Surviving a helicopter crash in the Vietnamese Highlands is only the start of the challenges facing Jack Ryan, Jr., in the latest propulsive thriller of this #1 N ew York Times bestselling series. The vibrant economy of the new Vietnam is a shiny lure for Western capital. Companies are racing to uncover ideal opportunities. Not wanting to be left behind, Hendley Associates has sent their best analyst, Jack Ryan, Jr., to mine for investment gold. And he may have found some in a rare earth mining company—GeoTech. But a trip with a Hendley colleague to the Highlands to observe the company’s operations takes a treacherous turn when their helicopter is shot down. Some things haven’t changed, and Vietnam is still the plaything of powerful neighbors. The Chinese are determined to keep Jack from finding the truth about what exactly is being processed at the isolated factory. Now Jack is in a race for his life. He’s got to stay one step ahead of a pack of killers while supporting his wounded friend. He’ll get no help from the government, because in the jungle, it’s the shadow state that rules. Tom Clancy was the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than eighteen books. He died in October 2013. M. P. Woodward is a veteran of both US intelligence ops and the entertainment industry. As a naval intelligence officer with the US Pacific Command, he scripted scenario moves and countermoves for US war game exercises in the Middle East. In multiple deployments to the Persian Gulf and Far East, he worked alongside US Special Forces, CIA, and NSA. After leaving the Navy, Woodward ran international distribution marketing for Amazon Prime Video. Today, he is a full-time writer based in Washington State. 1 Kowloon, Hong Kong Tuesday, October 1 Jack Ryan, Jr., stood a foot taller than most of the passengers exiting Hong Kong's Star Ferry. With his tropical-weight suit jacket slung over a shoulder, his shirt sleeves rolled, and his tie askew, the American shortened his stride so he wouldn't bump into the people in front of him. From behind his Wayfarer sunglasses, he scanned the commuters knotted at the ferry's prow, waiting to get off. He was in a hurry-desperate to get one more glimpse of the woman before she disappeared into this city of seven and a half million. He dropped his eyes low, scanning briefcases, purses, and computer bags. She'd been carrying a string-handled white shopping bag, he remembered. He felt elbows, shoulders, and knees pressing against him as the crowd packed together, ahead of the ferry's docking. The singsong Cantonese around him rose in pitch, the voices as indecipherable to Jack as squawking birds. He kept searching, hoping to pick the woman out from the crowd. He etched what she'd looked like into his memory-shopping bag, surgical mask, sunglasses, long black hair, a fashionable charcoal skirt suit. Jesus, he thought, scanning intently. More than half the women on this ferry looked like that. Provided the shopping bag hadn't been a figment of his imagination, it would be the only feature that distinguished her. The ferry door opened. The first of the riders surged through it. Jack was swept onto the gangway with the crowd, over the pier, through the turnstile, and past the last security checkpoint. He wondered if the woman might be behind him. He forced his way to the edge of the throng and stood still. Commuters flowed around him like rapids around a rock. He cleared enough space to put his computer bag at his feet and throw his jacket on. He reached into the jacket's lower right pocket. His fingers touched the note the woman had passed him. Knowing he was under surveillance, Jack only touched the note. It wouldn't be safe to read it until he spotted his MSS minders again. It took six minutes for the crowd to leave him behind. Before the onrushing set of passengers mobbed the ferry, Jack strode down the open quay. Dying autumn sunlight warmed his shoulders. A stew of cigarettes, fish, diesel exhaust, and salt air burned his nose. He heard the buzz that opened the gate for the new set of passengers headed from this side, Kowloon, to the island, Hong Kong. Jack turned and walked along the ferry's hull, staying away from the rush that surged over the gangplank. He watched dockworkers loosen thick halyards from massive cleats bolted to the pier. He heard the engine rev. Facing the harbor, he watched the ferry depart. Beyond it, at the far shore, he noted the tall buildings of Hong Kong's central business district. He turned around and looked up and down the quay. With his MSS surveillants at least a few hundred yards away, he chanced a last look at the note the woman had slipped him, making sure he had it right: Temple Street Night Market. Heirloom Watches, 2200. He balled the paper in his fist and tossed it in the harbor. He knew his MSS minders would be somewhere up the quay, waiting for him. Delaying the inevitable, Jack stood at the water's edge. It was a pleas