Tom Clancy

"Bear, this is Six," Clark called on the radio.

"Bear copies, Six, over."

"We execute in five minutes."

"Roger that, we party in five."

They were either very brave or very foolish to go to that country, Popov thought. [...] Bokassa had killed his way to the top, as had so many African chiefs of state, before dying, remarkably, of natural causes—so the papers said, anyway, you could never really be sure, could you?

Henriksen: The commander on the scene makes that decision, based on his training, experience, and expertise. Then, Henriksen didn't go on, people like you second-guess the hell out of him for the next couple weeks.

TV Anchor: But who decides when it's necessary?

"We're going to be close to overloading the aircraft," Harrison warned.

"That's why it's got two engines, son," the Marine pointed out.

These anti-terror groups all looked pretty much the same, but that was to be expected, since they all trained to do the same thing and worked out of the same international manual—first promulgated by the English with their Special Air Service commandos, then followed by the German GSG-9, and then the rest of Europe, followed by the Americans—down to the black clothing, which struck Popov as theatrical, but they all had to wear something, and black made more sense than white clothing, didn't it?

Popov: It went much as I had expected. They were foolish—really rather amateurish, despite all the training we gave them back in the eighties. I told them to feel free to rob the bank as a cover for the real mission–

John Brightling: Which was?

Popov: To be killed.

The man had to be tense, Popov knew. Betrayal was how most of the people like Fürchtner got caught, and though Dmitriy was known and trusted by them, you could only be betrayed by someone whom you trusted, a fact known to every covert operator in the world.

"Thanks, Doc." Chavez hefted the book for weight and headed out the door. The Enraged Outlook: Inside the Terrorist Mind was the title. It wouldn't hurt to understand them a little better, though he figured the best thing about the inside of a terrorist's mind was a 185-grain 10-mm hollow-point bullet entering at high speed.

Because of a random event—bad luck. A hell of a thing to tell someone who'd just lost a husband. Cause of death, bad luck.

It would forever be regarded as a very bad shot. Half a second later, the 7-mm bullet struck the subject six inches below the sternum.

Carol Brightling: Who did the takedown?

George Winston: Well– [...] What did the news say?

Carol: Local cops, Vienna police SWAT team, I guess.

George: Well, I suppose they learned up on how to do it.

Carol: The Austrians? Who'd they learn it from?

George: Somebody who knows how, I guess.