Read Online The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) by Terry Brennan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Brennan
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at home in the refinery’s maze.
With precision, the squad moved laterally, section by section, toward the western edge of the refinery and the gulf, snipers in advance on point and trailing behind to watch their backs. The heavy guns, with Migdol in the middle, were ready to unleash a lethal downpour on any Iranian who ventured near. The refinery crew was skeleton at best. No one noticed their passage.
Migdol caught a faint wisp of seawater through the pervasive oil smell as he stopped his team’s progress. The first squad, their explosives set, should be in the section to his west, some guarding the perimeter, some releasing the inflatables they hoped would take them to rendezvous with the still-submerged submarine lurking in the shallows of the Strait of Hormuz, far off the shipping lanes. Migdol clicked the small, square microphone attached to his shoulder. One click came back, a pause, then another click. His men stood as a unit and moved rapidly through the shadows, joining the first squad just short of the ring road that surrounded the refinery.
All fourteen men were pressed down against an embankment, some looking forward, some looking back for the third and last squad—and any unwelcome intruders. Colonel Migdol trained his eyes on the light-and-shadow maze of pipes and catwalks, willing his mind to wait patiently for the click from the mic on his left shoulder.
Gunfire erupted at almost the same instant as floodlights sprang to life throughout the refinery, bathing the facility in a garish, faux daylight. Migdol heard the keystroke rattle of the Uzis and the deeper thump of the .30-caliber Dror machine guns, but the sound of his squad’s defense was nearly obliterated by a growing crescendo of automatic weapons, the sound of battle rolling through the metal thicket—and coming closer.
“Boats.” The first team scrambled up the embankment toward the shore while Migdol’s team ran toward the refinery compound, ten meters to a ditch and a berm, where they spread out and lay in the dark. Migdol stole a glance at his watch and then looked back into the tangle of pipes. Fewer bursts came from the Uzis. The fighting distant enough that Migdol could not see the gunfire flashes through the brightness of the light flooding the refinery. The sounds seemed to be fading.
He’s leading them away. Good man. Good men.
Migdol looked to the soldier on his right, held up his right fist with his thumb sticking up, and then pushed his thumb down as if pressing on a button. Or a trigger. For a long moment, the soldier held Migdol’s gaze, then turned to the touch pad in his hand. He tapped the screen. Tapped once again. Looked up at his colonel. Migdol nodded. The soldier tapped the screen for the third time, and the first of the explosions sent a ball of fire into the sky. Like an insatiable beast gathering strength and size, an all-engulfing tide of riotous flames and blinding, white light began flowing in Migdol’s direction. “Out. Now.”
The colonel lingered a moment, looking into the growing conflagration, turned to follow his men, and saw the demo expert to his right with his head down, the touch pad still in his hand. Migdol scrambled to his right, grabbed the soldier’s shirt, and pulled him off the ground. “Out!”
There was no more gunfire. Only the birth of a second sun, this one on earth, and coming closer. Migdol and the soldier ran hard, crossed the ring road, and sidled through the cuts in the perimeter fence. They sprinted across a gravel flat and each rolled over the gunwale into one of the waiting inflatables, which immediately pushed out into the dark waters of the Persian Gulf.
Seated in the back of the inflatable, his legs up on the gunwale, Colonel Avi Migdol could feel the heat on his cheeks as the enormous fireball spread across the refinery and consumed everything in its path. Like his own, the eyes of any defender would be riveted to the conflagration. But Migdol didn’t see the
With precision, the squad moved laterally, section by section, toward the western edge of the refinery and the gulf, snipers in advance on point and trailing behind to watch their backs. The heavy guns, with Migdol in the middle, were ready to unleash a lethal downpour on any Iranian who ventured near. The refinery crew was skeleton at best. No one noticed their passage.
Migdol caught a faint wisp of seawater through the pervasive oil smell as he stopped his team’s progress. The first squad, their explosives set, should be in the section to his west, some guarding the perimeter, some releasing the inflatables they hoped would take them to rendezvous with the still-submerged submarine lurking in the shallows of the Strait of Hormuz, far off the shipping lanes. Migdol clicked the small, square microphone attached to his shoulder. One click came back, a pause, then another click. His men stood as a unit and moved rapidly through the shadows, joining the first squad just short of the ring road that surrounded the refinery.
All fourteen men were pressed down against an embankment, some looking forward, some looking back for the third and last squad—and any unwelcome intruders. Colonel Migdol trained his eyes on the light-and-shadow maze of pipes and catwalks, willing his mind to wait patiently for the click from the mic on his left shoulder.
Gunfire erupted at almost the same instant as floodlights sprang to life throughout the refinery, bathing the facility in a garish, faux daylight. Migdol heard the keystroke rattle of the Uzis and the deeper thump of the .30-caliber Dror machine guns, but the sound of his squad’s defense was nearly obliterated by a growing crescendo of automatic weapons, the sound of battle rolling through the metal thicket—and coming closer.
“Boats.” The first team scrambled up the embankment toward the shore while Migdol’s team ran toward the refinery compound, ten meters to a ditch and a berm, where they spread out and lay in the dark. Migdol stole a glance at his watch and then looked back into the tangle of pipes. Fewer bursts came from the Uzis. The fighting distant enough that Migdol could not see the gunfire flashes through the brightness of the light flooding the refinery. The sounds seemed to be fading.
He’s leading them away. Good man. Good men.
Migdol looked to the soldier on his right, held up his right fist with his thumb sticking up, and then pushed his thumb down as if pressing on a button. Or a trigger. For a long moment, the soldier held Migdol’s gaze, then turned to the touch pad in his hand. He tapped the screen. Tapped once again. Looked up at his colonel. Migdol nodded. The soldier tapped the screen for the third time, and the first of the explosions sent a ball of fire into the sky. Like an insatiable beast gathering strength and size, an all-engulfing tide of riotous flames and blinding, white light began flowing in Migdol’s direction. “Out. Now.”
The colonel lingered a moment, looking into the growing conflagration, turned to follow his men, and saw the demo expert to his right with his head down, the touch pad still in his hand. Migdol scrambled to his right, grabbed the soldier’s shirt, and pulled him off the ground. “Out!”
There was no more gunfire. Only the birth of a second sun, this one on earth, and coming closer. Migdol and the soldier ran hard, crossed the ring road, and sidled through the cuts in the perimeter fence. They sprinted across a gravel flat and each rolled over the gunwale into one of the waiting inflatables, which immediately pushed out into the dark waters of the Persian Gulf.
Seated in the back of the inflatable, his legs up on the gunwale, Colonel Avi Migdol could feel the heat on his cheeks as the enormous fireball spread across the refinery and consumed everything in its path. Like his own, the eyes of any defender would be riveted to the conflagration. But Migdol didn’t see the
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