The Doomsday Key (Sigma Force 6)

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?

A pair of gunshots echoed, coming from the lower mountain. Monk could no longer see the trundling force of mercenaries, but they were still coming, still cleaning house.

If anyone had survived that underground blast, they wouldn’t be alive for long.

Monk had only one choice.

It took Creed’s help, but he finally convinced the Norwegians.

1:21 P.M.

As the rumble grew and the ice shook, Painter prayed the avalanche wouldn’t be a large one. But the rumbling grew in volume.

Then, out of the blanket of snow and wind, a Sno-Cat shot into view, rising up from below. It did not slow and sped straight at them.

“Get back!” Painter yelled.

He shoved Gorman away from the doorway, then grabbed Karlsen by the hood of his parka and flung them both bodily away from the wall of ice.

And not a second too soon.

The heavy vehicle struck the blocked doorway. Its front treads rode up the ice wall. The bumper cracked into the top half of the doorway. Ice blocks shattered into the tunnel and slid away.

The Sno-Cat backed up, likely readying itself for a second run.

Painter dashed forward. The bumper had broken a hole large enough for Painter to slide his body through. Diving into the jagged gap, he clawed and elbowed his way through the door.

The Sno-Cat suddenly halted its retreat.

The passenger door popped open. A familiar figure leaned out.

“Director Crowe?” Monk said, his face raw with relief.

“Monk…you are a sight for sore eyes.” And Painter’s eyes were sore—bloodshot and inflamed.

“I get that a lot,” Monk said. “But we should get moving.”

Painter turned. Karlsen clambered out of the hole, followed by the senator. “There are more people locked up down below.”

“And that’s where they should stay.” Monk hopped out, reached back inside, and came out with an armload of rifles. “Can you shoot?” he asked the other two men.

Both Gorman and Karlsen nodded.

“Good, because we need as much firepower as we can muster.”

“Why?” Painter asked.

Before Monk could answer, the distant grumble of a heavy engine echoed out of the storm.

“We’ve got company coming.”

Painter joined Monk over at the Sno-Cat and took a rifle. He noted that the vehicle held only one man, a Norwegian soldier. He searched around.

“Where’s Creed?” Painter asked.

“Left with this soldier’s buddy on our snowmobiles. They’ve gone for help.”

Painter hoped they made it back in time with the cavalry. He assessed the group left to defend the fort.

One vehicle and four men.

The Alamo had better odds…and look how that turned out.

23

October 13, 1:32 P.M.

Bardsey Island, Wales

Rachel almost dropped Seichan when she saw Gray fall from his perch. He slid down the face of the cross and caught himself on the tri-spiral bas-relief that decorated the lower leg of the cross.

He scrambled for a moment, then laced his fingers over the top of the symbol sticking out. Would it hold his weight or break away?

The same worry must have crossed his mind. He kept his body from moving too much. His boots hung over a twenty-foot drop into a pit lined by spikes.

But Gray wasn’t the only one threatened.

Rachel slid across the upended side of the sarcophagus. “Hold my legs!” she shouted back to Wallace.

The professor shared her perch on the stone coffin. He clung as precariously as she did. He grabbed her ankles and helped stabilize her.

It gave Rachel some slight reassurance but not much.

She hung over the side of the sarcophagus. She had a grip on Seichan’s jacket. The woman who poisoned her clung with only her fingertips to the edge of the coffin.

Neither of them could hold out much longer.

A small quake shuddered through the chamber. The apparatus was ancient. Triggering it must have upset whatever fragile balance had been established over the centuries. She pictured the ruins of the tower above. It might all come down.