The Doomsday Key

October 13, 1:13 P.M.

Svalbard, Norway

The warhead detonated on schedule.

Even hidden behind two steel doors and walls of bedrock, Painter felt the blast as if a giant had his hands over his ears, trying to crush his skull. And yet he still heard the other two seed banks' air locks blow. From the concussive sound of it, the same giant had stamped his foot and crushed the other chambers flat.

Crouched beside their air lock, Painter heard the outer door give way and slam into the inner one with a resounding clang. But the last door held. The overpressure in the air lock had been enough to hold off the sudden blast wave.

Painter touched the steel door with relief. Its surface was warm, heated by the thermobaric's secondary flash fire.

The lights had also been snuffed out by the blast. But the group had prepared for that. Flashlights had been passed out, and they flickered on across the chamber like candles in the dark.

"We made it," Senator Gorman said at his side.

His voice sounded tinny to Painter's strained ears. The others began picking themselves up off the floor. Cries of relief, even a few nervous laughs, spread through the assembled guests and workers.

Painter hated to be the bearer of the bad news, but they had no time for false hope.

He stood up and lifted his arm. "Quiet!" he called out and gained everyone's attention. "We're not out of here yet! We still don't know if the explosion was enough to break through the wall of ice trapping us down here. If we're still stuck, rescue could take days."

Painter motioned to the vault's maintenance engineer for confirmation. He lived up here. He knew the terrain and the archipelago's resources.

"It could take well over a week," he said. "And that's if the road is still open."

That was doubtful, considering the missile barrage Painter had heard. But he kept that to himself. The news was bad enough already. And he had more to deliver.

Painter pointed to the door. "The firestorm will have burned away most of the available oxygen and turned the air toxic out there. Even if the exit is open, these lower levels will still be choked with bad air. We're in the only safe pocket down here. But it will only last for a couple of days, maybe three."

The engineer looked like he was going to shorten that projection, but Painter stemmed that with a hand on his arm. Painter also avoided telling the group the real reason for his haste.

Whoever attacked could come back.

The crowd had gone completely quiet as the sobering news sank in.

Karlsen finally spoke from the edge of the crowd. These were mostly his guests. "So what do we do?"

"Someone has to go out there. To check the door. If it's open, they're going to have to make a long run through a toxic soup. Someone needs to get out and bring back help. The rest will stay here where it's safe for the moment."

"Who's going to go out there?" Senator Gorman asked.

Painter lifted his hand. "I am."

Karlsen stepped forward. "Not alone you're not. I'll go with you. You may need an extra pair of hands."

He was right. Painter didn't know what he might encounter out there. There could be a partial cave-in, a tangle of damaged equipment. It might take a couple of people to move an obstacle. But he eyed Karlsen with skepticism. He was not a young man.

Karlsen read the doubt in his face. "I ran a half marathon two months ago. I jog daily. I won't hold you back."

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.