Heart-stopping actionentertaining and eminently topical. The Washington Post The best characters from all of Clancys previous novels are on the case.For fans of the genre, Dead or Alive is likely to provide a long weekends pleasure.Los Angeles Times Clancy is back at the top of his gameIn-depth research, continuous suspense, and scores of fascinating characters.Publishers Weekly (starred review)About the AuthorThirty years ago Tom Clancy was a Maryland insurance broker with a passion for naval history. Years before, he had been an English major at Baltimores Loyola College and had always dreamed of writing a novel. His first effort, The Hunt for Red October, 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. Since then Clancy has established himself as an undisputed master at blending exceptional realism and authenticity, intricate plotting, and razor-sharp suspense. Grant Blackwood, a U.S. Navy veteran, spent three years aboard a guided missile frigate as operations specialist and pilot rescue swimmer. He is coauthor, with Clive Cussler, of the New York Times bestsellers Spartan Gold and Lost Empire. He is also the author of the Briggs Tanner seriesThe End of Enemies, The Wall of Night, and An Echo of War. He lives in Colorado.Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.1LIGHT TROOPSEleven-Bravo light infantrymen, according to the United States Armys MOS (military occupational specialty) systemare supposed to be pretty spit-and-polish troops with spotless uniforms and clean-shaven faces, but First Sergeant Sam Driscoll wasnt one of those anymore, and hadnt been for some time. The concept of camouflage often involved more than patterned BDUs. No, wait, they werent called that anymore, were they? Now they were called Army combat uniforms, ACUs. Same, same.Driscolls beard was fully four inches long, with enough flecks of white in it that his men had taken to calling him Santarather annoying to a man hardly thirty-six years old, but when most of your compatriots were an average of ten years younger than you . . . Oh, well. Could be worse. Could be Pops or Gramps.He was even more annoyed to have long hair. It was dark and shaggy and greasy, and his beard coarse, which was useful here, where the facial hair was important to his cover and the local people rarely bothered with haircuts. His dress was entirely local in character, and this was true of his team as well. There were fifteen of them. Their company commander, a captain, was down with a broken leg from a misstepwhich was all it took to sideline you in this terrainsitting on a hilltop and waiting for the Chinook to evac him, along with one of the teams two medics whod stayed behind to make sure he didnt go into shock. That left Driscoll in command for the mission. He didnt mind. He had more time in the field than Captain Wilson had, though the captain had a college degree, and Driscoll didnt have his yet. One thing at a time. He had to survive this deployment still, and after that he could go back to his classes at the University of Georgia. Funny, he thought, that it had taken him nearly three decades to start enjoying school. Well, hell, better late than never, he supposed.He was tired, the kind of mind-numbing, bone-grinding fatigue Rangers knew only too well. He knew how to sleep like a dog on a granite block with only a rifle stock for a pillow, knew how to stay alert when his brain and body were screaming at him to lie down. Problem was, now that he was closer to forty than thirty, he felt the aches and pains a little more than he had when he was twenty, and it took twice as long to work out the kinks in the morning. Then again, those aches were offset by wisdom and experience. Hed learned over the years that despite it being a clich, it was in fact mind over matter. Hed learned to largely block out pain, which was a handy skill when you were leading much younger men whose packs undoubtedly felt much lighter on their shoulders than Driscolls did on his own. Life, he decided, was all about trade-offs.Theyd been in the hills for two days, all of it on the move, sleeping two to three hours a night. He was part of the Special Operations team of the 75th Ranger Regiment, based permanently at Fort Benning, Georgia, where there was a nice NCO club with good beer on tap. By closing his eyes and concentrating, he imagined he could still taste the cold beer, but that moment passed quickly. He had to focus here, every second. They were fifteen thousand feet above sea level, in the Hindu Kush mountains, in that gray zone that was both Afghanistan and Pakistan, and neitherat least to the locals. Lines on maps didnt make borders, Driscoll knew, especially in Indian country like this. Hed check his GPS equipment to be sure of his position, but latitude and longitude really didnt matter to his mission. What mattered was where they were headed, regardless of where it fell on the map.The local population knew little about borders, and didnt especially care. For them reality was which tribe you were in, which family you were a part of, and which flavor of Muslim you were. Here memories lasted a hundred years, and the stories even longer. And grudges even longer than that. The locals still boasted that their ancestors had driven Alexander the Great out of the country, and some of them still remembered the names of the warriors who had bested the Macedonian spearmen who had up until then conquered every other place theyd wandered into. Most of all, though, the locals spoke of the Russians, and how many of those theyd killed, mostly by ambush, some with knives, face-to-face. They smiled and laughed with those stories, legends passed on from father to son. Driscoll doubted the Russian soldiers who made it out of Afghanistan did much laughing about the experience. No, sir, these were not nice folks, he knew. They were scary-tough, hardened by weather, war, famine, and just generally trying to stay alive in a country that seemed to be doing its best to kill you most of the time. Driscoll knew he ought to feel some sympathy for them. God had just dealt them a bad hand, and maybe that wasnt their fault, but it wasnt Driscolls fault, either, nor his concern. They were enemies of Driscolls country, and the powers-that-be had pointed the stick at them and ordered Go, and so here they were. That was the central truth of the moment, the reason he was in these goddamned mountains.One more ridge was the other central truth, especially here, it seemed. Theyd legged it fifteen klicks, almost all of it uphill and over sharp rock and scree, since theyd hopped off the CH-47 Chinook helicopter, a Delta variant, the only one at their disposal that could handle the altitude here.There . . . the ridgeline. Fifty meters.Driscoll slowed his pace. He was walking point, leading the patrol as the senior NCO present, with his men stretched out a hundred meters to his rear, alert, eyes sweeping left and right, up and down, M4 carbines at ready-low and trained at their sectors. They expected there to be a few sentries on the ridgeline. The locals might be uneducated in the traditional sense, but they werent stupid by any measure, which was why the Rangers were running this op at night0144, or a quarter to two in the morningaccording to his digital watch. No moon tonight, and high clouds thick enough to block whatever light came from the stars. Good hunting weather, he thought.His eyes traced more down than up. He didnt want to make any noise, and noise came from the feet. One damned rock, kicked loose and rolling down the hillside, could betray them all. Couldnt have that, could he? Couldnt waste the three days and fifteen klicks it had taken them to get this close.Twenty meters to the ridgeline. Sixty-five feet.His eyes searched the line for movement. Nothing close. A few more steps, looking left and right, his noise-suppressed carbine cradled to his chest at ready-low, finger resting lightly on the trigger, just enough to know it was there.It was hard to explain to people how hard this was, how tiring and debilitatingfar more so than a hike in the woodsknowing there might be someone with an AK-47 in his hands and his finger on a trigger, the selector switch set to full auto, ready to cut your ass in half. His men would take care of such a person, but that wouldnt do him any good, Driscoll knew. Still, he consoled himself, if it happened, the odds were that he wouldnt even know it. Hed dispatched enough enemies to know how it worked: One moment youre stepping forward, eyes scanning ahead, ears tuned, listening for danger . . . the next nothing. Death.Driscoll knew the rule out here, in the badlands, in the dead of night: Slow is fast. Move slow, walk slow, step carefully. It had served him well lo these many years.Just six months earlier hed finished third in the Best Ranger Competition, the Super Bowl of Special Operations troops. Driscoll and Captain Wilson, in fact, entered as Team 21. The captain had to be pissed at the broken leg. He was a pretty good Ranger, Driscoll thought, but a broken tibia was a broken tibia. When a bone broke, there wasnt a whole hell of a lot to be done about it. A torn muscle hurt like hell but got better rapidly. On the other hand, a broken bone had to knit and mend, and that meant lying on your back for a few weeks at an Army hospital before the docs let you put weight on it again. Then you had to learn to run again, after you relearned how to walk. What a pain in the ass that would be.... Hed been lucky in his career, having suffered nothing worse than a twisted ankle, a broken pinkie, and a bone-bruised hip, none of which had sidelined him for much longer than a week. Not so much as a bullet or shrapnel graze. The Ranger gods had smiled on him for sure.Five more steps . . .Okay, there you are . . . Yep. As hed expected, there was the sentry, right where he should be. Twenty-five meters to his right. It was just too obvious a spot for a sentry, though this particular one was doing a piss-poor job of it, sitting there, looking backward mostly, probably bored and half asleep and counting the minutes until his relief arrived. Well, boredom could kill you, and it was about to kill this guy in less than a minute, though hed never even realize it. Unless I miss the shot, Driscoll reminded himself, knowing he wouldnt.He turned one last time, scanning the area through his PVS-17 night-vision goggles. Nobody else close. Okay. He settled down, tucked the carbine to his right shoulder and centered the sights on the guys right ear, controlled his breathingTo his right, down a narrow trail, came the rasp of leather on rock.Driscoll froze.He did a quick mental recheck, placing the rest of the team in his minds eye. Anyone down that way? No. Most of the team was spread out behind him and to his right. Moving with exaggerated slowness, Driscoll rotated his head in the direction of the sound. Nothing in the night vision. He lowered his carbine, laying it diagonally across his chest. He looked left. Ten feet away, Collins crouched behind a rock. Driscoll gestured: Sound to the left; take two men. Collins nodded and crab-walked backward out of sight. Driscoll did the same, then laid himself flat between a pair of scrub bushes.Down the trail, another sound now: liquid splattering against stone. This brought a smile to Driscolls lips. The call of nature. The urinating tapered off, then stopped. Footsteps began padding down the trail. Twenty feet away, Driscoll estimated, around the bend.Moments later a figure appeared on the trail. His gait was unhurried, almost lazy. In the night vision Driscoll could see an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, barrel down. The guard kept coming. Driscoll didnt move. Fifteen feet . . . ten.A figure rose up from the shadows along the trail and slipped in behind the guard. A hand appeared over the guards shoulder, then the flash of a blade came over the other shoulder. Collins twisted the man to the right and down to the ground, and their shadows melted together. Ten seconds passed. Collins rose, ducked off the trail, and dragged the guard out of sight.Textbook sentry takedown, Driscoll thought. Movie portrayals aside, knifework was something of a rarity in their business. Even so, Collins clearly hadnt lost the skill.Moments later Collins reappeared on Driscolls right.Driscoll returned his attention to the sentry on the ridge. Still there. Hadnt moved at all. Driscoll brought his M4 up, settled the sights on the nape of the mans neck, and then tightened his finger on the trigger.Easy, easy . . . squeeze ...Pop. Not much of a sound. Hard to hear at all at a range of more than fifty meters, but the bullet flew true and transited the targets head, leaving a puff of green vapor behind, and he went off to see Allah, or whatever god he acknowledged; at twentyodd years old, growing and eating and learning, and probably fighting, came to an abrupt and unwarned end.The target crumpled, folding sideways out of sight.Tough luck, Gomer, Driscoll thought. But were after bigger game than you tonight.Sentry down, Driscoll said quietly into his radio. The ridgeline is clear. Move on up. Keep it nice and tight. That last bit wasnt really necessarynot with these guys.He looked back to see his men moving a little faster now. They were excited but under control, ready to get down to business. He could see it in their postures, the economy of movement that separated real shooters from wannabees and in-and-outers who were just waiting to return to civilian life.Their real target might be less than a hundred meters away now, and theyd worked hard over the previous three months to bag this bastard. Mountain climbing was not anyones idea of fun, except for maybe those nutjobs who pined after Everest and K2. Be that as it may, this was part of the job, and part of their current mission, so everybody sucked it up and kept moving.The fifteen men formed up in three fire teams of five Rangers each. One would stay here with their heavy weaponstheyd brought two M249 SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) machine guns for fire cover on overwatch. No telling how many bad guys there might be about, and the SAW was a great equalizer. Satellites could give you only so much intel; some variables you just had to deal with as they came to you. All his men were scanning the rocks, looking for movement. Any movement. Maybe just a bad guy who came out to take a dump. In this neck of the woods, there was a ninety percent chance that anybody you encountered was a bad guy. Made their job that much easier, Driscoll thought.Moving even more slowly now, he stalked forward, eyes flicking from his feet, watching each placement for loose rocks and twigs, then ahead, scanning, scanning.... This was another benefit of wisdom, he thought, knowing how to quash the excitement of being so close to the goal line. This is often where rookies and dead men made their mistakes, thinking the hard part was behind them and their target was so close. And that, Driscoll knew, is when Old Man Murphy, of Murphys Law fame, usually snuck up behind you, tapped you on the shoulder, and handed you an ugly surprise. Anticipation and expectation were lethal sides of the same coin. Either one in the right dose at the wrong moment would get you killed.Not this time, though. Not on my damned watch. And not with a team as good as his.Driscoll saw the ridgeline looming ahead not more than ten feet away, and he hunched over, careful to keep his head below the lip, lest he present a tantalizing silhouette target for some alert gomer. He covered the last few feet on flat feet, then leaned forward, left hand flat against the rock, and peeked his head up.And there you are . . . The cave. what is the most sold item in the world Dead or Alive (A Jack Ryan Novel)
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. A Great classic Novel from ClancyBy Joseph HarrisThis is my first time reading a book that was really written by Clancy. But I have read other books with his name on the cover all of which were based on his video game franchise Splinter cell. In short I have been a fan since 2005 when I played Pandora Tomorrow and Chaos Theory along with Ghost Recon and Rainbow Six Vegas. I am just one of many readers and Video gamers who will miss Clancy`s style of writing. With Clancy it's simple, you either love what he does or you don't, and if you are fan, then it's been a long time, about ten years since he has been on the Best Seller list, but once again that is where he is headed. Clancy is the master of his genre because he takes the time to learn technical aspects of what he is writing about. This means when you read Clancy you are reading the real thing. Facts are checked, scenarios are discussed with technical aspects, and nothing is left to chance or done offhandedly.When he talks weapons, he goes into the detail that a munitions dealer would deal with. In this novel we see operators using a Knights Armament M110 Sniper System. He tells you it's the best because he has done the homework. It is facts like this that the master storyteller weaves into the tapestry of his books that many readers including myself find fascinating.I am not going to discuss the plot in detail because that's why we read the book. Here's what you need to know. This is a big blot book which is what most of Clancy's books represent. In this case, Jack Ryan is a retired President of the United States. His son Jack Junior is running a secret independent anti-terrorist agency that his father the President started.It is called The Campus, and it has been successful for years going after the bad guys. The current President seems to be weak on terrorism and is more concerned with guaranteeing the legal rights of the bad guys than protecting the country. You are already seeing the subplots develop.Clancy puts us in the thick of it. We as readers are in the game. When Delta Force operators and Rangers go into the caves of Afghanistan we are with them. We breathe the odors; we hear the sounds, and we feel the tension. We find ourselves silencing our own voices because we don't want the good guys to be caught, and that is classic Clancy.In this book there is evil in the world, and in DEAD or ALIVE, an evil man in the world is at lodge. He has wreaked havoc on the Western world. We call him the Emir, and his objective is to deal a devastating terrorist blow to the United States. The book takes you around the world while Ryan Junior, and his father's old hands John Clark and Ding Chavez join Ryan along with Brian and Dominic Caruso with Mary Foley.It's a race for time, and for America. Will the good guys win, and where is the Emir? Is he in a cave 8,000 miles away or is he right here among us? You will have to read the book to find out and oh what an ending.Why I Love Clancy and you will too?Please allow me to give you a feel why Clancy was the absolute best writer in his fiction segment. It is his incessant ability to weave odd important facts into his stories, and to weave reality into the fabric of the plot:* His description of the computer setup at the National Security Agency is without equal.* There are 125,000 cranes in the world and currently Dubai has 30,000 of them currently building and rebuilding the city. Who knows things like this?* Plans do not survive the first contact with the enemy.* Laziness has consequences. If you are a sentry, if you pause, if you hesitate, if you light up a cigarette, you are DEAD.* You don't have to like it; you just have to do it.* The FBI Urban Tactical Training Facility is preeminent in the world. They are the best of the best. See why in the book.CONCLUSION:This is a great read, all 848 pages of it. You start the book and you can't put it down, and in the end isn't that why we read Clancy. We just keep going until we are finished, and when we are finished we are ready for more. That is why he will be missed by so many readers out there. Read it today and see for yourself, and thank you for reading this review.2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Very slow paced storyBy H PrattIf you take out all the extra dry explanations this book would shave been so much better. The story is excellent but as reader I wanted to skip all the unnecessary fill that made it drag along I'm glad I finished itGreenery does much better with his books on the campus and Jack Ryan Jr.2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Long readBy Tim SheppersonThis was too long, which is like most of his books. I had trouble following at times. There seemed to be to much description. Over all it was a good read.