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Chris Ryan

G

gazey

New Member
not been readin books properly for any longer than 6 months, but have read 3 Chris Ryan books and have started an Andy McNab, so was wonderin if anyone else here likes either or both?
 
Haven't read them but I saw the TV adaptation of Bravo Two Zero. Also saw a really cool program on how the SAS was created in WW2. The North Africa missions looked awesome. They piled into jeeps (each jeep had a 50.cal Machine Gun), drove across 100's of miles of desert to German airfields, drove around the airfield for 10 minutes shooting the crap out of the planes...etc, then drove back (quickly!) across the desert, sometimes at NIGHT, being chased by enemy aircraft. Thank f*** they're on our side.
You might find the story in this book...

Stirling's Men: The Inside History Of The Sas In World War II - Gavin Mortimer

There's a synopsis on Amazon.co.uk. It'll be cheaper at Play.com.
 
Just wanted to say that I have read ALL of Andy McNab and Chris Ryan books, well all except for Ryan's keep fit and survival books :rolleyes: I don't have much use for those, but all their fiction and McNab's biography. At first I was put off by the macho SAS image of big man, big gun but when Ryan came to our
local Waterstone's to do a signing I took one of his books out of the library. I was pleasantly surprised. I bought his book and had it signed. From there it was an easy step to McNab. Although there is a lot of reference to MPGs and AK47's and other combat (obviously) I would recommend both authors as a good thriller/adventure read. McNab's 'Nick Stone' is my hero. Start with 'Remote Control'.
 
Just wanted to say that I have read ALL of Andy McNab and Chris Ryan books, well all except for Ryan's keep fit and survival books :rolleyes: I don't have much use for those, but all their fiction and McNab's biography. At first I was put off by the macho SAS image of big man, big gun but when Ryan came to our
local Waterstone's to do a signing I took one of his books out of the library. I was pleasantly surprised. I bought his book and had it signed. From there it was an easy step to McNab. Although there is a lot of reference to MPGs and AK47's and other combat (obviously) I would recommend both authors as a good thriller/adventure read. McNab's 'Nick Stone' is my hero. Start with 'Remote Control'.
 
thanks!

have already read the first 2 chapters of Remote Control, but was also readin The Da Vinci Code and i find it hard enough to read one book let alone 2 books at a time!
 
McNab's Nick Stone character is quite good, not your standard hero as he tends to fail a bit, get the short straw, get the crap kicked out of him, etc etc. So it actually becomes quite believable. I have read most of his books and I enjoy them.

Ryan tends to write one off novels using different people and scenarios. Some of his books I really enjoyed, others, hmmmmm? not so good.
 
What do you guys think of him?
I think he is a great author and really manages to capture the attention of the reader. He is ex-SAS which makes it even more realistic and is very talented.
 
There are quite a few extracts on his Random House page (click the little orange icons to the right of the title details). Here's one of them.

Jack Matram ran his eyes across the two men sitting behind him in the car. Simon Clipper was the taller of the pair: six foot three, with short blond hair, green eyes, and a gentle, sloping smile. In his George jeans from Asda, and a blue cotton T-shirt, he blended in naturally with the neat rows of suburban houses stretching into the background. Frank Trench was shorter: about five foot eight, with jet-black hair, blue eyes, a crooked smile.

They had a rugged, easy charm about them. In civilian clothes, the pair of them looked just like any two men on their way down to the pub. Perfect, decided Matram.

Twelve months into their two-year tour of duty with the Increment, Matram knew he could rely on them. Clipper had eleven assassinations under his belt, Trench eight. All of them had been textbook. Lie in wait, move in quickly, dispatch the target, and come back to base without even breaking into a sweat.

They would do what they were told. Killers didn't come any better trained than these two.

'Barry Legg,' said Matram softly. 'That's the name of tomorrow's target.'

Clipper and Trench looked down at the photo Matram had just handed each of them. Maybe thirty-five, with brown hair and a round face, he looked as unremarkable as the modern housing estate on the outskirts of Swindon where he was now living. Both men folded the picture in half, tucked it into the breast pockets of their shirts, then looked silently back up at Matram.

'On Wednesday, his son Billy has after-school football practice,' said Matram. 'It's about a mile across open fields from this estate to the training ground. The practice finishes at seven, but Legg likes to watch the boys kicking a ball about so he's usually there a bit early. He should be passing this precise spot sometime around six tomorrow evening.'

He paused, pointing out towards the fields. 'You'll be waiting here for him. Follow him into the field, then kill him. He shouldn't give you any trouble.'

Clipper nodded. 'Will he be alone?'

'Almost certainly,' answered Matram. 'If he isn't, you may have to take out whoever is with him as well. But I'll be watching from a distance. If I don't like the look of anything, you'll hear from me.'

'Guns OK?' said Trench. 'Or knives?'

'Guns,' said Matram. 'I want this done fast, and I want it done clean.'

He glanced down at his watch. It was just before seven, and the evening light was already starting to fade. In the distance, he could see a pair of young mothers lugging their buggies home. Past them, two guys were walking towards the pub for an early-evening drink. Another quiet night in the Swindon suburbs.

The sound of glasses being clicked together and of chicken and steaks frying on the grill greeted Matt as he stepped into the back room of the Last Trumpet. He pulled the sweat-stained T-shirt off his back, chucking it towards the pile of dirty clothes stacked up in the washroom.

A shower, and then a beer, he decided. Looks like a fine evening ahead.

The run had done him good. It had been a hot start to the summer along the southern Spanish coast. Now it was June, the temperatures were hitting the early forties. A five-mile jog along the beach had left him drained and dehydrated but also sharpened up his mind. That was what Matt liked about running. As you pushed your muscles, you also pushed your mind.

In truth, there wasn't much to worry about, Matt had reflected as his feet pounded against sand that had baked bone dry in the midday sun. There was money in the bank from what he had promised Gill was absolutely the last job he would ever go on. Their debts on the Last Trumpet were all paid off, and although the bar and restaurant only ticked over financially during the winter and spring months, it should start making some real cash over the summer. The hard core of regulars, mostly Londoners who had decamped to the Costa del Sol for a few years, meant it could always break even: the tourists who tumbled off the easyJet flights into Malaga through July and August, their pockets bulging with euros, provided the profits for the year. It was a solid, dependable business, one that could be relied upon to make a good enough living to support a family. And the house they were building half a mile down the coastline was almost finished. True, JosŽ and his gang of Moroccans who actually seemed to do all the building work for him had slipped a bit on their deadlines. But a Deptford boy like Matt wasn't going to get worked up about a few cowboy builders. Everyone has to make a living, he told himself. And right now, he could afford a few extra expenses.
Click to expand...
 
Jack Matram ran his eyes across the two men sitting behind him in the car. Simon Clipper was the taller of the pair: six foot three, with short blond hair, green eyes, and a gentle, sloping smile. In his George jeans from Asda, and a blue cotton T-shirt, he blended in naturally with the neat rows of suburban houses stretching into the background. Frank Trench was shorter: about five foot eight, with jet-black hair, blue eyes, a crooked smile.
Click to expand...

Well, that just plain sucks! How on earth can you run your eyes over someone and determine their exact height when they are sitting down? If Ryan is ex-SAS then why is he using American spellings (i.e. blond). Do we need to know that George jeans are from Asda - is there any other outlet?

Wearing a pair of jeans, while sitting down allows you to blend in with rows of suburban houses? How? If they are in a car then they are on a road and the building will be at either siide of the road but his head will be in front of the road and nowhere near the buildings. "Frank Trench was shorter" - of course he was because we've already been told that Simon Clipper was the taller of the two. Jet-black? Aside from being a cliche, jet is a colour. Black, in fact. So why use the colour twice as one word?

They had a rugged, easy charm about them. In civilian clothes, the pair of them looked just like any two men on their way down to the pub. Perfect, decided Matram.
Click to expand...

Oh! Civilian clothes? There was me thinking that the jeans from Asda were standard military issue.

Twelve months into their two-year tour of duty with the Increment, Matram knew he could rely on them. Clipper had eleven assassinations under his belt, Trench eight. All of them had been textbook. Lie in wait, move in quickly, dispatch the target, and come back to base without even breaking into a sweat.
Click to expand...

Two-year? Two year! Textbook, oh yes!

Clipper and Trench looked down at the photo Matram had just handed each of them. Maybe thirty-five, with brown hair and a round face, he looked as unremarkable as the modern housing estate on the outskirts of Swindon where he was now living.
Click to expand...

All of a sudden they know his estate in Swindon is dull? Was it in the photo? Then why not say?

Both men folded the picture in half, tucked it into the breast pockets of their shirts, then looked silently back up at Matram.
Click to expand...

It took two of them to fold a picture? Did they rip it in half to put it in their pockets? Did they do this action consecutively? Bear in mind they were wearing T-shirts. :rolleyes:

He glanced down at his watch. It was just before seven, and the evening light was already starting to fade. In the distance, he could see a pair of young mothers lugging their buggies home. Past them, two guys were walking towards the pub for an early-evening drink. Another quiet night in the Swindon suburbs.
Click to expand...

If the girls are distant then how does he know they are young? It is, after all, getting dark. It might not even be their children they are pushing. And the two guys walking to the pub...how do they know they are going to the pub? They might just be walking past it.

The sound of glasses being clicked together and of chicken and steaks frying on the grill greeted Matt as he stepped into the back room of the Last Trumpet. He pulled the sweat-stained T-shirt off his back, chucking it towards the pile of dirty clothes stacked up in the washroom.
Click to expand...

Who the hell is Matt?

Jeez, that's terrible. I can almost imagine buying this in Waterstones and the girl behind the counter saying do you want fries with that?
 
I didn't read the extract before I posted it, but you're right, it's pretty grim. There is plenty more of this one on the website, plus many more others - I chose that one at random, so the others may be better. Or worse.
 
It can't be worse than a guy wearing a T-Shirt tucking a photo into the breast pocket on his shirt....surely...
 
The awful passage from above comes from The Increment.

Here's some of Greed, which you deem "amazing":

The woman sat perfectly still, examining her face in the mirror, and her expression revealed disappointment with the person looking back. Her hand moved slowly across the dressing table. She took a brush and applied a thin dusting of make-up to her face, carefully painting away the traces of a tear on her cheek. Behind her, a black robe and veil lay draped across the bed.
Click to expand...

Sitting perfectly still...but her hand is moving!

Nasir bin Sallum closed his mouth and clenched his stomach muscles tight so that not even the sound of his breath would escape. He let his eyes rest upon her for a moment, admiring the delicate upwards slope of her neck and the polished smoothness of her skin.
Click to expand...

His eyes, not his gaze. Interesting. :)

There's less mistakes, I'll grant him, in this extract.

Anyway, it's for talking about his genius so I'll happily bow out of this thread.
 
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