John Zwawa, the forty-seventh president of the United States, has made sacrifices to attain the highest office in the land. Entering the political arena after years as a human rights activist and heavy metal rocker has forced him to shorten his once shoulder-length blond hair, which now runs mostly gray. The thinly shaven goatee is gone too, as are the sideburns. The only remaining physical evidence of the president’s years as a musician are his tattoos. On his right bicep is an image of a leaping lion holding two drumsticks, on his left—a large Polish falcon grasping a banner inscribed with his children’s names.

The president enters the Oval Office to find Lilith Mabus hovering next to Alyssa Popov, the new director of the United States Geological Survey-Earthquakes Hazard Program.

‘Lilith, so sorry about Lucien.’

‘Thank you, John. Lucien was young, but drugs had taken their toll on his heart long ago.’ She tilts her head, accepting the formal peck on the cheek from a man she has slept with more than a dozen times, on two occasions with her late husband.

‘And Ms. Popov. I hear you’ve been busy at Yellowstone Park.’

‘You could say that, sir.’

‘I gather you two ladies know each other?’

‘Intimately.’ Lilith winks, enjoying the president’s blush.

‘So? What’s this meeting about? Next year’s midterm elections?’

‘No, John, it’s about the end of the world and the survival of humanity.’

Zwawa’s grin remains frozen on his face. ‘Lilith, I don’t have time for these—’

‘Show him, Alyssa.’

‘Computer, play program Popov-One.’

Along the far wall, the holographic image of the bookcase and fireplace reverts to a large floor-to-ceiling smart-screen.

For the next thirty minutes, the president of the United States is absorbed in the details of a Top-Secret UMBRA report.

‘Computer, end program. Shred Popov-One and all minutes of this meeting.’

A stunned John Zwawa sits head in hands at his desk, the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He whispers, ‘How could this be happening? Why wasn’t I told?’

Alyssa shook her head. ‘With everything civilization’s been through in the last three decades, Yellowstone’s never been more than a passing interest. It’s only because of recent breakthroughs measuring geothermal changes that we learned of an impending eruption.’

‘How soon?’

‘A decade or two, tops.’

The president loosens his collar. ‘I … I can’t breathe—’

‘Take it slowly, John.’

‘How bad will it be?’

‘Worse than you can possibly imagine,’ Alyssa says. ‘The explosion will release ten thousand times more debris than the Mount St. Helens explosion, instantly killing the surrounding population. The Midwestern states will become ground zero, wiping out our crops. Within a few days, the atmospheric debris will blot out the sun.’