Blind Descent

"Dierkz was on the survey team," Oscar said patiently, his washed out hazel eyes trying to read A

It wasn't an earth-shattering revelation. Most cavers led other lives. They were geologists and physicists, beekeepers and bums; regular folks who had been bitten by an irregular bug that compelled them to creep beneath the skin of the world every chance they got. A

"What does she want me for?" Without much caring, A

"The injury is worse than first thought." He spoke slowly as if A

"Head injury," A

"Bad news," Iverson agreed. "Peter McCarty, a member of Dierkz's team, is an M.D. in real life. That's the good news. She's got a doctor with her. McCarty recommended we get Ms. Dierkz what she wants. She's agitated, and it is not helping her medical condition any. He feels it would soothe her if she could have a friend there."

"A lady-in-waiting?"

"Exactly."

A chilling image filled A

"Will you go?" Iverson asked.

A

Oscar looked at her shrewdly, the long, narrow eyes turning the color of bleached lichen. "Let me rephrase that: can you?"

"I don't know," A

"Caving?"

"None."

"Climbing?"

"Some."

"Rapels sixty to a hundred fifty feet. Ascents ditto, naturally. Rope climbs with ascenders."

"I can do that."

"Crawl on your belly like a reptile?"

Jesus. "How much?"

Oscar laughed, a huffing noise concentrated in the back of his throat and his nostrils. "Not much where we're going. Lechuguilla is a big place. Huge. It's where the NPS stores Monument Valley during the off-season."

It was A

"Three or four good crawls."

"An oxymoron."

Iverson sat, letting her absorb the information. His heel rang its dull music from the side of the desk. A

"Can you?" Iverson asked finally. Her time had run out.

Over the cringing claustrophobia, her mind had begun to chant the Little Engine That Could's mantra. She gave the cave specialist the edited version. "Sure."

Oscar Iverson had vanished into what in any other law enforcement organization might have been gloriously termed a council of war. Under the civilizing influence of the NPS it was called a "team briefing." In an attempt to feel unity and coherence during cuts and down-sizings, the Park Service had begun to overuse comforting words: team, group, symposium, cluster. Words to keep from feeling alone and, if necessary, to diffuse the blame.

A

Had A

"It's a sidepack," Lisa explained as A

Dumbly, A

"You could probably take a regular pack where you're going. Tons of room," Timmy said, and A

Screw him, A

"How about Razor Blade Run?" Lisa asked her husband. Lisa was in her forties and wore her hair in two long plaits that reached to the back of her knees. Her face was round and gave the impression of being lumpy, but her eyes were fine, and A

"Okay, you'll need a sidepack at Razor Blade," Timmy conceded. He was a spare man, shorter than his wife and leaner, with pale wisps of hair defining upper lip and chin. His eyes, colorless behind tinted glasses, took on a faraway look as his hands continued buckling the web gear girdling A

"And coming out of Tinker's," his wife added.

"I get the picture," A

Chastened, the two cavers stopped talking. It was clear they were sensitive individuals, aware they'd offended. Equally clear was the fact that they hadn't a clue as to why. The few cavers with whom A