Amazon has released the trailer for Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan season 2, which sees John Krasinski return as the titular CIA analyst who trades his desk job for bazookas and bulletproof vests. Based on characters created by Clancy for his “Ryanverse”, the Amazon series was created by Carlton Cuse and Graham Roland.
There’s not much in the trailer that spells out the plot of season 2, but if you enjoyed the first season it looks like you’re in for a similar thrill ride. You got all the hallmarks: John Krasinski wearing extremely un-protective t-shirts during firefights. Masked men shooting machine guns. Grenades. Tactical gear. So much tactical gear! Season 2 of the series also stars Wendell Pierce (The Wire), Noomi Rapace (Prometheus), and Michael Kelly (House of Cards).
Check out the trailer and official season 2 poster below. Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan returns for season 2 in 2019.
Amazon's second season of Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan, starring John Krasinski, hits a sophomore slump with a by-the-numbers story that lacks the narrative punch of its predecessor. However, the seasons real MVP comes from a new cast member.
John talks about turning 40, raising a half a million dollars for charity, living in Brooklyn, his kids, being a food server, working at Sushi Samba, doing stunts for “Jack Ryan,” the popularity of “The Office” and making a sequel to A Quiet Place. #KimmelinBrooklyn
In Mother Russia, secrets did not stay secret for long. Information was strength. Informing was ingrained. It was nothing short of miraculous that Colonel Pavel Mikhailov of the 224th Air Detachment, Military Transport Aviation, had been able to hide his sins at all.
The tribunal convened by his superiors had been a lengthy and embarrassing ordeal. But he was better for it, wasn't he? Bez muki net nauki-no torture, no science. No pain, no gain, the Americans said. Now he'd gotten back his wings-and he wasn't about to do anything that would jeopardize them again. He would be careful. He would be precise. Above all, he would be sober.
Flashlight in hand, the fifty-three-year-old colonel walked beneath the drooping wing of the monstrous Antonov An-124 cargo plane, taking comfort in the smell of jet fuel. A light wind tousled his thinning gray hair. Rosacea that never seemed to go away anymore pinked the round apples of his cheeks. The night had turned out chilly, but the day had been a pleasant one for spring in Moscow, and the black tarmac was still giving up its warmth. Colonel Mikhailov wore small foam earplugs to protect his hearing, but the whine of the auxiliary power unit and the hydraulic squeal of machinery were muffled music to his way of thinking. He played the flashlight under the broad surface of the swept wing, then carefully checked each of the twenty-four tires, as complete and thorough in this preflight as if he were still a pink-faced cadet at Gagarin Academy.
He'd never wrecked an aircraft, or even had a close call, but as his commanding general said, no matter how skilled a pilot he was, one could only show up for work "looking like a bag of ass" so many times before people began to talk. Ironically, his superiors had not begun to worry until after he attended his first weekly meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. The Russian government had long been wary of AA-secret meetings and deference to a higher power other than the state lent credence to the general lack of trust in any program created by the West. But more than that, it was Mikhailov's new attitude that bothered them.
Vodka was as much a part of the Russian psyche as great-coats and poems about troika rides.
In 1858 the government attempted to refill the state coffers drained by the Crimean War by tripling the price of a bucket of vodka. Peasants took oaths of sobriety to protest this tax. Temperance movements swelled as formerly sotted citizens swore off anything more potent than beer-and that just would not do. The Army intervened with crushing aggression on behalf of state alcohol interests, flogging the protesters and using funnels to force vodka down their throats. Temperance groups were outlawed, and more than seven hundred protesters were arrested as rebels.
If Colonel Mikhailov was suddenly worried about handling his liquor, perhaps everyone else should worry as well. Perhaps he was a rebel.
Three decades of service had given Mikhailov guardian angels in high places, men who had flown with him in Afghanistan in the eighties, who still held some measure of loyalty, though they had risen to loftier heights. Skilled pilots with Mikhailov's experience were hard to find-and he told himself he was better while in his cups than half the kids in today's Federation Air Force when they were flying sober.
The disciplinary hearing had been excruciating. Listening to one's numerous shortcomings was difficult enough when drunk. A clear head made it nearly unbearable as the panel of generals ticked down the list, fault by disgusting fault. Those well-placed friends didn't stop the panel from threatening to have him cashiered, but even through the fog of shame he knew better. Had they wanted to take away his pension, they would have simply done it, not threatened it.
Though at times he felt a bucket would have been the perfect vessel from which to drink more vodka, Colonel Mikhailov managed to keep his mouth shut during the process. He did precisely as he was told, and he eventually earned back his wings-wings that brought with them enough trust for this mission.
He'd flown his Antonov 124 to Zhukovsky Airport from Migalovo the day before. The runway at the 6955th home base was adequate for the enormous bird, so long as she was empty, but load her up and it was a different story. Seventy-four thousand, three hundred fifty-two kilograms heavier than it was the day before, the An-124 now needed substantially more runway on takeoff than Migalovo provided. Zhukovsky was located some thirty-six kilometers southeast of Moscow along the Moskva River. It served not only as a civilian international airport, but also as home to Gromov Flight Research Institute, which added to the security protocols needed for sensitive missions like this one.
Apart from the performance and security reasons for changing airports, the two-hundred-kilometer flight served as a shakedown run for the crew of six-four of them new to Mikhailov. He had flown with one of the two engineers before, but the other, along with the radioman, navigator, and first officer, were not from the 224th. Substitutions like this happened, especially on this type of mission, but the An-124 community was relatively small, and he was surprised he'd never met any of these men. Had he stood on firmer ground with respect to his wings, he would have asked more questions. Mikhailov knew his reputation as a skilled pilot was unmatched in the notoriously tricky Antonov, but his reputation as a drunk was just as well known, even outside the military. The new crew members observed him carefully during the preflight briefing for any evidence of alcohol.
He'd arrived early this evening, used his identification card to badge his way through the concentric layers of gates, doors, and armed security personnel, making it to his airplane in time to watch the onboard overhead cranes and powerful winches load the two twenty-meter-long wooden crates through the tail door. His flight manifest noted that the contents of each box were osoboy vazhnosti-of particular importance-what the United States called Top Secret. Their destination was Sary-Shagan in central Kazakhstan, making the classification somewhat moot. Sary-Shagan was a missile test facility, so there was no question as to what these were. There were no markings, other than computer barcodes, but dosimeters affixed to the fore end of each crate left little doubt that the items inside were nuclear. As pilot-in-command, he had to be informed that each item weighed a little over thirty-seven thousand kilos. The length and weight narrowed it down a bit, some kind of medium-range missile, surely a new model, since they were on their way to be tested. Mikhailov was paid to transport, not to deduce.
It didn't matter to him what he carried, so long as he was flying.
Attachment points on the missiles themselves protruded through small cutouts in the wood along the length of the crates, allowing the Antonov's internal crane system to load each item through the massive rear cargo door and nestle them all securely in the bay.
There was room to spare.
Mikhailov had moved a battalion of soldiers, huge military trucks, tanks, other aircraft, even a rescue submarine. He and his fellow pilots were fond of saying they were capable of transporting the Kremlin, so long as the weight was correctly distributed.
The loadmasters would stow the massive tow bar in the rear cargo area after the Antonov was pushed back; then they would stay behind in Zhukovsky, leaving the unloading of this cargo of particular importance to their counterparts at Sary-Shagan.
With his preflight inspection completed, Colonel Mikhailov walked up the open aft cargo ramp, hugged the wall to pass the secured missiles, and climbed the stairs to the upper deck. The rest of the crew had already taken up their positions in the cockpit. They bid him the customary welcome deserving of a colonel and pilot-in-command, and he settled himself into the left seat. No matter how many times he climbed in behind the yoke of any aircraft, he still felt a sense of wonder that heated his belly like . . . well, like a good drink.
He put on a pair of reading glasses, ready to perform his portion of the pre-takeoff checklist, while the first officer, an imposing and broody man named Cherenko, read point by point from a laminated card. A civilian-or just as likely an FSB pilot-he wore dark slacks and a white shirt with three yellow stripes on the black shoulder boards.
A secondary warning light for the fire-suppression system in the cargo hold had not been replaced as per Mikhailov's order the previous day, but he made the decision to wait until they returned to Migalovo. The remainder of the checks were unremarkable.
Mikhailov turned to the navigator seated behind him, who'd already received clearance and instructions for takeoff from Delivery Control. "Flight time?"
"Three hours and thirty-seven minutes, Colonel," the navigator said. "Winds are on the nose most of the way. A Ural Airbus 320 coming in from the south reported heavy turbulence at flight level one-nine-zero."
Mikhailov nodded, unperturbed. "Very well," he said. "Let us be on our way. I know a woman there who makes very good mutton stew."
"It is probably Kazakh horse cock," First Officer Cherenko said and chuckled as he stowed the preflight checklist in the binder beside his seat.
"Whatever it is"-Mikhailov shrugged, deciding he did not like the man-"the stew is delicious." He checked his watch-0104 hours-and leaned forward, adjusting the radio to hear the latest flight information service broadcast. He listened to the recorded message play all the way before giving a nod to the first officer. The trip from Migalovo the day before had established that Mikhailov preferred to let his copilot run the radios while he flew the airplane.
"Ground," Cherenko said. "Antonov 2808 ready to taxi with information Bravo."
"Antonov 2808," a male voice said. "Hold short Runway One-Two, monitor Tower on one-one-niner-point-five."
Military pilots spoke in Russian among themselves, and, to the consternation of pilots transiting from other countries, the tower sometimes did as well. But English was the international language of aviation, and this airspace was controlled by civilians. The tower controller put them in line behind an Il-76 heavy, cautioning them of wake turbulence from the departing giant.
"In line behind the heavy," Cherenko responded. "Antonov 2808."
A moment later the forty-six-meter, four-engine Ilyushin Il-76 lumbered down the runway, leaving invisible vortices of whirling wind behind it.
The controller spoke again. "Antonov 2808 clear for takeoff on Runway One-Two, fly runway heading until five thousand feet. Contact Moscow Departure."
Cherenko read back the instructions as Mikhailov pushed the throttles forward slowly. The airplane began to shudder in place as he babied the four Lotarev D-18T turbofan engines for almost five full minutes before he released the brakes and began his takeoff roll. Slowly, steadily, the great bird picked up enough speed to heave herself off the runway.
"Positive rate of climb, Colonel." Cherenko's voice came over the intercom in Russian now, eyes on the altimeter. "Landing gear up."
The massive Antonov was a touchy bird, but in Mikhailov's capable hands more than a half-million pounds of airplane, fuel, and secret cargo flew with remarkable grace.
Air traffic controller Svetlana Minsky licked chapped lips and pressed slender fingers against her headphones-
as she was wont to do when she grew nervous. Her idiot boyfriend had convinced her to stop smoking, and she was feeling it tonight. A motivational poster tacked to the wall above her said in Cyrillic: The same hammer that shatters glass forges steel. The notion would have been hilarious had it not been so sad. The hammer that was Air Traffic Control was plenty capable of shattering steel. And anyway, Minsky was far too busy doing her job to be reading bullshit motivational posters. She and the dozens of other controllers on watch inside the windowless blue room of Moscow Center took care of the airspace for seventy airports in and around Moscow. Tonight was extra hectic, and she cursed her boyfriend for stealing her cigarettes.
The agitation in her gravel voice was apparent over the radio, earning her a side-eyed warning from her supervisor, who sat birdlike at a row of desks behind her, in the middle of the bullpen.
She watched a numbered blip appear on her radar screen as the sweep came around.
A new voice to go with the blip crackled in her headset. Thickly Slavic, the English would have been almost impossible for anyone but another Russian to understand. "Moscow Departure, Antonov 2808 leaving eight hundred feet for five thousand."
"Antonov 2808, radar contact. Continue climb as directed."
The Short-Term Conflict Alert on Minsky's computer showed a second Antonov, also with the Russian Air Force, bypassing Zhukovsky on a heading that would intercept 2808 at present speed and altitude. The planes were still eight miles apart. This gave her three miles before she'd have an "incident"-when two planes got closer than five lateral miles or a thousand feet of altitude.
Minsky dealt with other aircraft for a time, and gave a phlegmatic cough when she turned her attention back to the two Antonovs. All the open miles in the sky and these two bastards were determined to fly directly into each other.
Minsky wanted to curse almost as bad as she wanted a cigarette. "Antonov 2967, amend altitude to one four thousand, turn left thirty degrees for separation of company traffic departing Zhukovsky."
There was no response.
This was not unheard of. Pilots bumped radio knobs, switched to the wrong frequency, or became engrossed in some conversation with the flight deck. Sometimes they merely fell asleep.
Six miles apart.
Minsky tried again, repeating her command for 2967 to change altitude.
No response. The term to describe an aircraft that didn't respond over the radio was NORDO, but she didn't take the time to use it.
"Antonov 2808, maintain one six thousand, turn left thirty degrees without delay."
Closing in on five miles. This was too close to becoming an official "incident."
Both airplanes now climbed toward eighteen thousand feet, converging on the same point southwest above the Moskva River.
Minsky consoled herself that only one of them had to move out of the way.
The pilot answered with a read-back of her instructions. "Maintain one six thousand, turn left thirty degrees, Antonov 2808."
Minsky snatched up a small rubber alligator her boyfriend had given her to combat the stress of not smoking. She began to squeeze it, as if trying to obliterate the stupid thing from the world. She sighed in relief at the read-back as the number representing 2808 on her radar screen moved from its original path, following her instructions.
Inexplicably, the radar blip that was 2967 moved as well, directly toward 2808 in heading and rate of climb.
Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon (Jack Ryan) by Marc Cameron
Dr. Patti Moon sat bolt upright in her plastic deck chair, startled at the sudden noise coming across her headset.
The biting wind blowing off the Chukchi Sea didn't realize it was spring and pinked her round cheeks and smallish nose. Apart from her hands, which she needed to work the Toughbook portable computer, her face was the only part of her not bundled in layers of wool or fleece. Dr. Moon leaned toward the folding table, situated on the afterdeck of the research vessel Sikuliaq, straining to hear the noise again. Sikuliaq was Inupiaq for young ice-appropriate for a science vessel capable of traveling through more than two feet of the stuff.
They were in open water now, taking advantage of a large lead, more than a mile wide, to set some research buoys before the wind blew the ice pack back in.
Moon touched a finger to her headset as if that would help her make more sense of the sudden burst of sound. A former sonar technician on a Navy destroyer, she'd listened to a lot of noises from the deep, but nothing like this.
She sat up again, shook away a chill, telling herself it was just the wind.
The scientist slouching beside her turned to look at her with sleepy eyes that dripped barely veiled contempt. She didn't take offense. He looked at everyone and everything on the boat that way. Steven "Snopes" Thorson had spent his entire adult life in the world of academia. He knew he was smart-and he liked to make sure everyone around him knew it, too, fact-checking everything anyone said-especially his colleague and fellow Ph.D., Patti Moon.
Her academic bona fides were stellar-but she'd also had the experience of a life growing up in the Arctic, which apparently burned Dr. Thorson worse than the bitter wind.
Moon spent her first seventeen years in the tiny coastal village of Point Hope, Alaska, just four hundred miles south of where the Sikuliaq now motored to stay hove-to against the wind. She'd been in Anchorage for a high school basketball tournament when the USS Momsen, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer stopped for a port call. A female sailor had come ashore with the skipper-and that changed her life. No one pressured her to enlist-they didn't have to. She'd grown up on the ocean, fishing and seal-hunting with her father. The sea was in her blood, and though she wasn't sure how she felt about the U.S. government, the beautiful gray warship off the coast of her home state was all the inducement she needed to sign on the dotted line as soon as she graduated. She served six years as a sonar technician.
Her test scores were through the roof, and though she had a reputation for believing most every conspiracy theory she heard or read online, her sea-daddies (and-moms) pushed her to go to school when her enlistment ended. The GI Bill put her through undergrad at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, after which she'd gone on to attain a first-class graduate degree, and her doctorate in physics from Oxford.
She was just as smart as Dr. Thorson. And frankly didn't give two shits if he judged her for being human and touching her headset in hopes that it would make her hear better. Something was down there. A sound that didn't belong.
And then it was gone, yielding to the other squeals and grunts and songs of the ocean as quickly as it had arisen.
A strand of black hair escaped her wool beanie and blew across Moon's wind-chapped cheek. The wind had shifted, coming from the northeast now-beyond the pack ice. She ignored the cold, focusing instead on the sound she'd heard for only an instant as the hydrophone descended beneath the Sikuliaq.
Ballpoint pens were iffy in the cold, so Dr. Moon used a pencil to record the depth and time in her notebook. She shot a quick glance at Snopes Thorson.
"You didn't hear that?"
Wind fanned the ash on the end of Thorson's cigarette, turning it bright orange-like a tiny forge. Bundled in layers of merino wool, fleece, and orange arctic bibs, it was difficult to tell much about him, except that he wasn't very tall, and was, perhaps, very well fed. He wielded his sideways glares like weapons when he was annoyed, or, more often, when he was about to annoy someone else by fact-checking every little detail of a conversation. Thorson relished the notion of calling everyone out on the slightest error. Patti Moon made it a point to speak as little as possible around the man-not an easy thing to do when their jobs overlapped and their office was a 261-foot boat in the middle of the Arctic Ocean.
Like Moon, Dr. Thorson was a science officer, managing the dispersal of five expendable buoys that would be sunk in the deep water six hundred miles north of the Bering Strait and eight hundred miles south of the North Pole. If there were any mysteries left on earth, they were in the sea, Moon thought. And some of the greatest mysteries of all lay here, in the Chukchi Borderland, where the relatively warmer and saltier Atlantic met the colder, fresher, and more nutrient-rich waters of the Pacific. Oh, the Navy had bathymetric charts of the seafloor, but she knew from experience that they were not entirely accurate. Hidden reefs and shoals appeared and disappeared. Some believed them to be thick clouds of sea life that rose from the depths fooling a ship's sonar techs into thinking they were in much shallower waters.
No matter where one stood on climate change, there was no denying that the Arctic Ocean was opening to more and more sea traffic during summer months, cutting the delivery time of fossil fuels from ports in Russia and the North Slope of Alaska to the rest of the world by as much as two-thirds. Polar nations like Russia, Canada, Denmark, and the United States were as busy as they had ever been collecting data on the Arctic. Even China had edged into the game, arguing that they were a near-polar nation and going so far as to plant a CCP flag beneath the ice on the seafloor. Other countries had laughed this off as a stunt, but everyone worked to enhance their own capabilities on and under the ice.
Where there were ships of commerce, there were also ships of war.
Dr. Moon noted the hydrophone's depth at the time she'd first heard the noise. Two hundred and fifteen feet, but descending rapidly as the buoy and her underwater mic dropped toward the seafloors on the Kevlar cable. She adjusted the gain the old-fashioned way-by turning a knob, attempting to pick up the burst again.
"A passing whale?" Thorson said, his cigarette bobbing between his lips. "Sound can travel 4.3 times faster in water. Whatever you heard could be miles from here."
"Maybe," Moon conceded, ignoring the elementary physics lesson. She was professional enough not to rule out anything without a process. But even as she said the word, she knew that this was no whale.
The noise had not faded, but winked out, as if a switch had been thrown-leaving the rest of the ocean chorus to continue in its absence.
The sea was dark and cold, but it was not a quiet place. When she was only five, Patti's father had let her come with him seal-hunting beyond the jutting spit of land that gave Point Hope its Inupiaq name of Tikigaq-forefinger. Her father had showed her how to put the handle of the wooden paddle to her ear and listen to the undersea songs of uguruq-the bearded seal-as they vibrated up from the blade he'd left submerged in the water. The wooden paddle made for a rudimentary listening device, but she was able to hear the occasional song of a bowhead whale, bearded seals, and the ever-moving pack ice that shrieked and squealed like a badly fitting lid on a Styrofoam cooler. Later, during her time in the Navy, she'd learned that fish grunted, croaked, farted, and ground their teeth.
"Pack ice?" Thorson offered. Sullen, but wanting to guess correctly before she did.
She shook her head. "I'd still be hearing it if it was ice. No . . . it's gone dark, whatever it is."
Moon listened to the relatively dull burble of water as the science buoy continued to plummet toward the seafloor, taking the hydrophone with it. She stretched, glancing out at the sea. Calm today for this part of the world, the Arctic churned and swirled, looking like blue Gatorade and crushed ice-the good stuff, the kind you get from a drive-in.
Sikuliaq used her twin Wartsila ICEPOD azimuth thrusters, each capable of rotating 360 degrees, to stay in place relative to the seafloor. The big ice-the dangerous stuff that could gut even a tough polar ship like Sikuliaq-was still a half-mile away, glinting like silver on the northeast horizon.
Moon turned down the speaker and adjusted the headset over her ears, studying sound graphs on the screen of a second laptop, which was also attached to her hydrophone. Her primary laptop received readings from the expendable research buoy that Snopes Thorson had lowered into the water minutes before. The three-foot can was designed to remain under the ice all winter, far below the massive, fast-moving keels that raked the frigid water as deep as thirty meters. Surface buoys were a no-go in such harshly kinetic environments. They would simply be ground to bits. UAVs-underwater autonomous vehicles-drones-were useful. But they were also expensive. Frigid water sapped battery life and made them prone to loss. The Arctic, and the mysteries that lay beneath her surface, still baffled-and ate-technology.
That's where the under-ice buoys came in. Three feet tall and eight inches in diameter, the metal cans were relatively cheap, though expendable seemed not quite the right word for something with a three-thousand-dollar price tag. Attached to a fourteen-hundred-pound anchor, the device would remain on the ocean floor for most of the year, recording measurements on currents, temperature, and salinity at depth. At a predetermined time, shortly before the surface ice was expected to melt, a mechanism would release the buoy from its anchoring tether, allowing it to float to the surface, collecting more data about flow and thickness and melt rates. When the ice melted and the buoy peeked above the surface, it would send a message to its handlers via short-brust data transmission over the Iridium satellite system.
Ice data was all well and good, Dr. Moon thought. It was, after all, what paid the bills for now, but her real interest was in underwater sounds. To that end, she had begged permission to attach the hydrophone to the deploying cable as the buoy went down. She kicked herself for not rigging a camera at the same time. Even a GoPro might have given her video of whatever had made the sound.
She checked both computer screens, and then looked at Thorson. He surely thought the thick collar of his wool turtleneck made him look like a Nordic fisherman. Patti thought he looked like a little boy wearing his daddy's sweater.
"My money is on bubbles," he said, folding his arms across his chest. He nodded toward his computer. "It's not on the charts, but the sonar's showing a tall ridge jutting up from the seafloor about fifty meters northwest of our position. It's likely you're hearing current burbling around the rocks."
It was Moon's turn to shake her head. "I don't think it's burbling bubbles . . ." She fiddled with the touchpad on her computer. "What depth are you showing now?"
He checked his computer, then leaned sideways, squinting at her screen.
"Same as you. Three-six-five feet."
She gave Thorson her best imploring look, going so far as to bat her eyes a little. "Think we could bring it up a hundred feet, see if I could get that sound again?"
The numbers on her screen kept climbing as the buoy went deeper.
"Sorry, kiddo," Thorson grunted. "Entanglement danger if we reverse the winch right now."
Damn him, but he was right.
Moon thought of begging him more, but Sikuliaq's first officer, a thirtysomething woman named Symonds, trotted down the steps from the wheelhouse and strode over to them, her head bowed against the wind. She also wore a wool turtleneck under waterproof orange Grundens bibs, but she wore hers better than Thorson, like she'd been born in them. A shock of curly blond hair jutted from beneath a black wool watch cap. One of the handful of people on the boat who didn't hold a graduate degree in science or engineering, Kelli Symonds possessed more common sense than most of them put together.
"Low pressure toward Wrangel Island is sucking a knife ridge of heavy pack ice south and west, right on top of us," she said. "The first course looks to be about the size of a cruise ship, and there's city blocks of the stuff after that. The skipper wants us up and outta here in five minutes."
Faces glued to their screens, both scientists gave Symonds a thumbs-up.
Sikuliaq was a Polar Class 5 vessel, fully capable of operating year-round in two and a half feet of new ice, with a few chunks of the previous year's stuff mixed in. Even now, a slushy soup of seawater and baby ice rattled and thunked against the powder-blue hull.
". . . and . . . we have touchdown," Thorson said. "Can is stable. Detaching now. Cable's coming up."
Patti Moon hunched over her computer again, ready this time, focusing intently on her headset as the winch wound in the Kevlar cable, raising the hydrophone faster now that there was only the counterweight and not a half-ton of gear dangling on the end of it.
The azimuth thrusters under Sikuliaq's hull had already begun pushing her south, away from the jagged teeth of oncoming ice.
And there it was-at least part of it.
The noise started again at two hundred and fifty feet, continuing for almost four seconds before going quiet.
Dr. Moon marked the position in her journal and looked aft, past the red cranes and over the transom at the wake Sikuliaq left in the churning blue-green water. She shivered, and not from the bitter wind. This could not be what she'd initially thought. That was impossible.
Today, the lesson was on field-expedient weapons, a subject with which John Clark was intimately familiar. Two-by-fours, pointy mop handles, socks full of sand, a handy magazine rolled into a tight tube if it came down to that-all of them could be useful in a pinch when an operative found him-or herself without a gun or a suitable knife. Campus director of transportation Lisanne Robertson was proving herself to be an able student as they walked through the teeming Ben Thanh Market.