Up on the ridge, men went flying, some torn to fiery shreds. Others fled on foot or slid down the mountainside. Monk watched a large Sno-Cat tumble into a crater that once was the lone road up there.
As the smoke cleared, Monk searched the ridge. The bunker still stood, but one side had been blasted black and a large chunk of it had cracked away. The missile strike had only dealt a glancing blow.
Then a new rumble grew in volume. Monk feared the jets were scrambling for another pass. But this noise was accompanied by cracking detonations.
As Monk watched in horror, the entire mountainside above the bunker began to slide. A massive section of glacier broke loose and crashed, breaking into smaller and smaller pieces, gaining speed and turning into an avalanche of ice.
It swamped the bunker and buried it completely.
More soldiers were caught and crushed in its path.
And still it kept coming.
Toward them.
“Monk!” Creed screamed.
Dropping back into his seat, Monk thumbed the ignition. His engine roared. He gunned the throttle. The rear track chewed snow, then found traction. Twisting the handle, Monk pointed an arm to the far side of the valley.
“Get to high ground!”
Creed needed no guidance. He had already turned and was flying toward the opposite side. The pair of them raced across the valley floor, trying to get clear.
Monk heard the avalanche strike behind him. It sounded like the end of the world, a detonation of ice and rock. A chunk of glacier the size of a one-car garage bounced past Monk on the right. Ice pelted his snowmobile and his back.
Monk hunkered down. He could go no faster. He had the throttle fully open.
As the avalanche’s leading edge reached them, ice boulders pounded alongside their vehicles. A river of dancing pebbles washed under and around them. The smaller bits of glacial ice had been polished smooth during the grinding plunge, turning into a flood of diamonds.
Then they were headed up.
The front skis of the snow machines carved a swift path up out of the valley. The icy monster behind them tried to give chase, but then gave up and settled back into the valley.
To be sure, Monk climbed higher before calling for a stop. Keeping his engine running, he turned and surveyed the damage. A fog of ice crystals clouded the lower valley, but it was clear enough to see to the far ridge.
There was no bunker.
Just broken ice.
“What do we do?” Creed asked.
A shout answered him. They both turned to the left. A pair of Norwegian soldiers appeared, rifles on their shoulders. Only now did Monk spot the Sno-Cat parked higher up the slope.
It was the same pair as before.
But this was no friendly visit like the earlier one.
The soldiers kept their weapons up. After what had happened, they must be ringing with suspicions, half-blind with anger and shock.
“What do we do?” Creed asked again.
Ever the teacher, Monk showed him by raising his arms. “You surrender.”
1:02 P.M.
Painter stood in the dark.
The lights had gone out with the first explosions. At first he thought the hidden bomb had gone off. But as the series of concussive blasts continued, echoing down from above, Painter guessed a missile strike against the mountainside.
It was confirmed a moment later when a massive grumbling roar erupted. It sounded like a freight train running over them and crashing away.
Avalanche.
Screams and shouts echoed from the tunnel as guests and workers panicked. This deep underground, the darkness was absolute and sought to smother you.
Painter remained rooted in place, taking inventory. For the moment, they were still alive. If there was a hidden bomb down here, why hadn’t it gone off at the same time as the missile strike?
He squeezed the transmitter in his hand. Pulling the device out of the wall outlet may have saved all their lives, preventing a signal from being telephoned in and triggering the bomb.
But they weren’t out of danger yet.
If Painter had planned this attack, he would’ve built in a secondary backup plan. Something set on a delayed timer to account for any mishap. He thought hard and fast. The transmitter had a limited range, especially with all the rock. If a bomb was planted, it had to be close, likely brought in recently.
The caterers?
No, too many and too risky. Somebody would’ve seen it.
Then he remembered Karlsen’s earlier words as they entered the back office: Seed shipments arrive daily. Unfortunately, now they’re backlogged due to the party.
The storage bins.
Blind, Painter stepped over to the stacked boxes. He fumbled the top off one and shoved his hands into it, all the way to the bottom. He sifted through the heat-sealed aluminum seed packets.
Nothing.
He knocked the bin aside. It crashed in the dark.
“What are you doing?” Gorman shouted, startled.
Painter didn’t have time to answer. Desperation kept him silent. He found nothing in the second bin—but as he yanked the lid off the third, a glow shone from inside the box, buried under a layer of seed packets.
In the darkness, the tiny light shone as brightly as a beacon. The other men drew closer. Painter picked aside the packets and exposed what lay beneath.
Numbers on an LED display glowed back at him.
09:55
As he watched, the counter ticked downward.
The room’s lights flickered, went off, then came back on. The emergency generators had finally kicked in. Out in the hall, the screaming immediately quieted. While their situation was no better, at least they would die with the lights on.
Painter reached inside and carefully lifted out the object. He doubted it had been rigged with any motion-sensing trigger. The storage bin had been shipped, likely roughly handled in transit. Still, he cautiously lowered it to the floor and knelt beside it.
The object was the size of two shoe boxes, roughly barrel-shaped. The LED display glowed on the top. A net of wires folded into the metal casing under it. Military lettering—PBXN-112—stamped into its side left no doubt in Painter’s mind as to what they all faced.
Even Boutha guessed.
“It’s a bomb,” he whispered.
The man, unfortunately, was wrong.
Painter corrected him. “It’s a warhead.”
1:02 P.M.
Krista braked the four-wheel-drive truck at the foot of the mountain. As she fled down the icy road, she had watched the missile barrage in her rearview mirror. Flames had filled the world behind her. Concussions had rattled her truck windows. A moment later, the glacial ridge of the mountain had broken away and shattered across the entrance to the seed vault.
By the time her truck came to a stop, her hands still trembled on the steering wheel. Her breathing remained hard.