"Which is precisely why we need to hustle," Harlan insisted. "A plane that hits at two hundred knots and doesn't explode is either carrying something worse than gasoline, or there are folks pinned inside who need a hacksaw and a field dressing before they bleed out." "Grab the first-aid kit, boys," Kincaid barked to his men. "Axes, pry bars, and the stretcher. Pick 'em up and put 'em down." The six men struck out on foot across the blistering expanse of the borrow pit flats. It was a punishing, ankle-breaking march. The earth was covered in loose, shifting volcanic scree that slid like ball bearings under heavy work boots. The heat radiated off the ground in wavy, nauseating shimmers, smelling of baked pine needles, alkaline dust, and hot iron. Every yard had to be negotiated through dense clusters of prickly pear and stiff yucca bayonets that tore at canvas trousers. By the time they crested the low volcanic ridge overlooking Brown’s Lake, Harlan’s shins were bleeding and the volunteer firemen were gasping under the weight of the steel rescue gear.