Tom Clancy Line of Sight (A Jack Ryan Jr. Novel, Band 5) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

A little more than thirty years ago Tom Clancy was a Maryland insurance broker with a passion for naval history. Years before, he had been an English major at Baltimore's Loyola College and had always dreamed of writing a novel. His first effort, The Hunt for Red October—the first of the phenomenally successful Jack Ryan novels—sold briskly as a result of rave reviews, then catapulted onto the New York Times bestseller list after President Reagan pronounced it “the perfect yarn.” From that day forward, Clancy established himself as an undisputed master at blending exceptional realism and authenticity, intricate plotting, and razor-sharp suspense. He passed away in October 2013.

Mike Maden is the author of the critically acclaimed Drone series. He holds both a master's and Ph.D. in political science from the University of California at Davis, specializing in international relations and comparative politics. He has lectured and consulted on the topics of war and the Middle East, among others. Maden has served as a political consultant and campaign manager in state and national elections, and hosted his own local weekly radio show for a year.

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1

Seven Corners, Virginia

Dr. Guzman rubbed her tired eyes. She became a doctor to heal the sick, not to file endless reports. But here she was, typing away after hours.

Again.

No matter. It was the price she paid to run the free clinic for the poorest of the poor in the area, mostly immigrants.

She checked her watch. The delivery was late. As soon as it arrived, she'd finish up this last budget report and head home for some needed shut-eye.

A noise in the back room startled her. She glanced up from her laptop, listening.

Nothing.

Probably just the rats again, she told herself. Gross.

She made a mental note to pick up some more traps at Lowe's tomorrow on her way in.

She settled back down into her spreadsheet, her bleary eyes focused on the empty columns she still needed to fill with numbers. Her fingers froze.

She smelled the acrid tang of sweat and dope before she felt the blade against her throat.

The man stood behind her. Grabbed a fistful of her hair.

"The drugs are in the safe. I can't open it," she said in Spanish, her first language.

The voice behind her laughed. "Don't want the drugs, bitch," he said in English. "We gonna party."

Guzman whispered a prayer and cursed her stupidity. She'd left the back door unlocked for the delivery. That meant no alarm. That's how he got in.

And with no alarm, no help was on the way.

The man grabbed her shoulder and spun the chair around. He stood over her, flashing a gold tooth in a nicotine-stained smile. His bare, ropy arms were slathered in tattoos, but it was his shaved skull that shocked her. His entire head, from the neckline up, was a tangle of blue ink, with ms splashed across his throat and 13 emblazoned on his forehead.

She recognized him. He had come in last week, a wreck. Hep C and gonorrhea. He gave a name-Lopez-but no ID. She assumed it was fake. Didn't matter. He was sick, she was a doctor. She treated him. Even if he did give her the chills.

But now?

"You don't have to do this," she said, steeling her voice.

"Don't have to. Want to." He smiled. He stepped closer, thrusting his belt buckle close to her face. He laid the blade flat against her cheek. "So do you. If you want to live."

"Not like that."

A soft whistle from behind.

The gangbanger whipped around, pulling a chrome Ruger .357 out from beneath his shirt. Fast. A real gunslinger.

But a larger hand was faster. It grabbed the four-inch barrel and yanked it up toward the ceiling, then outward and away.

Fast, but not fast enough.

Tendons snapped in the banger's wrist, but his index finger smashed against the cocked trigger. A magnum round fired with a deafening roar into a ceiling tile, superheating the barrel in the big man's right hand. He didn't let go.

The big man's left hand crashed into the banger's jaw, buckling his knees. He crumbled to the floor, out cold.

It had all happened in a flash.

Dr. Guzman didn't have time to scream, let alone help. She stared wide-eyed at the man standing in front of her now. Six-one, one hundred and ninety pounds of lean muscle. Black hair, blue eyes.

Still in shock, all she could manage was, "Who are you?"

The man tucked the Ruger into his waistband.

"My sister Sally sent me. With those." He pointed at a backpack on the floor a few feet away, where he had set it down. "Antibiotics. Said you were running short."

"Dr. Sally Ryan?"

"Yeah."

"Then you must be Jack Ryan."

He shrugged and smiled.

"Junior."

2

Idlib, Syria

The Syrian fighter stood on the roof of the apartment building, shielding his aging eyes from the western sun as he watched the children playing in the street seven floors below. They sweated and laughed in the long shadows of the fading light, swarming after the ball like bees chasing a dog, ignoring the calls of their anxious mothers to come in and clean up. He smiled.

Kids everywhere, the same.

The truce was a mercy. "Thanks be to God," he whispered to himself. He checked his watch, a nervous habit. By the fading light he knew the muezzin's voice would ring out over the loudspeakers, calling for the maghrib.

He had raged when his battalion commander, an Iraqi, first announced the truce with that butcher Assad and his paymasters, the godless Russians. But the last nine weeks had given them time to rest and regroup with smuggled weapons, food, fuel, cash. Now they were ready for anything up close, and their Stinger missiles kept the dreaded Russian jets and helicopters out of the skies. The senior Al-Nusra commanders were all stationed here; even the emir was living in Idlib, just three blocks away. This was the safest place in Syria, as long as the truce lasted.

The war seemed far away now. A distant, painful memory. So much blood. And for what? Life was better than death, was it not?

He craved a cigarette, even after all these years, but cigarettes were haram, and men in his unit had been executed for smoking them. But perhaps a strong coffee after maghrib, he thought, his eyes tracking the black-clad women scurrying into the street, clapping their hands and shouting, trying to herd the laughing children back to their homes.

The adhan began, a strong voice calling the faithful. Its familiar words warmed his soul. The mosque would be full tonight.

He picked up his rifle and headed for the stairs. Perhaps the war was indeed over and these children would finally know peace.

Thanks be to God.

Nine miles south of Idlib

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Captain Walib's face despite the A/C unit blasting overhead. The Syrian captain stared at the monitor in front of him, his right hand poised near the master launch button.

The monitor verified the ready state of the fire-control computers on the six TOS-2 Starfire launch vehicles stationed nearby, each composed of a seventy-tube box missile launcher fixed on a heavily armored T-14 Armata tank chassis, and all linked to his command console.

He and Major Grechko sat at their stations inside the cramped BMP-3K armored personnel fighting vehicle, Walib's mobile command post. Technically, the Russian major was only an adviser on today's operation. But in reality Grechko was evaluating Walib's combat command capabilities along with the new TOS-2 Starfire system.

Walib stole a quick glance at Lieutenant Aslan Dzhabrailov sitting near the doorway. The young, broad-shouldered Chechen was the platoon leader of the commandos guarding his unit. There was a fierce intelligence in the man's pale gray eyes and a well-used ten-millimeter Glock on his hip. The Chechens were savage, brutal fighters-a breed apart, the best in the war, at least on his side. Dzhabrailov was a man to be feared.

The major checked the GLONASS receiver-the Russian version of GPS-one last time, along with the laser guidance beam. "Targeting confirmed. Free to fire, Captain."

Walib smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, hesitating.

"Something wrong, Captain?" Grechko asked.

Walib...