Skully and his team geared up by donning domed helmets with a formation of gadgetry marching up one side and down the other, along with an attached assemblage of NVG goggles and thermal ware. Their faceplates were a convexity of opaque plastic, and their ensembles were completely 'Robocop' with specially designed composite shin and forearm guards. On their shoulders were unit patches of a grinning skull and eye patch with two machetes crisscrossing beneath it. It was the insignia of the Force Elite, the president's wetwork team operating strictly for the good of the Fedreration.

Skully was surrounded by his four-man team: Funboy, Meade, Juggler, and Tin Man; all soldiers with amazing skill sets, especially in the art of killing.

"Listen up, people," he said, holding his assault weapon. "You've all been briefed, so you know what's going on and where we're headed. Since communication with Mausoleum Twenty Sixty-Nine is non-existent, we can only assume that the news is not good. Our mission is to go in and secure the president. Saving his life is optimum. Everyone else is expendable. Is that absolutely clear?"

It was.

Skully then went to a tabletop projector that transmitted a rotating holographic image of Mausoleum 2069 above it, the schematic giving everyone a 360 view of its exterior and interior design through geometric lines.

"As you can see by this model," he pointed to the base of the mausoleum, "the docking area is located near the bottom of the ship with a compartment underneath it for the management of the geospheres, which we now believe are no longer functioning since the mausoleum is drifting. So time is not a luxury." He then hit a button with a quick jab of his finger, stopped the image's rotation, then pointed to the ship's right side. "This is the docking area for Air Force Six. It's located at the starboard side. The portside is vacant, but small. It is, however, large enough to hold a Winged Banshee." A Winged Banshee was a triangular-shaped craft reminiscent of old-time Stealth fighters. Its capabilities had been modified to travel into space beyond the low-level strata. Its fallback, however, was minimal interior space since the ship's hold held a maximum of six people. That would be the five team members and the president. Everyone else was damned.

"Since the ship's system is down, we'll have to do a spacewalk and open it manually. It'll be a risky procedure since the mausoleum is drifting, but it can be done. Tin Man, that'll be your assignment."

Tin Man nodded. "Yeah, boss."

"Once the portside door is open, the pilot will navigate the Banshee inside the ship's bay, another risky process. But again, it can be done, and I have every bit of confidence in my team to see this happen. We'll get it done."

In chorus: "Hoorah!"

"Once the door has been secured, then we'll head to the ship's starboard side where Air Force Six sits. Our heads are to be on a swivel at all times, people. I want to make sure that we all come home tonight."

"Hoorah!"

"I want you to police and sanitize the entire level that's housing Air Force Six. I want the entire area sanitized before we move to the upper levels. The last thing I want is for someone we may have missed during the sweep to come back at us from behind. I don't like surprises."

"How many levels are we talking about?" asked Meade, a hard-looking marine with deep lines and angular features.

Skully pointed to the top of the holographic schematic. "The Observation Bay, where the president was last reported, is on the eighteenth level."

"You're talking eighteen flights?"

"Is that too much for you to handle, Corporal Meade?"

"No, sir."

"Then listen up." Skully pointed out the mausoleum's vertical length. "We'll be going in blind for the most part. We don't know who these people are or where they've come from, but we can confidently assume that they're there to dispose of the president."

"How many?" asked Funboy.

Skully nodded. "Unsure. But we are getting biological readings of life forms onboard, but not whole a lot. Why only a minimal number is showing up, we don't know. So we'll have to use eyes and ears. One team will sweep from bow to stern, the other from stern to bow, with the units converging and taking out everything in between. We will sweep through the corridors one level at a time, people, working our way up. The entire operation should take no more than forty-five minutes. That's enough time to secure the asset and make our way back to the Banshee. And let me make one thing clear. We're interested in one primary package. And that's the president. Everyone else is immaterial. There's only room for one on the Winged Banshee, and I expect the rest of us to be onboard. Questions?"

"I got one," said Funboy. He was chewing on a stick of synthetic gum.

"Go ahead."

"You said that Air Force Six was confirmed to be in the starboard bay."

"That's right."

"You also said that the Portside Bay was vacant."

"I did."

"Are there any other docking bays on Mausoleum Twenty Sixty-Nine?" He looked at the holographic schematic. "Because I don't see one."

"That's because there isn't any."

"Well, if that's the case, then answer me this. If Air Force Six is onboard and there's no other ship inside, then how did these insurgents get onboard?"

Skully nodded. "That's a good question," he returned evenly. "But the truth is, I have no idea."

None whatsoever.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Eriq Wyman took the lead when they got off the elevator and immediately headed for the comm center. The hallways were clear as everyone had rushed through the low-ceilinged corridors where the seams of tubing continuously hissed and bled steam to relieve conduit pressures within the pipes.

Then Eriq's heart lurched to his throat. The comm center door had been clearly smashed free from its hinges. The door was laying as a crumpled and folded mass across the room with fist-sized dents on what used to be a smooth surface of metal one-inch thick.

"What the Hell," he whispered incredulously, standing in the doorframe.

"What is it?" asked President Michelin. "What do you see?"

Eriq took a step inside the comm center. Sheena was close behind him.

The area smelled of copper, and the walls were streaked with blood and laden with gore.

"Oh my God," someone murmured.

Eriq thought it was John Eldridge, but wasn't quite sure.

Then Sheena Tolbert screamed.

John Schott sat idle against the computer podium with his arms wrapped around his legs after bringing his knees up in acute angles. The banging against the door had stopped about fifteen minutes ago, the silence almost as terrifying as the pounding since he didn't know what was behind the door, if anything.

His mind toiled with a sense of confusion, the world suddenly surreal.

He had seen faces that were livid and pale, faces of those long dead. They cried out to him, they wanted him-the pounding on the door being a testament to that.

Swallowing a sour lump that had cropped up into his throat, Schott got to his feet.

And listened.

It was obscenely quiet.

Then he turned and booted the computer and hit the viewing stations outside the bay's door. There were multiple views from multiple cameras, everything was steeped in red shadows, but the area was clear.

He zoomed in, panned to the left, and then to the right.