The Doomsday Key

by James Rollins

  On the ground, the senator got an arm behind Karlsen’s left leg. With a roar, Gorman hugged and twisted hard. He threw the murderer of his son facedown on the floor, then piled onto his back and pinned him to the floor.

  “You killed Jason!” Gorman growled at the man, his voice trapped between fury and sob. “You killed him.”

  Karlsen struggled to free himself, but Gorman held him down. The CEO’s face became beet red. He twisted his neck, trying to get a look at Gorman. His voice spat at his accuser. “I … I did it for you!”

  The words momentarily stunned the senator. But Painter wasn’t sure if the shock came from the sudden confession or the strange statement. A part of Gorman must have hoped Painter was wrong. Now there was no illusion.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Gorman warned, not wanting to hear anything more.

  With the one domino dropped, Painter knew he could get the others to fall. What he had thought might take a full day had been accomplished in minutes. But they were far from finished here. Karlsen could recant. He was still on home turf in Norway, with powerful ties and connections.

  Painter knew he had to take advantage, to control the situation. That meant getting Karlsen out of here and keeping him in custody. For that, he would need to call in some help.

  “Keep him there,” Painter said.

  He crossed to the computers and searched behind them. There had to be a communication trunk feeding into this room. A T1 or T3 line for Internet connectivity, but more important—

  Painter’s fingers found the telephone line. He pulled and traced it back to the wall. With no cell service up here, he needed to radio Monk, but buried underground, that was impossible. He would have to tap into an open line using a device known as a SQUID to boost the signal. As his fingers ran along the wire to the wall, he found some gadget already plugged into the telephone outlet. He pulled it out and immediately recognized its function.

  Cell signal booster.

  It wasn’t that sophisticated, but the technology was above anything he’d seen here. It felt out of place. He examined it closely and recognized a short-range transmitter wired into it.

  Why would someone need a short-range transmitter wired to a telephone line?

  He could think of only one reason.

  The door crashed open behind him.

  He swung around as Copresident Boutha stormed into the room. A few other men stood behind him. Boutha frowned in confusion at the scenario he’d burst in upon: Karlsen on the floor, the senator kneeling on his back.

  “Caterers reported yelling …,” Boutha began, then shook his head. “What is going on here?”

  Using the distraction, Karlsen was able to throw an elbow back and catch Gorman in the ear. Knocked to the side, Gorman couldn’t stop Karlsen from rolling free.

  Boutha and the others still blocked the way out. Trapped, Karlsen turned to face Gorman, only to find a fist flying toward his nose. He dodged enough to avoid a broken nose, but he took a hard punch to the eye and stumbled back a few steps.

  “Stop!” Painter bellowed, freezing everyone in place with the force of his command.

  All eyes turned to him.

  Painter pointed an arm at Boutha. “We must evacuate this facility. Now!”

  “Why?”

  Painter looked down at the foreign device in his hand. He could be wrong, but he saw little reason for a short-range transmitter.

  Except one.

  “There’s a bomb hidden somewhere down here.”

  Shocked reactions and questions tried to follow.

  Painter cut through them. “Get everyone out!”

  Unfortunately, they were too late.

  12:55 P.M.

  Monk edged his snowmobile through the valley, making a slow slaloming pass along the bottom. Creed followed in his tracks, watching for polar bears. Monk kept an eye on the concrete bunker that marked the entrance to the seed vault.

  Overhead, the storm had rolled a mass of dark clouds over the mountain. The sky pushed lower and dropped the temperature with it. Winds also picked up, scouring through the valley in blinding gusts of ice crystals.

  Monk called for a stop. He thought he had heard something, or at least felt something deep in his chest. He cut the engine. The low rumble continued, coming from the cloud layer overhead, like distant thunder to the north. Before he had a chance to question it, the rumble turned into a roar, then into a scream. A pair of jets shot out of the clouds and raced straight down the valley toward Monk and Creed.

  No, not toward them.

  As the jets passed overhead, they veered sharply back up with a shriek of acceleration. Missiles fired from their underbellies. Hellfire rockets. The missiles struck the snowy ridge where the seed vault was buried. A line of fire exploded across the mountain face. Rocks and flames shot high. The concussions pounded Monk and Creed.

  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.

  Th
e 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.

  She had fled immediately after the phoned warning. What if she had been delayed, been slowed up for some reason? There had been no margin for error.

  Still, she had survived.

  The terror in her was slowly transformed into a strange elation. She was alive. Her hands balled into fists on the steering wheel. A bubbling laugh of relief shook out of her. She fought to compose herself.

  To either side of the road, men appeared in camouflaged polar snowsuits. A tank of a vehicle on massive treads trundled to block the road.

  She had nothing to fear. Not any longer. These were her forces.

  She shoved the truck door open and headed over to join them. Snow had begun to fall. Heavy flakes drifted through the air. She climbed up into the cab of the giant vehicle. The rear passenger compartment was packed with grim-faced men bearing assault rifles.

  Outside, the others mounted snowmobiles.

  The road into the mountains might be gone, but she still had work to do up there. There would be stragglers after the bombing, and she had her orders.

  No survivors.

  1:04 P.M.

  “Can you stop it?” Senator Gorman asked.

  In the back office, the others all gathered around Painter and the warhead on the floor, even Karlsen. He looked as sick as anyone. This must not have been his play. Especially since he was trapped with them. Painter did not have time to contemplate the significance of that.

  Instead, he faced the others. “I need someone to run and check on the condition of the upper tunnel,” he said calmly and firmly. “Have we caved in? Is there a way out? And I need a maintenance engineer ASAP.”

  Two of Boutha’s men nodded and ran back out, all too happy to flee away from the warhead.

  “Can you defuse it?” Karlsen asked.

  “Is it nuclear?” Gorman followed up.

  “No,” Painter answered both of them. “It’s a thermobaric warhead. Worse than a nuclear weapon.”

  They might as well hear it straight. The warhead was a form of fuel-air explosive. The casing was filled with a fluorinated aluminum powder with a PBXN-112 detonation charge buried in the center.

  “It’s the ultimate bunker-buster,” Painter explained as he studied the device. Talking helped him to concentrate. “It’s a two-stage explosion. First, detonation casts a massive cloud of fine aerosol. Enough to fill this entire tunnel. Then the powder ignites in a burning flash. This creates a pressure wave that crushes everything in its path, using up all the oxygen at the same time. So you can die four ways. Blown up, crushed, burned, or suffocated.”

  Ignoring the gasps around him, Painter focused on the detonator. His expertise wasn’t in munitions but in electronics. It didn’t take him long to recognize the tangle of lead, ground, and dummy wires. Cut the wrong one, change the voltage, trigger a shock … there were a thousand ways for it to blow up in your face and only one way to stop it.

  A code.

  Unfortunately, Painter didn’t know it.

  This wasn’t like the movies. There was no bomb expert to defuse it at the last second. No clever ploy to implement, like freezing the warhead with liquid nitrogen. That was all cinematic crap.

  He looked at the clock.

  In less than eight minutes, the warhead was going to blow.

  The pounding of feet alerted them to the early return of a runner.

  “No cave-in,” the man gasped out. “Ran into one of the soldiers coming back down. Outer blast door held. He opened it. It’s just a wall of ice out there. We’re buried. So thick, he said, you can’t see any daylight through it.”

  Painter nodded. The strategy made sense. The vault had been engineered to withstand a nuclear strike. If 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?