Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,11

police force in the city, the particular favourite of the Prime Minister, and just last week the detail had demolished a drug-dealing ring that had been plaguing the city for months. From intelligence his tech team had gathered over months of wire-taps and bugs, his task force had performed four early-morning raids and seized over three quarters of a million pounds in cash and heroin, arresting seven men in the process with enough evidence to put them away for some time.

However, watching the television screen, Cobb was starting to realise that the ship was never steady for long. A storm was always brewing. And that morning lightning had struck the moment he'd turned on the television to catch the headlines.

Standing there in his office watching the news report, Cobb felt bereft. The news of the suicide was brutal and shocking. A wife left a widow, a six year old boy without a father. He hadn’t spoken to Adams in over ten years, but he'd seen a great deal of him on the television recently and had watched his unexpected rise as a politician with great pleasure. He had become the surprise candidate, his name on everyone’s lips, and there was an ever-growing public belief that one day he would make Prime Minister. He was building an impressive following around the country and everyone liked him, something which was often hard to say about a politician.

He’d been a refreshing change and had effortlessly captured the public's support and belief in a way that his competitors could only dream of. As a handsome, charismatic war hero, Charlie Adams had definitely bucked the trend and had been a true breath of fresh air. He would have had Cobb’s vote, no question. The man had been as strong as he was dependable, one of the finest men Cobb had ever worked with, and given the ARU's close working relationship with 10 Downing Street, Cobb had secretly been hoping that Adams would one day in the not too distant future, become the new PM so he could have the opportunity to work with him again.

Watching the television, Cobb saw the screen change to a bullet-pointed summary of Adams’ life. He sighed. Away from all the politics, Cobb had liked him as a person. Charlie had been a good man and an excellent soldier. He knew there would be a lot of former comrades and servicemen watching the report who would feel just as sad as he did at that moment, wishing Charlie had said something or asked for help instead of putting that gun in his mouth and leaving so many questions unanswered.

Turning, Cobb sat down behind his desk and watched the report shift back to the studio newsroom.

Something must have got to Charlie. Who knew what inner demons he was fighting. After all, he’d served all over the place with the army and been in some hellacious places in the darkest corners of the world. He’d been to Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan, right in the middle of all of the conflicts. God only knew the things he must have seen and the way they might have affected him. Cobb had only had a brief interaction with him just before the turn of the millennium, but he couldn't have done his job better, a true leader of men. Definitely not the kind of man who would blow his own head off with a handgun.

Rising and feeling agitated, Cobb moved across the room to his coffee machine and poured himself a thick espresso, no milk, no sugar. He took it back to his desk and let the drink cool, looking back up at the television screen. The Breaking News banner across the bottom of the screen was running the headline on a loop, but the screen had changed, now showing a picture of Captain Adams in some faded combat fatigues, kneeling and smiling up to the camera, his SA 80 rifle cradled over his thigh, squinting in the sunlight. He was in a dusty courtyard, somewhere in Iraq probably, and his skin was tanned, his dark hair untidy, the beginnings of a beard on his face.

Nevertheless his broad smile and whole persona demonstrated that raw charisma he’d always had, the quality that drew people to him and made him such a good leader of men. Staring at the image on the screen, Cobb shook his head in disbelief.

Charlie Adams had killed himself.

Why?

Just over three thousand miles to the west, across the Atlantic, a forty year