Read Online The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) by Terry Brennan - Free Book Online
Authors: Terry Brennan
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die tonight instead of in a few months, weeks. But he must be here. The ayatollahs were no fools. Anyone who did not report for duty or who left early would be suspect. They and their families would be judged without trial. If mercy reigned, those poor souls would spend the rest of their lives wasting away in a labor camp. But mercy seldom reigned. No. Kolabi would be here, protecting his family. Their future was also protected, the funds provided by the Jewish agent safely and secretly invested in a chain of food markets.
Kolabi completed installation of the light fixture, checked the wiring once more, flipped the switch to activate the timing mechanism, and hobbled back down the ladder.
One more level. Freedom called him on.
11:10 p.m., Abadan Oil Refinery, Iran
Colonel Avi Migdol released the four clamps holding the back panel in place. He pushed on the lever and cracked the panel open. Light filtered into the belly of the oil tanker truck, barely denting the impenetrable blackness they suffered through for the last several hours. The hazmat suits were claustrophobic, holding temperature and moisture against their skin, soaking their uniforms. But their respirators kept them alive during the long drive from Turkey, and the suits protected them from the burns their skin would otherwise suffer from the oil residue that coated the tanker’s interior.
Colonel Migdol had twenty soldiers at his back. Sabra, mostly. Field-tested, hardened, combat veterans. More importantly, for all of these men this assignment was a calling, a moment of divine intervention, an answer to whispered prayers, and the chance to avenge a lost loved one. They may die. But they would not fail.
Peeking through the opening in the rear panel of the oil tanker, Migdol watched the outside darkness for moving shadows. He slipped the visored hood from his head, held his breath, and listened. Still and quiet. He held up a gloved hand, keeping his soldiers in place. The colonel eased the back panel farther away from the truck’s body, just enough that he could slip through the opening and drop to the ground outside.
In the shadow of the tanker’s belly, Migdol’s black hazmat suit was invisible. In a squat, he pulled apart the strips of Velcro, and the top of the suit dropped around his waist. The Uzi was strapped against the black Kevlar vest on his chest. For a heartbeat, Migdol held the machine gun close to his heart, remembering why he was here. Then he turned its barrel away from him. Time to go to work.
He swung the Uzi in an arc as he quickly swept a three-sixty circle. Nothing moved. Off in the distance, the sounds of the refinery were distinct, carrying through the silence. The overnight shift, which kept the refinery’s pumps moving, the kilns and crackers cooking up more Iranian crude, paid no attention to the tanker trucks parked in this far corner of the refinery.
Migdol motioned with his left hand, his eyes ever searching the distance where he knew the workers toiled. Two soft, barely discernible thuds. He edged along the length of the tanker’s body as more soldiers dropped out of the belly of the beast. Certain of his cover, Migdol pulled apart the Velcro on the legs of the hazmat suit. He was free. Soggy, but free. He moved farther along the bottom of the truck until he came to the end of the shadow. He knew his men were behind him. It was his duty to lead.
The colonel and his men were alike in many ways—born in Israel, career soldiers in a nation of reservists, trained in stealth and destruction. And each had a personal reason to exact this revenge. Migdol’s mother and father were on the way to market, on the Egged bus to Kiryat Shmona. The bombers came across the border from Lebanon, with Russian weapons and Iranian explosives. Twenty-eight were murdered—blown apart or burned, no one knew for sure. There wasn’t much left to determine how they died.
Avi Migdol joined the army that day. He trained and waited. He fought in
Kolabi completed installation of the light fixture, checked the wiring once more, flipped the switch to activate the timing mechanism, and hobbled back down the ladder.
One more level. Freedom called him on.
11:10 p.m., Abadan Oil Refinery, Iran
Colonel Avi Migdol released the four clamps holding the back panel in place. He pushed on the lever and cracked the panel open. Light filtered into the belly of the oil tanker truck, barely denting the impenetrable blackness they suffered through for the last several hours. The hazmat suits were claustrophobic, holding temperature and moisture against their skin, soaking their uniforms. But their respirators kept them alive during the long drive from Turkey, and the suits protected them from the burns their skin would otherwise suffer from the oil residue that coated the tanker’s interior.
Colonel Migdol had twenty soldiers at his back. Sabra, mostly. Field-tested, hardened, combat veterans. More importantly, for all of these men this assignment was a calling, a moment of divine intervention, an answer to whispered prayers, and the chance to avenge a lost loved one. They may die. But they would not fail.
Peeking through the opening in the rear panel of the oil tanker, Migdol watched the outside darkness for moving shadows. He slipped the visored hood from his head, held his breath, and listened. Still and quiet. He held up a gloved hand, keeping his soldiers in place. The colonel eased the back panel farther away from the truck’s body, just enough that he could slip through the opening and drop to the ground outside.
In the shadow of the tanker’s belly, Migdol’s black hazmat suit was invisible. In a squat, he pulled apart the strips of Velcro, and the top of the suit dropped around his waist. The Uzi was strapped against the black Kevlar vest on his chest. For a heartbeat, Migdol held the machine gun close to his heart, remembering why he was here. Then he turned its barrel away from him. Time to go to work.
He swung the Uzi in an arc as he quickly swept a three-sixty circle. Nothing moved. Off in the distance, the sounds of the refinery were distinct, carrying through the silence. The overnight shift, which kept the refinery’s pumps moving, the kilns and crackers cooking up more Iranian crude, paid no attention to the tanker trucks parked in this far corner of the refinery.
Migdol motioned with his left hand, his eyes ever searching the distance where he knew the workers toiled. Two soft, barely discernible thuds. He edged along the length of the tanker’s body as more soldiers dropped out of the belly of the beast. Certain of his cover, Migdol pulled apart the Velcro on the legs of the hazmat suit. He was free. Soggy, but free. He moved farther along the bottom of the truck until he came to the end of the shadow. He knew his men were behind him. It was his duty to lead.
The colonel and his men were alike in many ways—born in Israel, career soldiers in a nation of reservists, trained in stealth and destruction. And each had a personal reason to exact this revenge. Migdol’s mother and father were on the way to market, on the Egged bus to Kiryat Shmona. The bombers came across the border from Lebanon, with Russian weapons and Iranian explosives. Twenty-eight were murdered—blown apart or burned, no one knew for sure. There wasn’t much left to determine how they died.
Avi Migdol joined the army that day. He trained and waited. He fought in
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