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The lava lake was nearly circular, its black crust broken by streaks of brighter and more incandescent red. Steam issued from at least a dozen vents in the rocks. The walls were sheer, the footing uncertain; Mac stumbled and slid as he went down.

Suddenly his extended leg hit a solid surface, like he was a base runner sliding into second.

Although he was only a few feet below the rim, he could feel the searing heat from the lake. The air shimmered unsteadily in the convection of rising currents. Between that and the sulfurous odors swirling from the crater, he began to feel slightly nauseated.

Inside his heat-resistant jumpsuit, he was sweating. Thin Mylar-foam insulation sewn between layers of Gore-Tex kept sweat off the skin, because if the temperature went up suddenly, the sweat would turn to steam and scald his body, meaning almost certain death. Several scientists had died that way, most recently his friend Jim Robbins at the Anak Krakatau volcano in Indonesia.

Mac lost his balance again and slid several yards in the hot dust, then quickly scrambled to his feet.

On the radio Jenny said: “You all right?”

“Piece of cake.”

He knew, because it was his business to know these things, that sixty-seven scientists around the world had died working within a thousand yards of volcano summits. Three of them, along with forty nonscientists, had been burned to death in an instant at the Unzen volcano in Japan in 1991. That was the single worst accident in recent history. And there had been other incidents. Six scientists had died at Cotopaxi in Ecuador when the volcano suddenly exploded while they were taking measurements.

He pushed those thoughts out of his head and kept going, descending along the sheer wall. The helicopter was off to his right, a hundred yards or so away. MacGregor was approaching it from the side so that his own descent would not cause another slide.

On his radio he heard groaning and then a crackling transmission from the pilot, his words garbled.

“Mac.” Jenny again.

“I’m here.”

“Did you copy that?”

“No.”

“It’s the pilot.” She paused. “He’s worried that they might be starting to leak fuel.”

“Then I need to pick up the pace.”

“You know that’s not safe!”

“I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

The helicopter hung only fifty yards above the lava lake. Below the crust, the glowing lava was around 1800 degrees Fahrenheit, and that was at the low end. The only good news was that if the helicopter had started to leak fuel, it would have blown up already.

“Mac,” Jenny said, “the Dolphin copter is on the way from Wailuku. You sure you don’t want to reconsider this?”

“I’m sure.”

Sometimes wrong, never in doubt,they said about Mac back at HVO.

Through the shifting plumes of steam, Mac could see deep scratches and dents on the helicopter. The tail rotor had torn free.

“Mac, I’m patching you to the pilot.”

“Okay.”

There was another crackle. Through his headset, Mac heard more groaning. He said, “Hey, Jake. How you looking?”

Jake coughed. “Truth, brah? Been better.”

“Try cruise, ya?” Mac said. Meaning Take it easy.

Mac heard something between a cough and a laugh.

“Not like I have much choice,” Jake Rogers said. “You feeling me on that?”