The summer after I graduated from highschool, with nothing to really to do for three months except to pack the small number of material posessions I had managed to amass in my short time on earth for a 3,000 mile move to Bard College, I somehow got hooked on Clive Cussler.
I think it was Jake Spavin's fault; I think he finished this book and passed it off to me. Cussler is adictive like salt and vineger chips, or movie-theater popcorn: you enjoy scarfing it down, then tell yourself to stop but don't, then feel sort of sick to your stomach. Then you keep eating it.
Cussler is great because it took him until the second half on the 90s to realize the cold-war was over. Cyclops sees Dirk Pitt (has there ever been a better named action hero? Other than Wolf Blitzer, who should have done something other than host a show on CNN) squaring off against Cubans, Russians and other n'er-do-wells, all while scoring with amazingly hot women and driving fast cars. I feel more manly just typing that phrase.
Cussler keeps the story clipping along, and althought it might all be empty calories, its very hard to stop snacking.