Free Apocalypse Machine by Jeremy Robinson Page B

many of those are blotted out by clouds of ash. I saw the eruption first hand, and understand its destructive force, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen the fallout.
    “Oh, god,” Holly whispers next to me.
    I keep my mouth shut, but share the sentiment. This is unreal.
    Our escort motions to a line of chairs against the wall. All but two, at the far end, are occupied. Traversing the maze of limbs and moving bodies would be a challenge if I felt fresh. I get more than a few annoyed looks as I bumble my way to the far end of the room.
    My legs quiver as I lower myself into the seat. Then everyone stands up. Before I comprehend why, Gerrald McKnight, the President of the United States, walks in and stops by his chair, which is directly across from me. He pauses long enough to give me a sidelong glance, no doubt wondering why I’m the only person who didn’t stand upon his entrance, and then he takes his seat. Relief settles over me when the room sits with him.
    The President looks tired, but nothing close to how I feel. Sure, he’s pushing seventy-five and has a roller coaster of wrinkles and honest-to-god jowls, but his sharp blue eyes say he’s also hopped up on coffee. Probably the best coffee money can buy.
    “What’s the latest?” McKnight asks, his voice deep and rough.
    “Sir,” says a man seated beside the President. His face looks familiar, but nothing else about him stands out. His light blue shirt, loosened tie and gray hair match more than half the men in the room. He clears his throat. “Casualties are estimated at upwards of ten million.”
    The President wilts, sickened by the number. “Anything they need. Offer it. I don’t care how much it costs and whether or not they’re an ally. In a situation like this, I don’t care about borders.”
    Two men in military dress, the only two still wearing their jackets, sit up a little straighter, but keep their mouths shut. Open borders flow in both directions, and there are bound to be refugees.
    “Uh, sir…” The man speaking is Harry...Something, the Homeland Security Advisor. “We don’t know how this is going to play out yet. Russia could—”
    “Harry,” McKnight says.
    “Sir. If the winds change direc—”
    “Harry.” The President leans forward on his elbows. “While I recognize your concerns, I really do, we cannot turn our backs on a crisis this vast. Wind shift or not, we are in a position to provide aid and save lives. How many nations have agreed to take part in the aid coalition?”
    “Twenty-two,” says the President’s Chief of Staff, Sonja Clark, who looks fresh and poised. “China is still on the fence.”
    “I want aid on the ground in the hardest hit regions by nightfall. If you have to fly in from the Mediterranean and drive the rest of the way, so be it. Everywhere else by morning. Ted, John, make it happen. Now.”
    The two military men stand and offer a synchronized “Yes, sir,” before heading into an adjacent room.
    “Now then, let’s get back to the matter of what the hell happened.” McKnight motions to the man I recognize most in the room, Robert Scarlato. He’s the Assistant to the President for Science and Technology, Director of the White House Office of Science and Technology Policy and Co-Chair of the President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology. Basically, he is the guiding force behind the United States’ scientific programs, and I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing him three times. He’s progressive, kind and brilliant, but like most scientists, he’s a specialist—plasma physics and astronautics—which has resulted in a budget increase for NASA.
    Scarlato scratches his gray beard with both hands, adjusts his glasses and takes a deep breath. “I’m afraid we don’t know much more than we did an hour ago. A massive Icelandic eruption involving a chain of volcanoes has sent a plume of ash over most of Europe, grounding flights. It also unleashed an invisible