The 5 Greatest Warriors

by Matthew Reilly

  Every now and then, however, low horizontal cross-tunnels would link the vertical shafts to others—but always leaving a further section of vertical darkness below the cross-tunnel: creating hardwalled pits from which unwary tomb robbers could not escape, unless they had ropes going back up to the upper levels.

  Wizard marvelled at the engineering of it all. ‘The false roof, tile iron plating, the pits. Genghis didn’t want anyone finding this place, or if they did find it, getting out of it alive.’

  Some of the cross-tunnels, Jack noted, were filled with rubble and dust. By the look of it, Wolf’s people had had to jackhammer through rubble that had blocked up the tunnels. That would have taken time.

  Arriving last on this occasion, Jack figured, had actually been beneficial: for a change, his predecessors had done the time-consuming guesswork and gruntwork for him.

  Ropes hanging from A-frames revealed the shafts Wolf had taken successfully and the occasional row of glowsticks showed the correct horizontal cross-tunnel to follow.

  It made for an unusually quick descent through the trap system.

  And so after twenty minutes of roping and crab-crawling through the dark network of shafts and cross-tunnels, Jack, Lily, Wizard and Zoe arrived at a final tunnel: one that was not only filled with dust and rubble, but which also contained the three industrial jackhammers that had created the mess.

  This final tunnel ended at an ornate iron doorway where two more American corpses lay in pools of—

  A sudden explosion.

  Short and sharp.

  Jack snapped up.

  It had come from beyond the iron doorway.

  Then he heard a voice—Wolf’s voice—yelling, ‘You fucking suicidal bastards—!’

  Jack raced through the doorway.

  THE SECRET ARSENAL OF GENOHIS KHAN

  MONGOLIA, 0700 HOURS

  ONE HOUR EARLIER

  Sixty minutes earlier, stepping through the same doorway Jack now stood in, Wolf had gazed in grim satisfaction at the sight.

  After spending nine hours painfully navigating his way through the vertical shaft system—doubling back at dead-ends; using jackhammers to cut through the densely-packed rubble that filled several of the cross-tunnels—he had finally arrived at the Great Khan’s fabled arsenal.

  It was set in the middle of a glorious man-made cave hewn out of the earth beneath the crater.

  And what a cave it was.

  Black iron columns supported a high ceiling, while deep manmade ravines cut across the floor, forming an irregular network of moats that were spanned by narrow stone bridges.

  The only problem, every single one of the stone bridges had been destroyed—there were gaping voids in their middles, preventing access to the centrepiece of the cave:

  The Arsenal.

  A box-shaped garage-sized structure made of dense black iron, it looked like a colossal Chubb safe.

  It was set atop a high pinnacle of rock so that it stood thirty feet above the rest of the vast room, encircled by the widest ravine of all. Four stepped bridges swooped up toward it in an X-formation, spanning this moat—but like all the other bridges in this cave, they had been broken in the middle. Entranced, Wolf looked down into the moat.

  Hundreds of thousands of human bones lay at its base, two hundred feet below him. The moat’s walls, he noticed, were clad in smooth cast-iron, just like the vertical shafts. Once you fell in, you couldn’t climb out.

  ‘Sacrificial victims?’ Rapier asked, arriving at Wolf’s side.

  ‘No. The bones of the Kwarezmi slaves who built this place. Twenty-five thousand of them. When it was finished, they probably just threw the slaves into the moat and shut them inside, leaving those who didn’t die from the fall to starve in the darkness and kill and eat each other.’

  He turned to his son and shrugged. ‘It’s never good to he on the losing side in a war, but back then it was really fucking bad. Come on.’

  Lightweight bridging planks were laid over the destroyed ancient bridges, allowing Wolf to cross the ravine network and arrive at the south-west step-bridge leading up to the Arsenal.

  As this was being done, he keyed his radio. ‘Guard teams, report.’

  ‘Sir. This is Surface Team, with the vehicles. All clear up here. The only thing on our scopes is our Chinese back-up coming from their base over the border.’

  ‘Sir. This is Tower Team, at the suspension bridge. All clear.’

  A special bridging plank with footholds was set over the step- bridge leading up to the Arsenal, spanning the gap in its middle.

  When it was in place and tested, Wolf paused, gazing up at the squat black structure sitting on its rock-tower above him.

  He nodded, pleased.

  Then he strode up the bridging plank, crossing the wide central moat, and became the first man in over seven hundred years to enter the Lost Arsenal of Genghis Khan.

  ***

  Holding an amber glowstick above his head, he entered a compact, black-walled room.

  Treasures and trophies lined the walls in large unruly piles: crowns of gold, glittering jewels; goblets and chalices; swords and shields; bronze helmets and greaves.

  It was plunder taken from vanquished kings and defeated armies, the colossal booty of wars waged by one of the greatest warriors of all time.

  But it was the object taking pride of place in the very centre of the room that seized Wolf’s attention.

  There stood a magnificent stone altar, carved from a single block of black marble. Deeply etched symbols covered it, all of them painted gold. In and of itself, this altar was an artefact beyond value, but here it was merely a pedestal for what sat proudly on top of it.

  Sitting upright in a howl-shaped indentation on top of the altar was a large egg-like object the size of a football.

  No, Wolf corrected himself.

  Not egg-like. It was an actual egg.

  A petrified dinosaur Egg.

  Illuminating it with his glowstick, Wolf beheld fine carvings and drawings on its curved glass-like outer shell. Carvings in the Word of Thoth, and gorgeous drawings of landscapes and coastlines, mountains and waterfalls.

  The drawings reminded Wolf of medieval Japanese art: they were surprisingly lifelike, with strong lines and three-dimensional depth, and Wolf suddenly realised that maybe medieval Japanese art owed a lot to the discovery of this Egg by the Shogun.

  Like his first-horn son, Jack West Sr could still he awed by discoveries such as this. His wide eyes and sweat-covered face glistened in the light of his glowstick as he gazed upon the marvellous Egg.

  Then Wolf saw two images on the Egg that made him start: some pyramidal rock formations in a desert, which he recognised as the pyramid-shaped rock islands at Abu Simbel in Egypt; and a great flat—topped mountain overlooking a bushy coastline that could only be Table Mountain in Cape Town.

  ‘The first two Vertices . . . ’ he breathed. He also saw four other landscapes on the Egg—showing the locations of the remaining four Vertices.

  ‘Jesus, this thing really is the mother lode. Rapier! Get the cameras and that laser scanner over here and scan this room now!’

  Rapier arrived a minute later, carrying a digital camera and the laser scanner. With him was Dr Felix Bonaventura, Wolf’s archaeological advisor from M.I.T., who along with Max Epper was one of the world’s leading experts on the lore of the Machine.

  Bonaventura gazed in awe at the Egg through his round wire- rimmed glasses. ‘Abu Simbel and Cape Town. This thing would have been very useful last year.’

  ‘No shit. Photos and scans of the room, with everything in place, then take everything,’ Wolf said, stepping away, lifting his radio to his lips. ‘Guard teams, report.’

  There was a crackle over his radio.

  No reply.

  Wolf frowned. ‘Guard Teams. Report.’

  Still no reply.

  ‘What the . . . ’

  Shwap!

  The head of the CIEF trooper standing in the doorway
next to Wolf exploded. The man fell like a rag doll, dropping to the floor.

  Shwap-shwap-shwap-shwap-shwap!

  A volley of silenced automatic gunfire assaulted the cast-iron structure around Wolf, pinging off it, kicking up a thousand sparks. Two more of his men fell, riddled with bullets.

  Wolf dived to the ground, ducking behind the doorframe.

  Beside him, Rapier quickly drew a SIG Sauer, only to have it shot clear out of his hand, the bullet narrowly missing his fingers.

  Losing the gun probably saved his life. The CIEF trooper beside him raised his rifle to fire, just as two black-clad figures appeared in the doorway of the Arsenal bearing silenced Steyr-AUG assault rifles. They blasted the trooper to kingdom come, but merely covered the weaponless Rapier, Wolf and Bonaventura.

  This in itself said something to Wolf: these men were disciplined enough to distinguish between threats and non-threats in the heat of combat.

  As they entered the chamber with measured strides and guns up, Wolf got a better look at his two attackers: they were dressed completely in black combat gear, including hockey helmets and black jawguards that concealed their mouths. Glock pistols and steel throwing stars lined their belts, while compact but lethal crossbows were fastened to their wristguards. Only their eyes were visible: and they were deadly eyes.

  Japanese eyes.

  The Steyrs, the jawguards, the ninja stars on their belts and the crossbows on their wristguards all betrayed them as members of the Japanese Defence Force’s crack 1st Airborne Brigade: special forces troops, modern ninja.

  An older Japanese man entered the chamber behind the two lead assassins, and Wolf recognised him instantly.

  ‘Tank Tanaka,’ he said.

  Tank Tanaka hardly even glanced at the glittering treasure trove around him.

  ‘Their scanner and hard drive,’ he said to one of his men. ‘Destroy them.’

  The scanner and its drive were promptly shot to shit.

  ‘The digital camera, too,’ Tank said, seeing the camera that Bonaventura had been trying to hide.

  It was seized and blasted to a million pieces as well. Bonaventura winced.

  Tank then stood before the magnificent ancient Egg on the stone altar, assessing it.

  ‘It really is quite beautiful,’ he said. ‘And filled with so much knowledge.’

  Then, with a triumphant glance at Wolf, he attached a small explosive device to the top of the Egg and flicked the detonate switch on it.

  He stepped back. ‘Feel free to watch, Colonel West, the explosive is not a large one. Although watch out for shards.’

  The device on the Egg issued a shrill beep. Then—

  —bam! —

  The blast was short and sharp. In a momentary flash the Egg just disappeared, blasting outward in a million glassy fragments that sprayed across the chamber, slamming into every wall before tinkling to the floor.

  The Egg, fashioned by an advanced ancient civilisation, with all its priceless world-saving information, was no more.

  ‘You fucking suicidal bastards—!’ Wolf yelled.

  Tank wan unmoved. ‘Honour is a far more pure motivation than greed, Colonel. It motivated that young man we slipped into your unit.’

  ‘Who was last seen screaming all the way to his death,’ Wolf spat.

  ‘It motivates the entire nation of Japan,’ Tank said. ‘We know about the Third Vertex on the Hokkaido coast. We have known about it for centuries. It is sacred to our people, the most holy place in our country. A blockade of Japanese naval vessels guards it as I speak. You will not enter the Third Vertex, let alone find the Third Pillar inside it.’

  ‘Are you gonna kill me or what?’ Wolf said.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Tank said, whipping up a pistol and firing it in one swift fluid movement.

  Blam!

  Wolf was hit square in the chest and he went flying backwards, arms and legs flailing. He crashed into a collection of golden chalices and urns, and lay still on the floor of the Arsenal.

  Rapier roared in protest, only to find himself staring down the barrel of Tank’s gun and—

  ‘Yobu, what are you doing?’ A soft voice broke the moment.

  Tank spun—startled at hearing his real name—to see a very unlikely figure standing in the doorway behind him.

  Wizard.

  Beside Wizard stood Jack West Jr, with an MP-7 in his hands, covering the two Japanese special forces troopers in the Arsenal with Tank. The other two ninjas who had escorted Tank down here lay unconscious on the stairs immediately outside the Arsenal, immobilised by Jack. When Rapier saw Jack—alive—his eyes sprang wide.

  ‘Max?’ Tank said.

  ‘Where’s the Egg, Yobu?’

  ‘It is no more. I destroyed it.’

  ‘Destroyed it? No . . . ’

  ‘I’m sorry I never told you my true purpose for studying the Machine with you, Max.’

  ‘And I’m sorry I never saw the hate in you, Yobu.’

  ‘We fight on different sides now, my old friend.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m your friend anymore.’

  Jack whispered to Wizard: ‘If the Egg’s cactus, we don’t need to be here. We’ve got half the Chinese Army closing in. We have to go...’

  Wizard scanned the Arsenal, and seemed to see something. ‘Not just yet—’

  He never finished the sentence.

  Because at that moment, Tank yanked a grenade from his belt and pulled the pin, holding the grenade above his head and yelling, ‘Banzai!’—

  —at the very same instant that Wolf rose from the ground behind him, his eyes deadly, a black Kevlar vest visible beneath the ragged bullet hole in his jacket, and his own SIG Sauer now gripped in his hands.

  He came up firing, taking out the greatest danger first: the two Japanese ninja troopers. Both men dropped, each taking a hit in the forehead, their faces bursting with blood.

  His stream of gunfire never stopping, Wolf turned his gun on Tank and hit him in the back three times, causing Tank to fall to his knees . . . and drop the live grenade.

  The grenade bounced to the floor with several dull clunks, rolling wildly.

  Jack saw it.

  Wolf saw it.

  Rapier saw it.

  And then, in the confined space of the ancient Arsenal, the grenade went off.

  The blast rocked the chamber—a concussion wave shook its wills—and a cloud of smoke shot out its doorway.

  As the grenade detonated, Jack pushed Wizard out the door before he scooped up an ancient cast-iron Mongol shield leaning against the doorframe and whipped it up between himself and the fiery cloud that came rushing at him.

  The force of the blastcloud sent him and the shield rolling back out the doorway, and in a distant corner of his mind, he was glad he’d decided to leave Lily back at the entrance to the cave with Zoe.

  Inside the Arsenal, Wolf and Rapier leapt behind the marble altar that until today had held the fabulous Egg, also avoiding the deadly blast. Their comrade, Felix Bonaventura, seeing them move, ducked behind an ancient studded trunk and covered his head.

  In the end, it was Tank himself who took the brunt of the grenade’s force. He was flung into the cast-iron wall closest to him and hit it with terrible violence. He slumped to the ground, still.

  Small fires burned in the corners of the chamber as Wolf and Rapier stood, arming themselves with the dead Japanese troopers’ weapons.

  ‘Still got your camera?’ Wolf called to Rapier.

  ‘Got it!’ Rapier held up a second digital camera, a basic Sony model, one that Tank had not seen.

  ‘How many shots of that Egg did you get?’ Wolf asked.

  ‘Six or seven. Got every side.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ Wolf said. ‘Felix! Get up! Time to get out of here!’

  ***

  Still lying flat on his back on the stone steps just outside the Arsenal, Jack could see Wolf and Rapier scooping up the Japanese men’s Steyr rifles.

  He had to think fas
t.

  Wolf and Rapier versus him and Wizard was a totally unfair fight.

  And when you can’t fight, you run.