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below five thousand feet on our approach
and dropped out of the dense cloud cover. It was not the elemental image I
expected from magazines and television shows that always sought to present the
most dramatic events in a volcano’s life: bright lava exploding from a boiling
caldera, sending dense ash clouds laced with lightning billowing into the air.
    Instead, Mauna Loa was
just another brown mountain, albeit a large one, bulging up from its green
surroundings peacefully. Some might have even called it boring.
    “Not what you were
expecting?” asked Cass. She watched me with amusement as we approached.
    “Levino made it sound
like we were walking into an eruption.”
    She laughed. Cassidy
had been here before to study Mauna Loa and the other active volcanoes on the
Big Island. Her geochemistry research for the university took her around the
globe, collecting samples and data from the Sahara to Antarctica. Ever since we
fell into step together, we’d both done our best to make sure our research
trips were compatible.
    Flint sat up and peeled
the limp bag of peas from his eyes. “Believe me,” he said, “if Mauna Loa were
erupting, Levino wouldn’t want to be anywhere near her. She hasn’t popped her
top since ’84, so when it happens, it’ll be big.”
    “How many times have
you been here, Flint?” I asked.
    “This will make
nineteen.”
    Cassidy whistled,
impressed.
    “As far as pure mantle
study goes, it doesn’t get much better than Hawaii. You have four active
volcanoes on the Big Island and one in the ocean directly offshore. And it’s
not a bad place to relax, either.”
    Pierre’s voice cut in
over the intercom. “Prepare for landing.”
    We buckled up and
settled into our seats. The plane banked to the right as we approached the airstrip
and I caught a view of the north side of Mauna Loa, which until then had been
hidden behind its formidable bulk.
    There was a zig-zagging
crack running across its lower slope, reaching almost to the peak. There was no
smoke, but the crack glowed a brilliant red-orange, and seemed to be pulsing, as
if the heart of the mountain was just underneath the surface. I could see a
collection of large white tents at the base of the volcano, several hundred
yards from the lowest point of the fissure.
    “They move fast,” said
Cassidy, looking out her window at the tents.
    “They probably have to
because of the hurricane,” I said.
    She and Flint spoke at
the same time: “What hurricane?”

 
     

     
     
     
    A n open-topped white Jeep arrived at the airstrip just as our
plane came to a full stop. The grassy field next to the strip was otherwise
empty except for a pilot who was standing next to his small Piper, watching the
darkening sky with a frown on his face.
    We grabbed our bags as
Pierre came back from the cockpit. He kissed Cassidy’s hand as she left the
plane.
    “What’s your plan now?”
I asked as we shook hands.
    He shrugged and looked
out through the open door. “I do not want to be stuck here when the storm hits,
but I always have a hard time passing up a vacation in Hawaii. I think I might
stick around a short while. Perhaps we will see each other again?”
    “Perhaps. Take care of
yourself, Pierre.”
    “Always, Monsieur .
Always.”
    Heat rose up from the
airstrip as I stepped away from the plane, and within ten seconds I was
sweating from every pore on my body. The warm summer breeze did nothing to cut
through the thick humidity, which blanketed the land.
    A young, muscular man
of about twenty-five hopped easily out of the white Jeep and took our bags. He
had tanned skin and wavy, coal-black hair. From the dirty splashes on the sides
of the Jeep, the roads we were about to drive were filled with mud.
    The driver of the muddy
Jeep set Flint’s bag gently in the back seat, then did the same with Cassidy’s.
He stared at me for a moment through his reflective aviator sunglasses, then
roughly crammed my bag in the far back, doing his best to be the