Nuclear Winter First Strike by Bobby Akart (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

to Erin his thought processes, and she eagerly soaked in the tutorial. Throughout, the two flirted, laughed, and became more physical with one another. Subtle touches of the arm and back. Occasional tender moments of moving Erin’s hair out of her face or allowing Hank to wrap his arms around her as she reeled in a fish. They had a mutual attraction to one another that seemed to move to another level each day.

Hank had just pulled out a picnic basket of food and wine packed by Phoebe, when he glanced toward the back of the boat. He startled Erin with his outburst, but then she joined in the excitement.

“Big fish on! Here we go!” He abruptly set down the basket and sprang across the fiberglass deck to the back of the boat. Erin was hot on his heels and set herself in the fighting chair. As Hank had taught her, she strapped in tight because, as he’d said, you never know what’s gonna take the bait.

A blackfin tuna could stretch to three feet and forty pounds. The wahoo was a more formidable adversary. Some of them have measured nearly eight feet and a hundred seventy pounds. Then there was the grand prize of them all, the blue marlin, although it was very late in the season for them.

Hank turned to Erin and asked, “Ready?”

She nodded eagerly with a bit of trepidation. She’d learned enough from their morning session that the line told the fisherman a lot about what was on the other end. The five-and-a-half-foot carbon-fiber rod bowed like a tall palm tree in a Cat 5 hurricane.

Hank studied Erin. Believing she was up to the task, he gripped the pole and heaved it from the rod holder. He placed it in the fighting chair’s solid stainless steel rod gimbal. Erin held on tight, her muscles protesting as the fish zipped out the line.

Hank hustled to reel in the other trolling lines as a large crested dorsal fin splashed out of the Gulf in the middle of the boat’s frothy wake.

Erin was glad she was all buckled up because the powerful fish would’ve certainly pulled her hundred-thirty-pound body overboard. “Hank! Is it what I think it is?”

“It’s a bluey, baby! Hang on. Keep the rod steady. Make sure the butt of the pole stays firm in the holder. It’s gonna be a helluva fight!”

“Maybe you should—?”

“Nope. You got this!” Hank dashed up to the flybridge to grab his binoculars. He cranked up the Jimmy Buffett song “Fins to the Left” to offer Erin encouragement. The song was ostensibly about shark fins, but the blue marlin’s zigzagged path from one side of the boat’s wake to the other called for some lively music. Erin was in for a real fight.

He arrived by her side and studied the marlin. He dropped the binoculars and then looked again. She noticed his movements.

“Is it big?” she said, readjusting her grip as her hands began to cramp.

“Two hundred. At least,” he said just loud enough to be heard over the music. “Let’s give it another hundred yards. Let it swim a little.”

Erin adjusted her grip and let out the line as Hank had taught her. The marlin was now tugging on four hundred feet of line in a primal war of man versus king of the sea. Blue marlin was one of the world’s most sought-after game fish. Hank could take a dozen trips during a season and not even see one. Yet here they were, at the most unlikely of times, with a relatively inexperienced angler in the chair battling a real beauty.

“Hank, my arms are on fire!”

“Okay, let me help while you relax.”

Hank wrapped his arms around Erin and gripped the rod. Frankly, he hadn’t expected to reel in a blue marlin in late October. He was not muscular by any means. Tanned and toned in an island sort of way would’ve better described his physique. Had he known what was on the other end of the line, he might’ve taken the lead on this. Reeling in a blue marlin was no easy task, even for a fit and experienced angler.

Hank began reeling the beast in. He fought the tension, reeling and pulling with everything he had. Erin relieved him with a vigor and sense of purpose that astonished Hank. Maybe it was the effort he made in assisting her? Maybe it was the fact the two worked as a team to bring in the mighty fish? Either way, she put the muscle to the task and set her jaw, with determination in her eyes.

“There is no answer on their cell phones either,” said Sonny as he nervously stood among the three men who’d suddenly appeared on the front porch of the main house. They were all dressed in dark suits, starched shirts, and blue ties. There was little doubt to the streetwise Sonny that they were from the government. Regardless, he insisted upon seeing their identification. They were with the Secret Service.

“The secretary knows better than being out of communication with her staff,” one of the men said. “Where are they?” he asked as he looked out into the Gulf. There wasn’t a boat in sight.

“I don’t know,” replied Sonny. “Hank has a number of spots that he prefers. He may have gone flats fishing up around Duck Key. If he wanted to take a nice ride, they might’ve gone offshore.”

“Good god,” the agent said with a huff. He tapped one of his agents on the arm. “Call the Coast Guard. Deploy a couple of choppers to sweep the inshore areas. The boat is a forty-five-foot Hatteras flybridge. Two passengers. Once identified, have them intercept with one of their Defender-class boats. There’s no time to waste.”

He turned to Sonny, who asked a question. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

The agent sighed and thought for a brief moment. “I guess you’ll see it on the news soon enough. Pakistan and India are at war.”

“What does that have