond cautioned,
"I'm probably going to lose you guys as you go through the tunnel. The jammer they are using to black out the president's bunker is creating a dead zone. All our sensors tell us that the interference dissipates as you reach the upper levels of the mansion, so I want you to come up to the second floor as quickly as you can and reestablish radio contact."
Dumond reached back into the van and grabbed another pack. "I'm also going to give you this secure field radio. It has more range and power.
And I put some extra radio batteries in here just in case." Dumond held up a small black nylon pack.
Rapp looked at the radio pack and started to wonder if he'd be able to carry all of the equipment through the shaft.
Then responding to Dumond's statement, Rapp replied, "We'll try to get to the second floor, but I can't promise anything until I get in there and see what they have. If everything is booby trapped we might not even get out of the basement."
"I'll get us out of the basement," Adams said confidently.
Rapp took the second pack from Dumond and asked, "Anything else for us?"
"Nope." Dumond stuck out his fist, and Rapp did the same. Banging Rapp's once on top and once on the bottom, Dumond said, "Good luck, Mitch. "Then looking to Adams, he said, "Try and keep this guy out of trouble, will you?"
"I will." Adams smiled.
Rapp thanked Dumond and grabbed Adams. As they walked back over to the Suburban, Rapp's thoughts turned to something he'd been debating for most of the day. The question was whether to arm Adams with a weapon.
Rapp's concern was not whether Adams could shoot straight enough to hit anything, but whether he would accidentally shoot Rapp in the back. It was no small concern considering the fact that the Special Forces community rarely went a year without someone accidentally getting shot, and those people were cream of the crop.
With reservation, Rapp asked, "Milt, what do you think about bringing a gun with you, just in case?"
Adams reached into his pocket and pulled out a .357 revolver. "I already have one."
Surprised, Rapp extended his hand.
"May I?" Adams handed him the gun, and Rapp immediately recognized it as a Ruger Speed-Six. Before automatics became all the rage with cops, the Speed-Six was a popular, dependable gun for a lot of police departments.
The barrel was short, making it easy to draw, and since it was a revolver, jamming was not an issue. Rapp considered for a moment if he should give Adams one of his own silenced weapons and then decided against it. He would just as soon have Adams use a gun he was comfortable with. Besides, if it ever got to the point where Adams had to start shooting, they'd already be well past the point of stealth.
Rapp handed him the gun back and asked, "Do you want a holster?"
Adams shook his head. "Naw… I'm used to carrying it in my pocket."
"All right." Rapp stood awkwardly for a second looking down at the tiny Adams, wondering if he really knew what he was getting himself into.
Adams sensed Rapp's mood.
"Don't worry about me, Mitch. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think it was the right thing."
Rapp smiled and nodded with more respect than Adams could have guessed.
The right thing, he thought to himself.
What a difference between his generation and Milt's.
Rapp took the next five minutes to get his gear together.
With all of his weapons, communications equipment, surveillance equipment, and some limited rations, his gear weighed more than seventy-five pounds. Because of the tight space of the shaft, he and Harris had decided it would be best if he towed it behind him with a rope.
Finally, with all of their equipment assembled, Rapp, Adams, and Harris waited at the fence line for the green light.
IN A WINDOWLESS room on the seventh floor of the main building at Langley, a select few had gathered to monitor the progress of Mitch Rapp and Miltadamsthe room was strikingly similar to a television network control booth. On the main wall was a bank of nineteen-inch monitors, four rows of them, running ten across. In front of the monitors, at a slightly elevated table, sat four technicians. At their disposal was the latest in video-production equipment. Behind them, and elevated still further, sat Dr. Irene Kennedy, General Campbell, and several of their assistants. The work surface at this level was cluttered with phones and computers. At the third level sat Director Stansfield, General Flood, Colonel Bill Gray, and Admiral Devoe. The fourth, and last, row was occupied by a half dozen other high-ranking Pentagon and CIA officials.
Conveniently absent from the group was any representative from the FBI, something that Irene Kennedy did not like.
The four monitors in the bottom left corner were showing the networks and CNN preparing for the vice president's national address. Ten of the monitors, just above the bottom four, showed different shots of the White House's exterior.
One was zoomed in on the terrorist sitting in the rooftop guard booth, and the others were either trained on specific doors and windows or general areas.
The remaining twenty-six monitors were pale blue with the exception of one near the middle. It glowed with a reddish hue, showing Rapp and the others at work in the strange red light.
Irene Kennedy's hair was pulled back, and she was wearing a lightweight operator's headset, as were all of the others in the first two rows.
Kennedy nodded slowly as she listened to Marcus Dumond. After a moment she raised the arm of her headset and turned to look up at the two men sitting directly behind her.
"Everything is ready. They're waiting for authorization." Stansfield and Flood looked at each other briefly. Flood nodding first and Stansfield following suit. Stansfield then looked down at Kennedy and gave his okay.
The director of the CIA watched Kennedy relay the orders and wondered again if he should pick up the phone and tell FBI Director Roach what they were up to. He had in part covered himself by passing the word that they were conducting electronic surveillance, but this was much more than that. If things went bad, it could jeopardize the safety of the hostages. THE WORD WAS passed, and the red-filter light was extinguished. The relatively cool night had turned thick and muggy under the canvas tarp. It had been decided that Rapp would go first, followed by Adams, and then Harris. Rapp felt for the slit in the tarp and pulled it to the side. Taking the main pack, Rapp wedged it through the bars, and then with the smaller packs that Dumond had given him, he turned sideways and squeezed through the bent bars. Adams and Harris followed, and the three of them walked softly through the underbrush, ducking under branches and bending limbs out of their way.
They were careful to stay off the paths that the Secret Service had laid out through the underbrush. The paths were designed to funnel fence jumpers into areas loaded with sensors, and although they didn't think the terrorists were using the perimeter security system, there was no sense in pushing their luck.
When they reached the immediate area of the vent, Lt.
Commander Harris whispered into his headset, "Slick, do you have any movement on the roof?"
The reply came back instantly.
"Nope. He's still looking to the west."
There was just enough light from the streetlamps for the three of them to see each other. Rapp nodded to Adams; they had both heard the same report over their headsets. Taking his signal, Adams plucked several of the fake bushes from the ground. The bushes were designed to conceal the ventilation hood during all four seasons. Adams moved the shrubs out of the way while Rapp and Harris unfolded a smaller black tarp.
With the tarp in place over the top of the hood the three men crawled under it and went to work. Rapp held a small tool pack while Harris aimed a red-filter flashlight for Adams. The old man of the group started by spraying lubricant along the seam in the sheet metal. Then, with a small cordless drill, he zipped out eight screws. Slowly, they began to wiggle the hood back and forth, trying their best to prevent the screeching of metal on metal. The lubricant diminished most of the noise, and inside of sixty seconds they had the hood off and out of the way.
Harris set up a lightweight aluminum tripod while Rapp lowered his gear to the bottom with a climbing rope. The black tarp was thrown over the top. Harris clipped a pulley to the tripod and fed a rope through, taking one end to the fence and tying it to the winch on the front of the Suburban.
Rapp stuck a small flashlight into the open shaft and looked down at the bottom. Harris returned a second later and tied the rope around Rapp's ankles, then put on a pair of gloves. Then after grabbing the rope, he nodded to Rapp and leaned back, ready to take up the slack. Rapp gave Harris the thumbs-up, and then bending at the waist, he stuck his head in the open shaft and began to ease himself inside.
Over his headset Rapp said, "Lower me."
Lt. Commander Harris slowly began to play out the rope until all of the slack was gone, about eight more feet total. Harris then whispered into his headset telling his men back at the Suburban to let the winch out.
In the shaft, Rapp started his descent and turned on his small miner's lamp that was strapped over his baseball cap.
As he neared the bottom, he whispered over his headset, "Stop." Dangling like a landed catch, Rapp turned himself so he could bend at the waist and make the ninety-degree turn into the shaft without breaking his back.
"Okay, real slow. Let me out four more feet." He started to move again, and Rapp grabbed on to the sides of the horizontal vent, pulling himself inside. A bit of static crackled through his earpiece, and he said,
"Stop. That's good." Rapp pulled his legs toward him, and in a sit-up-like position, he trained the miner's lamp on his feet and untied the rope around his ankles.
When he was finished, he said, "Take it back up."
The rope disappeared from sight, and Rapp flipped over onto his stomach.
Wasting no time, he grabbed the long rope that he'd used to lower his gear into the shaft and untied it.
Then taking a short rope that he'd brought along, he tied one end to the top of his gear and the other end to his left ankle.
Rolling back onto his stomach, he trained the small light down the long narrow shaft. It looked as if it went on forever. Rapp could barely make out the turn some two hundred feet away.
The shaft seemed to get tighter. Rapp grimaced. He had what he liked to refer to as a healthy phobia of being trapped in places the size of a coffin.
Reluctantly, Rapp started forward down the cramped space, his forearms doing most of the work. Into his lip mike, he whispered, "Milt, I'm moving out." With his gear in tow, Rapp plodded forward like an alligator. The reception on his radio was becoming increasingly cluttered.