The senator joined him. 'Then I'm going, too.'
Clearly Gorman was not letting the murderer of his son out of his sight. And truth be told, Painter didn't want to either. He had a slew of questions for the man, questions that might prove vital to avoiding an ecological disaster.
Still, he preferred both men to stay here.
But Karlsen raised a point that Painter couldn't counter. He gestured toward the door. 'It's not up for debate. Whether you like it or not, you can't stop me from following you. I'm going.'
Gorman stood shoulder to shoulder with the man on this matter. 'We're both going.'
Painter didn't have time to argue. He had no authority to have Karlsen handcuffed to one of the racks. In fact, Karlsen had more supporters here than Painter did.
'Then let's go.' Painter took one of the flashlights. He used a canteen to wet some scarves and wrap their lower faces, covering mouths and noses. 'Try to hold your breath as much as possible.'
They nodded.
The engineer had also secured sets of safety goggles to protect their eyes from the sting of the heated, smoky air.
They were as prepared as they could be.
Once ready, Painter stood by the door. He left the maintenance engineer in charge. If they failed, the man had the knowledge to keep the others safe for as long as possible.
'When I open the door, the pressure is now higher in here than out there. It will suck away some of the oxygen. So close this as soon as we leave and don't open it unless we come knocking. If the way is blocked, we'll be right back. If not, pray for the best.'
'I've not stopped praying since I saw that bomb,' the engineer said with a weak grin.
Painter clapped him on the shoulder and turned to Gorman and Karlsen. 'Ready?' he asked.
He got two nods.
Painter turned to the engineer. 'Open it.' Then to his two companions. 'Take a deep breath.'
The door cracked open with a disturbing hissing of escaping air and a wash of incredible heat. Painter dashed through it and into the dark tunnel. It was like diving into a sauna. But this steam burned the skin with more than just heat. Painter felt the chemical sting. The air out here was worse than he had imagined.
He heard the other men pounding behind him.
Once Painter rounded out of the seed bank passageway and into the main tunnel, he flicked off his flashlight. He held his breath both literally and figuratively.
Had the entrance been blown open?
He stared ahead into the pitch-black tunnel. He saw no evidence of any light shining back. The tunnel was a straight run. If the way was open, even a little light should stand out like a beacon.
His feet began to slow.
It hadn't worked. They were still trapped in this poisonous well.
But after a few more blind steps, his eyes adjusted more fully to the darkness as the flashlight's dazzle faded. It wasn't much, but far up the tunnel a meager glow shone back through the smoky darkness.
He let slip a small sigh of relief, allowing precious air to escape his lungs.
As hope ignited inside him, he flicked on his light and ran faster. He didn't know if Gorman or Karlsen had seen the promising glow, but they knew the plan. If there hadn't been any sign of light, they were supposed to head back. Since Painter continued, they knew what that meant.
They all sped faster, running through the ruined catering area. Tables were overturned and slammed into the tunnel's end. Anything plastic had melted. The line of ice sculptures had been vaporized. Anything combustible had been set on fire, but the consumption of oxygen by the thermobaric charge had just as quickly smothered the fires.
Residual smoke still hung dead in the air, but the farther they ran, the less dense it grew. A fine black powder covered everything, a by-product of the flash of fluorinated aluminum.
They ran onward.
Painter was forced to take his first breath. He pressed the damp scarf to his nose and sucked in a gulp of air. It stank of burned rubber and stung like acid. He didn't know how much oxygen was still in the air, but he kept running. The higher he got, the cleaner the air would be-especially with the ice plug broken away.
He reached about the halfway point, only another seventy-five yards to go. He could now see a faint glow even with his flashlight on. It drew him forward. But the more he was forced to breathe, the more the tunnel began to waver, shimmering a bit before his watering eyes. His lungs burned. His skin itched all over.
Still he did not slow.
He glanced behind him and saw the other two men falling behind. Senator Gorman looked the worst, weaving on his feet. Karlsen had a grip on his elbow and kept him steady, propelling the senator along.
Painter slowed to help. He needed both men alive.
But Karlsen waved an arm angrily at him, his command clear.
Keep going.
Painter realized he was right. He had to get out of this toxic soup, clear his head. If necessary, he could come back for them. With no other choice, he sped toward the glow and the promise of fresh air.
Finally the blast door appeared, bathed in a bluish glow. A few brighter spots stung Painter's eyes. But as he ran forward, his heart sank.
It can't be...
The door was still blocked.
The glow was only daylight diffusing through the ice. The blast had failed to free them. Painter ran toward the exit anyway. There was nowhere else to go. As he drew closer, he realized that some of the brighter spots in the wall were chinks in the blockage.
Hope surged again and was enough to propel him to the doorway. He crossed to one of those chinks, pressed his face against it, and sucked in air. If nothing else, it was deliciously cool. He took several breaths. His head immediately began clearing, the fogginess shredding away.
He turned and saw Karlsen and Gorman about fifteen yards away. Karlsen was now half-carrying the senator. Painter shoved off the wall of ice and hurried back. He supported Gorman's other side.
Together, they hobbled the rest of the way to the door. Painter got both men breathing through cracks in the wall, then found a third spot higher up. As he sucked air, he realized that the ice wall wasn't covered in black soot. This was new ice. The blast must have unplugged the entrance-but a secondary avalanche had tumbled back over it, resealing them in.
But the ice wouldn't be as thick.
Painter put an eye to the crack. He could see out.
Near the top of the door, the blockage was less than two feet thick, made up of a jumble of blocks. They were large, but with time, they might be able to dig themselves out.
Still, Painter sensed they didn't have much time. No telling when another avalanche might surge down from above and seal them in tighter.
As if hearing this thought, Painter heard a rumble.
He felt the ice shiver under his cheek.
Oh, no...
1:20 P.M.
From across the valley, Monk had watched the explosion. The noise was like a thunderclap inside his head. Startled, deafened, he was knocked on his butt in the snow.
Creed and the two Norwegians fared no better.
A massive eruption of ice and flames had burst out of the buried seed vault. An oily blackness roiled up into the sky.
As if offended, the storm clouds suddenly opened. Snow fell thickly. One second it wasn't snowing, the next, heavy windblown flakes filled the air. It worsened to a whiteout condition in a matter of half a minute. But before the curtain dropped, Monk saw that the explosion had exposed the concrete bunker-at least for a few seconds. A moment later, a second avalanche had slid and tumbled over the entrance.
Was anyone still alive in there?
