webofevil | My book report, by webofevil (aged 33) (Reply)

Some things never changed, and Bangkok, Thailand, was a classic case in point. Mack Bolan was no stranger to Bangkok, but the more it changed, the more it stayed the same.

World-weary affectations shored up—and essential cluelessness masked—with flat-pack banalities, these opening two lines set the tone for easily the worst book I’ve read for a long time. Heartfelt thanks to

lowlowprices for giving it to me for my birthday.

Condition Hostile is number 58 in a series, itself the fifth branch of a succession of spinoffs from a much older series of action novels which now numbers well into the 200s. The man who kicked off this franchise is long dead, but his hawkish spirit lives on in the succession of hapless hacks prepared to bang this stuff out over cold weekends so they can pay for the heating to be reconnected on Monday.

The main plot concerns a Chinese “narcobaron” setting up a heroin factory in the jungle in Thailand, and it’s here that the author essentially sticks his foot in his ear. That’s the actual author, the poor sod relegated to the copyright page with a “Special thanks and acknowledgement to... for his contribution to this work”, while the front cover still bears the name of the, I can’t stress enough, late DON PENDLETON (with the tell-tale suffix ’S). True to his chosen genre, he assumes that bad guys are bad guys are bad guys. They’re all the same, they all run drugs, they’re all un- and anti-American, so who can tell the difference, right? Which is why in the book this particular narcobaron, wanting to defend his factory, has hired some extra muscle: the Taliban.

Religious nutjobs: yes. Prepared to use their country’s natural crop to finance their revolutionary activities because they were religious nutjobs: yes. Mercenaries for hire for drug-running gangsters: really, really not. Also, a mild continuity error: the book was published in 2002. After a fairly well publicised American military exercise the year before, the Taliban had split into three factions: those who were bombed into powder (a few), those who fled for the hills (more), and the rest, who melted away into the villages that spawned them, emerging clean-shaven, flying kites and humming blasphemous tunes. It’s true that they’ve been resurgent for a good couple of years now, and it’s only going to get worse in the near future, but this is not because they are generic bad guys out to do anything so long as it's criminal and lucrative. It is because they are religious nutjobs.

And by the way, Michael “Special thanks and acknowledgement” Kasner, they’re Afghans. They don’t speak fucking Arabic.

You’re never more than six feet away from a cliché. Our hero, Mack Bolan, encounters a female Russian assassin. Naturally, she is “one of the most exotically beautiful women he had ever seen”. Her “long hair was dark bronze, her skin golden with eyes to match. She was petite, Oriental sleek and moved like a cat. She was”—brace yourself—“living proof that the Tartars had left more than the famous recipe for a sauce in Russia.” That’s as saucy as it gets, mind; no time for filth in a pacy action thriller like this. There is, however, ample time to describe lovingly how bullets gore holes in bad-guy stomachs and “frag” slices through bad-guy spines.

There’s a certain agenda to this book (and its several hundred stablemates):

As with all too many of America's staunch allies, the Thais were at odds with the US. Washington’s penchant for alienating the only friends the US had left in the non-Western world had flared up again, this time focusing on human-rights issues. The Thais highly resented what they saw as American meddling in their internal affairs...

“The Myanmar government is pissed at us, too, worse than the Thais actually... Since the State Department unleashed its latest human-rights campaign, we don't have a real friend left in that part of the world.”

“It was sure a hell of a lot easier to operate during the cold war,” Brognola grumbled. “At least we knew who our enemies were.”

“Peace does seem to bring muddled thinking out in full force,” she agreed. “All the ‘peace, love and tie dye’ types who've been hiding out since the Gulf War are working for the State Department now.”

“Maybe we should target Georgetown University’s Department of International Studies.”

“That would make our job a hell of a lot easier if we took them out,” she agreed.

“It would,” Brognola sighed. “That it would.”

A lumpen subplot about Algerian drugrunners (calling themselves the Sword of God) on American soil is in serious danger of petering out. The good guys have blown up one hideout, then another, then blown up a smuggling boat, then shot some more people, then, uh... then what, Mike?

“It might be nothing,” Aaron Kurtzmann said over the speaker from the Annex, “but we just let an Algerian soccer team into the country and they came through Canada. They’re not calling themselves the Sword of God, but their passport photos don't look like they spend too much of their time kicking balls around unless they’re human heads.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that most of them are far too old to be playing with balls. And they don’t have that clean-cut athletic look, if you know what I mean.”

“Who let them in?” Brognola asked. “I thought Algeria was still under State Department sanction.”

“It is,” Kurtzman said. “But this is some world congress of amateur sport, another one of the UN’s brighter ideas this year. You know, one of those ‘kick a ball around and we’ll all love one another, put down our guns and be friends’ programs. They've also invited Cubans, Rwandans, North Koreans and damned near every other outlaw nation to play but the Taliban.”

“Wonderful,” Brognola sighed. What would America do without the United Nations promoting peace, love and brotherhood at every opportunity? “Where is this terrorist summer camp taking place?”

“That’s the kicker,” Kurtzman said. “They’re playing at different cities all over the country in a kind of goodwill tour.”

“That’s even better,” Brognola grimaced. All he needed was to have potential terrorists on a UN-sponsored traveling road show. “Who's covering them?”

“That's where it really gets really interesting (sic),” Kurtzman said. “No one’s guarding them. Zip. Nada. Zilch.”

Brognola couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Someone has to be vetting them and providing security.”

“Not this time. They all came in on diplomatic passports. According to the State Department, they're sports ambassadors.”

“Son of a bitch!" Brognola exploded.

“And,” Kurtzman added, “apparently at our UN ambassador’s urging, the State Department told INS and customs to wave them through when they showed up at the border so as not to be disrespectful.”

“I can’t believe this shit,” Brognola growled.

And he’s right not to, as, unsurprisingly, this scenario has never happened. I hope you’ll forgive me if I reveal what then passes for plot development: it turns out the “soccer team” is indeed a gang of Algerian terrorists/drugrunners who are travelling with a load of weapons and explosives on their bus; the good guys attack the bus and set it on fire, kill a couple of Algerians, arrest the remainder and deport them. Simple.

Everything in the book is that simple. Get in, blow shit up, go home, kick back with a beer and sneer at liberals. It may seem cheap to take a swipe at such obvious hack work, but books and films like this help to fuel a belief that things really are this easily dealt with. Also that actual human beings engage in dialogue like this:

“I am Marita,” the woman said as she checked him out. “I think I am going to enjoy thanking you.”

There was no doubt in Bolan’s mind that this woman could deliver the goods; she had that unmistakable look of a sexual predator. But he was going to have to refuse the invitation this time. Getting involved with his fellow operatives wasn’t a good practice. Particularly not with a Russian.

He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything, Marita. I was just helping a fellow operative.”

Marita got an amused expression on her face as she looked up at him. “You disappoint me. I was looking forward to seeing what you Americans are made of. But,” she said with a shrug, “apparently not this time.”

Polnacek and the other Russians in the dining room burst out laughing.

“Yankee, don’t turn her down,” one of them called out. “She’s offering you something beyond price. Our little Marita is famous all over Russia for what she does, but she only does it for you once. The rest of the time you just have to dream about her and do it for yourself.”

That got more roars of laughter.

“Maybe after we have wrapped this operation up,” he told the woman.

“Maybe,” she purred.

Incidentally, they never do, so by the time he leaves at the end of the book she’s in love with him. Oh, and all the bad guys die. It’s that simple.