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distance the fireball that marked the main wreck of Flight 255 flared as bright as daylight, illuminating the mass of twisted seats and injured people he was approaching.
    Standing at the window of Gate 14, the initial eruption of fire and flame had flared in the corner of Mark Weiss’s vision, then in his mind. Something had happened at the far end of Runway 19, the last place he had seen Kim’s flight waiting for the weather to clear—waiting for a safe time to takeoff. His head jerked automatically in that direction, his eyes taking in the sight of a tailless fuselage and wing assembly arcing to the taxiway surface in what seemed like a slow-motion special effects shot. He saw the nose impact and crumple, the wings begin to fold forward, and the rear fuselage begin to flip over, all of it disappearing behind a curtain of flame as what was rapidly becoming a fireball splayed out along the concrete surface, sliding and bouncing and flaring as it skidded to a halt, a grotesque inferno of ruined machinery and humanity to the north of the terminal.
    Mark had no recollection of following the North America agent through the door to the jetway, or of literally pushing the woman down as he ran at full speed to the end of the boarding ramp and yanked open the door, rushing down the steps and frantically looking around for something to drive. A baggage tug idled in front of him, and he leapt onto it, forcing it into gear, accelerating as fast as he could, oblivious to the four baggage carts banging and spilling boxes behind him, and unaware of the rising sounds of sirens and motors as fire trucks left their enclosures, police cars roared onto the field, and Klaxons blared in the distance. He only knew he had to get to Kim and the boys. Whatever had happened had been too close to them.
    Recklessly, he shot down the ramp on the unstable tug, selecting the far entrance to the parallel taxiways, dodging debris and taking to the marshy grass at one point, heading as fast as he could for the hammerhead. There was much flaming debris behind him and along the concrete taxiway, but there was something more chilling in front of him. Where the hammerhead had held the 737, there was now the scattered burning remains of an airplane.
    Brian Harlow regained his senses within seconds of the crash and put his squad car in forward gear, accelerating directly to where the 737 had been. His radio exploded in sound and fury, radio calls electronically lacing a delicate web of coordination between the fire and police and rescue personnel as men and women scrambled into vehicles and raced toward the scene.
    Harlow, however, was the first to respond, accelerator to the floor for a second until caution prevailed, causing him to slow up. He approached the darkest area in front of the wreckage with his foot on the brake, but not hard enough. A large chunk of metal bounced off the front grill as he slammed the brake pedal to the floor and threw the steering wheel to the left to avoid what appeared to be a person lying in front of him. Harlow backed up slightly and turned, illuminating the figure, then struggled to get the gearshift into park again. He tumbled out, running to the man caught in his headlights and realizing at once that he was far too late.
    Harlow stood in shock for a second, finally forcing himself into motion once again. More equipment was arriving now, people alighting from fire trucks and rescue trucks in all directions. He moved on toward the dark shapes between him and the fire that was consuming the main part of the wreckage. Holding his flashlight more like an instrument of protection than detection, he walked slowly ahead, picking his way past the crushed forms of several passengers still strapped into their three-place seat assembly, stepping carefully over other human remains that he was rapidly learning not to examine too closely, and headed for a lone figure sitting on the concrete.
    Harlow shone his light on the woman as