Chapter 68

It had been Mac's idea for them to head over to the theater when Rivers got the call about what was happening.

They weren't there long; they told the crowd they had time for only a few questions because they were going to be working through the night. Mac ended up doing most of the talking. He told them how long he'd lived here with his family, then he told them how much manpower was needed to save Hilo and that they needed volunteers to work on the mountains, especially to help build the three dikes between the Military Reserve and the town.

"This isn't our island," Mac told the crowd. "It's yours."

He paused and looked out into the audience, squinting into the lights.

"You haven't felt as if you own it the past few days," he said. "But you do. And it's time for you to prove it."

The soldiers escorted Mac and Rivers out of the Palace Theater, and when they were in the back parking lot, getting into their separate jeeps, Rivers said, "I wanted to tell them more."

Mac said, "You mean the truth?"

"Exactly which truth are you referring to?"

"That we might all might be dead in two days?" Mac said. "That truth?"

Rivers told him about the dead body now buried in the Ice Tube.

The next morning, a few minutes after five in the predawn darkness, the townspeople of Hilo showed that they had gotten the message—they were lined up for a mile outside the military base, ready to go to work.

By then Mac and Jenny and Rick were already in the Ice Tube. Underneath the 360-degree LED lighting the army had provided, Mac oversaw the layering of the titanium around the rock walls, making sure it didn't block the ongoing digging of the canals and trenches.

Rick had gone off somewhere, and for now it was just Mac and Jenny. Mac had brought a thermos of coffee, and he poured some for the two of them.

He saw her staring at him, smiling, only half her face in the light. "What?"

"Can I be honest?" she asked.

He smiled. "When are you not?"

"I don't want to die, Mac."

"And you're not going to," he said. "Not on my watch."

"You're starting to sound like a general."

"Think of it as a battlefield commission."

"Tell me it's all going to come out right."

"It is," he said.

"You sure?"

"No."

She reached over and touched the side of his face.

"Glad we cleared that up," she said.

At almost the same moment, J. P. Brett and the Cutlers were at Hilo International preparing to board the Hungarian military helicopter that Brett had purchased in France a couple of weeks before, an Airbus H225M. There were only three dozen of them currently in the air anywhere, as he told anyone who asked. And several who didn't.

They would be joined on the flight by two Italian scientists that Brett had had flown into this same airport the night before, although he hadn't bothered to inform Rivers or John MacGregor. The Cutlers had worked with these scientists a few years back, at Mount Etna.

As Leah Cutler watched the two Italians walking toward the helicopter, she asked Brett, "Didn't they get into some trouble with the law after we made our heroes' exit from Sicily? I seem to recall something like that."

"They cut a few corners—what can I tell you?" Brett said. "But the bastards got things done. And the two of them have forgotten more about lava diversion and blowing shit up than MacGregor and Cruz have ever known, even if the two of them have convinced General Hard-Ass that they exist on some higher intellectual plane than the rest of us."

Brett added, "You know who I want on our dream team? Guys who aren't afraid to cross the line."

"Didn't Rivers tell you last night he wanted the airspace near the summit clear?" Oliver asked.

Brett grinned. "My Italian friends have told me they need to see la grande immagine—the big picture. After they've come this far, who am I to deny them? And it will be a short trip."

"You had to have felt those quakes all night long," Oliver said. "Leah and I barely slept, waiting for the next one to hit."

Brett raised an eyebrow. "You're not getting wobbly on me, are you, Oliver?"

"Never," he said.

"Keep it that way," Brett said.

"Our deal with you is the same as always." Oliver smiled his TV smile. "We're with you, win, win, or win."

Brett climbed up into the helicopter; he was followed by the two Italian scientists; Morgan, the videographer; and Oliver and Leah. The door to the cockpit was open, and Oliver stopped when he saw the pilot. Earlier, Brett had instructed him not to contact air traffic control at the airport. The pilot had pointed out that they would be breaking the law with this flight.

"Think of this as my own form of martial law," Brett had said.

"Wait, don't I know you?" Cutler asked the pilot now.

"Well, I was all over the news not too long ago," he said.

"You were in the crash with that TV cameraman," Cutler said.

"And lived to tell about it." The pilot reached out his right hand, which was bandaged. "Jake Rogers."

"Oliver Cutler."

"Now that the meet-and-greet is over, let's get this baby in the air and over to the rift zone!" Brett called out.

The helicopter lifted into the air, free from monitoring by air traffic control because the pilot hadn't called in the flight for clearance. Rogers worked the controls, the door to the cockpit still open. He gave his passengers a thumbs-up and yelled, "Okay, folks. Let's see what this baby's got!"

"How close can you get us?" Brett yelled back.

"Close as you want!" Rogers hollered over the noise of the engine and the blades.

J. P. Brett, one of the richest men on the planet, looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Remember that old movie Joe Versus the Volcano?" Brett yelled happily. "You all know my first name is Joseph, right?"