The Fish Kill Mission

Tony Martin

Description

The Fishkill Mission was Tony Martin’s first of his six books. It was written fifteen years before the World Trade Center destruction, about an attack on a small part of Texas by a four-man team of vengeful Cuban terrorists. They are in our country for less than three days, kill over 100,000 people, destroy the economic viability of a region of over 75,000 square miles for decades to come, terrorize an entire nation and completely alter and redirect the political and defense priorities and the financial expenditures of the entire government structure at all levels; and, we never knew who they were or why they attacked us. Tony Martin asked several of his friends, relatives, and even an author’s agent, to review it for him in 1986, and to the person, they said it was simply too frightening and asked him not to publish it for fear of giving ideas to terrorists. He acquiesced to their pleas, and wrote and published five other books over the next fifteen years. He dug the book out in 2000 to update it to reflect the political realities of the 1990’s such as the fall of the USSR and the Gulf War, but again, he did not publish it.
Since writing the book, Martin has been responsible for public water supplies in two different communities totaling well over 100,000 people, and the book reflects his long-standing belief that our life support infrastructure system exposes us to small unit attacks by our enemies with the greatest ease, the greatest long-term impact and the least probability of discovery or apprehension. Martin actually carried out the attacks described in the book using sand-filled containers and a camera, to ensure that the timetables and undetected access were possible and realistic. Sadly, they were.

Sujets

• Science Fiction
• Fish
• Tony
• Trade
• World
• Kill
• Anthony
• Center
• Martin
• Mission
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 30 novembre 2006
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781469112145
• Langue: English

Extrait

OTHER BOOKS BY TONY MARTIN


Writing as MATTHEW BONNET
CHRISTOPHER AND MIGUEL

MEN OF MATRIARCHY

A MILENNIUM PRIMER FOR ELECTED MUNICIPAL OFFICIALS

EAST TEXANS LOVE TO TALK

Writing as TONY MARTIN
THE MUSE ONLY WORKS AFTER MIDNIGHT;
A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES
WRITTEN WHILE YOU SLEPT

THE FISHKILL MISSION




THE FISH KILL MISSION









Tony Martin



Copyright © 2007 by Tony Martin.

ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-4257-3986-7
Softcover
978-1-4257-3985-0
eBook
978-1-4691-1214-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.





Rev. date: 05/26/2023





Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
545693



CONTENTS
Prologue

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12

Epilogue



DEDICATION

The Fishkill Mission was written fifteen years before the attack on the World Trade Center. It was my first novel. When I finished it, I asked several friends and relatives, and even an agent, to review it for me. To the person, they said it was simply too frightening, and asked me not to publish it, for fear of giving terrorists ideas. I dug it out in 2000 to update it to reflect the new political realities of the 1990’s, but again decided not to publish it.
My wife recently found it and encouraged me to publish it. We agreed that it is certainly no longer something terrorists would not have already considered (if it ever was), and might awaken some to the potential danger if we do not prepare ourselves.
So, this novel is dedicated to my wife. She is a true partner with uncommon common sense, whose advice, wisdom, companionship and support have become essential to my life.



PROLOGUE
Dear Reader,
It seems hard even for me to believe now, but this story was written and copyrighted in 1986; fifteen years before the destruction of the World Trade Center. It was updated from time to time in order to reflect political changes in the world, but none since 2000.
It is amazing that our public works infrastructure has not been targeted before now by those who hate us. Since this story was written, I have been responsible for public water supplies in two communities, and it seems that no one is doing anything of real value to protect them. In 1986, I wrote:

“I believe that we are extremely vulnerable to small unit attacks by our enemies on our own soil, and nowhere more vulnerable than at our community life-support infrastructure facilities.

As the economic polarization of our world and our nation continues, it is historically mandated that we will be the object of increasing hatred and incidences of attack at ever-increasing levels of intensity.

This story may make many of you uncomfortable for a few minutes, and may even frighten a few, but not sufficiently to result in a meaningful reaction to the threat. Regrettably, our arrogance and collective ignorance of and lack of respect for the cycles of history will prevent us from making any significant move to prevent the attack until after it comes.

The attack will come, and this story basically describes how it will happen. Here’s hoping it comes to your community, and not to mine.”

Obviously, I was wrong about how the attack would come. But, it did come, and it will come again. Hopefully, I will be wrong again.



CHAPTER 1
“The struggle for freedom should be something more than a contest between their terrorists and our terrorists.”
A Member of Congress
Greifswald
The noisy Czech-manufactured truck belched smoke and raw petrol fumes. It backed through the narrow loading door into the crumbling brown brick warehouse building in the dilapidated port sector of Greifswald, a town on the German coast, near the Polish border. Six men, all appearing to be at least thirty years of age, in brown insulated coveralls stood silently in a semi-circle in the dim light from a few dirty bulbs. They watched the grimy, greenish-brown vehicle lurch slowly into their midst in the small room, which was otherwise empty except for a stack of cardboard boxes. One of the men coughed as the room filled with the acrid exhaust fumes. As if on cue, the truck engine died with a shutter and the driver climbed out of the cab. Another man, a hulking mass in blue coveralls and a hooded blue coat, remained in the passenger seat, staring ahead, watching the loading door through which they just passed.
The dark driver appeared to be a relatively young man with straight shoulder-length black hair pulled tightly and tied in the back, but the confidence with which he moved hinted at his well-hidden maturity. He wore a brown leather jacket and turtleneck sweater, tightly fitted faded jeans and boots. He made no attempt to hide his arrogance and self-importance. The waiting men nodded to him respectfully but he ignored them as if he expected their deference. One of the men moved quickly to the rusty metal overhead door that clattered and screeched as he pulled it down and locked it.
The other men stepped away as the driver moved to the boxes, sliding one aside and kneeling beside it. He pulled a large knife from his rear pocket, opened the blade with a flick of his wrist and deftly cut the tape securing the box. He peeled back the lid and lifted out a large dull black metal cylinder resembling an oversized food tin. The cylinder had a canvas strap riveted to the top for carrying, and the lid was covered with a circle of fiberboard secured in place with heavy tape.
He looked up at the men watching him. “I am Louis. Which of you are Dr. Simac and Dr. Leopold?” He spoke deliberately in textbook Russian, devoid of any noticeable accent.
The oldest man in the group moved forward. “You are Simac?” Louis asked.
The older man nodded. “I am Simac.”
A younger man stepped forward. “I am Leopold.”
Louis stared at Leopold and glanced at the rear view mirror on the passenger side of the truck to make sure his companion had been watching the two men identify themselves. He nodded as if satisfied.
“Well, Doctors. You are sure these will work as we asked?”
“They will work, Comrade,” Simac said confidently. “Of that you may be sure.”
“How can you be so certain, Doctor? Have you tested it?”
The old man smiled. “Of course. We would never leave such things to chance, or jeopardize our relationship with those you represent. We used a village in the mountains of Croatia. Of the sixty occupants, fifty-three died within four days. We think you will be very satisfied. No one suspected a toxin. It was blamed on a plague-like sickness.”
Two days after his men slipped into the remote settlement and dropped a small pea-sized pellet of the toxin into the communal well, he and his team rolled into the village in vans. Simac met with the village leaders, telling them he was with the state health bureau and that some of the other communities in the region were suffering from an influenza type disease. He asked if any of their people were experiencing such problems. By that time, many of the elderly and infants were beginning to complain of headaches and nausea.
Simac and Leopold were able to set up an on-site lab to study and document the effects of their toxin on humans. At the same time, their men were able to ensure that the people of the village had no communication with the world outside. The telephone line for the single phone set in the village was cut, and any trying to leave were turned back at gun point. Anyone wishing to enter was dissuaded with stories of plague.
Simac estimated that the isolation period had to extend no longer than three days after his arrival, and he had been correct. It took only five days to wipe out the population. They quietly pulled out of the village, leaving the five or six ill survivors with the bodies of their friends and neighbors.
Simac spent his entire adult life working for the Soviets in the development of biochemical weapons. Suddenly, the U.S.S.R. collapsed and he was without a job. It seemed that every business and agency was scrambling to establish ties with Western entities. No one wanted to be associated with a man of his background. He was treated as if he had the plague.
His bitterness became rage. It did not take him long to discover that despite the lack of hostilities between Russia and the West, there remained a large market among the emerging nations for his expertise, and the potential rewards were beyond his dreams. He spent twelve months in Iraq prior to their invasion of Kuwait.
While the Saudi-Western alliance gloated over their victory, the leaders of Iraq suffered their defeat in silen