From Wikipedia

Team Yankee is a speculative fiction novel written in 1987 by Harold Coyle, then a major in the United States Army, whose subject is the actions of a company-sized armor unit of the United States Army in the World War III scenario as depicted by General Sir John Hackett in his novel, The Third World War. General Hackett's scenario takes place in 1985; Coyle never specifies the year, but it is assumed to take place in the late 1980s. The novel achieved best-selling status and became a series of comic books, an Origins Award-winning board wargame and later a video game. Read more - Shopping-Enabled Wikipedia on Amazon

      In the article: Plot summary | Major themes | Significance | Other adaptations

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author HAROLD COYLE is a graduate of the Virginia Military Institute.  He spent fourteen years on active duty with the US Army. He lives in Leavenworth, Kansas.

BARRETT TILLMAN is the author of many fiction and nonfiction books including Clash of the Carriers and Hellcats. He lives in Mesa, Arizona.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1
SOUTH GOVERNATE, LEBANON
The stalkers awaited the signal.
It came in the dappled gray light of 5:00 a.m. because delay was as much an enemy as the dedicated men inside the remote building.
Outside the  .ve- room  house, the assault leader gave a quick click- click of his tactical headset. The eleven mem­bers of his team recognized it as the preparatory signal. Receiving no response, he proceeded with his countdown.
“Ready... ready...”
A long three- second wait allowed anyone to delay the inevitable. No one did. The four men on perimeter guard saw nothing to interfere with the operation. Meanwhile, the two assault teams and the command element  were tensed, leg muscles coiled to propel them from the shadows.
The team leader licked his lips. He had extensive experi­ence but it was always like this: an eager dread. He glanced around. Only his radio operator returned his gaze; every­one else was focused on the objective. It looked good: they had probably achieved surprise, but surprise without vio­lence was useless.
“Ready... go!”
Two explosions shattered the Mediterranean air, two seconds apart. The .rst was a  Chinese- made RPG whose high- explosive warhead blew a hole in the brick- and-mortar wall facing the sunrise. The second was another RPG near the opposite corner that smashed through a win­dow and detonated on the interior wall.
Assaulting together, each section was preceded by Rheinmetall .ash- bang grenades to compensate for any defenders who escaped the RPG blasts.
A quick two- count, and both teams entered through the holes. It was doctrine: avoid the usual entrances, which could be mined.
The attackers’ mission was simple: kill or capture everyone present. Take no unnecessary chances.
There  were no novices on either side of the door.
The raiders held the advantage, exploiting the stunning effects of the grenades and  .ash- bangs. Moving with .uid rapidity, they “ran the walls,” closing the distance on the defenders, .ring short, disciplined bursts. The Egoz recon­naissance unit allowed its members a great deal of latitude: most chose 7.62 Galils but a few carried AK-47s. Both  were lethally effective.
Three defenders  were shot down in the front room; only one got off a round and it went high. A fragmentation grenade arced through the entrance to the next room. Be­fore it exploded, the men inside opened .re with their AKs. The  150- grain rounds shredded the blanket separat­ing the two rooms, and some  were deliberately aimed low. One raider dropped with a Kalashnikov’s bullet through the left thigh.
The grenade .zzled. Too long in  storage— the result of clandestine acquisition  policies— it exploded in a  low-order detonation that in.icted minor wounds. Inside the small room, a close- range .re.ght erupted. It was fought at near muzzle contact.
One raider was killed, taking a round above the ballis­tic plate of his tactical vest. Another was clipped in the right bicep.
The defenders  were shot down in an ephemeral mo­ment of loud noise, bright muzzle .ashes, and icy terror. Each body received one or two rounds to the head before the last brass clattered on the wood .oor.
One man escaped the house, .eeing through the back door. The designated marksman with a scoped Galil shot him from sixty meters.
Order, if not quiet, returned to the shattered structure.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
Without awaiting instructions, the raiders moved through the  house according to their individual priorities. Two guarded the bodies on the .oor while two others se­cured the victims’ hands with .ex cuffs. The fact that they were dead was irrelevant; some of the raiders had seen dead men kill the living.
The number two man turned to his superior. “No useful prisoners, Chief. Sorry.”
The team leader shrugged philosophically. “I know. It couldn’t be helped.” As papers  were gathered, the radioman began taking photos with his digital camera.
Hearing the  all- clear, the team medic entered through the door— the only one to do so. He had one immediate case and two lesser. He was experienced and calm; com­bat triage was nothing new to him.
“Arterial bleeding  here,” said one man, leaning over the .rst casualty. The medic went to work, knowing that his friends would treat other casualties for the moment. He glanced at a green- clad form, not moving. One of the raiders merely shook his head. The decedent’s family would be told that he died in a training accident, body unrecoverable. Knowing it was a lie, the parents would accept the fabrication.
The other killers began tearing the place apart. They searched thoroughly, quickly, indelicately. They opened every cabinet and drawer, spilling the contents, and pulled mattresses off beds. They searched for loose boards and pried at the ceiling. Finally one of them returned to the liv­ing room.
“Nothing here, Avri.”
“It has to be here. Look again. Everywhere.”
Abraham pulled the kaf.yeh off his head and allowed it to drape over his tactical vest. “We’ve already looked everywhere. Twice. I’m telling you, it’s not  here.”
Avri looked around the  house. “God damn it!” For the grandson of a rabbi, he was famously profane.
He grabbed the radioman. “Get me Capri Six. Priority.”
The RTO handed over the instrument. “Scramble mode selected.”
“Capri, this is Purchase. Pass.” The commander re­leased the transmit button, allowing the scrambler to do its work. In an instant the carrier wave was back.
“Purchase, I read you. Pass.”
“The well is dry. Repeat, the well is dry. End.”
The response was decidedly nonregulation, but the transmission from the south drew no comment. After all, this time the offending voice belonged to an agnostic.

SSI OFFICES, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re in trouble.”
Rear Admiral Michael Derringer had been retired for longer than he cared to remember but he had lost little of his command presence. As found er and CEO of Strategic Solutions, Incorporated, he had conned the company through its early years, building success upon success as the military contractor market expanded. Working around the world, performing often clandestine tasks for the U.S. Gov­ernment, SSI had become the  go- to .rm when DoD or State needed something done without of.cial recognition.
But that was then; this was now.
“Still no new contracts?” George Ferraro, SSI vice pres­ident and chief .nancial of.cer, had no problem guessing the admiral’s intent.
“Correct.” Derringer’s balding head bobbed in assent. “SecDef canceled our electronic warfare project in Ara­bia and State vetoed us for another African job. Oh,  we’re still getting business but it’s  paper-clip money: security work, training assignments,  small- scale jobs. About the only advantage is that they keep some of our regulars on the payroll. But they don’t reduce the red ink, and we can’t operate on our stock portfolio inde.nitely.”
Among the nine people sitting around the polished table was Lieutenant General Thomas Varlowe, U.S. Army (Retired), the gray presence who never quite shed the three stars he once wore. As chairman of SSI’s advisory board, he had little .nancial stake in the .rm but remained inter­ested in the fascinating projects that came down the Belt­way. Though he seldom spoke up in board meetings, the situation called for an exception.
“Ahem.” Heads turned toward the former West Point track star. “I wanted to talk to Admiral Derringer before the meeting but I didn’t get the chance. In case there’s any doubt about the company’s lack of work, I can elaborate.”
Derringer barely managed to suppress a tight smile. The two retirees  were “Admiral” and “General” to one an­other in SSI meetings but friendly rivals named Mike and Tom the rest of the  time—especially in November for the Army- Navy game.
“Go ahead, General.” The Navy man knew what was coming.
Varlowe shoved back from the table. “It’s that job with the Israelis. Damned poor situation to get into...” He came within an inch of adding, As I tried to tell all of you. Instead, he pushed ahead. “I’ve snooped around and found that new business dried up almost before that ship sank... what was it? Three or four months ago? Sure, our people prevented the uranium ore from reaching Iran, but that hardly matters.”
“I’ve been traveling in Eu rope, General. What does matter?” Beverly Ann Shumard, with a PhD in interna­tional relations, was one of two women on the board of directors, and among the most outspoken of all.
Derringer interjected. “Dr. Shumard, the mission sum­mary is still being prepared owing to, ah, security con­cerns. But the short version is, our training team in Chad got involved in a double play set up by the Israelis, pre­sumably against the Ira ni ans. Col o nel Leopole can pro­vide some operational details, but basically our tasking changed from instruction to interdiction, preventing a load of yellow cake from being shipped to Iran.”
Shumard shook her head. “I’m sorry, Admiral. As I said, I’ve been away and didn’t know the particulars. But why would Iran want ore from Chad? I mean, Iran has its own mines.”
Derringer nodded to the chief of operations.
Lieutenant Col o nel Frank Leopole looked, talked, and acted as Central Casting would expect of a Marine Corps of.cer. He was tall, lean, and hard with a ...

The pseudonymous Coyle (a husband-wife team) makes the jump to hardcover with this enjoyable coffeehouse mystery, the seventh in the series to star Clare Cosi, the crime-solving barista of Village Blend (French Pressed, etc.). Breanne Summour, the disdainer-in-chief of Manhattan fashion magazine Trend, is engaged to be married to Matteo Allegro, Clare's ex-husband. Sharing a grown daughter, Clare and Matt remain friends and business partners. When a 22-year-old dancer who looks like Breanne is shot after performing at Matt's bachelor party, a frantic Matt believes Breanne was the intended target. Clare agrees to protect Breanne until the posh wedding at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but after the murder of Breanne's former assistant, Clare's life is in jeopardy, too. This mellow-paced cozy includes some surprises for both bride and groom, who must deal with the bitter fruits of their past actions. Recipes and coffee tips are a bonus.

SUMMARY: When an old friend of her ex-husband develops the world's first botanically decaffeinated coffee bean and smuggles it into the country, Clare Cosi, manager of Village Blend, believes it's a business opportunity she needs to investigate...at least until the first dead body shows up.

EDITORIAL REVIEW: **The latest in the steaming hot national bestselling series— now in hardcover.** Manager and head barista of the bustling New York coffeehouse The Village Blend, Clare Cosi’s been hired to create a gourmet coffee and dessert bar for a swanky wedding. Clare should be thrilled at this chance to shine, but it’s Matteo Allegro, her ex-husband and current business partner, who’s tying the knot—to *Trend* magazine editor Breanne Summour, who’s in full-blown bridezilla mode. Claire’s got to put her misgivings aside and focus on business, but since she’s a successful amateur sleuth, murder is Clare’s business, too. And when fatal accidents begin befalling people close to Breanne, Clare becomes suspicious. But what she unveils, amid melted chocolate and steaming mochaccinos, may just get her burned...

SUMMARY: Murder takes the plunge in the sixth book in the Coffeehouse mystery series. Clare Cosi's daughter, Joy, is interning - and falling - for a top New York chef when his kitchen turns cutthroat, and Joy becomes a murder suspect. Clare knows she must catch the real killer - even if it lands her in the hottest water of her life.

EDITORIAL REVIEW: *There's nothing cozier than a winter evening in Greenwich Village. Streetlights shimmer through icy flakes, cafés glow with welcoming warmth, and a layer of snow dusts historic townhouses like powdered sugar on holiday confections. Murder has no place in such a pretty picture, until now...* Coffeehouse manager Clare Cosi has grown very fond of Alfred Glockner, the part-time comic and genuinely jolly charity Santa who's been using her Village Blend as a place to warm his mittens. When she finds him brutally gunned down in a nearby alley, a few subtle clues convince her that Alfred's death was something more than the tragic result of a random mugging--the conclusion of the police. With Clare's boyfriend, NYPD Detective Mike Quinn, distracted by a cold case of his own, and ex-husband Matt investigating this year's holiday lingerie catalogs (an annual event), Clare charges ahead solo to solve her beloved Santa's slaying. Then someone tries to ice Clare, and she really gets steamed. But she'd better watch out, because if she fails to stop this stone cold killer, she may just get the biggest chill of her life. ** This very special holiday entry in Cleo Coyle's nationally bestselling mystery series includes a bonus section of delicious holiday recipes as well as a glossary of coffeehouse terms, instructions on making espressos and lattes without an expensive machine, and tips for creating tasty coffeehouse syrups at home.**

SUMMARY: When one of her baristas unwittingly serves a poisonous latte to a prominent figure on the fashion scene, Clare Cosi must uncover some jolting secrets to save her shop.

EDITORIAL REVIEW: Clare Cosi-s new friend, millionaire David Mintzer, has an offer no New York barista could turn down: an all-expenses-paid summer away from the sticky city. At his Hamptons mansion, she-ll relax, soak up the sun, and, oh yes, train the staff of his new restaurant. So Clare packs up her daughter, her former mother-in-law, and her special recipe for iced coffee-for what she hopes will be one de-latte-ful summer- Soon, Clare tends the coffee bar at her first Hamptons gala. But the festivities come to a bitter end when an employee turns up dead in David-s bathroom-a botched attempt on the millionaire-s life. Thanks to the Fourth of July fireworks no one heard any gunshots, and the police are stuck in holiday traffic. Concerned for everyone-s safety, Clare begins to investigate. What she finds will keep her up at night-and it-s not the java jitters-

EDITORIAL REVIEW: ** The national bestselling author brews up another mystery-and this time, it's New York's Bravest that get burned ** After local firefighters pull Clare out of a blazing café, she happily comes to their rescue by teaching them the finer points of operating their newly donated espresso machine. But matters really heat up when somebody is torching cafes around the city and firefighters begin to die in suspicious ways... Believing the two events are related, Clare investigates, staking out a five-borough bake sale and sniffing out clues in the pizza ovens of Brooklyn. When her detective boyfriend, Mike Quinn, is pulled into the fire of a false accusation, Clare is desperate to put out the flames. But will she be able to come to Mike's rescue before someone tries to extinguish her?

SUMMARY: Business is booming at Clare Cosi's Village Blend, until her female customers start to die. Lieutenant Quinn is convinced that someone has an axe to grind, and, unfortunately, his prime suspect is the new man in Clare's life. Now Clare will risk her heart - and her life - to follow the killer's trail to the bitter end.

Hace algunos años, por encargo de una revista, empecé a visitar lo que se conoce como semilleros de talento: espacios reducidos que producen grandes cantidades de genios del deporte, el arte, la música, los negocios, las matemáticas y otras disciplinas.