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Mac watched as Brett took his time making his way down the center aisle, acting as if this were an orchestrated part of the show; he even high-fived some of the citizens reaching out to him.

Brett was dressed in a tight black T-shirt and skinny jeans and sneakers, the unofficial uniform of the billionaire boys’ club. Mac figured Brett was probably in his fifties somewhere, but he was trying hard to look younger—his short hair was as black as his T-shirt.

When he reached the front of the room, Brett waved to the crowd; he was greeted by a burst of applause. He yelled, “I’m here to help,” which got another cheer.

At the sight of J. P. Brett, Henry Takayama had jumped up and grabbed an empty chair from the end of his row. He’d had it next to Mac before Brett walked up the steps to the stage.

“I’m Brett,” J. P. Brett said to Mac, extending a closed fist for Mac to bump.

“Of course you are,” Mac said. He turned his attention back to the podium.

Rivers said, “I’ll take a few questions before handing things over to our experts.”

Marsha Keilani of KHON stood.

“General, you haven’t told us how major an eruption we’re talking about,” she said. “Are you and your people anticipating something bigger than the one in 1984? Perhaps the biggest ever? My sources tell me it might be the biggest in a hundred years.”

Takayama,Mac thought. That’s exactly what I told him.

It meant there was a second leak. The first, about the bombing sites, could only have come from Mac’s team.

Maybe I’m fighting a war on more than two fronts now.

“It’s simply not prudent to speculate at this point,” Rivers said.

“But you’re here, sir,” Marsha Keilani said, staying with him. “Mr. Brett is here. I’m told the Cutlers flew in from Iceland. Why shouldn’t everyone on this island be alarmed?”

A large man, obviously a native, stood up in the back row and pointed at Rivers. “Tell us the truth!”

More people in the back rows were standing now; it was like the room was erupting.

Rivers waited until everyone had settled down before speaking. “No one should be alarmed, partly because we are all here, and partly because, if history tells us anything, it’s that Hilo can survive eruptions. And I assure you, Hilo will survive this one.”

Reporters shouted more questions, but Rivers ignored them. “With that,” he said, “I would like our experts to weigh in.”

Mac was already out of his chair when Rivers added, “Let’s start with Mr. Brett.”

Mac couldn’t decide whether he was more embarrassed or more pissed off that Rivers was presenting this rich man as being the same kind of expert on volcanoes and the looming danger of Mauna Loa as Mac was. He sat back down.

Brett stood; Rivers walked over to him, extending his right hand for a real handshake, not a fist bump. Brett had no choice but to take it. Rivers leaned close to him, not releasing Brett’s hand, and spoke in a low voice that only Mac and Brett could hear. “You’re in Hilo because I think you can help,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “But don’t fuck with me.”