Motors sounded, chugging and echoing, and an inner metal sleeve lowered from the ceiling, encased in a clockwork of gears. It dropped into the larger outer shell. At the same time, a neighboring yellow tank opened a gasket and a stream of purplish metallic liquid flowed into the heart of the Bell.
Lubricant? Fuel source?
Gray had no idea, but he noted the numbers stamped on the side of the tank: 525. It was the mysterious Xerum.
"Raise the blast shield," Baldric ordered. He had to yell to be heard above the clanking gears of the motor assembly. He motioned to the floor with his cane.
The level here was covered by the same gray tile, except for a dull black circular section, thirty yards across, surrounding the Bell. A raised border edged it, a foot thick, like the ring in a circus. The ceiling above was a mirror of the floor, except the roof had an indented border.
It was all lead.
Gray realized the outer floor ring must rise on pistons and insert into the ceiling, forming an entire cylinder locked around the Bell.
"What's wrong?" Baldric yelled again, turning to Isaak at his station.
Isaak toggled a switch back and forth. "We're getting no power to the blast shield motors!"
Gray glanced to his toes. The motors must be on the level below. The darkened level. A phone rang inside the room, chiming stridently, competing with the motors. Gray could guess who was calling. Security had finally discovered where the masters of the house were hidden.
Time to go.
Gray straightened and turned.
A pipe swung down and struck his wrist, knocking the pistol from his hand. The wielder swung at his head. Gray barely ducked in time.
Ischke stalked toward him. Behind her, the doors to the darkened elevator stood open, pried apart. The woman must have been trapped in the elevator when the power went out, then climbed down here. Masked by the noise from the Bell's motors, Gray had not heard the doors being pried open behind him.
Ischke raised her pipe, plainly skilled in the art of staff fighting.
Gray fixed his eyes on her and retreated into the Bell's chamber. He refused to glance toward the fire stairs. He prayed Marcia had already left, was en route to reach the shortwave radio and raise the alarm in Washington.
Ischke, her clothes stained with oil, her face smudged, followed Gray inside the Bell chamber.
Baldric spoke behind Gray. "Wat is dit?'tX seems little Ischke has trapped the mouse who has chewed through the wiring."
Gray turned.
Unarmed. Out of options.
"Generators are coming back online," Isaak said, his manner bored, unimpressed by the intrusion.
A grind of motors rumbled under Gray's feet. The blast shield began to rise from the floor.
"Now to exterminate the other rats," Baldric said.
2:45 p.m.
Monk yelled to be heard over the helicopter's rotors. Sand and dust swirled around them in the rotor wash's whirlwind. "You know how to fly this bird?"
Gunther nodded, grabbing the chopper's stick.
Monk clapped the large man on the shoulder. He would have to trust the Nazi. Monk could not fly the bird himself, not one-handed. Still, with the giant's allegiance now centered on his sister's survival, Monk thought it was a safe bet.
Anna sat in the back with Lisa. Painter slumped between them, head hanging. He had only been lightly sedated. Painter mumbled occasionally, nonsensically, warning about some impending sandstorm, lost in past fears.
Ducking his head under the blades, Monk circled around the helicopter. On the far side, Khamisi stood beside Mosi D'Gana, the Zulu chieftain. They clasped each other's forearms.
Mosi had shed his ceremonial gear and now wore khaki fatigues, cap, and an automatic rifle over one shoulder. A bolstered pistol hung from a black belt. But he had not totally abandoned his heritage. A short spear with a wicked blade was strapped to his back.
"You have the command," Mosi said formally to Khamisi as Monk approached.
"My honor, sir."
Mosi nodded and let go of Khamisi's arm. "I've heard good things about you, Fat Boy."
Monk joined them. Fat Boy?
Khamisi's eyes widened, a mix of shame and honor shining in them. He nodded back and stepped away. Mosi climbed into the helicopter. He would be joining the first-wave assault. Monk had no choice. He owed the chieftain.
Khamisi crossed to Paula Kane. The pair would be coordinating the ground assault.
Monk searched beyond the swirling plume of sand and dust. The forces had gathered quickly, coming in on foot, on horseback, on rusted motorcycles and beat-up trucks. Mosi had spread the word. And like his great ancestor Shaka Zulu, he gathered an army. Men and women. In traditional pelts, in worn fatigues, in Levi's. And more were still coming.
It would be up to them to keep the Waalenberg army occupied, to secure the estate if possible. How would the Zulus fare against the superiorly armed and experienced security forces of the estate? Would it be Bloody River all over again?
There was only one way to find out.
Monk pulled himself into the crowded rear compartment. Mosi settled into a seat next to Major Brooks. They sat on the bench facing Anna, Lisa, and Painter. One other newcomer, a half-naked Zulu warrior named Tau, was also strapped in the back. He half twisted to keep a short spear thrust at the throat of the chopper's copilot.
Head Warden Gerald Kellogg sat next to Gunther, bound and gagged. One eye was swollen and purpling.
Monk tapped Gunther on the shoulder, and waved a finger to get the bird in the air. With a nod of acknowledgment, Gunther pulled on the collective, and the chopper leaped into the air with a roar of the engines.
The ground dropped away. The estate stretched out ahead of them. Monk had been informed that the estate was equipped with surface-to-air missiles. Weaponless, the slow-moving commercial chopper would be a flying bull's-eye.
That would not be good.
Monk leaned forward.
"Time to earn your keep, warden."
Monk grinned wickedly. He knew it was not a pretty sight, but it came in handy now.
Kellogg blanched.
Satisfied, Monk reached forward and lifted the radio's mouthpiece to the warden's lips. "Connect us to the security band."
Khamisi had already obtained the codes. Hence Kellogg's black eye.
"Stick to the script," Monk warned, still grinning.
Kellogg leaned a bit farther away.
Was his smile really that awful?
To reinforce the threat, Tau pressed the point of his spear into the soft flesh of the man's neck.
Static squelched from the radio, and Kellogg passed on the message as instructed. "We've recaptured one of your prisoners," the warden told base security. "Monk Kokkalis. We're flying him over to the rooftop helipad."