He quickly got to his feet, rebooted the computer, and switched on the exterior camera. The Winged Banshee sat there as if determining its next option with the front of the ship facing the mausoleum's portside, the Banshee continuing to float with the course of the mausoleum's drift from a safe distance.

Schott then began to type in a program into the computer, which took seconds, struck the 'ENTER' button on the keypad, thanked God thoroughly for salvation, and waited.

Skully pushed his way through the cockpit door. The pilot's area was small and cramped, hardly enough room to seat two. "What the Hell happened?" he asked. He could see Tin Man adrift in space. If it wasn't for the cord that bound him to the ship, his body would have floated off into oblivion.

"He's gone," the pilot said, pointing to the monitor that reflected vital signs, which were at zero. "The mausoleum shifted, striking Tin Man and shattering his face mask."

"Options?"

"Unless you want to make a second run doing the same thing with possibly the same consequences, then this is the only way in. Through the portside. But the variable of attempting to board a ship that's adrift is completely unpredictable. So to answer your question, we'd have to make another attempt. Question is, who's going to do it?"

"Are you confident in your abilities to get close and stay there?"

"It's not my abilities that I'm worried about. It's the mausoleum's unstable shifts. If that hull hits the Banshee, we're dead. Simple as that. We're dead. I was lucky the first time. Who's to say that I'll be just as lucky the second time?"

"I don't think we have a choice, do we?"

The pilot remained quiet.

"I'll suit up," Skully told him.

But Skully wouldn't have to suit up.

The bay door was opening, slowly, giving entrance to a maw that was blacker than black.

"Well," said Skully. "It appears that we have a friend on the inside."

"Or enemies trying to draw flies to the honey."

The pilot redirected the Banshee, then advanced forward with Tin Man still anchored to the ship.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Eriq had led the team to the freight elevator without any contest from the dead, but at the doors, he held them up.

"What's the problem now, Mr. Wyman?" asked Michelin.

He shook his head. When he was an elite soldier he was driven mainly by instinct and gut feeling. This was too easy. And he told them so. "Something's not right," he stated with an air of caution. "It just can't be this simple."

"Mr. Wyman, we're seventeen flights up. Seventeen flights down sits Air Force Six, our way of getting out of this god-forsaken place. We can be down there within seconds at the touch of a button."

"We can also be dead," he told him. "I'm just saying that we need to use good judgment and prudence."

"By wasting time when time is not a luxury. I don't think so." Without anything further to add, President Michelin took it upon himself by depressing the button with his thumb.

The elevator began to whir, and then rise to their level.

Michelin held up his thumb as if it was something magical. "Simple," he said.

But Eriq disagreed. You fool!

It had taken time for the creature encased inside a walled tomb to kick its way out.

At first the wall cover held. Then over time, cracks and fissures appeared along the stone plate, the lines dividing the characters of letters inscribed upon it.

Loving Mother of Sheena In time, the marble plated memorial broke with pieces flying everywhere, the letters scattering about the floor like pieces of a puzzle. The words Loving Mother of Sheena were no longer legible, but cryptic.

Then it worked its way free and took to the hallway, looking up, then down, to its left, and then to its right, the thing trying to get a fix.

When it tried to walk it did so like a baby taking its first steps, choppy and unsteady. But in time it found its footing and its agility, quickly becoming sure and stable. As it ambled about it kicked the broken pieces of marble regarding its epitaph, the pieces skating away. But as soon as the broken bits settled, it looked at them inquisitively as if the scattered tiles and lettering meant something.

Lov ing Mother of Shee na But it couldn't quite make the connection.

It moved along the corridor joining others of its kind-quick, fast, and hungry. There were scores of them leaping and moving about, all of them moaning and speaking in whispers.

And then it closed its milk-covered eyes and sniffed the air, allowing its olfactory senses to manipulate its actions on a purely instinctive level, and to analyze pheromones.

It had taken in the scents of the dead and the rotting, but it had also taken in something that distinguished itself from those unlike it.

It had picked up the smell of living tissue, something delectable to its palate. Something it needed.

But there was something else, something forbidden. It was a recognizable scent.