Sleeper Cell Super Boxset
Read Sleeper Cell Super Boxset Online
Authors: Roger Hayden,James Hunt
Sleeper Cell Super Boxset
Copyright 2015 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.
Table of Contents
Chapter 2 - Saturday 1:00 a.m.
Chapter 3 – Saturday 2:00 a.m.
Chapter 4 – Saturday 6:00 a.m.
Chapter 6 – Saturday 7:30 a.m.
Chapter 7 – Saturday 8:30 a.m.
Chapter 8 – Saturday 9:30 a.m.
Chapter 9 – Saturday 10:30 a.m.
Chapter 10 – Saturday 12:45 p.m.
Distressed: Enemy Of the State
Sleeper Cell: A New Age of Terror
Sleeper Cell: An American Armageddon
Bonus: Broken Lines- An EMP Thriller
Night of Day 7 (Mike’s Journey)
Six Months Before the EMP Blast
Day 20 After the Blackout (The Cabin)
Six Months after the EMP Blast
Distressed
Chapter 1 – Friday 6:00 p.m.
Salt water flung from the fishing line as it snapped taut. The clear nylon cord twisted left, the boat crew aboard the
Wave Cutter
scrambling to reel it in. “Fish on!” The soles of rubber boots squeaked against the wet deck, legs teetering back and forth as waves brought the bow of the ship up and down. The faces associated with the gloved hands reaching for the line were weathered, sundrenched, and cracked from the ocean air. Teeth chewed blistered lips as the crew clenched their jaws, pulling in the four-hundred-pound Bluefin tuna.
First Mate Mark Hurley grabbed the long spear and rushed to the starboard side, where the rest of the crew struggled with the line. “Are you boys fishing or jerkin’ off? Don’t be gentle with it. Put your back into it!” The crew gave one final pull, and the Atlantic waters erupted on the port side of the
Wave Cutter,
the tuna thrashing and drenching the crew and the deck of the boat in its cold waters. Mark lined up the spear and thrust it into the shimmering blue-and-gray scales on the side of the fish. The crew high-fived each other as Mark reached for the hook to pull the fish aboard.
Captain Dylan Turk watched the excitement from the wheelhouse then opened the salt-crusted sliding window. “The celebration happens after we get it in the boat, and after we’ve caught another twenty of those.” The two young men quickly helped Mark pull their catch aboard, and Dylan slammed the window shut.
The hot sun beat down into the wheelhouse and had cooked Dylan a nice shade of brown this summer. It’d been hotter than last year, although he caught himself saying that almost every year. His tanned fingers hung off the wheel loosely, the diesel engine doing most of the work, propelling his ship along the eastern banks of Massachusetts. It was a route both he and the
Wave Cutter
were familiar with, like the worn path cut through a well-used trail.
Dylan rubbed his jaw, the scruff on his chin and neck coarse against his callous hands. He reached for the coffee mug resting in the plastic cup holder and sipped, trying to give himself a mid-afternoon burst. Light vibrations from the fish still flopping on the deck rippled up to the cabin but ended the moment Mark bled it out and their two other crew members, Billy and Tank, hauled it down to the storage units to pack it with ice.
Mark climbed the small ladder to the wheelhouse and joined Dylan inside. “Slow and steady today, Cap.”
Dylan gave a nod. “Third day usually is.” Truth was, they seemed to have to go out farther and farther to find the fish. Regulations, poaching, and the fact that there was big money to be had in fishing had increased the competition in the area over the past decade. “How are the greenhorns?”
“Useless,” Mark said.
Dylan grinned. Anyone that wasn’t Mark was useless in those old eyes of his. But while the first mate’s skin had wrinkled and cracked, his hands and neck freckled and rough, Mark was still as sharp as the first day Dylan had worked with him. “Well, that’s why I have you.” Dylan gripped Mark’s shoulder, gently swaying him back and forth. “Those boys will give Navy SEALs a run for their money by the time you’re done with them.”
Mark scoffed and shrugged Dylan’s hand off him. “I don’t know where you find these kids. It seems like each year they get younger and dumber.”
“Or you’re just getting older and more impatient.” Mark gave another scoff and grumbled to himself. One of the many endearing attributes of the man was the fact that he was fueled by competition. “You’ve seen what’s been happening, Mark.” Dylan’s tone darkened. “Everyone’s headed for the larger ships. They get more fish, and they get bigger paychecks.”
Mark spit out the window on the port side. “Bunch of lazy asses is what they are. I’ve seen those ships. Everything’s mechanical. It’s not fishing when all you have to do is press a button.”
The ocean had supported Dylan and his family for the past eighty years. His grandfather was a fisherman, his father, and him. Salt water flowed through his veins. There wasn’t a place in the world where he felt better than when he was on the water. His grandfather used to joke that Dylan didn’t start walking until his parents finally put him on a boat deck. He’d never seen a baby look so comfortable on two legs with the deck rocking back and forth.
A weather alert beeped from the satellite uplink and spit out a warning. Dylan ripped it from the printer and scanned the lettering then glanced up into the sky. Some dark clouds had gathered in the northeast, but the wind was still tame. They had a little more time. “Better go tell those baby seals to stow the gear. Might be a rough one.”
