Mirror Image: Op-Center 02 (Tom Clancy's Op-Center)
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The Cold War is over. And chaos is setting in.
The new President of Russia is trying to create a democratic regime. But there are strong elements within the country that are trying to stop him: the ruthless Russian mafia, the right wing nationalists, and those nefarious forces that will do whatever it takes to return Russia to the days of the Czar.
Op-Center, the newly-founded but highly successful crisis management team, begins a race against the clock and against the hardliners. Their task is made even more difficult by the discovery of a Russian counterpart . . . but this one's controlled by those same repressive hardliners and represents everything Op-Center stands for.
Two rival Op-Centers, virtual mirror images of each other. But if this mirror cracks, it'll be more than seven years of bad luck . . .
Lieutenant Colonel Squires is handing him out to Newmeyer, holding him by the hair. Newmeyer is trying to get his hands under the Russian’s arms. Looks like he’s struggling. Hold on, sir.” There was talk in the helicopter, and Private Honda was quiet for several seconds. Rodgers couldn’t make any of the conversation out. Then, near the radio, Rodgers heard Sondra say, “Then we’ll jettison our clothes or weapons. We’ll make up the weight.” Obviously, Squires was planning to bring the Russian
nazhacheniye, “special purpose”—he had both nerves and character of granite. It showed in his hard expression. His dark eyebrows dipped severely above his long, straight nose, and his thin lips turned down at the edges where they blended with the deep, hard lines from his nose. He wore a thick mustache, which was unusual for the breed. But his gait was typical of the special forces: fast and assured, as though only an invisible leash kept him from racing toward a goal only he could see. Opening
the lower left corner of the monitor. It was several seconds before Dogin turned around. Orlov wasn’t sure whether the Minister liked making people wait for him, or whether he didn’t like to appear to be waiting for others. In either case it was a game, and Orlov didn’t like it. The Minister smiled. “Corporal Ivashin tells me that everything went on as planned.” “The Corporal was out of line, not to mention premature,” Orlov said. “We haven’t reviewed the data as yet.” “I’m sure it will check
all, as opposed to courage, which comes from the individual.” He’d been naive and Liz had let it go. Now, after three missions, Squires had come to understand that shared fear wasn’t something to overcome. It was a mutual support system that turned people of disparate backgrounds and intellects and interests into a single, bonded organism. It was what made the crew of a World War II bomber or a police squad car or an elite commando force closer than a husband and wife could ever be. It was what
were mountains. The region was as quiet as anywhere he had ever been. The only sounds were the whistle of the wind in his helmet and the scaffling of the Strikers’ boots against the dirt and loose rocks of the cliff. Honda moved forward when he was finished. And with a final glance toward the eastern horizon from which their quarry would soon be coming, Squires moved to where the Strikers were just finishing with their preparations to descend from the ledge. FIFTY Tuesday, 9:32 P.M.,