![]() ![]() She curled her gloved finger inside the webbing, tugging on it to determine if any play might cause the bomb to slip out. On top was a rectangular box that held a digital display, currently off, as well as a keypad and keyhole. She inspected the steel and titanium webbing and six pitons that secured the one-hundred kiloton W70 to the rock face, a brushed metal gray bomb shaped like a sideways ice cream cone. Red rivers of lava flowed below her and her colleague, Arjun Patel. Helens’ crater vented around her tentative perch on this fourteen-inch ledge. Steam from the interior walls of Mount St. One hundred and ten feet down was as far into the volcano’s crater as she could climb. The suit would protect her for thirty minutes at 1,093 degrees Celsius, but the rope that secured Evie to the rock face would undoubtedly melt before she did. The digital thermometer strapped to her aluminum sleeve read 209 degrees Celsius. Sweat cascaded down her face, arms, chest, back, and legs, filling her silvery heat protection suit’s boots with a salty ocean. Evie Harding’s hand shook as it hovered over the atomic bomb’s detonation button.
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