you wanted to kill everyone down here, toss in a warhead like this and seal it up tight. If the firestorm didn't kill you, the lack of remaining oxygen would.
That left his second option.
The other runner appeared with a tall Norwegian built like a refrigerator. The maintenance engineer. His eyes spotted the warhead on the floor. He went pale. At least he was no fool.
Painter stood, drawing his attention up from the bomb. 'Do you speak English?'
'Yes.'
'Is there any other way out of here?'
He shook his head.
'Then those air locks for the seed rooms. Are they pressurized?'
'Yes, they're maintained at a strict level.'
'Can you adjust them higher?'
He nodded. 'I'll have to do it manually.'
'Pick one of the seed banks and do it.'
The engineer glanced around the room, nodded, then took off at a dead run. The man definitely was no fool.
Painter turned to the other men-Boutha, Gorman, even Karlsen. 'I need you to gather everyone into that seed vault. Now.'
'What are you going to do?' the senator asked.
'See how fast I can run.'
1:05 P.M.
With his hands on his helmet and no ability to speak the language, Monk had a hard time negotiating for their freedom.
The Norwegian soldiers continued to level their weapons at the prisoners, but at least their cheeks weren't pressed as firmly against the rifle stocks. Creed pleaded their case. He had his helmet off and was speaking rapidly, a mix of Norwegian and English, accompanied by charades.
Then a voice started to rasp in Monk's ear, full of static, coming from his helmet radio. Most of the communication dropped out. 'Can you hear...help...no time to...'
Despite having a rifle pointed at his face, Monk felt a surge of relief. He recognized the voice. It was Painter. He was still alive!
Monk tried responding. 'Director Crowe, we read you. But it's choppy. Is there any way we can help?'
He failed to get any response. The tone of Painter's voice didn't change. The transmission wasn't reaching him.
Creed had heard Monk's outburst. 'Is that the director? He's still alive?'
The two rifles focused on Monk.
'Alive but trapped,' he answered. He held up a hand, struggling to listen to the radio. The transmission remained crap. There was a lot of rock to get through, even for a SQUID transmitter.
The soldier barked at him. Creed turned and tried to explain. Their stern faces shifted from anger to concern.
As static buzzed in his ear, Monk considered his options. How long would the oxygen last in there? Could they get heavy digging equipment moved up there fast enough, especially with the road bombed out?
Then a few words burst through the static. It squashed his momentary hope. Painter's words were chewed apart by the static, but there was no mistaking the threat.
'Down here...a warhead...We'll try to...'
Static cut off the rest.
Before Monk could relate the bad news to Creed, a rumbling echoed over the mountains, accompanied by the whining roar of snowmobiles.
They all turned.
Down the mountainside, a cluster of vehicles slowly wound up from the lower valley, heading their way.
Monk lifted his binoculars and focused on one of the snowmobiles. Men were double mounted. While one drove, the other had a rifle up on a shoulder. They were all dressed in polar suits. Snow-white, with no military insignia.
A stray Norwegian soldier had somehow made it halfway down the mountain already. He waved at the approaching party.
A rifle cracked.
Blood spattered against the white snow.
The soldier dropped.
Monk lowered his binoculars.
Someone had come to clean house.
1:09 P.M.
Painter didn't know if his radio transmission got out. He had plugged the SQUID into the wall and hoped for the best.
All he could do now was run.
He pushed a caterer's serving trolley ahead of him. Strapped on top with bungee cords was the warhead. He sprinted up the hundred and fifty yards of the tunnel.
The LED display glowed back at him.
04:15
As he ran, he watched it tick down below the four-minute mark. At last, he spotted the outer blast door at the top of the exit ramp. It had been left open by the guard who had peeked out. Chunks of ice had spilled inside, but beyond the door was a solid wall of broken glacier.
With a surge of speed, he shot up the ramp. He wanted the charge placed as close to that opening as possible. Reaching the top, Painter shoved the trolley cart toward the door, spun on a toe, and sprinted in the opposite direction.
At least it was all downhill from here.
He fled, breath gasping, trying to lengthen his stride.
If he couldn't stop the bomb, he might as well make use of it. He didn't know how thick the plug of ice was over the door, but the warhead's thermobaric payload was unique. The initial blast could help break some of the ice; then, as the cloud of fluorinated aluminum ignited, the searing heat would vaporize and melt more. But it was upon the secondary blast wave that Painter pinned all his hopes.
The biggest threat of a thermobaric bomb was its sudden and massive burst of pressure. Exploded inside caves or closed buildings, the pressure wave would travel outward and kill around corners and far down passageways. It pulverized and sheared flesh. Burst eardrums, exploded lungs, squeezed blood out of every orifice.
Painter hoped it could also blast out that plug of ice, pop it free like a champagne cork.
But, of course, without crushing them all to pulp in the meantime.
As he hit the bottom of the tunnel, he sprinted into the lower cross passage. He skidded around the corner and sped to the center air lock.
He ripped the door open, heard the pressure pop, then slammed the hatch shut behind him. Air valves in the ceiling chugged to bring the pressure back up. As Painter crossed the air lock, the door flew open ahead of him.
Senator Gorman held it and waved Painter into the seed room. 'Hurry!'
Painter dove through. Gorman closed the door with a steel clang.
A crowd gathered around the door, keeping together despite the size of the vault. The seed bank itself was unremarkable, just a cavernous room full of numbered shelves. Identical black storage bins filled the racks, like a warehouse club that sold only one item.
Someone in the group was counting down loudly.
'Eleven...ten...nine...'
Painter had barely made it back in time. After breaking the air lock seal, he prayed the pressure had a chance to rebuild in time. Their best chance to survive the coming blast was to fight pressure with pressure.
