Tom Clancy's op-center: acts of war by Tom Clancy & Steve Pieczenik

Author:Tom Clancy & Steve Pieczenik [Clancy, Tom & Pieczenik, Steve]
Format: epub
Tags: Adventure, Fiction, Terrorists, Espionage, Action & Adventure, Suspense, Crime & Thriller, Middle East, Fiction - Espionage, Thriller, Secret service, Technological, Intelligence service - United States, Crisis management in government, PAPERBACK COLLECTION, Terrorism - Middle East, Kurds
ISBN: 9780425156018
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 1997-03-01T10:53:43.463000+00:00

"Because they cut the throat of anyone who turns on them," Herbert replied. He regarded the map. "If the Bekaa's our arena, then Striker will have to land in Tel Nef. Assuming they get Congressional approval to go forward from there, they move north into Lebanon and into the Bekaa. If a Racman can meet them there, we've got a chance of getting everyone out."

"And possibly saving the Regional Op-Center," Martha added.

Herbert wheeled around. "It's a shot," he said as he rolled quickly toward the door, "and a good one. I'll let you know what I can set up."

When he was gone, Ann shook her head. "He's amazing," she said. "Goes from James Bond to Huck Finn to Speed Racer in the space of a few minutes."

"He's the best there is," Martha said. "I only hope that's good enough to do what has to be done."

TWENTY-SEVEN

Monday, 11:27 p.m., Kiryat Shmona

This is better, thought Falah Shibli.

The swarthy young man stood in front of the dresser-top mirror in his one-room apartment and adjusted his tribal red-and-white checkered kaffiyeh. He made sure the headdress sat squarely on his head. Then he brushed lint from the collar of his light green police uniform.

This is much, much better.

After serving seven long and difficult years in the Sayeret Ha'Druzim, Israel's Druze Reconnaissance unit, Falah had been ready for a change. Before joining the local police force, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd worn a clean uniform., His darker Sayeret Ha'Druzim greens had always been crusted with dirt or sweat or blood. Sometimes it was his own blood, more often than not it was someone else's. And he'd usually worn a green beret or helmet, rarely his own headdress. If only his head were sticking up from a foxhole or over a wall, he didn't want an overanxious Israeli mistaking him for an infiltrator and shooting at him.

Falah took one last look at himself. He was as proud of his heritage as he was of his adopted land. He turned off the dresser light, shut off the fan on his nightstand, and opened the door.

The cool night air was refreshing. When the twenty-seven-year-old first joined the small police force in this dusty northern town, he'd asked for a night job directing traffic. His work with the Sayeret Ha'Druzim had been so intensive, not to mention so damned hot, he needed the break. Let the years of sunburn fade a little so the wrinkles around his eyes didn't stand out quite so much. Let the old wounds heal---not just the torn muscle from gunshot wounds, but the still-calloused feet from the long patrols, the flesh ripped by crawling over sharp rocks and thorns to capture terrorists, the spirit rent by having to shoot at fellow Druze.

Very few terrorists came through this kibbutz town. They picked their way through the barren plains to the east and west. Except for the occasional drunk driver or stolen motorbike or car accident, this job was blessedly uneventful. It was so

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