Tom Clancy Line of Demarcation - Softcover

Woodward, M.P.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 059371802X ISBN 13: 9780593718025

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

The discovery of an oil field off the coast of Guyana plunges Jack Ryan, Jr into a cauldron of lies in the latest entry in this New York Times bestselling series.

It starts with the destruction of a US Coast Guard cutter and the loss of her entire crew. But the USCG Claiborne was on an innocuous mission to open a sea lane between an oil field off the coast of South America and the refineries of southern Louisiana. The destruction of the ship, tragic as it is, won't stop that mission from continuing.

So who would sacrifice twenty-two men and women just to slow down the plan? That's the question plaguing Jack Ryan Jr. He's in Guyana to work a deal to get his company, Hendley Associates, in on the ground floor of this new discovery, but Russia’s Wagner Group and a pack of Venezuelan narco-terrorists have other ideas—and will risk war with the United States to see them through. It's up to Jack to identify the killers before they draw a bead on him, but how can he do that when the line of demarcation between friend and foe is constantly shifting?

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Tom Clancy was the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than eighteen books. He died in October 2013.

M. P. Woodward is a veteran of both US intelligence ops and the entertainment industry. As a naval intelligence officer with the US Pacific Command, he scripted scenario moves and countermoves for US war game exercises in the Middle East. In multiple deployments to the Persian Gulf and Far East, he worked alongside US Special Forces, CIA, and NSA. After leaving the Navy, Woodward ran international distribution marketing for Amazon Prime Video. Today, he is a full-time writer based in Washington State.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

Georgetown, Guyana

March 1, 0930

The chill of the air-conditioning at Georgetown's Marriott Hotel was long forgotten by the time Jack Ryan, Jr., finished walking his first block. He had five more to go before he made it to his destination, the Guyanese Parliament building, and already he could feel sweat sliding down his armpits, back, and knees. He did his best to ignore it, for he had other things on his mind.

With a suit jacket slung over one shoulder and a messenger bag on the other, Jack strode down Water Street along the banks of the muddy, fast-flowing Demerara River. The mocha-colored water was narrow and deep, carrying so much silt from the inland jungles that it colored Georgetown's entire bay.

Below Jack, on the contrastingly green banks, he watched men cast lines, hoping to hook a peacock bass. Out in the river's center, where the current was strong, the occasional broken tree swirled by in a gurgle of tan bubbles. Often the logs were huge and sturdy, broken hulks from the thick rainforests upriver, caught in the slipstream, where they'd finish their fates as Atlantic driftwood. Each time one went by, Jack was amazed at how fast they traveled.

After a quarter mile, Water Street turned inland, pointing Jack to Georgetown's interior. He joined a family of pedestrians at a stoplight, waiting to cross the road. Here, farther from the river, the scant breeze had stopped. Jack flicked his thumb across his forehead, sluicing sweat away like a windshield wiper.

A woman smiled at him, her big teeth glowing white against her dark face. She had a light bonnet wrapped over her head to guard against the sun. Beside her, three young boys in school uniforms-white shirts over blue shorts-clung to her print dress.

"You need a hat," the largest of the boys said to Jack, peering up at him. Though only about ten, Jack noticed the boy already spoke with the faintly Caribbean-British accent he'd come to enjoy in Georgetown.

"You're probably right," Jack replied, shading his eyes.

The woman glanced at him. "You really should wear one. Your neck is already pink." She rested her hand on her youngest boy's shoulder. "We always keep an eye out for visitors here, don't we, boys?" Each nodded solemnly at her.

"I'm leaving today," Jack declared. "But thank you." He went back to watching the long line of traffic, still waiting for the light to change.

The woman regarded Jack curiously. "Where are you leaving for?"

"Washington, D.C."

"So you're going to the government buildings, then. Is that right?"

"Yes. That's right."

"And you walked all the way from the big American hotel?"

Jack could feel the boys' blinking eyes on him as they waited for him to answer. "Yes, I did. I happen to think it's good to get out and see a place," he said. "And I like Georgetown."

"May I ask what you like about it?"

The mother's eyes lingered on Jack as he stared straight ahead, groping for an answer. In the few seconds of this chance encounter at an intersection, it seemed to him there was precious little time to express the thoughts running through his mind.

When he said he liked Georgetown, he didn't mean the weather, muddy river, or lashing rains that came over the sugarcane fields. Rather, he liked the people, the plucky attitude, the outright promise of the place unfolding before his eyes.

During a ten-day business trip, Jack had formed the view that Georgetown was that rare frontier settlement where something amazing was about to happen, where the rest of the world was about to come rushing in, like San Francisco before the gold rush. The charm lay in its innocence, the way its citizens didn't realize their coming significance, like a beautiful adolescent girl who had no time for mirrors. But he couldn't figure out how to say all of that to this young mother and her three boys.

The light turned green. One of the boys rummaged through his knapsack and produced a small white handkerchief. He held it out to Jack as he was about to cross the street. "For your head, sir," he said earnestly.

Jack knelt. Accepting it with dignity, he thanked the boy with a clap on the shoulder.

Before long, Jack found himself walking in a tightly packed grid of colonial buildings. Ahead of schedule, he slowed to watch a cricket match with players in their teens. The nearby school had mowed an oval in a vacant lot dotted with bowing palm trees.

Jack found a patch of shade with a mild Atlantic breeze and tried to make sense of the game, until he heard the church bells clanging from the belfry atop the whitewashed, Victorian St. George's Cathedral. That made it ten o'clock, time for his meeting.

He stood alone on the boulevard between the church and the parliament building, again waiting for the traffic to clear. Then, stepping onto the pavement, he nearly got himself killed. As in all former British colonies, the Guyanese drove on the left side of the road. Distracted by the cricket match, Jack had looked the wrong way.

None the worse for wear, a minute later he stood before an impressive wrought-iron fence, wiping his forehead with the handkerchief the boy had given him.

The Guyanese parliament building before him was yet another reminder of the country's colonial roots and hidden charm. Though hardly the Palace of Westminster, Jack found its double rows of arches and soaring dome a reasonable representation of Victorian grandeur.

While approaching the heavy gates, he tightened his tie, shrugged into his jacket, and folded the boy's handkerchief into a neat, breast pocket square. Conscious of the two government guards who watched him, he smoothed his hair and buttoned his jacket. He then retrieved his passport from his trouser pocket and held it as he approached, making sure they knew he wasn't a threat.

The guards, two parade-ready officers of the Guyanese National Police Force, eyed him carefully. They wore spit-shined boots, jaunty black berets, and stubby MP5 machine guns slung over their shoulders.

"Good morning," Jack began, offering the passport. "I have an appointment with Dr. Quintero, the minister of the interior. We're supposed to meet here at ten o'clock."

The two guards twitched their eyes over Jack like a pair of Dobermans. One of them took the passport and stuck it to a clipboard, while the other ran a handheld metal detector over Jack's body.

"What is the name of your company?" Clipboard asked, while the other guard searched Jack's bag.

Jack tugged one of the freshly printed business cards from his wallet. "I'm the chief executive officer of Athena Global Shipping Lines," he declared. "I've been here a time or two before." Though he didn't want to insult the guard, he'd been here four times in the prior ten days. Each time they went through the same rigmarole.

Clipboard studied the card carefully, just as he had during the previous instances. "It's an oil shipping company," the guard said.

Since Jack and the guard had graduated to a conversational level, he ventured a little more detail. "Ships for liquified natural gas, technically. Shallow draft bulk carriers designed for the Orinoco Basin. Three of them, to be exact."

Just as he had on Jack's previous visits, the guard made a note on the clipboard with a stubby golf pencil. His eyes lingered a little longer on the business card. "It says here your company is in San Juan, Puerto Rico."

"That's correct."

He handed Jack's passport back and lowered the clipboard to the table. "But you're an American."

"So are the Puerto Ricans. Feel free to keep the card."

Without another word, the guard pressed a buzzer and the heavy iron gate swung open. Jack stepped through it and strode the length of the curved driveway to the front door.

"Jack boy!" boomed the...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 059371802X
• ISBN 13: 9780593718025
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 417
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Buchbär; info@buchbaer.de; ; Weberstr. 67; Osnabrück; 49084; Deutschland