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!