An historical fiction detailing, through the life of one individual, the greed and disdain exhibited by the oil industry and the effects of this attitude on the world and on America in particular.
The book, a small snippet of which can be seen below, can be purchased on most major ebook sites. If you are having difficulty finding it or downloading it, or just have a question, use the contact box on this page.
We would greatly appreciate your comments. Email us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
A sample taken from Chapter 1
One year ago, this month, our worst nightmare came true. Yeah! Some fool finally did it. Two small megaton bombs so dirty that 4 million New Yorker's and those who were there to visit would eventually die from them. And for those of us who survived the blast, it was constantly on our tongues that we must have lived evil lives or we would have died that day. Because being alive was hell.
The blasts occurred in two places. Native New Yorkers knew the sites were well picked, as they cut off Manhattan from ground transport to New Jersey. They also played to the prevailing westerly wind, known in the wintertime as the Hawk. The first explosion occurred on the George Washington Bridge off-ramp on the city side at 7:55 A.M. It took out Washington Heights and all of the bridge. The area to the north and south of the bridge for a radius of forty city blocks was vaporized. Buildings that were standing since the 1920's were melted by the extraordinary heat of the blast. Further away, the shock waves shook buildings loose from their foundations while the blast wind toppled them, one on top of the other. Secondary explosions from broken gas mains had the effect of mortar rounds hitting randomly throughout the northern end of Manhattan. The devastation was instant and immeasurable. At that hour, hundreds of thousand of people were at home preparing to leave for work or on the street heading to a bus or subway stop. What wasn’t leveled in the blast area was burning. What was not killed was battered by the shock wave and received a lethal dose of radiation.
Being farther away from Ground Zero was no comfort. The buildings that withstood the heat and shock of the explosion caught fire and burned, trapping residents in smoke-filled halls and elevators. Few people north of 125th Street survived the attack.
The GW Bridge, as New Yorkers and New Jerseyites alike called it, once a grand sight from either side of the Hudson, was gone, along with several thousand commuters.
The second blast occurred at the mouth of the Holland Tunnel, where it opens to lower Manhattan, at 8:00 A.M. Both blasts appeared to be on timers and set to the apex of Friday morning traffic. This one took out a chunk of Lower Manhattan Island—buildings, shoreline, tunnel. It was like a few million tons of TNT in a very small package.
The strategic placement of the second device was diabolical. The effect of the blast and heat was as if the lower third of Manhattan had been cut with the grim reaper’s scythe. Nothing stood. For the fortunate, it meant instant vaporization. For some a little less lucky, it took a little longer to die, like the poor slobs in the tunnel who looked up after hearing the noise only to see the Hudson River pouring into their morning coffee and ruining their day, forever!