Fallout (The Nick Sullivan Thrillers Book 1)

  Fallout

  Karla Forbes

  Copyright © 2020 by Karla Forbes

  Artwork: Adobe Stock: © Galina, © psychoshadow

  Design: Services for Authors

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat/darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Dark Edition, darkstroke. 2020

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  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Laurence and Stephanie Patterson at darkstroke for their belief in me as an author, their help and guidance throughout the process of publication and for allowing me to have an input into the finished product.

  My thanks also to my editor Sue Barnard who with patience and good humour pointed out, over and over again, the pitfalls of swapping the point of view. (I’m still not sure I’ve grasped it.)

  To my son-in-law, Stuart Forbes who came up with the kernel for the plot when he mentioned that during the cold war, the Russians were rumoured to have invented a nuclear bomb that could be carried in a suitcase. From that small beginning the story began to take shape and the Nick Sullivan series was born. Thanks also to my husband, son, daughter and son-in-law who, whilst sitting around the table one Christmas, hoping to eat their Christmas dinner in peace, were instead forced to come up with ideas to get Nick out of a corner that I’d painted him into. I found this particular brainstorming session so helpful that I’ve used it regularly ever since. My family are probably all regretting their brilliance, particularly my daughter who has continued to provide plot devices as an alternative to listening to me complaining about being stuck.

  Special thanks to Betty Schwartz who was the first publishing professional to complement my writing and give me the confidence to continue. Also, to Mandasue Heller for her generosity in providing both encouragement and an endorsement for Fallout.

  My gratitude to my lifelong friend Pam Fryer for encouraging me from the beginning and spending hours of her time proof reading when she probably had better things to do. Thanks even for the time when she proof read her way through several chocolate bars resulting in the pages being dotted with miniscule brown flakes. It certainly wasn’t Pam’s fault that I mistook these for markings from a pen and spent ages searching for non-existent errors.

  And lastly to my fellow authors at Crooked Cat and darkstroke who have made me feel so welcome. I thank you all.

  About the Author

  Karla Forbes first began writing books when she was twelve years old. Heavily influenced by Ian Fleming, she wrote about guns, fast cars and spies. Naturally, she knew nothing of her chosen subject and was forced to use her imagination to make it up as she went along. These books, half a dozen in total, ended up being thrown out with the rubbish. Several years later, she dabbled in a futuristic sitcom and a full length horror story. Although both of these efforts were also consigned to literary oblivion, at least no one could have accused her of being in a genre rut.

  She began writing properly more than fourteen years ago and her first book, The Preacher was published on Amazon in July 2011. It was then that she realised that her true passion was thrillers and the Nick Sullivan series was born. She writes about ordinary people who find themselves in extraordinary situations and she aims for unusual but scarily believable plots each with a surprising twist. Her search history has encompassed everything from plutonium and dirty bombs to blowing up Grangemouth, the biggest refinery in Europe, and she is pinning her hopes on her books providing an alibi if MI5 ever come calling.

  She lives in Scotland with her husband and slightly deranged rescue dog and has discovered that the secret of keeping them both happy is regular meals, praise and affection.

  Fallout

  Prologue

  1979 – A fishing trawler en route to England from Rostock, East Germany

  Hubner was wrenched from being deeply asleep to wide awake in a single second. He stared into the darkness of the cramped cabin, fully alert. The sounds of the ship had filled his ears since he had stepped on board two nights before: the steady throb of her engines, and the creaking of her timbers as she ploughed through the buffeting waves of the cold northern seas. It hadn’t been one of the usual noises that had woken him. It had been a heavy, dull thud.

  The seconds passed as he waited, his hand already closed over the gun under his pillow. When he heard voices calling in alarm and the sound of running feet, he was out of the bunk in an instant. He flicked on the bedside light and snatched a glance at the clock as he began pulling on his clothes. It was 3.30 in the morning. By his reckoning they would soon be within sight of the English coast.

  He stepped towards the cabin door, and took a sharp breath as he realised that the deck was listing under him. He lost his footing and swore loudly, clutching hold of the door handle to steady himself before wrenching it open, stepping outside and racing up the nearest stairs.

  He stopped short as he reached the upper deck. The scene that greeted him was chaos. The crew were fleeing in terror, shouting warnings as they went. He shot out an arm and grabbed someone as they pushed past.

  “What’s happening?” he snarled, fighting to keep his grip as the man tried to pull away.

  “Get off me!”

  “I asked you a question. What the hell’s going on?”

  The other man’s resistance temporarily ceased. “We’ve collided with another ship. We’ve been holed.”

  Hubner loosened his grip in disbelief. “What are you saying…? We’re going down?”

  The man yanked his arm free. “Yeah, and if you don’t move your arse you’ll be going down with it.”

  Hubner recovered his senses and took a stranglehold on the man’s collar.

  “How long have we got before we sink completely?”

  “Minutes.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know…fifteen, twenty, I can’t say. Now fuck off!”

  Hubner’s hand fell to his side, and as the other man scurried away he came to a decision. Whatever happened, he wasn’t leaving without the suitcase.

  He pushed his way through the panic-stricken crew and hurried back towards his cabin. As he staggered through the door he fell heavily as the deck lurched beneath him, but he steadied himself against the bunk before pulling himself clumsily to his feet.

  He unlocked the bedside cupboard with steady fingers and tugged the suitcase towards him. He had forgotten how heavy it was. For a brief moment, he doubted whether he could drag it on board a life raft. There would be more men than places, and the crew would be fighting for their lives. He pushed the thought quickly from his mind. He had the gun; he would kill anyone who tried to stop him. He resisted the temptation to check the contents of the suitcase. What mattered right now was getting off the ship.

  As he straightened up he saw, too late, a movement out of the corner of his eye. Even as he turned around, his hand closing over the Heckler & Koch, a fist shot out and punched him in the face. He went down like a stone, then doubled over as a boot drove hard into his genitals. As he rocked back on his haunches, his fingers rammed tight into his crotch, he found himself looking up into the sneering face of the skipper.

  “Where do you think you’re going, STA
SI pig? You’ll stay here and drown with the rest of the rats.”

  Hubner began to pull the gun from its holster, but another well-aimed kick knocked it clean out of his hand. He watched, stupefied, as it skittered out of sight, and then he slowly sprawled forward onto his face. He was vaguely aware of a boot aiming for his head, then he was thrown back against the opposite wall. As he groaned in feeble protest, the last thing he heard before darkness descended was the sound of his cabin door slamming and the key turning in the lock.

  Chapter One

  October 2013 – four miles off the Kent coast

  Tim cast a sidelong glance at his friend with a curious mixture of exasperation and regret. Success had come so easily to Nick. Success in everything, that is, except one thing.

  And Tim was not looking forward to being the one who would have to tell him…

  ***

  Nick was worried.

  For the last couple of days he and Tim had been working side by side, laughing at each other’s jokes and taking it in turns to cook in the cramped galley, but Tim wasn’t his usual self – he’d seemed more like a man who was acting out a role. On several occasions Nick had looked up unexpectedly to find Tim staring at him before quickly averting his eyes. Something was wrong.

  Nick resolved to get to the bottom of the problem, and joined his friend at the rail with a couple of cold beers.

  Tim lowered his binoculars at Nick’s approach, wiped the lenses clean of the salt spray and repositioned them, barely registering Nick’s presence. Nick offered him a beer but Tim gestured vaguely for him to put it down. Nick’s curiosity was piqued, and he squinted at the small craft that had caught his friend’s attention.

  “What’s so interesting?”

  “Three men.”

  Nick shook his head in mock dismay. “Should I be worrying about you, mate?”

  “Not me…them.” Tim gestured towards the distant boat. “I think they’re in trouble.”

  Nick narrowed his eyes against the spray. “I’ll have to take your word for it. I can’t see anything.”

  Tim handed him the binoculars and Nick peered again, adjusting them to his own vision. The powerboat came into view. She was about 36 feet in length, and it was clear even from this distance that she had seen better days. Rust from corroded metal stained the peeling paintwork, and Nick guessed that barnacles grew in abundance under the waterline. Three men were gathered around the stern of the boat, and it was evident from the way they were pointing and jabbing the air that the engine had broken down and they were solving the problem by blaming one another.

  Nick handed back the binoculars with a shrug. “It is pleasant when the sea is high and the winds are dashing the waves about to watch from the shores the struggles of others.”

  “What?” Tim asked, looking first startled and then cautious.

  “Lucretius.”

  “Lucrety who?”

  “Titus Lucretius Carus, a Roman philosopher.”

  Tim shook his head with exasperation. “Have you got a smart-arse quote for every occasion?”

  “Just about,” Nick admitted with a grin. “You know I enjoy reading ancient military history.”

  “And I enjoy reading the Financial Times, but I don’t keep quoting it. Anyway, we’re not watching their struggles from the shore. We’re watching from a boat, so if you’re going to waste that photographic memory of yours on useless quotations, at least make sure they’re accurate.”

  “Sorry,” Nick said, accepting the rebuke with a chuckle, “but trying is the first step to failure.”

  “Don’t tell me, Titus Lucretius again.”

  “No,” Nick corrected him. “Homer Simpson. Which reminds me, I’m starving. Do you fancy a fry-up?”

  Tim raised an eyebrow. “Fry-up? What would Esther say?”

  “Nothing, if nobody tells her,” Nick pointed out.

  “I don’t know why she bothers,” Tim said, his expression pained. “You’re hopeless.”

  Nick’s grin broadened. “That’s exactly why she bothers. Women can’t resist a challenge. The more hopeless the case the better they like it.”

  Tim fixed his friend with a look that was suddenly serious. “You should try appreciating her more. I often wonder why you bothered getting married.”

  Nick was mildly shocked. “Hey, lighten up. I was only suggesting a fry-up, not a visit to the nearest brothel.”

  Tim resumed staring at the powerboat through the binoculars. “That isn’t what I meant.”

  Nick said nothing, waiting for his friend to elaborate. A silence stretched between them.

  “So, what did you mean?” he prompted, after several difficult seconds had passed.

  Tim opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again. The awkward silence continued.

  “What’s the matter?” Nick asked with concern. “This is probably the last good week-end of the year, and we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. Is everything all right?”

  Tim managed a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Forget it. What do I know about marriage anyway?”

  “Not a lot probably,” Nick agreed, easily mollified, “but whose fault is that? You’ve had enough chances. Women seem to find the size of your annual bonus quite an aphrodisiac.”

  Tim smiled and gestured to the distant craft, evidently keen to change the subject. “We should offer them assistance.”

  “I’d rather have a fry-up,” Nick said, realising that the subject of Tim’s mood had effectively been closed.

  Tim regarded his friend with exasperation. “Where does it say in marine law that looking after your belly is more important than helping a stricken vessel?”

  Nick sighed theatrically. “A collision at sea can ruin your entire day.”

  “Was that Titus Lucretius or Homer Simpson?”

  “Neither. Thucydides, a Greek historian.”

  “Give over, will you?” Tim sounded exasperated. “Are we going to help them or not?”

  Nick conceded defeat. “Yeah, OK. You’re the boss.”

  “At last we agree on something.”

  Nick was quick to disillusion his friend. “Not for much longer you won’t be.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “Because I’m younger than you and I make the bank more money.”

  “You’re a cocky bastard,” Tim said, without malice.

  “I know,” Nick agreed, “You tell me often enough. Come on, we’ll rescue your lame ducks and then I can get back to my sausage, egg and chips.”

  Decision made, Nick slipped into the cockpit of the sports cruiser and within seconds the immaculately-maintained twin diesel engines were purring with 298 horsepower of life. Nick seemed to turn the boat on end as he gave the engines full throttle and raced over to where the stricken powerboat lay bobbing helplessly at the mercy of the waves that were pounding her sides. He considered Tim’s words; yes, perhaps he could be smug – but not without reason. He seemed to have the magic touch in everything he did, from his dexterity when handling the boat to his unerring instinct for making money for the bank.

  Three scowling faces watched their arrival with suspicion as Nick brought the cruiser to a halt and pulled up alongside.

  “Are you guys ok?” he yelled amiably above the noise of the engine.

  One of the three, a middle-aged man with several days’ stubble, got to his feet and regarded them with eyes that were almost hidden behind heavy dark brows.

  “What’s it to you?” he muttered sullenly.

  “Nothing,” Nick agreed. “We thought you were in trouble, but I guess we were wrong. We’ll be on our way.”

  He sketched a salute in the air and prepared to leave but a second man pushed past the first and held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture.

  “Actually, we could do with some help,” he said, smiling anxiously. “Sorry about the welcome.”

  Nick looked from the second man to the first, sensing that it was the smile that was contrived, not the scowl. The third
man hung back, a guarded expression on his face. If he had an opinion about Nick and Tim’s arrival, he was keeping it to himself.

  Nick’s instinct was to turn around and leave them to sort themselves out, but Tim appeared not to notice anything amiss.

  “We’re pleased to help,” he said generously. “My name’s Tim Wellerby, this is Nick Sullivan. What’s the problem?”

  The second man nodded to each of them in turn. “Hi, I’m…John Harris. It’s the engine; it’s died on us.” The hesitation was noticeable, and Nick knew with absolute certainty that the name had been plucked from the air. The other two men didn’t try to introduce themselves.

  Tim seemed oblivious. “Then Nick’s your man,” he said with certainty. “What he doesn’t know about engines isn’t worth bothering about.”

  Nick smiled uneasily at the compliment, not caring for the way the other two men were hanging back and not joining in the conversation.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised. Jumping up on the rail, he steadied himself and then leapt onto the deck of the other vessel with one light bound.

  “Ok,” he said, looking around him, “where are your tools?”

  “Tools?” Harris repeated, unsure.

  “You have got tools, haven’t you?” Nick asked incredulously.

  Harris maintained his smile. “I expect so, but to be honest I’ve no idea where they are.”

  Nick realised he was gawking and quickly closed his jaw. “They’ll be somewhere. Have you looked below deck?” He began to push past, but the second man stepped neatly in his path.

  “Stay right where you are!” he ordered, his voice heavy with menace. Nick stood still, shaken at the unwarranted aggression.

  “Please forgive my friend,” Harris said, smoothly intervening. “Sometimes he acts like an oaf.” He glared angrily in the other man’s direction. “What he meant to say was that it would be easier if we looked ourselves.”