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Project Thunder. When a device from outer space containing weather-controlling technology lands in the Australian desert, all nations want it for themselves.

A shipwreck in the North Sea. A terrifying journey in a life raft. A mysterious Russian ghost ship... This thriller never lets up.

John Black is a mercenary obsessed with discovering the secrets of the device which he and his father first found in the desert years ago. Scientist, Emma Farr, wants the thing given to the world and used to reverse global warming. The unlikely pair join forces. The action swirls across seas and continents until the pair finally discover the astonishing secret behind it all.

This meticulously researched maritime thriller includes intimate knowledge of mainland China, familiarity with submarines, military weapons, training and tactics. Classic adventure fiction. (79,000 words)

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Read the start of Project Thunder here:

STORM

The waves are on the starboard quarter. The ship shudders as they hit. As each liquid mountain surges past, we pitch into the next trough.
     'Grill and kill. Right?' Doone hands me the cuffs. 'He'll be armed so we play buddies up front.'
     I say, 'Copy that,' because he's my squad leader and the workplace is war.
     We're on a research bucket called the Arundel. British registered. Three thousand tonnes. Crammed with meteorologists and steaming north. A ship on a weather survey. Innocent enough.
     Except for the strange arrays on the superstructure.
     Except for the attitude of the crew.
     Except for the no-go sections near the engine room.
     Except that it's hired our squad. And we know it's about to be attacked.
     Our makeshift armoury's below waterline on C deck. Down here near the machinery spaces the engine throb comes through our boots and the hull-frames groan as the sea tries to stave in the plates.
     Doone pulls a 9mm Glock from his battle jacket and parks it out of sight on a top rack next to the cell phones. Before we sailed, to preserve security, we made everyone hand in their mobiles.
     The metal door opens, lets in the diesel oil stink and the Russian. A thick-set type called Yuri—low furrowed brow, moon-crater skin. First time he's been allowed in here. Thinks he's getting the grand tour.
     He beams at the weapons and ammo. 'Chrise. Got plenty heat.' He opens a long case and lifts out an M3. It's a steel liner, basically, for launching HE to frag. He drops to his left knee and fits his shoulder behind the pad as if he's more used to fiddling with his dick than anti-tank. He squints through the sight at Doone.
     'Don't point the bugger at me.' Doone's cartoon eyebrows dance.
     The guy shoves the thing back in its foam moulding, tucks in the blast goggles, re-clips the lid. He eyes the tripod of a .50 cal. machine gun, touches the flash guard of an RPG. 'Got the lot.' 'Aye.' Doone grins. 'Should give 'em the trots right enough.'
     The man's eyes flicker, showing what he really thinks.
     The ship creaks into the next roll. Somewhere a bulkhead door slams.
     Doone grabs the top rack as if steadying himself. Then the Glock's in his mitt and aimed at the Russian's belly. 'Spread.'
     The guy bares his teeth like an animal, then does a curious thing. He grabs the lanyard around his neck and kisses the jewelled crucifix attached.
     I don't like it. Something doesn't square.
     Next, his right hand strays to his neck.
     'Arms out,' Doone roars.
     He does it. I kick his legs wider, frisk him. Find the knife in the scabbard down his back. And an ankle holster with a 9mm Norinco. As I shove the weapons out of range, Doone's aim droops to the guy's balls. 'Back up.'
     The Russian knows he's out of options. Because Doone's ex-special forces with a heart that pumps radiator coolant. And he's a man-mountain, which makes his nickname, Lorna, droll. I'm big, too, and don't go down fast.
     He backs into the rack.
     I plasticuff his arms around an upright and kick away his legs.
     As he bumps onto the deck, his arms, snared by the bottom shelf, are jerked high behind him—forcing his head down toward his crotch in the excruciating position favoured by the Cong. Doone lifts the acetylene torch.
     The man's eyes flash hatred. 'Why you do this?'
     'Because we found your fooking transmitter.' He lights the flame. 'Party time, shite. Who'd you tip off?'
     'You crazy. I talk to family.'
     'With an underwater multi-channel? Like your family lives in a sub? What's the code for the WT?'
     In fifteen years as a mercenary I've seen plenty of shit go down. And I think, screw the bastard. Because he's sold us out. He's a mole. And his tip-off to God knows who could take out everyone on board.
     'Who you working for? Spetsnaz?'
     He raves in Russian.
     Doone, face friendly as a chain saw, moves the flame close to the man's left arm. 'We can take this slowly. And when did you tell them to attack?' The Russian swears, fighting the cuffs.
     'Speak English, shite. More you fuck with us, longer it hurts. We're not mooking around. I want the code. Five. Four. Three...'
     'I tell nozzing.' The man thrashes like a bullock caught in a barbed-wire fence.
     'The code!' Doone fries his skin. The smell of cooking flesh.
     The man's roar chokes to a gurgle. He slumps.
     Doone says, 'Fuck! Get him back.'
     I feel his neck. 'Checked out.'
     'Bluidy hell!' He looks puzzled.
     Then I figure it. There's a hole in the middle of the crucifix, as if the setting's lost a stone. I show it to Doone. 'Check-out pill. Must've stashed it in his cheek when he pretended to kiss the thing.'
     Doone roars, 'Bluidy Ivans! All this shite for sweet fuck all.'
     I cut the body loose. 'So where do we file him? Cool room?'
     'No bluidy way. Haul him topside. Fish food. What are you looking for?'
     'Something to weight him.'
     'Dinna fash yerself. Lots of North Sea.'
     To confirm it, the ship rolls almost on its beam-ends. We grab for handholds. Its ribs groan.
     When the deck decides it's not a wall, Doone shoulders the carcass in a fireman's lift. With luck, we'll get to the weather-deck unseen.
    

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