Against All Enemies

Against All Enemies

by Tom Clancy, Peter Telep

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Racing from the remote, war-scarred landscapes of the Middle East to the blood-soaked chaos of the U.S.-Mexico border, #1 New York Times bestselling author Tom Clancy delivers a heart-stopping thriller that is frighteningly close to reality.

Working behind the scenes for the CIA, ex-Navy SEAL Maxwell Moore arrives at a rendezvous to take charge of a high-ranking Taliban captive and barely escapes with his life. Undaunted, Moore is relentless in his quest to find the terrorist cell responsible, but what he discovers leads him to a much darker conspiracy in an unexpected part of the globe...

After years of planning, the Taliban have come to terms with a vicious Mexican drug cartel and agreed to supply them with opium. For the cartel, the deal means money, power, and ultimate control of the drug trade. But for the Taliban, it is a long awaited opportunity: to exploit the cartels and bring the fire of the jihad to the hearts of the infidels, striking against the very heart of America.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780425246061
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 01/31/2012
Pages: 720
Sales rank: 207,175
Product dimensions: 4.20(w) x 7.40(h) x 1.60(d)
Age Range: 18 Years

About the Author

Tom Clancy was the author of eighteen #1 New York Times-bestselling novels. His first effort, The Hunt for Red October, sold briskly as a result of rave reviews, then catapulted onto the bestseller list after President Ronald Reagan pronounced it "the perfect yarn." Clancy was the undisputed master at blending exceptional realism and authenticity, intricate plotting, and razor-sharp suspense. He passed away in October 2013.


Huntingtown, Maryland

Date of Birth:

April 12, 1947

Date of Death:

October 1, 2013

Place of Birth:

Baltimore, Maryland


Loyola High School in Towson, Maryland, 1965; B.A. in English, Loyola College, 1969

Read an Excerpt

0215 Hours, Arabian Sea
5 Miles South of the Indus River
Coast of Pakistan
A DARKENED SHIP is a burdened ship, Moore thought as he
stood outside the pilothouse of the OSA-1 fast attack
craft Quwwat. She was indigenously built by the Karachi
Shipyard and Engineering Works and based on an old Soviet
design, complete with four HY-2 surface-to-surface missiles
and two twin 25-millimeter antiaircraft guns. Three diesel engines
and three shafts propelled the 130-foot-long patrol boat
at thirty knots across waves tinged silver by a quarter-moon
shimmering low on the horizon. Running at "darken ship"
meant no range or masthead lights, no port or starboard running
lights. International Regulations for Preventing Collisions
at Sea (COLREGS) dictated that were an incident to occur,
Quwwat would be at fault regardless of the circumstances.
Earlier in the evening, at dusk, Moore had walked down a
Karachi pier with Sublieutenant Syed Mallaah, trailed by four
enlisted men, a SPECOPS team from the Pakistan Special Service
Group Navy (SSGN), an organization similar to the U.S.
Navy SEALs, but, ahem, their operators were hardly as capable.
Once aboard the Quwwat, Moore had insisted on a quick
tour that ended with a cursory introduction to the commanding
offi cer, Lieutenant Maqsud Kayani, who was distracted
as he issued orders to leave port. The CO couldn't have been
much older than Moore, who was thirty-fi ve himself, but the
comparisons stopped there. Moore's broad shoulders stood
in sharp juxtaposition to Kayani's lean cycler's physique that
barely tented up his uniform. The lieutenant had a hooked nose,
and if he'd shaved in the past week, there was no clear evidence.
Despite his rugged appearance, he had the twenty-eight-man
crew's utmost attention and respect. He spoke. They jumped.
Kayani eventually gave Moore a fi rm handshake and said, "Welcome
aboard, Mr. Fredrickson."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate your assistance."
"Of course."
They spoke in Urdu, Pakistan's national language, which
Moore had found easier to learn than Dari, Pashto, or Arabic.
He'd been identifi ed as "Greg Fredrickson," an American, to
these Pakistani naval men, although his darker features, thick
beard, and long, black hair now pulled into a ponytail allowed
him to pass for an Afghan, Pakistani, or Arab if he so desired.
Lieutenant Kayani went on: "Have no worries, sir. I plan
to arrive at our destination promptly, if not early. This boat's
name means prowess, and she's every bit of that."
Point Foxtrot, the rendezvous zone, lay three miles off the
Pakistan coast and just outside the Indus River delta. There,
they would meet with the Indian patrol boat Agray to accept a
prisoner. The Indian government had agreed to turn over a
recently captured Taliban commander, Akhter Adam, a man
they claimed was a High-Value Target with operational intelligence
on Taliban forces located along the southern line of the
Afghanistan-Pakistan border. The Indians believed that Adam
had not yet alerted his own forces of his capture; he had simply
gone missing for twenty-four hours. Still, time was of the essence.
Both governments wanted to ensure that the Taliban
was not tipped off that Adam had fallen into American hands.
Therefore, no American military assets or forces were being
used in the transfer operation—except a certain CIA paramilitary
operations offi cer named Maxwell Steven Moore.
Admittedly, Moore had misgivings about using a security
team of SSGN guys led by a young, inexperienced sublieutenant;
however, during the briefi ng he'd been told that
Mallaah, a local boy from Thatta in Sindh Province, was fi ercely
loyal, trusted, and highly respected. In Moore's book, loyalty,
trust, and respect were earned, and they would see if the young
sublieutenant was up for the challenge. Mallaah's job was, after
all, rudimentary: oversee the transfer and help protect Moore
and the prisoner.
Assuming that Akhter Adam made it safely aboard, Moore
would begin interrogating him during the trip back to the
Karachi pier. For his part, Moore would use that time to determine
if the commander was indeed an HVT worthy of serious
CIA attention or somebody to leave behind for the Pakistanis
to play with.
Forward of the port beam, the blackness was pierced by
three quick white fl ashes from the Turshian Mouth lighthouse
guarding the entrance to the Indus River. The sequence repeated
every twenty seconds. Farther east, nearer the bow, Moore
picked up the single white fl ash from the Kajhar Creek light, and
that fl ash repeated every twelve seconds. The sealed-beam revolving
beacon of the often-disputed Kajhar Creek (aka the Sir
Creek light) was situated on the Pakistan-India border. Moore
had taken special note of the lighthouse names, locations, and
their identifying fl ash sequences from the navigational charts
rolled out during the briefi ng. Old SEAL habits died hard.
With moonset at 0220 and fi fty percent cloud cover, he
anticipated pitch-black conditions for the 0300 rendezvous.
The Indians were running at darken ship, too. In a pinch the
Turshian Mouth and Kajhar Creek lighthouses would keep him
Lieutenant Kayani held true to his word. They reached Point
Foxtrot at 0250 hours, and Moore shifted around the pilothouse
to the only available night-vision scope mounted on
the port side. Kayani was already there, manning the scope.
Meanwhile, Mallaah and his team waited on the main deck,
midships, to haul the prisoner across once the Indian vessel
came alongside.
Kayani backed away from the night scope and offered it to
Moore. Despite the gathering clouds, starlight provided suffi -
cient photons to bathe the Indian Pauk-class patrol boat in a
green eerie twilight, bright enough to expose the numerals 36
painted on her hull. Approaching bows-on, at twice the weight
of the Quwwat, the fi ve-hundred-ton Agray carried eight GRAIL
surface-to-air missiles and dual RBU-1200 ASW rocket launchers
up on her bow. Each ten-tube system was capable of de ploying
decoys and ASW rockets for surface-to-surface and antisubmarine
warfare operations. The Quwwat felt diminutive in
her presence.
As the Agray began to drift down the port side and prepared
to come about to make her approach, Moore spotted her
name painted in black letters across the stern, rising above the
mist agitated by the bow wash. He then glanced through the
pilothouse door out to the starboard bridge wing and caught a
short-long, short-long light fl ash. He tried to remember which
lighthouse used that light sequence. The Agray completed her
turn, and Kayani was now busy leaning over the port side, directing
the placement of fenders to minimize any hull damage
once the two ships came together.
The fl ashes came again: short-long, short-long.
Lighthouse, my ass, Moore thought. ALPHA-ALPHA was
International Morse Code for, in practical terms, "Who the hell
are you?"
A chill spiked up Moore's spine. "Lieutenant, we're getting
an ALPHA-ALPHA on the starboard side. We're being
Kayani charged across the pilothouse to the starboard wing,
and Moore hustled up behind him. How many times had they
already been challenged? They were in Pakistan territorial waters;
what were Pakistan's rules of engagement?
A fl are burst overhead, peeling back the night and drawing
deep shadows across the decks of both patrol boats. Moore
looked across the sea and saw it, a thousand meters out, rising
up out of the waves, a nightmare with imposing black sail and
dull black decks fully awash as she breached, her bow pointed
at them. The commander had brought the sub to the surface to
challenge them, then had fi red the fl are to visually confi rm his
Kayani lifted the pair of binoculars dangling around his neck
and zoomed in. "It's the Shushhuk! She's one of ours. She's supposed
to be back at the pier!"
Moore's chest tightened. What the hell was a Pakistan
Navy submarine doing in his rendezvous zone?
He craned his head to the Agray, where he assumed that
by now the Taliban prisoner was on deck. According to the
plan, Adam was wearing a black jumpsuit and turban, and his
wrists were bound. His escorts were supposed to be two heavily
armed MARCOS, or marine commandos, of the Indian
Navy. Moore spun back to face the submarine—
And then, suddenly, he saw it—a line of phosphorescence
bubbling up in the water and streaking past their stern, heading
toward the Agray.
He pointed. "TORPEDO!"
In the next breath, Moore came up behind Kayani, shoved
him over the side, then jumped himself as the torpedo struck
the Agray in a horrifi c explosion whose thundering and fl ashing
was as surreal as it was shockingly close. A blast wave of debris
pinged off the Quwwat's hull and rained down to strike the
water in dozens of splashes.
Moore's eyes widened as the steaming, hissing sea came
up at them, heated now by all the white-hot shards of hull and
deck and torpedo that continued to blast off the Agray. As he
hit the water, narrowly missing a jagged piece of steel, a ball of
fl ames set off the Agray's GRAIL surface-to-air missiles and
both clusters of ASW rockets on her fo'c'sle.
Moore sank below the waves, his shoes colliding with
something below. He swam back to the surface and jerked his
head around, searching for the lieutenant. There he was, just
out of reach.
Suddenly, three of the Agray's ASW rockets blew up into
the Silkworm missile housings aboard the Quwwat. The resulting
detonations boomed so loudly and brightly that Moore refl
exively ducked back under the water for cover. He swam
toward the lieutenant, who was fl oating supine and appeared
only semiconscious, his face bloody from a deep gash along the
left side of his head. He must've struck some debris as he'd
entered the water. Moore surfaced at the man's shoulder. He
splashed salt water onto the gash as Kayani stared vaguely at
him. "Lieutenant! Come on!"
Thirty meters away, the sea surface was afl ame with burning
diesel fuel. The stench left Moore grimacing as for the fi rst
time he felt the deep rumble of nearby diesel engines . . . the
submarine. He had some time. The sub wouldn't approach the
wreckage until the fl ames subsided.
Other men were in the water, barely visible, their shouts
punctuated by more explosions. A strangled cry resounded
nearby. Moore scanned the area for their Taliban prisoner, but
the twin thunderclaps of another detonation sent him back
under the waves. When he came up and turned back, the
Quwwat was already listing badly to port, getting ready to sink.
The Agray's bow was entirely submerged, the fi res and deep
black smoke still raging, ammunition cooking off with sharp
cracks and half-muffl ed booms. The air grew clogged with a
haze that reeked of burning rubber and plastic.
Willing himself into a state of calm as the heat of the
fi res pressed on his face, Moore removed his shoes, tied the
laces together, then draped them around his neck. Three miles
to the beach . . . but right now, this low in the water, he had no
idea where the beach was. With the exception of the fl ames,
everywhere he looked was inky black, and each time he glanced
toward the confl agration, his night vision was ruined.
Flash-fl ash-fl ash. Wait a minute. He remembered. He
started counting . . . one one thousand, two one thousand . . .
at nineteen, he was rewarded with three more quick fl ashes. He
had a lock on the Turshian Mouth lighthouse.
Moore seized Kayani and rolled him around. Still drifting
in and out of consciousness, the lieutenant took one look at
Moore, at the fi res around them, and panicked. He reached out,
seizing Moore by the head. Obviously the man wasn't thinking
straight, and this behavior was not uncommon among accident
victims. But if Moore didn't react, the frantic lieutenant could
easily drown him.
Without pause, Moore placed both hands on the front of
Kayani's hips with the heels of his hands against the man's
body, fi ngers extended, thumbs grasping the lieutenant's sides.
He pushed Kayani back toward the horizontal position, using
this leverage to loosen the man's grip. Moore freed his head and
screamed, "Relax! I got you! Just turn around and breathe."
Moore grabbed him by the back of the collar. "Now fl oat on
your back."
With the man in a collar tow, Moore began a modifi ed
combat sidestroke around the burning debris, the pools of burning
diesel beginning to swell toward them, his ears stinging
from the continuous thundering and drone of the spitting and
whipping fl ames.
Kayani settled down until they passed through a half-dozen
bodies, members of his crew, just more fl otsam and jetsam now.
He hollered their names, and Moore kicked harder to get them
away. Nevertheless, the sea became more grisly, an arm here,
a leg there. And then something dark in the water ahead. A
turban fl oating there. The prisoner's turban. Moore paused,
craning his head right and left until he spotted a lifeless form
bobbing on the waves. He swam to it, rolled the body sideways
enough to see the bearded face, the black jumpsuit, the terrible
slash across his neck that had severed his carotid artery. It was
their guy. Moore gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip on Kayani's
collar. Before starting off, he looked in the direction of the
submarine. It was already gone.
During his time as a SEAL, Moore could swim two ocean
miles without fi ns in under seventy minutes. Collar- towing another
man might slow him down, but he refused to let that
challenge crush his spirit.
He focused on the lighthouse, kept breathing and kicking,
his movements smooth and graceful, no wasted energy, every
shift of the arm and fl utter of the feet directing the power where
it needed to go. He would turn his head up, steal a breath, and
continue on, swimming with machinelike precision.
A shout from somewhere behind caused Moore to slow.
He paddled around, squinting toward a small group of men,
ten—fi fteen, perhaps—swimming toward him.
"Just follow me!" he cried. "Follow me."
Now he wasn't just trying to save Kayani; he was providing
the motivation for the rest of the survivors to reach the shore.
These were Navy men, trained to swim and swim hard, but
three miles was an awful long way, more so with injuries. They
needed to keep him in sight.
The lactic acid was building in his arm and his legs, the
burn steady at fi rst, then threatening to grow worse. He slowed,
shook his legs and the one arm he was using, took another breath,
and told himself, I will not quit. Ever.
He would focus on that. He would lead from the front,
drive the rest of these men home—even if it killed him. He
guided them across the rising and falling sea, kick after agonizing
kick, listening to the voices of the past, the voices of instructors
and proctors who'd dedicated their lives to helping
others unleash the warrior's spirit lying deep and dormant in
their hearts.
Nearly ninety minutes later he heard the surf breaking on
the shoreline, and with every rising swell he saw fl ashlights
moving and bobbing all along the beach. Flashlights meant
people. They'd come down to view the fi res and explosions
offshore, and they might even see him. Moore's covert operation
was about to make headlines. He cursed and looked back.
The group of survivors had drifted much farther back, fi fty
meters or more, unable to keep up with Moore's blistering pace.
He could barely see them now.
By the time his bare feet touched the sandy bottom, Moore
was spent, leaving everything he had back in the Arabian Sea.
Kayani was still going in and out as Moore dragged him from
the surf and hauled him onto the beach as fi ve or six villagers
gathered around him. "Call for help!" he shouted.
Out in the distance, the fl ames and fl ashes continued, like
heat lightning that printed the clouds negative, yet the silhouettes
of both ships were now gone, leaving the rest of the fuel
to continue burning off.
Moore wrenched out his cell phone, but it had died. Next
time he planned on being attacked by a submarine, he'd be sure
to pack a waterproof version. He asked one of the villagers, a
college-aged kid with a thin beard, for a phone.
"I saw the ships explode," the kid said breathlessly.
"Me, too," snapped Moore. "Thanks for the phone."
"Give it to me," called Kayani from the beach, his voice
cracking, but he seemed much more lucid now. "My uncle's
a colonel in the Army. He'll get us helicopters here within an
hour. It's the fastest way."
"Take it, then," said Moore. He'd read the maps, knew they
were hours away by car from the nearest hospital. The rendezvous
had intentionally been located opposite a rural, sparsely
populated coastline.
Kayani reached his uncle, who in turn promised immediate
relief. A second call to Kayani's commanding offi cer would
summon Coast Guard rescue craft for those still at sea, but the
Pakistan Coast Guard had no air–sea rescue choppers, just
Chinese-built corvettes and patrol boats that wouldn't arrive
until mid-morning. Moore turned his attention back on the
surf, studying every wave, searching for the survivors.
Five minutes. Ten. Nothing. Not a soul. Between the blood
and body parts strewn across the water like some ungodly stew,
it was a safe bet that the sharks had come. And quickly. That,
coupled with the injuries of the other survivors, may have been
too much for them.
It took another half-hour before Moore spotted the fi rst
body rising up on a wave like a piece of driftwood. Many others
would follow.
More than an hour passed before an Mi-17 appeared in
the northwest sky, its twin turbines roaring, its rotors
whomping and echoing off the hillsides. The chopper had been
specifi cally designed by the Soviets for their war in Afghanistan
and had become symbolic of that confl ict: Goliaths of the sky
slain by slingshots. The Pakistan Army had nearly one hundred
Mi-17s in their inventory, a trivial detail Moore knew because
he'd been a passenger aboard them a few times and had overheard
a pilot griping about how he was stuck fl ying a Russian
pile of junk that broke down every other fl ight and that the Pakistan
Army had almost a hundred fl ying junkyards.
Slightly unnerved, Moore boarded the Mi-17 and was fl own
with Kayani to the Sindh Government Hospital in Liaquatabad
Town, a suburb of Karachi. While en route, the fl ight medics
administered painkillers, and Kayani's wide-eyed grimace
turned to a more peaceful stare. It was sunrise by the time they
touched down.
Moore stepped out of the hospital's elevator on the second
fl oor and ducked into Kayani's room. They'd been at the
hospital for about an hour now. The lieutenant would have a
nice battle scar to help him get laid. Both men had been severely
dehydrated when they'd come ashore, and an IV drip had
been jabbed in the lieutenant's left arm.
"How are you feeling?"
Kayani reached up and touched the bandage on his head.
"I still have a headache."
"It'll pass."
"I couldn't have swum back."
Moore nodded. "You got hit hard, and you lost some blood."
"I don't know what to say. Thank you is not enough."
Moore took a long pull on the bottle of water given to him
by one of the nurses. "Hey, forget it." Movement in the doorway
drew Moore's attention. That was Douglas Stone, a colleague
from the Agency, who stroked his mottled gray beard and stared
at Moore above the rim of his glasses. "I have to go," Moore said.
"Mr. Fredrickson, wait."
Moore frowned.
"Is there a way I can contact you?"
"Sure, why?"
Kayani looked to Stone and pursed his lips.
"Oh, he's okay. A good friend."
The lieutenant hesitated a few seconds more, then said, "I
just want to thank you . . . somehow."
Moore used a tablet and pen on the tray table to scribble
down an e-mail address.
The lieutenant clutched the paper tightly in his palm. "I'll
be in touch."
Moore shrugged. "Okay."
He headed out into the hallway, turned, then marched forcefully
away from Stone, speaking through his teeth. "So, Doug,
tell me—just what the fuck happened?"
"I know, I know." Stone had deployed his usual calming
tone, but Moore would have none of that, not now.
"We assured the Indians that the rendezvous would be clear.
They had to cross into Pakistan territorial waters. They were very
concerned about that."
"We were told the Pakistanis were taking care of everything."
"Who dropped the ball?"
"They're telling us their submarine commander never received
any orders to remain at the pier. Somebody forgot to
issue them. He made his usual patrol and thought he'd sailed
into some kind of engagement. According to him, he sent out
multiple challenges without response."
Moore snickered. "Well, it's not like we were looking for
him—and when we did see him, it was already too late."
"The commander also reported that he saw the Indians
taking prisoners on their deck."
"So he was ready to fi re on his own people, too?"
"Who knows."
Moore stopped dead in his tracks, whirled, and gaped at
the man. "The only prisoner they had was our guy."
"Hey, Max, I know where you're coming from."
"Let's go swim three miles. Then you'll know."
Stone removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Look, it
could be worse. We could be Slater and O'Hara and have to
fi gure how to apologize to the Indians while making sure they
don't nuke Islamabad."
"That'd be nice—because I'm headed there now."

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Against All Enemies 3.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 550 reviews.
ClancyReaderSince1984 More than 1 year ago
I downloaded the book in the NOOK format. The technology of NOOK is fine, however, I can't help thinking I've been swindled. This is NOT a book written by Tom Clancy. It is somewhat disgraceful that he would let his name appear on the cover. By the way, for Mr Telep, Iraq had Republican Guards...Iran is the one with Revolutionary Guards...
TheBrB More than 1 year ago
Tom Clancy has always done a great job of making his stories exciting and believable which makes me believe he didn't do much more than add his name to this book. The main character is running around, blowing away bad guys with a pistol in each hand like some kind of John Woo film. The author's attempts to make you feel the character's emotions are poorly thought out filler between his unrealistic action sequences. If you're a Clancy fan, give it a pass, it'll leave a bad taste in your mouth.
AnitaSan More than 1 year ago
Normally, when I get a new Clancy I can't put it down until I'm finished. This one was tough slogging. I'm still waiting for it to get to the good part.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I love real Tom Clancy books. His character come alive and the reader can get attached to them. I quit reading this one after 250 pages. I just couldn't get into it. The characters just don't make it. I picked up one of my old Clancy favorites and decided to reread it instead.
ne14abeer More than 1 year ago
I might pay these prices for a book actually written by Tom Clancy, but certainly not for one he didn't write. I refuse to be sucked in by any more of these types of books written by others and using a famous authors name. I have read way too many of them that are pure junk.
Sculling_reader More than 1 year ago
I have enjoyed each and every book Tom Clancy has written. I find that the books he has "co-authored" are of much less quality. This book in particular has an extremely weak plot line, is very poorly researched, the characters are stereotypical and shallow and there's way too much psychological wallowing. It will be a long time, if ever, before I purchase another "co-authored book" with Tom Clancy's name on it.
My_Last_Clancy More than 1 year ago
Very poor plot. Clancy should never lend his name to such a piece of crap. Nothing in it at all that makes a reasonable story. All excessive gratuitous violence and unbelievable adventures. On 1-10, this rates less than 3. Nothing in it of the quality of Hunt For Red October and Patriot Games. This will be my last book associated with Clancy, even if he claims to be the ONLY writer.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Tedious, and overwhelmed with obnoxious detail.
Timothy Erwig More than 1 year ago
This was my least favorite Tom Clancy novel. The story is very action packed but at times the book felt very unrealistic. The main character Moore seemed to be a super hero surrounded by inadequate flunkies. Moore incredibly survives impossible situation after impossible situation while many of his supporting characters die without much emotion felt by the reader.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Sorry Mr. Clancy. I loved your first books, but the last few (especially the last two) have not been very good. I hoped this new one would be better than Dead or Alive, but Alas, it was not. There does not seem to be a consistent plot, there is to much jumping around, the idea of the book seems hard to catch on to. Hopefully in the near future the "old" Tom Clancy will magically re-appear. Good luck!!!!
Steve Evans More than 1 year ago
Walmart approach vs Macys...make your profit on volume, not on each sale. I will wait or find a tear off. Clancy did not even write this probably. The sample does not read like Clancy.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book has none of the quality of deccription, detail accuracy, plot coherency, and immediacy we've come to expect from the very first Clancy. If this is all Clancy can do these days, he needs to stop writing and retire. This reads like the "inspired by" crap like Power Plays and Op Center. Very disappointing and over priced besides.
Mahew22 More than 1 year ago
Having read every Tom Clancy book since "The Hunt for Red October" I can honestly say this is the most disappointing. Tom Clancy appears to be lending his name to books written by someone else, without that author ever reading his works. A decent book to kill some time, but nothing I recommend to any of my friends.
-wci- More than 1 year ago
since clancy stopped writting his own books, the quality has gone way downhill. i am not buying anymore of his books, enough is enough
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Unlike many of the last reviews posted here, this review is not about the price of the eBook. This review is about the content of the book itself. This was a great read, and one of the characters in tbis book, Moore, reminded me a lot about Clark, another character in a few of Clancy's other books! This book consumed me, and I finished reading it in less than a week! The action is constant, and, as always, one must keep track of all of the detail that Clancy includes in his novels. The writing flows, and it seemed like I couldn't turn the pages fast enough to find out what was going to happen next. I hope that Clancy continues to write more stories with Moore as one of the characters. I also hope that he writes more stories with the Middle East as the backdrop. The only thing that disappointed me about this book is that it ended much too soon!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I am , correction-have been, a fan of Tom Clancy. I thought that his last book was not written entirely by him. This one, I feel, doesn't have any of his handiwork. No character development, no connection with the characters and a poor rambling all over plot. I won't buy any more Clancy books and waste my money, no matter the price.
meladolce More than 1 year ago
Against All Enemies: Tom Clancy . . . Back in the mid-80s, what kept me running regularly was a tape of The Hunt for Red October, Tom Clancy's first thriller. As it flowed to my ears through my Walkman, I ran longer and farther than I ever had before-or since. Now fast forward to today. Just a few minutes ago, I finished Against All Enemies, Clancy's latest mystery/thriller. And, let me start out by saying that it's vintage Clancy. It's a cross between an engineering course, a military and/or spy-craft training manual, and a race across the world in a chase-'em-down-shoot-'em-up spy style. The body count keeps growing throughout, good people and bad people, and some deaths almost brought me to tears, others I cheered when they met their inglorious ends. This novel is up-to-date and touches on almost every issue we read or hear about in the world we live in today. One truly remarkable section of the story deals with Navy SEALS. All of us who followed the story of the SEALS and Osama Bin Laden couldn't help but wonder-how in the world do they do those kinds of things? Tom Clancy will tell you. And what you read will only increase your appreciation and admiration for what they do in service to their country. His central character in this book is a former SEAL. Clancy includes exhaustive-no pun intended-detail about the unimaginably grueling training SEALS undergo. After reading it, I was not only worn out myself, but I swear my muscles actually ached in sympathy. Clancy's research for his novels is so thorough and his connections in the various fields he writes about are so extensive that I am certain what he's described is truly what SEALS go through. The story connects two of the major concerns in the intelligence community, law enforcement and the military today-terrorism and drug smuggling. The story reaches across thousands of miles and wildly different cultures and offers a really scary scenario of what can happen when evil-doers of different stripes find common cause even though toward differing ends (think of how a tunnel between Mexico and the U.S. could be used). Clancy's fictional stew mixes people from Pakistan, Mexico, the U.S., Columbia. He throws in drug dealers and cartels, spies of various nations, law enforcement good and bad, engineering marvels, and describes in Clancy-style detail an entire panoply of the most modern weaponry available today. Some of his so-technical descriptions of weapons, ammunition and their uses doesn't, in my estimation, do much to move the story forward. It's a very long read, but there is enough excitement in it overall for almost anybody's entertainment. If I were the youngster I used to be, I'd get a tape and go running, no, actually, I'd walk. But I did read much of this while on an elliptical strider at my health club. Time flew . . . . Against All Enemies has just about everything a Clancy fan would expect.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
As a former avid Clancy reader, and recent Brad Thor and Vince Flynn fan, I must say this is a weak attemp to recapture the past glory of Clancy's novels. Again, I love "old" Clancy, and have enjoyed previous series, but by the middle of this book, I didn't care about the main character and could care less how the book ended.
Mikeeman More than 1 year ago
This is really 2 books--one regarding Mexican drug traffic and one predicting the next terrorist attack on the U.S., thinly stiched together. It's all over the place geographically and is redundent to the point of nausea in the trials and past tribulations of the main character. We get it the first time Tom--He's haunted by his past. Too many characters to keep track or identify and too much technical information on weapons, bullets, planes, etc. Was the author getting paid by the word??? On the other hand, I'm proud of myself--It was a struggle, but I made it through the book. If your using this review as a guide to decide on whether you want to read the book or not--find another book.
In-My-Opinion More than 1 year ago
Thanks to the review section, I have saved $$$ on this book. I too am (was) a major Clancy fan and I waited 6 years for his last book Dead or Alive and was disappointed BIG TIME. I was prepared to buy this one with the hope it might be better until the reviews from other Clancy fans mirrored those for Dead or Alive. Clancy had no equal and I sure would like the old Tom back. So Tom, either give up your "with partners" and write or retire.
Sun-tzu More than 1 year ago
This has to be one of the most poorly written books with Clancys name on it. He should be ashamed to even allow this thing to end up in print with his name on it. I think he needs to start writing again and stop putting his name on books that others have written.
Sybil625 More than 1 year ago
This is the last time I spend any money on Tom Clancy.
Grenik More than 1 year ago
BN should not sell ebooks if they are going to charge outrages prices for them. I will not buy this book! Last book was disappointing anyways. This should be discounted highly to get people to read Tom again.
MTT3107 More than 1 year ago
It is quite obvious that the only writing Tom Clancy did on this, was to sign the contract... Does not even come clos to any of the "real" Clancys. Disjointed, confusing story line. For the life of me, I cna't figure out why he would le his reputation be tarnished by having his name associated with this drivel... You wuld think that after the success of all his other writings, he wouldn't need money that bad.
Robert Smith More than 1 year ago
Very discouraged with this book. Like other posters i agree this book jumps around so much i would recommed dramamine if you get motion sickness definitely at the bottom of my list for Clancy novels