Action & Adventure
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Clive Cussler Fire Strike (The Oregon Files)
Juan Cabrillo and the crew of the Oregon must battle an army of genetically engineered mercenaries to stop a hypersonic missile attack in this explosive new adventure in the #1 New York Times bestselling series.
When Cabrillo is hired to extract an undercover operative in Kenya, he finds himself on the trail of a deadly international plot. A Saudi Prince seeks to unleash a deadly assault on U.S. forces, sparking a new war in the Middle East and ultimately destroying Israel.
Cabrillo's crew have met their most fearsome adversaries yet: a force of bio-hacked soldiers endowed with extreme strength and stamina and an unquenchable appetite for violence. The Oregon team must journey from the Amazon rainforest to an abandoned monastery in Eritrea before a final showdown in the mountains of Yemen, using every shred of courage and cunning they can muster to disable the ship-killer missile before the Arabian Sea becomes a mass grave.
When Cabrillo is hired to extract an undercover operative in Kenya, he finds himself on the trail of a deadly international plot. A Saudi Prince seeks to unleash a deadly assault on U.S. forces, sparking a new war in the Middle East and ultimately destroying Israel.
Cabrillo's crew have met their most fearsome adversaries yet: a force of bio-hacked soldiers endowed with extreme strength and stamina and an unquenchable appetite for violence. The Oregon team must journey from the Amazon rainforest to an abandoned monastery in Eritrea before a final showdown in the mountains of Yemen, using every shred of courage and cunning they can muster to disable the ship-killer missile before the Arabian Sea becomes a mass grave.
Readers Top Reviews
Crag5no nameDavid Go
Just a fun book to read. The book maybe predictable but the story is just a good journey to take.
SD
Have just started reading and already know I am hooked. We both enjoy this genre of books. If you enjoy action, adventure and intrigue buy it today!
James Shivers
Mike Maden has done it again. He knows how to spin a story and tie up all the details. I cannot wait for his next one. That is the hardest part.
John B
The Oregon series is a pleasure to read with each book having all the adventure and fast-paced action I've come to expect. Each storyline is unique and so well thought out that i can't wait for the next book. I'm definitely a fan!
Lois Fisher
I enjoy the Oregon Files series, and Mike Maden does a wonderful job in keeping Mr. Cussler's magic of the oddball crew and its chameleon ship intact. The pace of the story never stops; I was glad for the Cast of Characters because, as with all of these novels, there are a whole passel of players. No spoilers, but I want to warn anyone who's squeamish (like me) about animal abuse, that you might want to flip through those pages. Otherwise, Juan Cabrillo and team are terrific. Recommended!
Short Excerpt Teaser
PROLOGUE
Borneo, 1963
A drenching rain in the moonless night was perfect cover for the three Special Boat Section operatives.
The "wet cousins" of the better-known Special Air Service, the SBS was a commando unit of the Royal Marines specializing in coastal insertions-hence the mission tonight running a Zodiac deep upriver.
A stubborn British national named Rawlinson desperately needed an emergency exfil from his family's rubber plantation. The communist Indonesian insurgents raiding across the region were hell-bent on killing all foreigners and seizing their properties. A Dutch family just eight kilometers away had been decimated by the bandy-legged Marxists the night before and Rawlinson and his wife suddenly realized they were next on their list.
Private Desmond "Wraith" Vickers killed the Zodiac's big outboard Evinrude and the three men paddled the last five hundred meters in practiced synchronicity. They were grateful for the splattering downpour that soaked their kits but silenced their efforts. All three men scanned the dim shoreline for any sign of movement-of rebels, certainly, but also for Bornean crocodiles, thick as flies in this part of the country. So far, lady luck had paddled along with them.
The lieutenant gestured with his free hand and the men angled the rubber-hulled boat toward the shore. They slipped noiselessly out of the Zodiac and dragged it into the cover of thick brush. Each man unslung their "Silent Sten" submachine guns and checked their mags by feel. Vickers slipped his hand to his hip and patted the holster of his .38 Webley revolver, then he snaked his fingers down his thigh to the hilt of his razor-sharp Fairbairn-Sykes dagger in its well-oiled leather scabbard.
Good to go.
The lieutenant nodded in the direction of the plantation. Vickers, just eighteen years old and the youngest operator in the entire squadron, took the point, threading his way through the leaves and brush beneath the orderly rows of rubber trees. On base he carried himself with the self-possessed dignity of a landed earl, but in the field he moved with the preternatural grace and cunning of a jungle cat. His inaudible movements and sudden appearances had earned him the moniker "Wraith."
Vickers halted at the edge of the clearing that led to the darkened plantation house looming in the distance and scanned the perimeter yet again. The lights were off as per the lieutenant's instructions. So far, so good.
Confident that the way was clear, Vickers dashed for the house in a crouching run, his Sten up and his finger on the trigger guard. He silently prayed that Rawlinson remembered the lieutenant's order not to fire on them as they approached the house. A nervous British civilian armed with a loaded Lee-Enfield No. 1 could prove as lethal as any Indonesian killer.
Vickers leaped onto the porch with quiet ease and gazed into the front window. The rain hammered the sheet metal roofing like a mad drummer. He saw no signs of movement inside as the lieutenant and Corporal Sterling, a hulking Scotsman, thundered up next to him.
Vickers shook his head.
The lieutenant's eyes swept the shadowy perimeter once again before he crossed over to the front door and kicked it open with his muddy boot.
Vickers charged in first, gun up, with Sterling-his closest friend-hard on his heels, and the lieutenant right behind them.
"Rawlinson!" the lieutenant called out. "It's the Queen's own come to get you out of here!"
Nothing.
"Sterling, head upstairs. Wraith, check the back."
The two men sped away as the lieutenant pushed open the basement door. He pulled the light chain and called out again. "Rawlinson! Don't shoot. We're here to get you out. Are you there?" He jogged down the wooden staircase and scanned the dank room. All he found were undisturbed storage shelves laden with canned goods and household sundries.
The lieutenant climbed back upstairs into the kitchen. Vickers and Sterling shook their heads.
Nothing.
"Rawlinson may have already bugged out without telling us," the lieutenant said. "But we can't take any chances he's still on the property. Sterling, check the storage shed out back. Wraith, head over to the machine shop. I'll sweep the perimeter. We'll meet back at the drop-off point in fifteen minutes, no exceptions. And give it some rice. Understood?"
Heads nodded. Sterling added, "Sure, boss."
***
The suffocating heat came on as suddenly as the pounding rain had stopped and raised a shroud of fog from the waterlogged ground.
The lieutenant's eyes strained in the...
Borneo, 1963
A drenching rain in the moonless night was perfect cover for the three Special Boat Section operatives.
The "wet cousins" of the better-known Special Air Service, the SBS was a commando unit of the Royal Marines specializing in coastal insertions-hence the mission tonight running a Zodiac deep upriver.
A stubborn British national named Rawlinson desperately needed an emergency exfil from his family's rubber plantation. The communist Indonesian insurgents raiding across the region were hell-bent on killing all foreigners and seizing their properties. A Dutch family just eight kilometers away had been decimated by the bandy-legged Marxists the night before and Rawlinson and his wife suddenly realized they were next on their list.
Private Desmond "Wraith" Vickers killed the Zodiac's big outboard Evinrude and the three men paddled the last five hundred meters in practiced synchronicity. They were grateful for the splattering downpour that soaked their kits but silenced their efforts. All three men scanned the dim shoreline for any sign of movement-of rebels, certainly, but also for Bornean crocodiles, thick as flies in this part of the country. So far, lady luck had paddled along with them.
The lieutenant gestured with his free hand and the men angled the rubber-hulled boat toward the shore. They slipped noiselessly out of the Zodiac and dragged it into the cover of thick brush. Each man unslung their "Silent Sten" submachine guns and checked their mags by feel. Vickers slipped his hand to his hip and patted the holster of his .38 Webley revolver, then he snaked his fingers down his thigh to the hilt of his razor-sharp Fairbairn-Sykes dagger in its well-oiled leather scabbard.
Good to go.
The lieutenant nodded in the direction of the plantation. Vickers, just eighteen years old and the youngest operator in the entire squadron, took the point, threading his way through the leaves and brush beneath the orderly rows of rubber trees. On base he carried himself with the self-possessed dignity of a landed earl, but in the field he moved with the preternatural grace and cunning of a jungle cat. His inaudible movements and sudden appearances had earned him the moniker "Wraith."
Vickers halted at the edge of the clearing that led to the darkened plantation house looming in the distance and scanned the perimeter yet again. The lights were off as per the lieutenant's instructions. So far, so good.
Confident that the way was clear, Vickers dashed for the house in a crouching run, his Sten up and his finger on the trigger guard. He silently prayed that Rawlinson remembered the lieutenant's order not to fire on them as they approached the house. A nervous British civilian armed with a loaded Lee-Enfield No. 1 could prove as lethal as any Indonesian killer.
Vickers leaped onto the porch with quiet ease and gazed into the front window. The rain hammered the sheet metal roofing like a mad drummer. He saw no signs of movement inside as the lieutenant and Corporal Sterling, a hulking Scotsman, thundered up next to him.
Vickers shook his head.
The lieutenant's eyes swept the shadowy perimeter once again before he crossed over to the front door and kicked it open with his muddy boot.
Vickers charged in first, gun up, with Sterling-his closest friend-hard on his heels, and the lieutenant right behind them.
"Rawlinson!" the lieutenant called out. "It's the Queen's own come to get you out of here!"
Nothing.
"Sterling, head upstairs. Wraith, check the back."
The two men sped away as the lieutenant pushed open the basement door. He pulled the light chain and called out again. "Rawlinson! Don't shoot. We're here to get you out. Are you there?" He jogged down the wooden staircase and scanned the dank room. All he found were undisturbed storage shelves laden with canned goods and household sundries.
The lieutenant climbed back upstairs into the kitchen. Vickers and Sterling shook their heads.
Nothing.
"Rawlinson may have already bugged out without telling us," the lieutenant said. "But we can't take any chances he's still on the property. Sterling, check the storage shed out back. Wraith, head over to the machine shop. I'll sweep the perimeter. We'll meet back at the drop-off point in fifteen minutes, no exceptions. And give it some rice. Understood?"
Heads nodded. Sterling added, "Sure, boss."
***
The suffocating heat came on as suddenly as the pounding rain had stopped and raised a shroud of fog from the waterlogged ground.
The lieutenant's eyes strained in the...
