It was slow going, but not one of them considered stopping. Bob Brown had designated himself as the FBI man's crutch and was helping him to hobble along, even pulling him through a particularly tight tunnel that was all that was left of a corridor once the debris had finished filling it in.

They came to an intersection. Gerhardt held up his hand for quiet, listening intently to be certain that there wasn't about to be any unpleasant surprises. Both ways looked clear, and equally as inviting. This was closer to Ground Zero for the bomb, and the interior showed it with more debris shaken loose from the ceiling and more rubble to stumble over. Neither way showed anything promising. He turned to Granger. "You got any suggestions?"

Brown could see the thoughts moving inside the FBI agent's head. He recognized the type: an ex-Ranger, and a damn good one. Probably learned his skills in Iraq, or Afghanistan. Carrying a map of his surroundings in his head was one of the first things that a Ranger ever learned, and it either became second nature or the Ranger became a statistic on somebody's list of fallen heroes. The FBI agent proved why he wasn't a statistic. "Left heads toward the main entrance, toward the south face of the mountain. Right one heads toward the conference rooms, where the bomb went off. We're one level up."

Gerhardt accepted the information. "We still have to find your assignment. Got any suggestions?"

"Anything that doesn't involve digging through this mountain?" Brown added wryly.

Granger tried to think. "I pulled him along, out of the work room where the computer banks were. Those should be just below us, maybe off to the left. The bomb was further on, and we had to retrace our steps to try to get away."

It was time to use some additional techniques for additional intel. Brown went for the optimum distance between them, close enough for comfort yet not getting into the agent's personal space and crowding him. "Try to remember exactly what happened," Brown urged. "Think it through; take it from the top. You got the call from your commander."

"Yeah. No," Granger said, frowning. "I called Don. He didn't call me."

"Okay, you called him. Why?" Don't get excited. Don't push him. Let it come.

Brown could see the agent wrestling with his thoughts, trying to keep himself under control. "I called Don. Things were getting hinky down here. Charlie was working—no, he wasn't." Brown didn't move; this was it. A Ranger's memory was zeroing in on his assignment. Granger pushed ahead. "No, Charlie waited until Foster left the room, then he told me that the list that Foster gave him was a phony. I called Don, and that's when Don told me to grab Charlie and skedaddle."

"You left the work room." Brown wasn't telling the FBI agent anything new, just moving Granger's thoughts along.

"Right. We went one way, I was thinking that it was the fastest way toward the nearest exit. Then I saw something that looked like a bomb, and it really was a bomb." The map inside the man's head kicked in with a vengeance. "That was further down toward the left. I pulled Charlie away, and we started running down the hall toward the right, headed in the other direction." His face fell. "That's when the world caved in on us."

"Okay." Brown wasn't finished with him. "Slow down. I want you to think about what happened when the bomb went off. You heard a loud boom," he encouraged. "What next?"

"The lights went out." Granger tried to cooperate. "The bomb was only the first noise. Then the whole damn mountain started rumbling. I remember wondering if there were any nukes left in this place, that maybe we were gonna all turn into a mushroom cloud. Pretty crazy, what you think of at a time like that."

"There was a rumbling." Brown brought Granger back to the main objective. "What next?"

"Then the ceiling fell down on top of us. It felt like an earthquake." Granger tried hard to remember everything exactly. "I had hold of Charlie by the arm, but the ceiling caved in and I remember him getting pulled away from me. Chunks of cinder blocks fell on top of us. I heard him yell—I think one of the blocks trashed him—and then there was a whole wave of dirt that crashed down between us." Granger grimaced. "I'm not remembering a whole heck of a lot more. I think I blacked out somewhere in there. When I came to, it was with you guys hauling my ass out from underneath the mountain."

Gerhardt squatted down beside him. "This is important, dude. We've got to find your package. Exactly where were you when you lost track of him? Where are we in relation to where you last saw him?"

Brown could see the FBI agent bristle at the thought of 'losing' his assignment. Yeah, Brown himself would feel the same way, and be just as wrong. Granger had nothing to be ashamed of. He'd done a full day's work just getting this far.

With an effort, Granger dragged himself back to the present, seeing the mental map in his mind's eye. "The corridor where I lost him is right below us. We were approximately fifteen feet closer to the bomb site than here, and down one level. We're close."

"Good." Gerhardt stood up, casting very little in the way of a shadow in the eerie red emergency lighting. He came to a decision. "Cool Breeze, let's see if we can find a way downstairs," he told Brown, then turned to Granger. "Listen for anything that sounds like we should know about it."

"Like—?"

"Oh, terrorists, bombs, or consultants. That sort of thing." As if any of them didn't know what he was talking about.

Blane, first in line, held up his hand. The hallway was narrow, made so by the debris lining the edges, all four of them from floor to ceiling. There were already rips in his pants and one over his shoulder from sliding through a point that someone of his bulk shouldn't have been able to get through, rips that he doubted that Mollie would appreciate trying to repair even if he were to ask her. This was not, he was certain, what his wife had in mind when she agreed to this 'mission'. His sharp ears had caught what the others hadn't, something that he had been waiting for. His white teeth gleamed in the dim red emergency lighting. "Hear that?"

"What?"

He enlightened them with a satisfied nod. "The generators are now back on line. That, gentlemen, is the sound of progress as well as the welcome noise of the ventilators bringing fresh air into this mountain. Betty Blue, ably assisted by Hammerhead, have completed their preliminary objective."

"Good," was Sinclair's observation. "At least something is going right."

Col. Ryan's voice had more humor in it than anyone ought to in this sort of situation. "Oh, I think you'll find that a number of things will improve dramatically, Special Agent Sinclair. At least, I certainly hope so and will continue my efforts on your behalf."

"Much appreciated," Eppes said grimly. Then—wait a minute. He held up his own hand. He'd heard something else, something not generator powered.

The other three froze.

Crouch. Listen. Breathe through an open mouth, so that the merest whisper of air wouldn't interfere with what was trying to gently tap an ear drum. That noise up ahead could be from either a very scared mathematician or from a determined bunch of terrorists, and Blane had no way of knowing which it was.

In deference to the non-army personnel, Blane's hand signals were clearer than any that had gone before: you, on the right. You there, on the left. Sgt. Blane gave Eppes the honor of proceeding. So that there's less chance of shooting my brother, Eppes acknowledged, and was rewarded by a confirming nod from Sgt. Blane.

The FBI agent eased himself forward. The noise repeated itself, and Eppes wiggled his fingers at the others, trying to communicate as best as he could. It was from more than one corridor away, the light sequestered by three corners and two piles of tumbled down cinder blocks. To get to that point, they'd need to crawl on their bellies through a hall now less than two feet high.

Needed to be done. Now that he was a bit closer, Blane could hear the noises separate themselves into words, words that almost but not quite had meaning. Clearly it was a language that had originated in the Middle East. Linguistic classification could be left to the interrogators who would doubtless be descending as soon as they got wind of this.

No time. They needed to get closer, no matter what. There were more of the enemy up ahead, people who needed to be taken down before they could do more damage. In front, Eppes wiggled his fingers at the others, hoping that he was communicating enough information, and started sliding forward, gun in hand and trying not to disturb any of the pebbles that could cascade to the floor like carillon bells and warn the enemy soldiers that America was about to retake their property.

Blane saw Eppes freeze, heard words in a language that he'd grown up speaking from the moment he'd said his first words to his mother as an infant.

"You won't get away with this."

Clear English, being spoken with a jaw that was wobbling a bit too much after being damaged. A voice accustomed to speaking English and communicating concepts far beyond that of mortal man. It appeared that Sgt. Blane and Col. Ryan, along with the two FBI agents, had found the package, and the package was currently being unwrapped by the enemy, layer by layer.

Damn.