The Arsenal

  CHAPTER ONE

  John Rourke opened his eyes but remained perfectly still. The sound he had heard —a footfall in the sitting room outside their bedroom? But more than that. As if something had bumped against a wall or piece of furni­ture. Instantly, but so slowly that if he were being watched it would be virtually imperceptible, his right hand started to drift from over his abdomen where it had lain as he awakened. A smile crossed his lips —"things that go bump in the night." Sometimes pleasant, some­times deadly.

  His relationship with Sarah had sometimes been very pleasant and was so again. In the days before their marriage had started having the problems that had almost but not quite split them apart forever, Sarah had joked with him often about how waking him up in the morning could be so difficult; yet, if there were the slightest out-of-the-ordinary night sound, he would come instantly awake, instantly alert.

  John Rourke told his wife that he didn't know why his mind and body worked that way, but was glad that they did; that perhaps it was some primordial response in the human subconscious that was only triggered by poten­tial danger. Predatory animals had it and man was a predator. Like the big cats that had once prowled the earth, man found himself a lair, a secure place to sleep, to nurture his young, to dial down but never turn off those instincts which kept him alive in the world outside.

  Sarah slept beside him now, on her back, her head turned to the side, facing toward him, her eyelids mov­ing once as he looked at her out of the far left edge of his peripheral vision. The light sheet which covered their bodies outlined the still comparatively slight engorge­ment of her breasts, the more noticeable enlargement of her abdomen. She was nearly through the first trimester of her pregnancy.

  He had never slept with a gun under his pillow with any degree of regularity for the simple fact that guns, no matter how small or how flat, were hard and contributed to a restless sleep. But he had developed the habit years ago of sleeping with a gun in instant reach of his hand, whether on a nightstand beside his bed, inside his sleep­ing bag or tucked into a shoe or boot beside him. His hand was still drifting. Slowly now, John Rourke moved his right hand and arm over the edge of the bed toward the leather sandals he had worn earlier in the evening after removing his combat boots. One of the twin stain­less Detonics .45s was resting just inside the right one and the distended fingers of his right hand touched at the worn surface of the black checkered rubber Pach-mayr grips.

  Even though the Chinese were exceedingly friendly, were in fact allies against the Soviet forces, this suite of rooms in the Chairman's formal residence was not The Retreat and so he had kept the little Detonics Combat Master chamber loaded as was its twin on the seat of the high fan-backed "Sidney Greenstreet" chair a few paces across the room. His right fist closed over the pistol and he kept his arm motionless for an instant longer.

  Another sound —this a footfall certainly.

  His right arm flexed and he drew the pistol up beside him, his right thumb over the short spur of the hammer, his fist closed tight around the butt. He coughed and rolled over slightly, manufacturing sound to mask the

  telltale clicking as he drew the little .45's hammer from rest to full cock. He moved his legs quickly now —out of the bed, onto his bare feet, the pistol in his right fist shifting into his left so he could keep the muzzle toward the open doorway connecting the bedroom to the sitting room just beyond.

  In two strides he was to the chair, his right fist closing over the butt of the second Detonics, his thumb drawing the hammer to full stand as he brought the muzzle up. He glanced at Sarah on the bed. If he awakened her, she might be in greater danger. And if his ears were playing tricks on his survival instincts, all the better reason not to arouse her —yet.

  He moved toward the door, naked still, no time to skin into his pants.

  Logic in such a situation as this dictated letting the intruder come to you. But if there were indeed an intruder or intruders, he could not let them come so close that Sarah and the baby in her womb would be in jeopardy.

  John Rourke stood at the doorway. He held his breath. He listened.

  He heard nothing. But he felt something without physically feeling it, the sixth sense so often spoken of almost fearfully, as if it were a touch of the unknown.

  He backed toward the bed in long, quick strides, realizing he must make logic fit the situation. Cocked and locked, he set the Detonics from his right fist beside his right knee as he slipped onto the bed, his right hand closing over Sarah's mouth, her eyes opening instantly as she inhaled. He touched the trigger finger of his left hand to his lips and she blinked her eyes wide to indicate that she understood. Slowly, he moved his hand away from her mouth. She started to sit up, looking at him quizzically in the semi-darkness. He nodded and leaned back, both pistols in his fists again as Sarah rose slowly

  and eased out from beneath the sheet. She moved nor­mally, not yet restricted by the baby. Her right hand moved to the bedside table and he could make out the Detonics-like shape of her Trapper Scorpion .45.

  Rourke eyed the doorway, then gestured toward the bathroom. His wife shook her head vigorously. He ges­tured toward the bathroom again and after an instant's hesitation, she nodded and, barefoot, her ankle-length nightgown gathered up in her left hand, her pistol in her right, started for the bathroom.

  John Rourke moved across the bedroom toward the chest of drawers. It was made of a type of metal that seemed reasonably heavy and cosmetically resembled wood. He crouched behind it, waiting. Before The Night of The War, when he had traveled considerably teaching survivalism and weapons training, he had spent many nights in hotel rooms across the world and continued the practice he had begun when he had gone on his first overseas assignment as what was euphemisti­cally called a "case officer" for the United States Central Intelligence Agency. Immediately upon entering a room, if for some reason he was forced to travel un­armed, find suitable objects within the room that could be utilized as impromptu weapons —a lamp cord gar-rote, a complimentary magazine or newspaper that could be rolled tightly and used as a thrusting imple­ment, an easily removed flush tank lid that could be. used as an effective bludgeon, however unwieldy. It would only need to be used once. But when he was armed, which had been most of the time, the first order of business, after the usual thing of checking locks, fire and emergency escape routes and the like, was to select the best defensive position the room afforded. And it would usually devolve to a dresser or chest of drawers. Hotel dressers were most often long and low, giving considera­ble material through which an enemy bullet would have

  10

  to travel before reaching him, slowing it down or deflect­ing it or, in the older hotels with the more solidly built furniture, perhaps stopping it entirely; and low enough to shoot over in order to return fire. There had been no such dresser in this bedroom, but the chest of drawers had seemed at least marginally adequate.

  His eyes were wide open in the gray light and he realized a possible tactical flaw, setting one of the pistols on the floor tiles beside him and reaching up slowly to the top of the dresser. He found his dark-lensed aviator style sunglasses and put them on, then took up the second pistol again.

  The luminosity of his black-faced Rolex Submariner glowed dully green.

  John Rourke waited.

  There was a loud thudding sound and in the same instant three men burst through the open doorway and into the room, dark clad, each of them armed with what looked like submachineguns or bullpup assault rifles, spotlights locked beneath them, flicking on, bathing the room in white light that would have momentarily blinded him if he hadn't thought of the sunglasses. They fired, the bullets from the automatic weapons in their hands ripping through the bed where only seconds be­fore Sarah had lain. The furthest away of
the three men in the room—John Rourke stabbed both twin Detonics pistols toward the man and fired, one round from each, slapping the man against the doorframe beside which he had been firing a split second earlier, his assault rifle still on full auto, spraying into the ceiling, the light secured beneath the gun dancing wildly. The second and third men started to turn toward Rourke now, but Rourke was already firing again, both pistols simultaneously, chunks of the ceiling raining down around them, the center man staggering back, the third man's body twist­ing right. Rourke had fired for the right side of the third

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  nan's body so the impact of the 185-grain jacketed hollow point would push man and muzzle in the opposite direction from him. The light from the third man's weapon illuminated the first man's face for an instant. Rourke fired each pistol again as the first man slumped on the floor, his weapon silent, the other two men still firing. Rourke's shots impacted the second man in the upper portion of the chest or in the thorax. And the rolling beams from the flashes mounted beneath the weapons and the clouds of dust from the plaster-like substance which had made up the ceiling surface made visibility even worse, all movement as if in slow motion, jerky, like something out of an old silent film. Rourke's hit hammered the third man through the doorway and into the room beyond.

  John Rourke was up, moving, three shots left in each pistol as he kicked the weapon away from the second man, sidestepped and impacted the heel of his left foot against the base of the man's nose. The first man was clearly dead, eyes wide as Rourke caught a glimpse of the face in the light from the second rifle as it skidded across the floor.

  Rourke stood beside the doorframe, listening. The third man had only one slug in him and might still be able to fire. Rourke thrust the pistol in his left fist through the doorway, not firing, but counting on attracting fire if the man were still capable of shooting.

  There was no response.

  Rourke dropped to his knees, a sticky wetness of Blood against his bare skin. He caught up the man whose nose he had broken, then driven up into the brain, beneath the armpits, hauling him near, then pushing him erect along the doorframe as Rourke him­self stood.

  It was too dark to see faces clearly, even guess at the uniforms beyond the fact that they were dark-colored.

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  Maybe too dark to tell a naked man from one who was clothed. Rourke threw the body through the doorway and there was gunfire, Rourke throwing himself through the doorway after the already dead man, his eyes finding the muzzle flashes and as he came out of the roll, both pistols firing. There was a scream, a blast of automatic weapons fire into the floor and the sound of a body falling.

  Two rounds remained in each of John Rourke's pis­tols.

  He moved across the floor on knees and elbows, the tiles cold against his skin, his right elbow finding the wall beside the doorway.

  Slowly, he raised to full height.

  "John?" It was Sarah calling but he didn't answer her.

  His right elbow flicked against the light switch and he threw himself toward where he remembered the couch to be, his left shoulder impacting it, his eyes tight shut for the instant the light came on, then opening as he rolled, squinted despite the dark lensed glasses.

  There was no gunfire.

  Both pistols preceded him from behind the couch.

  The third man lay dead on the floor, the second man dead a few feet away. Rourke looked toward the door­way, seeing the booted foot of the first man.

  It was a Russian boot, the kind issued to the KGB Elite Corps.

  "John!"

  "Stay where you are for a second —do it!" He walked toward the door between the suite and corridor, kicking away the third man's weapon. The door was part way open and he hit it with his right foot and it swung inward as he stepped back.

  No enemy in the hallway.

  A suicide assassination team. He could hear and as he removed his glasses now see Chinese guards running

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  from beyond the bend of the corridor toward the suite. Han, the Chinese Secret Service agent who had proven so valuable a man to his son and to himself, ran half-dressed at their lead. Rourke sagged back against the doorframe. The Russians had sent a suicide team into the First Chinese City —he and Sarah had been the targets.

  "It's all right, Sarah!" Rourke shouted. But it wasn't all right at all.

  And in the next instant she was beside him and taking his pistols from him so he could slip into a robe. Mi­chael. Annie. Paul. Natalia. "Here —stay with Han," Rourke rasped, his left fist closing over Sarah's pistol, almost ripping it from her hand, the web of his own hand interposed between the hammer and the frame in case the trigger should trip.

  His robe as yet untied, flying open, Rourke dodged into the corridor and sprinted down its length, Sarah screaming after him. "John!"

  "Michael and Annie!" And as he glanced back, Rourke saw her, barefoot, her nightgown bunched up to her knees. Sarah was running after him. But in his mind he saw the surreal blueness of another woman's eyes . . .

  The man was very tall and strongly built, the blond hair on his arms thick but little hair yet over his kidneys; but he was very young. Despite the fact of his youth, he might still prove an interesting match for the dogs.

  The torches flickered. The Mongols fell silent. Mao's face was impassive but the bright blackness in his deep-set eyes betrayed the mixture of emotions which flowed surely through him now: pain and pleasure intermin­gled with pleasure from pain.

  The man had been found wandering, wounded, and his wounds had been dressed and he had been given over

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  to Xaan-Chu. The man had revealed that he was a Russian ordinary soldier and that he had escaped fol­lowing a terrible battle and wandered until the warriors had come upon him. The Russian had recounted his fright at the first sight of the martial Oriental visages and when Xaan-Chu had relayed that portion of the Russian soldier's account it had precipitated much laughter, however subdued. The mercenary class were indeed, at times, appalling in their appearance, ferocity of look and demeanor, something they cultivated as assiduously as the Maidens of The Sun cultivated quiet­ness and civility and obedience; and, of course, their reflected radiance.

  The man had recounted many strange tales, won­drous if they were to be believed and amusing at the least. And the motivation for his garrulousness seemed transparently obvious: he had deemed it impossible to resist the will of Xaan-Chu, perhaps too desiring to make himself important and therefore of sufficient value to ensure that his miserable life would be prolonged.

  He could never have made himself that important.

  Among the soldier's stories had been one which had sounded most intriguing, however, and at once the least likely to contain even a grain of truth.

  It was the tale of two men who had been enemies for five centuries- Their battle, of heroic proportions as the Russian soldier had told it, had begun in the short era which spanned the period between the Great War of Nuclear Annihilation and The Firestorm. The two men had both survived. One had been Russian and the other, also a mongrel, had been American. They had fought many battles, these two, and finally they fought their last battle.

  That someone could have survived from the earlier period was hardly to be believed, but it made for a strange story. And the two characters in it —there were

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  other characters to be sure woven into the soldier's tale, but of lesser importance —were interesting in the ex­treme. One had been named Vladmir Karamatsov and the Russian soldier had referred to him as "The Hero Marshal." The name of the other one, who survived the final battle between them, had been John Rourke, called "Doctor"

  The self-proclaimed Russian soldier stood now beside the pit, his muscles rippling above and below the cover­ing he had been given for his genital's. Mao's eyes seemed unable to shift their gaze. The bandages were in place, still protecting the Russian's wounds. Yet, despite his imposing physique and the fact that he was a soldier and presuma
bly had the benefit of some training in proper conduct in the face of death and, added to that, recent battle experience, when Xaan-Chu approached him and invited him to jump into the pit, he puddled the ground between his legs and attempted to cling to Xaan-Chu, crying like a woman.

  But the Mongols moved forward at Xaan-Chu's sub­tle beckoning and with the butts of their rifles urged the Russian soldier to conduct himself in a more seemly fashion and hurtle his own body into the pit.

  His initial fears apparently were swallowed within the universal instinct for survival and he fought well, using a tactic few would use although it was the best tactic to be sure. He took up an old human femur and utilized it as a weapon against the dogs. He injured one of the dogs and then the others brought him down; and, too quickly, it was over.

  But such was increasingly often the case,

  How would this Doctor, John Rourke, have fared? It would make interesting diversion for the bored or the idle to ponder . . .

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  John Rourke's right fist was balled tight on the butt of his wife's pistol as he slowed his headlong lunge, nearing the bend in the corridor on the opposite end of the Chairman's residence. The run had taken four minutes as he had judged it mentally, no time to look at his wristwatch, barely time to close the robe about his waist. The gunfire had aroused the various government func­tionaries who were occupying suites of offices through­out the building, the offices located at the massive building's center, the residential suites on its edges. And there had been more Chinese guards as well, recogniz­ing him, following him to assist in whatever it was the nearly naked, pistol-wielding foreigner was busily has­tening toward. Rourke smiled at the thought. He won­dered if a man in a robe, carrying a pistol, running through the corridors of the pre-War White House would have been so trustingly received?

  He glanced behind him, signalling the guards to cease their running as well, a dozen of them under the leadership of a slightly built young officer drawing up behind him. Rourke held a finger to his lips in the universal signal for silence, then advanced the few paces to the bend in the corridor, beyond which the apart­ments respectively shared by Annie and her husband Paul and Michael and his mistress Marie Leaden were located. And the suite in which Natalia slept alone. Like the corridor on the far opposite end of the building, its mouth was set with a circular couch covered in blue brocade, ornamental flowering shrubs arranged sparsely and tastefully in hand painted, tight waisted vases of black and blue and red lacquer, each gold rimmed and bearing the image of a single flower or only a barren branch. The corridor was wide and high ceilinged and softly lit. And John Rourke stepped into it now, his wife's pistol in his fist. There had been no sign of Sarah who had pursued him for the first minute or so