Read Online The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) by Terry Brennan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry Brennan
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Lebanon and waited some more. Tonight the waiting ended.
Far southwest of Tehran, along the northern edge of the Persian Gulf and hard against the border with Iraq, the oil refinery of Abadan was Iran’s largest. Over 320 thousand barrels of oil flowed through its pipes and onto tankers every day, only half the amount that it did before the West imposed economic sanctions on the recalcitrant regime. Even so, the oil pumped from Abadan and Iran’s five other major refineries was the life’s blood of the staggering Iranian economy. Without the income from this oil, even more Iranians would suffer. Without the hope that someday these refineries would return to full capacity, the new president, Hussein Rakhsha, and the supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Ghorbani, would be in greater risk of losing their death grip of fear and reprisal. Iran could fall.
Migdol’s team of demolition experts carried a new generation of phosphorous chemical explosive, like napalm on steroids. Once the charges were in place, the sequential detonations would build, one upon the other, sucking the Iranian oil into an expanding conflagration that would melt the metal catwalks and leave the refinery a molten, smoking disaster. Another assault group was at Bandar-e Abbas tonight, the nation’s third-largest refinery, with the same mission. They were the only two refineries on the Iranian coast, but accounted for more than forty percent of the nation’s oil capacity. Two parts of what Migdol surmised was a larger plan—a plan to destroy the government of Iran and its capacity to pose a significant threat to Israel.
Tonight was the night he had waited for.
Migdol knew exactly where he was in the refinery. He had memorized every pathway, tank farm, and building. He scanned the landscape, the narrow spires of metal chimneys and ductwork illuminated by hundreds of bare red and white lightbulbs, large pipes sidling through the spires and catwalks like an endless, giant gray snake. No alarm—no running feet, no shouting voices. Only the rhythmic clanging of chains holding the tanker ships at anchor in the gulf.
He pointed right, and seven soldiers padded off, skirting the pools of white and red light, moving to the refinery’s edge nearest to the harbor. Migdol watched their backs and tilted his head to the left. Seven more melted into the night toward the far eastern fences—three demo experts, two snipers, and two gunners lugging Dror .30-caliber machine guns. That team needed to be on time. They were the fuse lighting off the chain reaction of the explosives that would rip through the refinery from east to west. If they acted too soon, some of his men would get fried before they could escape. Too late, and all of them would be exposed in their most vulnerable position.
Migdol patted his chest, pointed forward, left the lee of the truck body, and double-timed it across a gravel berm that fell away into a dirt ditch, part of the dugout surrounding one of the refinery’s storage tanks. A forest of these circular tanks ran along the northern flank of the refinery, each one surrounded by a square, sunken, earthen enclosure. Blowing the storage tanks would ignite an incredible fire, but the Israeli commandos were there to destroy the refinery, not simply to torch fuel tanks. Migdol and his men used these massive foxholes as cover, scrambling up and down the sloped sides as they made their way to the center of the refinery, where the cracking ovens were located—also where most of the refinery’s workforce concentrated.
The demolitions experts in Migdol’s squad worked deftly. The explosive devices were contained in metal tubes that looked like, and were painted the same color as, the piping system running through the refinery. Moving through the labyrinth of pipes, the bombers would stop at a selected location, twist off the top of the device, and trigger a cellular receiver. Replacing the top, they attached the devices in a way that looked perfectly
Far southwest of Tehran, along the northern edge of the Persian Gulf and hard against the border with Iraq, the oil refinery of Abadan was Iran’s largest. Over 320 thousand barrels of oil flowed through its pipes and onto tankers every day, only half the amount that it did before the West imposed economic sanctions on the recalcitrant regime. Even so, the oil pumped from Abadan and Iran’s five other major refineries was the life’s blood of the staggering Iranian economy. Without the income from this oil, even more Iranians would suffer. Without the hope that someday these refineries would return to full capacity, the new president, Hussein Rakhsha, and the supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Ghorbani, would be in greater risk of losing their death grip of fear and reprisal. Iran could fall.
Migdol’s team of demolition experts carried a new generation of phosphorous chemical explosive, like napalm on steroids. Once the charges were in place, the sequential detonations would build, one upon the other, sucking the Iranian oil into an expanding conflagration that would melt the metal catwalks and leave the refinery a molten, smoking disaster. Another assault group was at Bandar-e Abbas tonight, the nation’s third-largest refinery, with the same mission. They were the only two refineries on the Iranian coast, but accounted for more than forty percent of the nation’s oil capacity. Two parts of what Migdol surmised was a larger plan—a plan to destroy the government of Iran and its capacity to pose a significant threat to Israel.
Tonight was the night he had waited for.
Migdol knew exactly where he was in the refinery. He had memorized every pathway, tank farm, and building. He scanned the landscape, the narrow spires of metal chimneys and ductwork illuminated by hundreds of bare red and white lightbulbs, large pipes sidling through the spires and catwalks like an endless, giant gray snake. No alarm—no running feet, no shouting voices. Only the rhythmic clanging of chains holding the tanker ships at anchor in the gulf.
He pointed right, and seven soldiers padded off, skirting the pools of white and red light, moving to the refinery’s edge nearest to the harbor. Migdol watched their backs and tilted his head to the left. Seven more melted into the night toward the far eastern fences—three demo experts, two snipers, and two gunners lugging Dror .30-caliber machine guns. That team needed to be on time. They were the fuse lighting off the chain reaction of the explosives that would rip through the refinery from east to west. If they acted too soon, some of his men would get fried before they could escape. Too late, and all of them would be exposed in their most vulnerable position.
Migdol patted his chest, pointed forward, left the lee of the truck body, and double-timed it across a gravel berm that fell away into a dirt ditch, part of the dugout surrounding one of the refinery’s storage tanks. A forest of these circular tanks ran along the northern flank of the refinery, each one surrounded by a square, sunken, earthen enclosure. Blowing the storage tanks would ignite an incredible fire, but the Israeli commandos were there to destroy the refinery, not simply to torch fuel tanks. Migdol and his men used these massive foxholes as cover, scrambling up and down the sloped sides as they made their way to the center of the refinery, where the cracking ovens were located—also where most of the refinery’s workforce concentrated.
The demolitions experts in Migdol’s squad worked deftly. The explosive devices were contained in metal tubes that looked like, and were painted the same color as, the piping system running through the refinery. Moving through the labyrinth of pipes, the bombers would stop at a selected location, twist off the top of the device, and trigger a cellular receiver. Replacing the top, they attached the devices in a way that looked perfectly
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