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Summary
Author Notes
Stephen Coonts was born on July 19, 1946 and grew up in Buckhannon, West Virginia. He received an A.B. degree in political science from West Virginia University in 1968. He entered the U.S. Navy and received his Navy wings in August of 1969. He made two combat cruises aboard the USS Enterprise. After the Vietnam War, he served as a flight instructor aboard the USS Nimitz. He left active duty in 1977 and received a law degree from the University of Colorado School of Law in 1979. He went to West Virginia to practice and later, to Colorado to work as a staff attorney for an oil company.
Coonts published his first novel, Flight of the Intruder, in 1986, which was adapted as into a film in 1991. Since then he has written more than 20 books including ones in the Jake Grafton Novel series, Saucer series, Deep Black series, and Tommy Carmellini series. He also published a work of nonfiction in 1992 called The Cannibal Queen and edited an anthology of true flying stories, War in the Air, in 1996. The U.S. Naval Institute honored him with its Author of the Year Award in 1986 for his novel, Flight of the Intruder.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Bestseller Coonts's exciting third thriller to star reformed burglar turned CIA operative Tommy Carmellini (after The Traitor) raises a timely issue--the lack of well-to-do Americans on combat duty in the war against terrorism. When an Iraqi bomb kills Huntington Winchester's only child, a Harvard med student who joined the navy out of patriotism, the grieving father decides he and his privileged friends aren't doing enough to defend civilization against the jihadist threat. Winchester gets tacit approval from one of those friends, the unnamed U.S. president, for him and some other well-to-do types to finance their own private war. When al-Qaeda mastermind Abu Qasim discovers the identities of those in Winchester's group and targets them, Carmellini and his CIA boss, Adm. Jake Grafton, determine to set a trap that involves Qasim's possible daughter. Though the constant switching between various points-of-view distracts at times, the action moves swiftly to its Hollywood ending. Author tour. (Aug.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
CIA agents Tommy Carmellini and Jake Grafton return in this follow-up to The Traitor (2006). A ruthless terrorist, Abu Qasim, escaped their clutches in the earlier adventure, and now they are desperate to capture him. When a Russian dies of radiation poisoning, it's clear that Qasim may be in possession of a nuclear weapon. Meanwhile, Carmellini finds himself falling in love with a woman he has been assigned to protect, even though she may be working with the terrorist. Coonts has never been known for graceful prose, and this time that flaw is particularly evident in a series of similarly worded death scenes. In addition, the narrative never really catches fire, plodding along to its obvious conclusion. Still, Coonts' fans are legion, and they are sure to be forgiving.--Ayers, Jeff Copyright 2008 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Industry and political leaders in the West decide to go after the al Quaeda minion who nearly blew up the Group of 7 in Coonts's The Traitor. Now they're being picked off one by one. With a one-day laydown on August 5; national tour. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
PROLOGUE OCTOBER--IRAQ Ragheads dragged the driver out of the vehicle and took him away," the sergeant told the lieutenant, who was sitting in a Humvee. "They shot the woman in the car. She's still in it. Iraqi grunt says she's alive but the assholes put a bomb in the car. They're using her as cheese in the trap." "Shit," said the lieutenant and rubbed the stubble on his chin. The day was hot, and the chatter of automatic weapons firing bursts was the musical background. The column of vehicles had ground to a halt in a cloud of dust, and since there was no wind, the dust sifted softly down, blanketing equipment and men and making breathing difficult. U.S. Navy Petty Officer Third Class Owen Winchester moved closer to the lead vehicle so that he could hear the lieutenant and sergeant better. He could see the back end of an old sedan with faded, peeling paint sitting motionless alongside the road about fifty yards ahead. Three Marines and three Iraqi soldiers were huddled in an irrigation ditch fifty feet to the right of the road. On the left was a block of houses. "Let me go take a look," Winchester said to the lieutenant. "Listen, doc," the sergeant said, glancing at Winchester. "The ragheads would love to do you same as they would us." "I want to take a look," Winchester insisted. "If she can be saved..." He left it hanging there as distant small-arms fire rattled randomly. The place was a sun-baked hellhole; it made Juarez look like Paris on the Rio Bravo. The tragedy was that real humans tried to live here... and were murdered here by rats with guns who wanted to rule the dungheap in the name of a vengeful, merciless god, one who demanded human sacrifice as a ticket to Paradise. The lieutenant had been in Iraq for six months and was approaching burnout. The wanton, savage cruelty of the true believers no longer appalled him--he accepted it, just as he did the heat and dirt and human misery he saw everywhere he looked. He forced himself to think about the situation. A woman. Shot. She would probably die unless something was done. So what? No, no, don't think like that , he thought. That's the way they think, which is why the Devil lives here . After a few seconds, he said, "Okay. Take a look. And watch your ass." The sergeant didn't say another word, merely began trotting ahead in that bent-over combat trot of soldiers the world over. With his firstaid bag over his shoulder, Winchester followed. They flopped into the irrigation ditch directly opposite the car, where they could see into the passenger compartment. There was a woman in there, all right, slumped over. She wasn't wearing a head scarf. They could see her dark hair. Fifteen feet from them was the rotting carcass of a dog. In this heat, the stench was awe-inspiring. An Iraqi soldier joined them. "She has been shot," he said in heavily accented English. "Stomach. I get close, see her and bomb." "How are they going to detonate it, you think?" Winchester asked, looking around, trying to spot the triggerman. He saw no one but the Iraqi soldiers and Marines lying on their stomachs in the irrigation ditch, away from the dog. The mud-walled and brick buildings across the way looked empty, abandoned, their windows blank and dark. "Cell phone, most likely," the sergeant said sourly. "From somewhere over there, in one of those apartments. Or a garage door opener." "Saving lives is my job," the corpsman said. "I want to take a look." "You're an idiot." "Probably." Winchester grinned. He had a good grin. "Jesus! Don't do nothin' stupid." With that admonition ringing in his ears, Winchester ditched the first-aid bag and trotted toward the car. From ten feet away he could see the woman's head slumped over, see that the door was ajar. He closed to five feet. She wasn't wearing a seat belt, and a bomb was lying on the driver's seat. Looked like four sticks of dynamite, fused, with a black box taped to the bundle. The woman moved her head slightly, and he heard a low moan. Winchester ran back to the ditch, holding his helmet in place, and flopped down beside the sergeant. "There's a bomb on the driver's seat," he told the sergeant, whose name was Joe Martinez. "And she's still alive. I think I can get her out of there before they blow it. Takes time to dial a phone, time for the network to make the phone you called ring. Might be enough time." "Might be just enough to kill you, you silly son of a bitch." "The door is ajar and she isn't wearing a seat belt. I can do this. Open the door and grab her and run like hell." "You're an idiot," Sergeant Martinez repeated. "Would you try it if she was your sister?" "She ain't my sister," the sergeant said with feeling as he scanned the buildings across the road. "What do they say? No good deed goes unpunished?" "I will go," the Iraqi soldier said. He laid his weapon on the edge of the ditch, began taking off his web belt. "Two men, one on each arm." "She's my sister, Joe," Owen Winchester said to Martinez. He grinned again, broadly. The sergeant watched as Winchester and the Iraqi soldier took off all their gear and their helmets, so they could run faster. "You fuckin' swabbie! You got balls as big as pumpkins. How do you carry them around?" Martinez laid down his rifle, took off his web belt and tossed his helmet beside the rifle. "I'll get the door. You two get her." He took a deep breath and exhaled explosively. "Okay, on three. One, two, threeeee!" They vaulted from the ditch and sprinted toward the car. The sergeant jerked the door open. The other two men reached in, Winchester grabbing one arm and the Iraqi the other, and pulled the wounded woman from the car, then hooked an arm under each armpit. Joe Martinez picked up her feet, and they began to run. They were ten feet from the car when the bomb exploded. Excerpted from The Assassin by Stephen Coonts Copyright (c) 2008 by Stephen Coonts Published in 2008 by St. Martin's Press All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher. Excerpted from The Assassin by Stephen Coonts 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.
