Clive Cussler - Crescent Dawn

Giordino craned his head toward the navigation screen, where a small readout indicated that they were traveling at forty-three knots.

“Always better to under-promise and over-deliver,” he replied with a thin smile.

Seated in the passenger seat behind them, Lieutenant Lazlo found no such mirth. The brawny commando felt like he was inside a blender, as the Bullet pitched and rolled over the waves. Struggling repeatedly to stay in his seat, he finally discovered the straps to a seat belt and buckled himself tightly in, hoping he could forgo a bout of seasickness.

Pitt had caught a break when the Tekumah returned him to the Aegean Explorer . The Bullet had already been fully fueled and prepped for launching. Rousing Giordino, they hurriedly deployed the submersible. When Lazlo realized that Pitt had a real chance of chasing down the tanker, he quickly insisted on joining them.

They soon found themselves screaming through the busy Dardanelles Strait in the dead of night, dodging ships, in a desperate race toward Istanbul. It took all of Pitt’s focus and energy to keep the Bullet on an even keel while slipping between the tankers and merchant ships traveling in both directions. A bright set of xenon headlights helped improve visibility while Giordino provided a second set of eyes to detect smaller vessels or debris in the water.

It wasn’t the way Pitt would have preferred to travel through the historic waterway. With a love of history, he knew that both Xerxes and Alexander the Great had led their armies in opposite directions across the strait formerly known as the Hellespont. Not far from Çanakkale, on the southwest shore, stood Troy, site of the Trojan War. And farther north, on the opposite shore, were the landing beaches where the failed Allied campaign of Gallipoli originated in World War I. The beaches and barren hillsides were simply a blur to Pitt, whose eyes darted between the navigation screen and the black waves ahead that quickly vanished beneath the speeding bow.

The narrow passage of the Dardanelles soon opened into the broad waters of the Sea of Marmara. Pitt relaxed slightly, now that he had more room to maneuver about the scattered string of ships, and was thankful that the open water remained calm. Passing by the northern tip of the island named Marmara, he was diverted by the sound of Rudi Gunn’s calm voice calling over the radio.

“ Aegean Explorer calling Bullet ,” Gunn said.

“This is Bullet . What do you have for me, Rudi?” Pitt replied over a radio headset.

“I can give you a tentative confirmation. Hiram located an updated sat image that appears to show the vessel in question entering the Dardanelles.”

“Do you know what time that was?”

“Looks to be about twenty-three hundred hours local time,” Gunn replied.

“You might want to give Sandecker a call back.”

“I already have. He said he’ll wake some people up over here.”

“He better. There may not be much time. Thanks, Rudi.”

“Be careful and stay afloat. Explorer out.”

“Let’s just hope Celik doesn’t own the Turkish Navy and the Coast Guard, too,” Giordino muttered.

Pitt wondered how far Celik’s corrupt reach actually extended, but there was little he could do about it now. He glanced at the nav screen, noting that they were now traveling at forty-seven knots, the Bullet finding more speed as her fuel load was burned down.

“Can we catch them if we have to?” Lazlo asked.

Pitt looked at his watch. It was four a.m. A quick mental calculation told him that at their respective top speeds, both vessels would approach Istanbul in about an hour.

“Yes,” he replied.

But he knew it would be close. Very close.

There would be no repeat of Jerusalem this time, Maria thought to herself. Working under the glow of the tanker’s deck lights, she carefully inserted a dozen individual blasting caps into separate blocks of the HMX plastic explosive. She then wired each blasting cap to individual electronic timer fuzes. Glancing at her watch, she stood and gazed past the ship’s bow. Ahead on the horizon was a blanket of twinkling white dots layered beneath a hazy black sky. The lights of Istanbul were now less than ten miles ahead. Kneeling down to the deck, she set each timer for a two-hour delay, then activated the fuzes.

Placing the charges into a small box, she climbed down into the opened section of the forward port water tank. The floor of the tank was packed tight with crates of ammonium nitrate fuel oil, and she had to snake her way past a maze of pallets to reach the center. In a cramped nook, she found a wide stack of wooden bins that held three thousand pounds of HMX. She proceeded to bury one of the charges deep into the middle bin, then stuffed four more of the charges in nearby crates of the ANFO. Making her way to the starboard-side tank, she repeated the process with the remaining charges, ensuring that they were all safely concealed.

She was climbing back to the ship’s bridge when her cell phone rang. She saw to no surprise that it was her brother calling.

“Ozden, you are up early,” she answered.

“I am on my way to the office to personally witness the occasion.”

“Don’t stand too close to the window, there’s no telling how powerful the blast will be.”

Maria could hear her brother snicker. “I am sure there will be no disappointment this time. Are you on schedule?”

“Yes, we are operating to plan. The lights of Istanbul are already in view. I have arranged for the event to transpire in just under two hours.”

“Excellent. The yacht is on its way; it should rendezvous with you shortly. Will you be joining me?”

“No,” Maria replied. “I think it is better if the crew and I disappear with the Sultana for a short while. We will take the boat to Greece for safekeeping, but I will make my way back in time for the election.”

“Our destiny is near, Maria. We shall taste the fruits of our labor shortly. Farewell, my sister.”

“Good-bye, Ozden.”

As she hung up the phone, she reflected briefly on their odd relationship. They had grown up together on an isolated Greek island and, by nature, had been close siblings, drawing nearer after their mother had died at a young age. Their demanding father had placed high expectations on them both, but he had always treated Ozden like waiting royalty. Perhaps that is why she had always been the tougher of the two, baring knuckles and fighting her way through her youth, more a second son to her father than a daughter. Even now, as her brother went to sit in his gilded office, it was she who commanded the ship and led the mission. She had always been the shadow fighter while her brother took the front seat. But it was all right with her, for she knew that Ozden was nothing without her. Standing on the bridge and peering over the broad bow of the tanker, she felt she was the one in power now, and she would enjoy every second of it.

But her shell of armor cracked slightly when the ship’s radio suddenly blared.

“Istanbul Coast Guard to tanker Dayan . Istanbul Coast Guard to tanker Dayan . Come in, please.”

An angry scowl crossed her face, then she turned and spat to the pilot.

“Assemble the Janissaries.”

Ignoring the radio call, she turned and quietly studied the tanker’s radar screen, mentally preparing for the coming engagement.

The emergency midnight diplomatic warnings from Israel and the U.S. were ultimately directed to the Turkish Coast Guard, whose Istanbul command base gave assurances that all approaching tankers would be stopped and searched well short of the city. A local fast patrol craft was scrambled, joined by an Istanbul police boat, to stand picket south of the Bosphorus.