Clive Cussler - Crescent Dawn

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.”

Pale 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.

The 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.

Pitt was scanning the horizon ahead when he spotted an approaching boat traveling at high speed.

“Kind of has a familiar profile to her,” he remarked to Giordino.

As the Italian yacht powered south under speed, the two vessels raced by each other quickly, passing just a short distance apart.

“That’s Celik’s yacht, all right,” Giordino confirmed.

“Leaving the scene of the crime, most likely.”

“Probably an indication that there’s not a whole lot of time left on the clock,” Giordino replied, eyeing Pitt with a cautionary gaze.

Pitt said nothing, shoving aside the suicidal nature of approaching the bomb ship while he formulated a plan to stop it.

“That must be her up ahead.”

It was Lazlo, raising an arm and pointing off the port bow. Two miles ahead, they could see the stern of a large tanker disappearing behind a rise on the western shoreline.

“They’re sending her into the Golden Horn,” Pitt said, any doubt about the tanker’s mission fully erased.

The watery heart of Istanbul for over two thousand years, the famed harbor is surrounded by some of the most densely populated neighborhoods in the city. Directed at the Süleymaniye Mosque, situated just two blocks from the waterfront, the tanker’s detonation would not only shatter the historic structure, but devastate the half million people who lived within a mile of the impact zone.

But the pilotless Dayan wasn’t there yet. It had just narrowly missed colliding with an early-morning ferry when the Bullet approached from behind. Pitt noticed the ferryboat’s captain shaking a fist and angrily tooting his horn at the tanker, oblivious to the fact that its wheelhouse was empty.

“No sign of anyone aboard,” Giordino said, craning his neck at the tanker’s high deck and superstructure.

Pitt throttled around the Dayan ’s port flank, looking for a means of access, then shot around the tanker’s bow to her starboard side. Giordino quickly pointed to the stairs extending off the rear flank.

“Beats climbing a rope,” Giordino said.

Pitt guided the submersible close alongside the lowered steps.

“The helm’s yours, Al,” he said. “Stick around… but not too close.”

“You sure you want to go aboard?”

Pitt nodded with a firm eye.

“Lazlo,” he said, turning toward the commando. “With your expertise, we’ll take a crack at defusing the explosives. If that fails, I’ll try to get her turned toward the Sea of Marmara, and then we can bail out.”

“Don’t do any unnecessary sightseeing,” Giordino said as they made their way out the rear hatch.

“I’ll dial you up on channel 86 if I need you,” Pitt said before stepping out.

“I’ll keep my ears on,” Giordino replied.

Pitt crept along the port pontoon until reaching the lowered stairs, easily grabbing its handrail and pulling himself on. Lazlo followed right on his heels. Pitt raced to the top of the stairs, then leaped onto the tanker, gazing ahead at the huge forward deck. He immediately saw the two large steel cutouts that Green had described, housing the mixture of explosives materials.