“Rig yourself,” Janson ordered Katsaris. Meanwhile, Janson belayed the woman with what was to have been his own harness, the nylon webbing stretching tautly around her thighs and considerable waist. Hastily, he rigged the figure eight. A less-than-gentle push, and she was on her way down.

That left Janson with neither a harness nor a rappelling device. Facing the anchor Katsaris had rigged, he straddled the rope, looping it around his left buttock and across his hip, up across his chest and around his head to his right shoulder, and then over and down his back to his left hand. The rope was now configured in an S around his upper body. He would guide with his right hand, regulate speed with his left. Clasping the rope palm up, he could move it off his back to increase speed, and winch it around his hip to slow down. His nylon clothing would provide some protection from rope burns. Still, he was under no illusions. He had body-rappelled once before, in a training exercise; it would be extremely painful.

“Does that really work?” Katsaris asked skeptically.

“Sure it does,” Janson said. “I’ve done it before.” And he had hoped he would never have to do it again.

Several buzz-saw-like bursts of gunfire pelted the cliff like a hailstorm of lead. The rock at their feet exploded, only inches away; fragments stung Janson’s face. There was no time.

“I’m stuck!” Donna Hedderman’s wailing voice, perhaps thirty feet down the cliff.

“We’ll be right there,” Janson called to her, as he and Katsaris eased off the overhang. Bending at the waist, the two men kept their legs perpendicular to the sheer surface, “walking down” where it was possible. For Janson, the descent was excruciating; the nylon shell was strong but supplied no cushioning as the cord bit into his flesh. The only way to lessen the pressure was to increase the demands on his already aching muscles.

“Help me!” The woman’s quavering voice echoed against the sheer rock.

A third of the way down, they found her and saw what had happened. Her long, matted hair had become entangled in the figure-eight rappel device. It was a hazard they should have anticipated. Katsaris took out a knife and, propelling himself sideways with his feet, approached her. She let out an earsplitting scream. With one slice, her entangled hair was free. But there was more of it, and it could happen again. Katsaris released his brake hand and activated his autoblock, a piece of webbing that now wrapped around his rope and arrested further descent.

“Hold still,” he said. Inching farther toward her, he grabbed handfuls of her hair and sliced them off, ignoring her loud squawks of protest. As coiffure it was inelegant; as a safety precaution it was a thing of beauty.