“Use your key and unlock the relief valves for these six tanks,” Yousef commanded as he pointed to the tanks. John immediately began fumbling with the keys, attempting to find the right one.
“You do know that opening these valves will cause the gasoline in the tank to flood this entire area,” John informed Yousef.
“Shut up! Open the valves,” Yousef snarled.
John, in his panicked state, dropped the huge key ring into the growing puddle of gasoline. He quickly scooped the key ring up and began searching for the keys, though he could barely remember what the keys looked like.
“Hey, like I said, anything you want,” John blurted out while he searched for the keys. “I’ll be glad to do it for you. It’ll only take a minute to find the right keys and then I’ll…”
“Shut up! If you speak again, I’ll kill you!” Yousef gruffly cut off John’s babble. “Concentrate on opening the valves.”
A couple of minutes later, John had found all six keys and quickly opened the valves, the whole time under the vigilant eye of Yousef, who kept his gun trained on him. With the valves open, the gas which had been trickling out of just one tank now flowed with the force of a fire hose from six emergency relief valves.
The tanks were used to store the gasoline as it was produced and tested, before it was sent on to larger storage tanks in the tank farm. Opening the relief valves would cause thousands of gallons of gasoline to spill onto the ground, fill the containment levies and wash over into the city’s sewer system.
“Take out your service revolver,” Yousef commanded as the other four men stepped back towards the pathway that led to the truck staging area and the loading platform. They hesitated for only a moment, watching the drama unfolding before them.
“Guys, this is really dangerous. This stuff could blow up half of Houston. Here, take my gun,” John stated as he began pulling the gun from his holster. “I don’t care, but I gotta let someone know, so that the gas can be cleaned up before there’s a problem,” John rattled on as he held out his gun which he was holding by the trigger guard. “Hey, you know, I’ve never even fired this thing, not even at a range,” John informed Yousef.
“That is too bad. You might have been a hero if you had. You could have shot the Mexican gangbangers who caused this,” Yousef stated sarcastically as he backed off several steps without taking John’s gun. He spoke in a calm voice as his cold eyes bore down on him. “By the way, there already is a problem, you dumb bastard.”
Yousef fired his gun twice. Both bullets struck John in the stomach dropping him to the ground. As he fell, John let go of his gun and clutched his stomach, blood spraying out between his fingers. Upon hitting the ground, gasoline splashed in all directions, his nose filled with its stench. He wondered who these guys were and why they had shot him. The last thought that crossed his mind was he hoped Dallas won the game.
As his accomplices moved off towards the truck staging area, Yousef tossed his near-empty gun into the spreading pool of gasoline, knowing it would be tied to the young Hispanic gang members. He then stripped off the lab coat and an air bladder from around his waist, tossing both to the ground. He then quickly peeled off the fake beard, moustache and eyebrows tossing them to the ground, as well. He then quickly hurried back to the main building and the security office.
Once in the Security Office, he found the release for the electronic gate locks and released the one nearest the loading platform. He made sure to turn off the automated fire alarm before hurrying to the loading platform where he climbed into the cab of the last of four gasoline tanker trucks leaving the plant. As he climbed on board he asked the driver, “Are all the timers set and the values open?”
“Yes,” the driver replied succinctly.
“Allah is with us so far, and our names are halfway written in heaven.”
“Praise be to Allah!” the driver exclaimed, a smile beaming across his face.
The trucks exited the refinery onto the deserted streets of the industrial park next to the refinery and picked up speed quickly. They didn’t bother to stop for any of the traffic lights or stop signs. It was a holiday here in the home of the Great Satan, and most workers had the day off.
A few minutes later the tanker trucks entered the I-10 freeway, heading west towards San Antonio, just as the sun was rising in the east. Yousef checked the dashboard clock and stated out loud, “Any moment now.”
Suddenly, a blinding flash reflected off the mirrors as one of the huge tanks exploded. The tank erupted with all the characteristics of a mini-volcano, throwing a cloud of burning fuel and ash over three thousand feet into the sky. Its blast wave carried monstrous chunks of red hot metal and super-heated clouds of burning fuel over a mile in all directions, setting everything flammable it touched on fire. Then a second blinding flash erupted, just to the right of the first. One after another, the entire tank farm erupted, quickly spreading the flames to the nearby industrial park.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It took twenty minutes for the first fire fighters to arrive. Their response was hampered by the lack of alarm and the huge amount of debris scattered in the streets leading to the refinery. It took another ten minutes to ascertain that the water lines in the area were not functioning; and still another ten minutes before they were able to rig a hose to a nearby canal.
Before they could even begin fighting the blaze, the call went out for the surrounding departments to send help—all the help they could spare. The refinery fire was of such intensity that the Fire Chief had called it an emergency disaster before he had even arrived at the scene.
When the refinery had been built, forty-five years ago, the tank farm had been connected to underground city sewer lines as a safety measure. It allowed for minor washouts to be flushed through the city’s sewer system for easy clean up. The washout had been closed off fifteen years ago when someone realized that a large leak might cause the entire sewer system to catch fire or even explode as the sewers had done in Guadalajara, Mexico in 1992, not to mention the environmental impact a leak into sewer system would cause.
However, a construction crew comprised of Yousef’s accomplices masquerading as city workers had broken the dike between the old washout drain and the sewer system just this past week.
Unbeknownst to the fire fighters, the broken dike allowed the leaking gas and oil from several of the refinery’s tanks to run into the sewer system at an alarming rate. Within the first hour, one hundred and twenty thousand gallons had leaked in the sewers that ran under east Houston.
Then yesterday, the same crew had turned off all of the main water lines late in the day after the water department had closed, preventing anyone from turning the water back on and keeping water from reaching the hydrants in the area. It was all according to the plan Yousef had worked out over the last three years.
After having illegally entered the country by walking across the desert in West Texas, Yousef and his fellow cell members found work in Houston and began the planning process right away. While working menial jobs, in an attempt to blend in, the cell took hundreds of photos, studied the city’s tax records, construction records and took classes dealing with oil refinery engineering.
They studied the inner workings of the refinery itself, learning the process by which oil is processed, exactly how the oil comes and goes from the refinery, plus how the plant’s security functioned. Once they had learned all they could from the outside, Yousef, with the help of a group of supporters in the Middle East, was hired on as an intern under the guise of his uncle buying the refinery. This allowed Yousef to gather the information needed to finalize his plan for the attack.
The early explosion drew hundreds of spectators and every news crew in the city, as well as a few national and international news crews. Many had arrived even before the firefighters. The news crews began setting up wherever they felt gave them the best shot of the huge wall of flames so they could use them as a backdrop for their ‘live’ remote reports. The visual made fo
r great television.
The scattered clumps of onlookers and news crews made it difficult for firefighters and rescue workers to perform their duties. Many of the news crews kept getting in the way of firefighters in their quest to scoop the other media outlets.
The fact that they might be interfering with the emergency workers efforts didn’t seem to be a consideration. Ratings were everything, and having the best remote location could add dozens of points to those numbers.
A slender blond reporter, in her mid-twenties, with bright blue eyes and a mesmerizing smile found herself knocked roughly to the ground by a passing firefighter. The man was carrying several oxygen tanks and just didn’t see her. He bowled her over just as the nationals picked up her live feed.
The first national broadcast seen from the growing fire caught her being spilled to the ground. To his credit, the fireman stopped, turned around, set down a large bottle of oxygen, and with a brilliant white smile extended his free hand offering to help her up. She accepted with a flirting smile and then exclaimed as she returned to giving her report.
“WOW! That’s one of our finest, no doubt about that!” she chirped as she turned and watched the fireman hustle off towards the flames. She was obviously smitten at first sight. “Did you get that?” she asked as she turned towards her cameraman.
Just then, the street beneath her erupted, throwing flames and bits of asphalt twenty-five feet or more into the air. It was as if a volcano had suddenly exploded, swallowing the woman and her cameraman. The feed dropped as news anchors across America gasped, then uttered, “Oh, my God!”
Several minutes passed with anchors everywhere trying to make sense of the last scene they had witnessed before a helicopter camera feed was brought on line. The opening shot was of flames shooting skyward above the refinery and of a huge black cloud mushrooming over the entire location which was two miles square. The second shot showed a grid of fire shooting up through the streets all round the refinery and throughout the small industrial park adjacent to it, as well as the nearby residential neighborhoods.
The voice-over was excited and unprofessional, but it was the only live feed the networks had. “I’m not sure if you can see this clearly, but the streets, exploded in flames just seconds ago. Oh, my God! People are running everywhere, many with their clothes on fire. Others have just been swallowed by the flames. This is just horrible!” The camera zoomed in and then panned over a blackened body with flames still dancing across the charred flesh.
“This is a war zone. Oh, my God! Oh, look over there!” The camera panned quickly to the left. “A fire truck has fallen through the street and is engulfed in flames. I can’t tell if there are any firefighters inside. God, I hope not! If we pan back over to the right, you can see that there are dozens of buildings now on fire and the flames are continuing to spread.” The voice went silent for a moment and then continued.
“I don’t see any firefighters or emergency workers anywhere. There appears to be no one coming to the aid of the people in the streets around the refinery. Someone call the Fire Department! Hell, call the National Guard! Oh, my God! Off to my right, I can see several firefighters lying on the ground inside the refinery.” The camera panned to the refinery entrance, where dozens of bodies sprawled across the asphalt. Most were on fire.
“They are not moving! I repeat they are not moving! I hope I’m wrong. Oh, God, I hope I’m wrong, but it appears that those poor firefighters are either severely injured or dead.” Suddenly off to the left in the distance, a huge tongue of flame erupted into the sky. “Whoa! Did you get that on tape?” the voice exclaimed as the chopper turned towards the flames.
“There has just been another explosion at the Twinstance Refinery,” the voice shared. “In the distance, you can see a huge pillar of smoke forming over that refinery, and I’d estimate the flames are shooting at least a thousand feet into the air! Oh, my God! That refinery is twice the size, if not bigger, than this one.” Suddenly the voice started to talk to someone off camera, perhaps the cameraman or an air traffic controller. “Don’t talk to me, call someone! With all those bodies down there and the fact that I can’t see anyone moving, I don’t think there’s anyone left to fight these fires.” Just then, the shockwave from the Twinstance blast rocked the helicopter and the camera momentarily lost focus.
Regaining his composure, the voice began speaking again. “Experiencing a little turbulence there,” he stated as the picture came back in focus. The camera showed the man doing the voice-over to be the pilot and beyond him was a growing plume of smoke in the distance. “I’d recommend if you don’t have to be in Houston or the close suburbs today, just stay away. If you’re here, evacuate. Get out of town. The flames have spread into the Second Ward, Magnolia Park and Greater Eastwood. If these flames manage to cross state Highway 59, downtown will be at the mercy of the flames.
“It looks like hell down there. The flames are hundreds of feet high in the streets and neighborhoods. At the refineries they are thousands of feet high…” the pilot’s voice trailed off again as the camera swung around and showed a view of downtown Houston.
Many buildings had already sustained damage from the shockwaves and flying debris. In a handful of the closest skyscrapers just beyond Highway 59, there were small fires burning through broken windows.
Suddenly, the pilot banked to the left, escaping the smoke billowing up from the fires below and the camera’s view of the downtown blurred. Then the second refinery fire came into focus again.
“How far away is the Twinstance Refinery from this one?” the pilot asked, not making it clear to whom he was talking. “Oh, yeah, okay. The Twinstance Refinery is three miles southeast of this refinery, the Oxytriad Refinery. No one is sure if the two fires are related at this time. If not, it’s one hell of a coincidence.”
“Pan down to the right,” the pilot ordered abruptly. “I see a couple of people climbing on top of a small building. They’re trying to escape the flames. I’m going to try and reach them. Mac, reach around and open the side door so they can jump in. Twist the camera around so you can get a clear picture of them.”
Then suddenly without warning, the pilot screamed, “Hell, no! I’m not leaving them! What if that was you down there? Screw the insurance!” It was clear now that it wasn’t the cameraman he was screaming at, but at someone he was hearing over his headset.
“Mac, get that door open, now!” the pilot ordered. The cameraman slid it open as the helicopter sank through the smoke.
“It’s getting awfully hot. I’m very close now, just a little further and I can save them, just few more feet.” The helicopter rocked as the camera image blurred for a moment. Then, when the camera refocused, it showed an interior view of the helicopter from an extremely awkward angle, the soot-covered face of the two men that had just been saved centered in the frame. Then spontaneously, huge smiles burst across their faces. The photo created from the video would earn the cameraman a Pulitzer next year.
The view then changed to the sky through the helicopter’s windscreen as it was banking sharply to the left, away from the refinery. Fire and smoke could be seen billowing up in the distance.
“Did we get ’em?” the pilot called out. He’d been too focused on flying to watch the actual rescue. A brief moment passed, and he shouted joyously, “Yeah! All right! Do a quick pan, back towards the building.” The cameraman quickly accommodated him.
“Look there!” he shouted as the camera focused on the burning building. “The building is totally engulfed, and the two people that were on that roof are safe on board. I’m going to take them to a safe place and turn them over to emergency workers or anyone I can find. Then I’ll return for more coverage.” The feed dropped and the news anchors began recounting the act of heroism, focusing mostly on the colorful language the pilot was using while performing the rescue.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Most of the OPEC Conference guests were busy checking in or making dinner arrangements, thus little or
no attention was paid to the small group of men dressed in traditional robes that quietly made their way to a room off the service entrance of the hotel. At the entrance to the room, two men in their mid-fifties, tall, fit and regal in bearing, stood off to the side of the entrance and spoke in hushed tones as the other attendees made their way to their seats.
“It is good to see you my old friend,” the Crown Prince al-Mohammad of Bahrain greeted his friend, Crown Prince al-Hasaam Udeen of The House of el-Abubashure Fahd, or as it is known in the West, The House of Saud. “Our grandfathers would be proud to see how the brotherhood has grown,” the prince from Bahrain stated as he hugged and kissed the other man twice, once on each cheek as per custom.
“Yes, they would and it is good to see you, as well,” Prince Udeen agreed as he hugged his friend of many years, returning the traditional kiss, once on each cheek. “I do not wish to appear rude, but we haven’t much time. What is the news from our emissary in Washington?”
“I understand,” the prince from Bahrain stated before reporting. “It is very good news. The Speaker of the House has agreed to limit debate and push any possible action on offshore drilling into committee meetings. The issue will be buried in committee for months, if not years. President Starks has signed the executive order to prosecute all terror suspects in their civilian courts as if it were a crime similar to carjacking or picking a pocket. The burden of proof will make successful prosecution very difficult,” Mohammad stated as a broad smile etched across his face.
“Mohamed of Eritrea was perhaps the wisest of all Allah’s servants. His counsel has led us to this moment in history when we, the chosen ones, will once again take our rightful place as the rulers of the world in Allah’s name,” Prince Udeen gushed.
Reprisal!- The Eagle Rises Page 9
