Cover image for Crisis four
Title:
Crisis four
Author:
McNab, Andy, 1959-
Personal Author:
Edition:
First Ballantine Books edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Ballantine Books, [1999]

©1999
Physical Description:
373 pages ; 25 cm
Language:
English
ISBN:
9780345428073
Format :
Book

Available:*

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Status
Central Library X Adult Fiction Central Library
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Summary

Summary

Crisis Four is the stunning sequel to the #1 British bestseller Remote Control by the veteran commando-turned-author whose true-to-life fictional accounts of special forces rip the lid off the super-secret world of terrorism and black ops.


Author Notes

A former member of the crack elite force the Special Air Service (SAS), Andy McNab was involved in both covert & overt special operations on five continents, including joint ops with Delta Force, the FBI's HRT & the DEA. McNab was the British Army's most highly decorated serving soldier when he left in 1993.

After the non-fiction books based on his SAS experiences, "Bravo Two Zero" (1993) & "Immediate Action" (1995), McNab turned to fiction with "Remote Control" (1997) & "Crisis Four" (1999). He lectures to security agencies & remains closely involved with the intelligence communities on both sides of the Atlantic.

(Bowker Author Biography)


Reviews 3

Booklist Review

The life of a fictional British intelligence officer can be dreary or sexy, depending largely on whether he or she is portrayed realistically or as an object of fantasy. These very different thrillers let readers pick their pleasure. Nick Stone is no James Bond. Sure, he may be part of Her Majesty's Secret Service, but his rank is such that he receives information solely on a need-to-know basis, which often catches him vulnerable during crisis times. His assignments mostly come via the U.S.--dirty little deeds that the righteous Americans are too "ethical" to carry out themselves. Stone's latest charge is to locate and bring home Sarah Greenwood, a fellow officer gone rogue. (She also happens to be Stone's former lover.) Stone quickly realizes that he is both hunter and hunted, forcing him to watch his back while simultaneously searching out his prey. McNab, a former Special Air Service member himself, adeptly puts the reader right in the thick of things, providing a wealth of detail about secret-service strategy and allowing us inside Stone's head as he plots every decision. Stone may not be suave, but he's a pro. Then there's Bond, James Bond. Since 1997, Benson has been giving Bond fans a reasonable facsimile of the Golden Age of international espionage, as seen through the very special eyes of Ian Fleming. Here we find Bond on a bender--er, medical leave--between assignments. His last mission (High Time to Kill [BKL My 15 99]) left him injured and more than a little shaken, thanks to the death of his personal assistant. Eager to return to active duty, Bond starts digging around in the affairs of the Union, the criminal group responsible for the assistant's death. Then a fortune cookie proclaims that "meeting your double means certain death," and Bond sets off in search of clarification. His hunt for the meaning of the message and for the Union leaders takes him on a typical 007 world tour, from London's Soho to Spain to Morocco to the Rock of Gibraltar. As good as Bond gets in the post-Fleming era. --Mary Frances Wilkens


Publisher's Weekly Review

A little knowledge is a dangerous thingDand a little knowledge is all freelance operative Nick Stone gets when he's ordered to track down a missing colleague in McNab's gripping follow-up to the British bestseller Remote Control. It's the spring of 1998, and Stone is on the trail of Sarah Greenwood, who's disappeared from her counter-terrorism stint in Washington just before Arafat and Netanyahu are scheduled to meet with President Clinton in the capital. It doesn't help that Stone's affair with Sarah (which was all business on Sarah's part) was responsible for the end of his marriage, or that Sarah herself is a real piece of work. When Stone finds Sarah, he discovers that his superiors not only want the trigger-happy operative dead, they want her to disappear without a trace. But Sarah claims she has information that could stop an Osama Bin Laden-sponsored terrorist strike on the White House that would kill the American, Palestinian and Israeli leaders. As a result, Stone must choose whether to obey orders or to believe his ex-lover. The plot is simple and direct, and McNab's talent for setting up a scene becomes evident when Stone tracks Sarah to North Carolina. His stakeout of her house would occupy a few pages if described by a less-skilled writer, but McNab goes deep into detail, transforming the set piece into virtual reality. McNab, a former Special Air Service member, delivers authenticity in spades; this thriller is full of the kind of grit that gets under the fingernails. His nonfiction bestseller, Bravo Two Zero, which tells the story of what happened to his SAS patrol when it was stranded behind Iraqi lines during the Gulf War, reads like a prologue to this novel, which boasts the operational details of a Rogue Warrior escapade without the overdose of testosterone. Major ad/promo. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Library Journal Review

President Clinton, Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu, and Palestinian leader Arafat are getting ready to sign a cease-fire agreement in a ceremony on the lawn of the White House. Hundreds of school children have assembled to sing hymns of peace, and at a prescribed moment, hundreds of white doves will be released into the air, signifying a hopeful end to decades of conflict. As the leaders approach the ceremony, a terrorist activates a. Let's go back a few years to when British agent Nick Stone meets a mysterious woman known only as Sarah. On their first mission together, she nearly gets his team killed, but once the operation is over, they become lovers. Years go by and Stone loses track of her until one day he is summoned into the offices of his superiors and given a mission: kill Sarah because she apparently turned traitor. His mission leads him from the backwoods of South Carolina to the steps of the White House, where he learns of betrayal and deceit from the people he trusts. This white-knuckle thriller represents the finest in suspense fiction today and brings to mind the best of Alistair MacLean. British narrator Steven Crossley brings his theater training to the forefront, giving each character perfect inflection and a unique personality. Highly recommended for all public libraries.DJoseph L. Carlson, Lompoc P.L., CA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

FRIDAY, APRIL 24, 1998 Three gallons a day, that's your lot," the bosun barked. "But two gallons have to go to the cook, so there's one gallon--I'll tell ye again, just one gallon--left over for drinking, washing and anything else ye need it for. Anyone caught taking more will be flogged. So will gamblers, cheats and malingerers. We don't like malingerers in Her Majesty's navy!" We were lined up on either side of the deck, listening to the bosun gobbing off about our water ration. I was trying not to catch Josh's eye; I knew I'd burst into a fit of laughter that Kelly wouldn't find amusing. There were about twenty of us "new crew," mostly kids, all dressed in the standard-issue sixteenth-century sailors' kit: a hessian jerkin and shirt, with trousers that stopped about a foot short of the trainers we'd been instructed to bring with us. We were aboard the Golden Hind, a full-sized reconstruction of the ship in which Sir Francis Drake had circumnavigated the globe between 1577 and 1580. This version, too, had sailed around the world, and film companies had used it as a location so often it had had more makeovers than Joan Collins. And now it was in permanent dock serving, as Kelly called it in her very American way, as an "edutainment" attraction. She was standing to my right, very excited about her birthday treat, even if it was a few days late. She was now nine, going on twenty-four. "See, I told you this would be good!" I beamed. She didn't reply, but kept her eyes fixed on the bosun. He was dressed the same as us, but was allowed to wear a hat--on account of all the extra responsibility, I supposed. "Ye slimey lot have been hand-picked for a voyage with Sir Francis Drake, aboard this, the finest ship in the fleet, the Golden Hind!" His eyes fixed on those of each child as he passed them on the other line. He reminded me of my very first drill sergeant when I was a boy soldier. I looked over at Josh and his gang, who were on the receiving end of his tirade. Joshua G. D'Souza was thirty-eightish, five feet six inches, and, thanks to being into weights, about two hundred pounds of muscle. Even his head looked like a bicep; he was 99 percent bald, and a razor blade and moisturizer had taken care of the other 1 percent. His round, gold-rimmed glasses made him look somehow more menacing than intellectual. Josh was half black, half Puerto Rican, though he'd been born in Dakota. I couldn't really work that one out, but nor could I be bothered to ask. Joining up as a teenager, he'd done a few years in the 82nd Airborne and then Special Forces. In his late twenties he'd joined the U.S. Treasury Department as a member of their Secret Service, in time working on the vice-presidential protection team in Washington. He lived near Kelly's dad's place, and he and Kev had met, not through work, but because their kids had gone to the same school. Josh had his three standing next to him, working hard at understanding the bosun's accent. They were on their last leg of a whistlestop tour of Europe during their Easter vacation. Kelly and I had collected them off the Paris Eurostar just the day before; they were going to spend a few days seeing the sights with us before heading back to D.C., and Kelly was really hyper. I was pleased about that; it was the first time she'd seen them since "what happened"--as we called it--over a year ago. All things considered, she was doing pretty well at the moment and getting on with her life. The bosun had turned back and was moving up our line. "Ye will be learning gun drills, ye will be learning how to set sail and repel boarders. But best of all, ye'll be hunting for treasure and singing sailors' shanties!" The crew was encouraged to respond with their best sailor-type cries. All of a sudden, competition for the loudest noise came from the siren of a tourist boat passing on the river, and the bark of its horn, as the first sailing of the day "did" London Bridge. I glanced down at Kelly. She was quivering with excitement. I was enjoying myself, too, but I felt just a bit weird standing there in fancy dress in full public view, aboard a ship docked on the south side of London Bridge. At this time of the morning, there were still office workers walking along the narrow cobblestoned road that paralleled the Thames, dodging the delivery vans and taxis on their way to work. The trains that had got them this far were slowly trundling along the elevated tracks about 200 meters away, making their way toward the river. The pub next to the ship, the Olde Thameside Inn, was one of those places that supposedly dates from Shakespeare's day but which, in fact, was built maybe ten years earlier on one of the converted wharves that line the river. The office crowd, plastic cups and cigarettes in hand, were making the most of the morning sun on the terrace overlooking the water, having picked up their late breakfast from the coffee shop. Excerpted from Crisis Four by Andy McNab All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Table of Contents

Friday, April 24, 1998
Three gallons a day, that's your lot," the bosun barked. "But two gallons have to go to the cook, so there's one gallon--I'll tell ye again, just one gallon--left over for drinking, washing and anything else ye need it for. Anyone caught taking more will be flogged. So will gamblers, cheats and malingerers. We don't like malingerers in Her Majesty's navy!"
We were lined up on either side of the deck, listening to the bosun gobbing off about our water ration. I was trying not to catch Josh's eye; I knew I'd burst into a fit of laughter that Kelly wouldn't find amusing.
There were about twenty of us "new crew," mostly kids, all dressed in the standard-issue sixteenth-century sailors' kit: a hessian jerkin and shirt, with trousers that stopped about a foot short of the trainers we'd been instructed to bring with us. We were aboard the Golden Hind, a full-sized reconstruction of the ship in which Sir Francis Drake had circumnavigated the globe between 1577 and 1580. This version, too, had sailed around the world, and film companies had used it as a location so often it had had more makeovers than Joan Collins. And now it was in permanent dock serving, as Kelly called it in her very American way, as an "edutainment" attraction. She was standing to my right, very excited about her birthday treat, even if it was a few days late. She was now nine, going on twenty-four.
"See, I told you this would be good!" I beamed.
She didn't reply, but kept her eyes fixed on the bosun. He was dressed the same as us, but was allowed to wear a hat--on account of all the extra responsibility, I supposed.
"Ye slimey lot have been hand-picked for a voyage with Sir Francis Drake, aboard this, the finest ship in the fleet, the Golden Hind!" His eyes fixed on those of each child as he passed them on the other line. He reminded me of my very first drill sergeant when I was a boy soldier.
I looked over at Josh and his gang, who were on the receiving end of his tirade. Joshua G. D'Souza was thirty-eightish, five feet six inches, and, thanks to being into weights, about two hundred pounds of muscle. Even his head looked like a bicep; he was 99 percent bald, and a razor blade and moisturizer had taken care of the other 1 percent. His round, gold-rimmed glasses made him look somehow more menacing than intellectual.
Josh was half black, half Puerto Rican, though he'd been born in Dakota. I couldn't really work that one out, but nor could I be bothered to ask. Joining up as a teenager, he'd done a few years in the 82nd Airborne and then Special Forces. In his late twenties he'd joined the U.S. Treasury Department as a member of their Secret Service, in time working on the vice-presidential protection team in Washington. He lived near Kelly's dad's place, and he and Kev had met, not through work, but because their kids had gone to the same school.
Josh had his three standing next to him, working hard at understanding the bosun's accent. They were on their last leg of a whistlestop tour of Europe during their Easter vacation. Kelly and I had collected them off the Paris Eurostar just the day before; they were going to spend a few days seeing the sights with us before heading back to D.C., and Kelly was really hyper. I was pleased about that; it was the first time she'd seen them since "what happened"--as we called it--over a year ago. All things considered, she was doing pretty well at the moment and getting on with her life.
The bosun had turned back and was moving up our line. "Ye will be learning gun drills, ye will be learning how to set sail and repel boarders. But best of all, ye'll be hunting for treasure and singing sailors' shanties!" The crew was encouraged to respond with their best sailor-type cries.
All of a sudden, competition for the loudest noise came from the siren of a tourist boat passing on the river, and the bark of its horn, as the first sailing of the day "did" London Bridge.
I glanced down at Kelly. She was quivering with excitement. I was enjoying myself, too, but I felt just a bit weird standing there in fancy dress in full public view, aboard a ship docked on the south side of London Bridge. At this time of the morning, there were still office workers walking along the narrow cobblestoned road that paralleled the Thames, dodging the delivery vans and taxis on their way to work. The trains that had got them this far were slowly trundling along the elevated tracks about 200 meters away, making their way toward the river.
The pub next to the ship, the Olde Thameside Inn, was one of those places that supposedly dates from Shakespeare's day but which, in fact, was built maybe ten years earlier on one of the converted wharves that line the river. The office crowd, plastic cups and cigarettes in hand, were making the most of the morning sun on the terrace overlooking the water, having picked up their late breakfast from the coffee shop.
From the Hardcover edition.

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