书名：Rainbow Six 彩虹六号

作者：Tom Clancy汤姆·克兰西
出版社名称：Berkley Books
出版时间：1999
语种：英文
ISBN：9780425170342
商品尺寸：10.8 x 3.6 x 17.5 cm
包装：简装
页数：912
Rainbow Six《彩虹六号》是育碧（Ubi）旗下的知名系列射击模拟游戏《彩虹六号》的原著小说，作者是著名军事小说家汤姆·克兰西，故事围绕主人公约翰·克拉克、丁·查韦斯和他们的多国反恐彩虹部队展开。

推荐理由：
1.世界军事小说之王汤姆·克兰西超强惊悚杰作；
2.《纽约时报》排行榜榜首畅销书；
3.英文原版，内容完整无删减。
In this #1 New York Times bestselling thriller, author Tom Clancy takes readers into the shadowy world of anti-terrorism and gets closer to reality than any government would care to admit...
Ex-Navy SEAL John Clark has been named the head of Rainbow, an international task force dedicated to combating terrorism. In a trial by fire, Clark is confronted with a violent chain of seemingly separate international incidents. But there is no way to predict the real threat: a group of terrorists like none the world has ever encountered, a band of men and women so extreme that their success could literally mean the end of life on earth as we know it.
Review
“Action-packed.”  — The New York Times Book Review
“Gripping... bolt-action mayhem.”  — People
“A thrill ride.”  — USA Today
“Mr. Clancy is in his element...When the door blows open and the shooting starts, nobody does it better.” — The Dallas Morning News

北约成员国创立了一支由各国军队精英组成的反恐特种军事力量，取名为彩虹部队，克拉克出任zui高指挥官，即“彩虹六号”。部队经费由内政部经由五角大楼直接拨款，即使在华盛顿，这支部队的知情者也不足百人。克拉克和查韦斯等人乘坐飞往英国的航班时，挫败了巴斯克分裂主义分子的劫机行动。瑞士伯尔尼发生银行抢劫事件，歹徒绑架人质并杀死其中一人，彩虹部队攻入银行，消灭劫犯，成功营救出人质。接着，彩虹部队被派到奥地利，解救两名德国恐怖分子劫持的富商。还有，恐怖分子以三十名儿童为人质占领了西班牙世界乐园，克拉克下令切断电源迫使恐怖分子投降。恐怖袭击事件频繁发生，加上每次都涉及到一些隐退多年、不怎么活跃的恐怖分子，引起克拉克的怀疑。这些恐怖事件是否真的相互关联？究竟出自何人之手？难道有更为强大的幕后指使？就在彩虹部队与恐怖力量对峙之际，一种湿婆病毒已经制造出来，悉尼奥运会即将开幕，可怕的危机正步步逼近，一旦爆发，将把人类推向毁灭之地……

一九八四年，汤姆·克兰西以一部《猎杀红色十月号》，打破了美国出版界一片低迷之气，可谓军事小说界中的一朵奇葩。原本默默无闻的他，自此成为美国销书排行榜上的常客，接连推出《爱国者游戏》《虹彩六号》《克林姆林宫枢机主教》等一系列军事名著，其作品缔造出在排行榜首数周、上榜数十周之久的佳绩。这位军事小说大师，娴熟历史与哲学，靠着对科技、政治及军事等领域的学识涵养和深度理解，以时事为背景，铺垫出一个个紧张刺激的冒险故事，其中涉及国防情报的逼真描述，甚至还一度引起美国中央情报局和前苏联克格勃的密切注意。克兰西的作品一向布局广大，结构严谨，深入情治，政权斗争，军事战略等各个层面：故事中的每位主角的设定，往往融入了他本人的道德意识及价值观，正与他率真、坦诚的个性不谋而合。尽管成名后他的每部作品皆荣登畅销书之列，为他带来可观的财富，但他仍秉持一贯的生活态度，专注于小说的创作，将对世局的敏锐洞察力，透过故事中人性的刻画及情节描述，完整地传达给每位读者。

Tom Clancy is the world’s number one author of political thrillers. His bestselling books include The Hunt for Red October,DebtofHonour,ExecutiveOrdersandTheBear and the Dragon.
PROLOGUE: SETTING UP

Part 1
John Clark had more time in airplanes than most licensed pilots, and he knew the statistics as well as any of them, but he still didn’t like the idea of crossing the ocean on a twin-engine airliner. Four was the right number of engines, he thought, because losing one meant losing only 25 percent of the aircraft’s available power, whereas on this United 777, it meant losing half. Maybe the presence of his wife, one daughter, and a son-in-law made him a little itchier than usual. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t itchy at all, not about flying anyway. It was just a lingering... what? he asked himself. Next to him, in the window seat Sandy was immersed in the mystery she’d started the day before, while he was trying to concentrate on the current issue of The Economist, and wondering what was putting the cold-air feeling on the back of his neck. He started to look around the cabin for a sign of danger but abruptly stopped himself. There wasn’t anything wrong that he could see, and he didn’t want to seem like a nervous flyer to the cabin crew. He sipped at his glass of white wine, shook his shoulders, and went back to the article on how peaceful the new world was.
Right. He grimaced. Well, yes, he had to admit that things were a hell of a lot better than they’d been for nearly all of his life. No more swimming out of a submarine to do a collection on a Russian beach, or flying into Tehran to do something the Iranians wouldn’t like much, or swimming up a fetid river in North Vietnam to rescue a downed aviator. Someday maybe Bob Holtzman would talk him into a book on his career. Problem was; who’d believe it—and would CIA ever allow him to tell his tales except on his own deathbed? He was not in a hurry for that, not with a grandchild on the way. Damn. He grimaced, unwilling to contemplate that development. Patsy must have caught a silver bullet on their wedding night, and Ding glowed more about it than she did. John looked back to business class—the curtain wasn’t in place yet—and there they were, holding hands while the stewardess did the safety lecture. If the airplane hit the water at 400 knots, reach under your seat for the life—preserver and inflate it by pulling... he’d heard that one before. The bright yellow life-jackets would make it somewhat easier for search aircraft to find the crash site, and that was about all they were good for.
Clark looked around the cabin again. He still felt that draft on his neck. Why? The flight attendant made the rounds, removing his wine glass as the aircraft taxied out to the end of the runway. Her last stop was by Alistair over on the left side of the first-class cabin. Clark caught his eye and got a funny look back as the Brit put his seat back in the upright position. Him, too? Wasn’t that something? Neither of the two had ever been accused of nervousness.
Alistair Stanley had been a major in the Special Air Service before being permanently seconded to the Secret Intelligence Service. His position had been much like John’s—the one you called in to take care of business when the gentler people in the field division got a little too skittish. Al and John had hit it off right away on a job in Romania, eight years before and the American was pleased to be working with him again on a more regular basis, even if they were both too old now for the fun stuff. Administration wasnt exactly John’s idea of what his job should be, but he had to admit he wasn’t twenty anymore... or thirty... or even forty. A little old to run down alleys and jump over walls.... Ding had said that to him only a week before in John’s office at Langley, rather more respectfully than usual, since he was trying to make a logical point to the grandfather-presumptive of his first child. What the hell, Clark told himself, it was remarkable enough that he was still alive to gripe about being old—no, not old, older. Not to mention he was respectable now as Director of the new agency. Director. A polite term for a REMF. But you didn’t say "no" to the President, especially if he happened to be your friend.
The engine sounds increased. The airliner started moving. The usual sensation came, like being pressed back into the seat of a sports car jumping off a red light, but with more authority. Sandy, who hardly traveled at all, didn’t look up from the book. It must have been pretty good, though John never bothered reading mysteries. He never could figure them out, and they made him feel stupid, despite the fact that in his professional life he’d picked his way through real mysteries more than once. A little voice in his head said rotate, and the floor came up under his feet. The body of the aircraft followed the nose into the sky, and the flight began properly, the wheels rising up into the wells. Instantly, those around him lowered their seats to get some sleep on the way to London Heathrow. John lowered his, too, but not as far. He wanted dinner first.
"On our way, honey," Sandy said, taking a second away from the book.
"I hope you like it over there."
"I have three cookbooks for after I figure this one out."
John smiled. "Who done it?"
"Not sure yet, but probably the wife."
"Yeah, divorce lawyers are so expensive."
Sandy chuckled and went back to the story as the stews got up from their seats to resume drink service. Clark finished The Economist and started Sports Illustrated. Damn, he’d be missing the end of the football season. That was one thing he’d always tried to keep track of, even off on a mission. The Bears were coming back, and he’d grown up with Papa Bear George Halas and the Monsters of the Midway—had often wondered if he might have made it as a pro himself. He’d been a pretty good linebacker in high school, and Indiana University had shown some interest in him (also for his swimming). Then he’d decided to forego college and join the Navy, as his father had before him, though Clark had become a SEAL, rather than a skimmer-sailor on a tin-can...
"Mr. Clark?" The stew delivered the dinner menu. "Mrs. Clark?"
One nice thing about first class. The flight crew pretended you had a name. John had gotten an automatic upgrade—he had frequent-flyer miles up the yingyang, and from now on he’d mainly fly British Airways, which had a very comfortable understanding with the British government.
The menu, he saw, was pretty good, as it usually was on international flights, and so was the wine list... but he decided to ask for bottled water instead of wine, thank you. Hmph. He grumbled to himself, settled back, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. These damned flights always seemed overheated to him.
The captain got on next, interrupting all the personal movies on their mini-screens. They were taking a southerly routing to take advantage of the jet stream. That, Captain Will Garnet explained, would cut their time to Heathrow by forty minutes. He didn’t say that it would also make for a few bumps. Airlines tried to conserve fuel, and forty-five minutes’ worth would put a gold star in his copybook... well, maybe just a silver one...
The usual sensations. The aircraft tilted, more to the right than the left, as it crossed over the ocean at Seal Isle City in New Jersey for the three-thousand-mile flight to the next landfall, somewhere on the Irish coast, which they’d reach in about five and a half hours, John thought. He had to sleep for some of that time. At least the captain didn’t bother them with the usual tour—director crap—we are now at forty thousand feet, that’s almost eight miles to fall if the wings come off and... They started serving dinner. They’d be doing the same aft in tourist class, with the drink and dinner carts blocking the aisles.