Crescent Dawn (48 page)

Stepping quickly, he made his way across the rear wall of the superstructure to the port-side deck. Peering around the corner, he was relieved to find it empty. A pair of ropes tied to the rail and dangling over the side gave him hope that the crew had already escaped. But his heart sank when he spotted the inflatable life raft still secured in its rack alongside the bulkhead. He cautiously moved closer, peering over the side to see if anyone was hanging from the ropes but saw only empty water below.

The shot rang out before he felt it, a single clap from a nearby pistol. A trickle of blood ran warm down his leg before a burning ache pulsated in his upper thigh. The leg quickly turned wobbly, and he fell to his other knee as a figure emerged from the bulkhead shadows.

Maria walked calmly over, keeping her pistol leveled at Hammet’s chest as she drew closer.

“A bit late to be out for a stroll, Captain,” she said coldly. “Perhaps you best join your comrades.”

Hammet stared at her with disappointment in his eyes.

“Why do this?” he cried.

She ignored the query as a pair of Janissaries ran up, alerted by the gunshot. At her orders, they grabbed Hammet and dragged him across the deck, depositing him in the ship’s mess. There, he found his forlorn crew, seated on the floor with long faces, a guard pacing back and forth with his rifle at the ready.

The Janissaries roughly dumped the captain on the floor, then took up positions on either side of the door. The
Dayan
’s executive officer rushed over to help Hammet to a seated position while a crew medic attended to the leg wound.

“I was hoping not to find you here,” Hammet said, wincing.

“Sorry, Captain. Those men at the stern stopped shooting just as we tossed our lines over the side. We were spotted before we even had a chance to deploy the inflatable.”

Though the bleeding from his leg wound had been halted, Hammet could sense his body going into shock. He took several deep breaths, trying to relax.

“Any luck at your end?” the exec asked.

The captain looked down at his wounded leg, then forced a pained nod.

“I suppose you could say so,” he replied, his eyes turning glassy as his voice wavered. “One way or another, I believe our voyage is about near its end.”

T
HREE MILES TO THE NORTH, THE TURKISH COAST GUARD patrol boat repeatedly hailed both the
Dayan
and the police craft, but to no avail. When the sight of distant muzzle flashes was reported to the bridge, the patrol boat’s captain ordered an immediate intercept of the tanker.

As the Coast Guard boat sped toward the big ship, its bow-mounted 30mm turreted gun was manned while a small boarding crew was readied. The boat made a quick sweep around the tanker, then drew up on the tanker’s starboard flank when no police boat was spotted. The captain then hailed the
Dayan
over the loudspeaker.

“This is Coast Guard vessel SG-301. You are hereby ordered to heave to and prepare for boarding,” he shouted.

As the Coast Guard captain waited to see if the
Dayan
would slow, his second officer called out to him.

“Sir, there’s another vessel approaching from our starboard.”

The captain looked over to see a dark-colored luxury yacht pull up abreast of the Coast Guard boat, then drop back behind it.

“Tell him to back off, if he doesn’t want to get blasted out of the water,” the captain ordered testily. His attention was quickly diverted back to the tanker, where a figure suddenly appeared above them at the rail.

The captain was surprised to see it was a woman, who stood waving at the boat while attempting to shout something. The captain stepped to the bridge wing, then called back to his helmsman.

“Bring us in tight, I can’t hear her.”

Maria smiled to herself as the Coast Guard boat eased to within a few feet of the tanker’s hull. Standing at the rail, she towered over the smaller vessel yet was easily able to look right at the bridge.

“I need your help,” she shouted at the pair of officers, who both now stood on the wing.

Not waiting for a reply, she reached down to a small duffel bag at her feet and quickly tossed it over the rail. Her throw was nearly perfect, the bag arcing toward one of the officers, who easily plucked it out of the air. She waited a second to watch the officer open the bag, then she dropped to the deck and covered her head.

The ensuing explosion lit up the night sky with a bright flash followed by a thunderous roar. Maria waited for the flying debris to land before peeking over the side rail. The Coast Guard boat’s bridge was a scene of annihilation. The blast had gutted the entire superstructure, vaporizing all of the men who stood there. Smoke billowed to the sky from a dozen small fires that were consuming the boat’s electronic components. Around the rest of the boat, stunned and burned sailors were picking themselves up after having been knocked flat by the concussion.

Maria crept down the passageway on her own vessel, then yelled through an open doorway.

“Now!” she screamed.

Her small team of armed gunmen burst out of the door and sprinted to the rail, immediately spraying their weapons on the dazed sailors below. The firefight was short-lived, as the 30mm gun crew was quickly eradicated, followed by the boarding crew. A few of the sailors recovered quickly and returned fire. But they were forced to shoot at an awkward angle, which deprived them of cover. Within minutes they were overwhelmed, and the patrol boat’s deck was a mass of dead and wounded men.

Maria called for her shooters to cease, then spoke into a handheld radio. Seconds later, the blue yacht came racing up alongside the patrol boat, then slowed and gingerly began nudging against the Coast Guard vessel’s bow. It took just a few bumps before the patrol boat was scraping and banging against the side of the tanker. Without power, the patrol boat began losing momentum and slid back alongside the tanker’s flank.

The yacht slowed as well, gradually slipping abreast of the patrol boat while keeping it pressed against the
Dayan
until the
Dayan
’s stern loomed up. Holding steady, the yacht waited until the tip of the boat’s bow crossed the transom, then gave it a hard nudge with full bow thrusters. The boat pivoted left and surged across the flattened waters off the tanker’s stern. A muffled bang arose from beneath the surface as the tanker’s giant bronze propeller dug into the hull of the boat.

With its decks bloodied by the dead and wounded and its wheelhouse spewing smoke, the Coast Guard boat suddenly lurched and listed heavily to starboard. Only a scattering of screams pierced the night air as its bow nosed into the air, and then the entire ship rocked back onto its stern, disappearing beneath the waves as if she’d never been.

B
OTH PHYSICAL AND MENTAL FATIGUE WERE BEGINNING to weigh on Pitt after two hours of running at high speed at night. They had traveled past the center of the Sea of Marmara, where they encountered larger swells that sent the
Bullet
airborne every few seconds. In the rear seat, Lazlo had finally calmed his stomach but had grown sore from the ceaseless pounding on the submersible’s hull.

Their hopes were lifted when they picked up the radio traffic from the Coast Guard patrol boat on the international distress channel.

“I think I heard them call the
Dayan
,” Giordino said, dialing up the volume on the VHF radio to hear over the roar of the
Bullet
’s engines.

They listened closely over the next few minutes as the repeated calls to the
Dayan
went unanswered. Then the radio fell silent altogether. A few minutes later, Giordino spotted a small white flash on the horizon.

“Did you see that?” he asked Pitt.

“I caught glimpse of a flash dead ahead.”

“It looked like a fireball to me.”

“An explosion?” Lazlo asked, craning his neck forward. “Is it the tanker?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Pitt replied. “It didn’t appear that large. But we’re too far away to know for sure.”

“It could be upward of ten miles away,” Giordino agreed. He gazed at the navigation screen, eyeing the entrance to the Bosphorus near the top of its digital map. “That would put them pretty close to Istanbul.”

“Which means we’re still about fifteen minutes behind,” Pitt said.

The cabin fell silent in conjunction with the radio. Pitt, like the others, could only assume that the Turkish authorities had failed to stop the tanker. It might well be up to them to avert a catastrophic explosion that could kill tens of thousands. But what could three men in a submersible possibly hope to do?

Pitt shook the thought from his mind as he tapped the throttle levers, ensuring that they were fully against their stops, as he sighted a direct path toward the burning lights of Istanbul.

M
ARIA PACED THE TANKER’S BRIDGE WITH AN ANGER that turned her features to cold stone.

“I was not expecting a challenge from the Coast Guard,” she said. “How did they know we were approaching?”

A short, ashen-faced man piloting the tanker shook his head.

“The
Dayan
is known to be missing. It’s possible a passing vessel identified us and reported it to the Coast Guard. Perhaps it is a good thing. The authorities will now know right away that the Israelis are responsible for the attack.”

“I suppose that is true. Still, we cannot afford any further interference.”

“The radio has been silent. I don’t believe they had the opportunity to alert anyone,” the captain said. “On top of which, the radar is clear of vessels ahead of us.”

He glanced out the side window, noting the lights of the blue yacht visible just a few yards off the tanker’s beam.

“The
Sultana
’s reported some minor damage during contact with the Coast Guard vessel,” he reported, “but they are ready to take us off at any time.”

“How long until we can evacuate?”

“I will slow the vessel as we enter the eastern channel of the Bosphorus. You can prepare to evacuate as I align the ship toward the Golden Horn and set the automatic pilot. I would estimate that the ship will be in position in about fifteen minutes.”

Maria looked at her watch. The electronic fuzes were timed to detonate in just over one hour.

“Very well,” she said calmly. “Let us not delay.”

P
ALE BANDS OF CRIMSON STREAKED ACROSS THE DARK gray sky as the sun prepared its daily climb over the eastern horizon. All across Istanbul, pious Muslims were arising early to partake in a large meal before daybreak. The
muezzins
would begin their warbled cries shortly, beckoning the faithful to mosque for dawn prayer. The mosques would be more crowded than usual, as the Islamic calendar showed it was the last week of Ramadan.

The name Ramadan refers to the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, when tradition dictates that the first verses of the Qur’an were revealed to Muhammad. Adherents focus on attaining a closer relationship with God during the month, which is fostered through a strict adherence to fasting during daylight hours. The act of self-purification is promoted not only by fasting but by an emphasis on good deeds toward others. Special food and gifts are given to friends and relatives while charity and aid are offered to the poor. But just a few miles from the city’s historic mosques, Maria Celik was preparing to unleash her own brand of charity.

The Israeli tanker steamed into the mouth of the Bosphorus, hugging close to the Asian shoreline. When the Golden Horn slipped into view across the strait, the tanker’s pilot reduced power.

“Now is the time,” he said to Maria.

The swift current of the Bosphorus, flowing south from the Black Sea, quickly slowed the large vessel to a crawl. Maria gathered several men along the starboard flank and lowered a steel accommodation ladder over the side. The yacht cruised up immediately and held station off the foot of the stairs.

“Secure the prisoners and then get the rest of the men off,” she ordered one of the Janissaries, then stepped onto the lowered stairway.

She made her way down the metal steps, then was helped aboard the yacht by a waiting crewman. Climbing up to the wheelhouse, she was met by her two Iraqi hired thugs. Even in the predawn darkness, the one named Farzad was wearing his trademark sunglasses.

“You have made the preparations in Greece?” she asked them.

“Yes,” Farzad replied. “We can make a quiet entry through Thios. A secure covered berth has been reserved for the
Sultana
, and transportation has been arranged for you to Athens. Your return flight to Istanbul is booked in three days.”

Maria nodded as they watched the remaining Janissaries climb down the stairway and hop onto the yacht. The guards watching the tanker crew had been quietly pulled, and the door to the mess room chained shut.

On the bridge of the
Dayan
, the pilot watched the last of the Janissaries step off, then he signaled the yacht that he was changing course. As the
Sultana
temporarily slipped away from the tanker’s side, the pilot increased the engine’s revolutions to half speed and eased the bow toward the west. Taking a bearing toward the Süleymaniye Mosque, he programmed the automatic pilot and then engaged it.

He was about to step off the bridge when he noticed a flashing on the console. Glancing at the warning light, he simply shook his head.

“Nothing I can do about that now,” he muttered, then scrambled down to the stairwell and leaped to the waiting yacht, leaving the massive
Dayan
to her own devices.

T
HE
BULLET
SPEWED A ROOSTER TAIL OF WHITE WATER from its stern as it tore into the entrance of the Bosphorus Strait. A few early-rising fishermen stared in awe at the hybrid submersible /speedboat as it zipped by in the gloomy light of dawn.