Pitt’s eyes were already scanning the stern deck. Clamped to the gunwale a few feet away was a six-foot-long gaff. He quickly lunged for it, gripped the base, and whipped the barbed iron hook toward the workboat’s captain.
“Over the side,” Pitt barked, waving the hook toward the water.
Seeing the determined look in Pitt’s eye, the captain saw no reason to hesitate. With his hands raised, he calmly stepped to the rail and threw his legs over the side, slipping heavily into the water. On the other side of the boat, the guard named Arouk had surfaced and begun shouting to his cohorts down the pier.
Pitt didn’t wait around to decipher the conversation. Dropping the gaff, he raced into the wheelhouse and yanked the workboat’s throttle to its stops. The boat lurched forward, then faltered as the trailing towline drew taut with the submersible. The boat gradually regained momentum and accelerated at what seemed like a snail’s pace to Pitt. He glanced at the pier in time to see the two guards step to the edge and train their weapons on him. His reflexes still quick, he dove to the floor an instant before the guns opened fire.
The wheelhouse exploded in a hail of splintered wood and shattered glass as a pair of extended bursts ripped through the structure. Shaking away a blanket of splinters and shards, Pitt crawled to the helm and reached up to the wheel, pulling it three-quarters of a turn to starboard.
With just a few yards to spare, the workboat was quickly closing on the yacht moored directly ahead. While Pitt could have turned hard into the cove, he knew doing so would leave Giordino and the Bullet exposed to sustained gunfire. In the confusion, he had no idea whether Giordino had even entered the submersible before the shooting began. He could only hope to deflect attention until they could reach a safer haven out in the cove.
Spotting a seat cushion on the pilot’s chair, he ripped it away and crawled to the blasted remnants of the port-side window. Tossing it into the air, he succeeded in drawing the gunmen’s attention again as they finished reloading their weapons. Another volley of gunfire shredded the exterior of the wheelhouse with vicious effect. Inside, Pitt clung to the deck with the seat cushion over his head as more splinters and shards sprayed about the cabin. The bullets kept flying until the gunmen emptied their clips for a second time.
When the firing ceased, Pitt raised his head to see that the workboat was pulling alongside the yacht. He crawled to the wheel and eased it to starboard, then held it steady. As the boat approached the bow of the yacht, he kneeled and cranked the wheel hard over.
The old boat was now chugging along at eight knots as its bow turned sharply away from the yacht and the pier. Pitt could hear more yelling, but his move had bought a few precious seconds of safety as the yacht obscured the aim of the gunmen. They would now have to either board the yacht or step down the pier to get a clear shot, by which time Pitt hoped to be out of accurate range.
He stood for a moment and peeked out the back of the wheelhouse, spotting the Bullet bounding merrily behind. A dull glow from some of the interior electronics told him that Giordino had made his way inside and was powering up the submersible. He looked beyond it to the yacht, where he noticed a bubble of diesel exhaust erupt from the stern waterline. Pitt had banked on escaping in the Bullet before the yacht could get under way, but his opponent was jumping the gun. To make matters worse, he spotted the two gunmen racing across the yacht’s stern deck with their guns at the ready.
Pitt ducked down and tweaked the wheel, angling the workboat toward the center of the cove while taking the Bullet out of the direct line of fire. The rattling of machine guns preceded a spray of bullets, most of which scattered harmlessly into the transom. Pitt willed the boat to go faster, but the old tub had peaked out with the submersible in tow.
When Pitt guessed they were a hundred yards from the pier, he suddenly cranked the wheel hard to port, then eased back on the throttle. He held the wheel well over until the boat had drifted completely around, and the yacht rose ahead off the bow. As the boat bobbed in the cove under idle, Pitt stepped to the stern and quickly untied the towline to the Bullet. Tossing it toward the submersible, he leaned over the rail and yelled at Giordino.
“Wait for me here,” he said, motioning with his hands for him to stay put.
Giordino nodded, then held a thumbs-up against the acrylic bubble where Pitt could see it. Pitt turned and ran back to the wheelhouse as more gunfire opened up from shore, now peppering the workboat’s bow. Reaching the wheelhouse, Pitt jammed open the throttle and adjusted the wheel until he was bearing for the end of the pier.
“Stay where you are, big girl,” he muttered aloud, eyeing the luxury boat.
Free of the submersible, the workboat squeezed out another few knots of speed. Pitt kept the bow aimed toward the deep end of the pier, not wanting to give away his hand just yet. To the gunmen on the yacht, it appeared as if the boat was stuck in a large counterclockwise circle. Pitt held the ruse until the boat was passing parallel to the yacht some fifty yards away, then he turned the wheel sharply once more.
Aligning the bow till it was aimed amidships of the yacht, he straightened the wheel, then wedged a life jacket into the bottom spokes to hold it steady. Ignoring a fresh spray of gunfire that raked the bow, he sprinted out of the wheelhouse and onto the stern deck, where he dove headfirst over the rail.
The yacht’s captain was the first to realize they were about to get rammed and he screamed for help to release the dock lines. A crewman appeared on deck and scrambled onto the pier, quickly releasing the bow and spring lines. One of the gunmen tucked away his rifle and crossed the deck to the stern line. Rather than hopping onto the pier to release a shortly secured line, he attempted to unravel the opposite end, which was knotted tightly around a bollard on the yacht’s stern.
The captain saw the bow and spring lines tossed free, then turned in horror to see the workboat bearing down less than twenty yards away. Panicking in self-preservation, he jumped to the helm and pressed down the twin throttles, hoping that the stern line was also clear.
But it wasn’t.
The yacht’s big diesel engines bellowed as the twin props dug into the water and thrust the vessel forward. But it surged only a few feet before the stern line grew taut, anchoring it to the pier. The guard tumbled backward with a scream, nearly losing several fingers as the line snapped tight.
The water churned and boiled off the stern as the yacht fought to break loose. Then suddenly the line slipped free, the crewman on the pier bravely unraveling the dock line and ducking for cover. The yacht burst forth like a rodeo bronco, churning ahead in a spray of foam. The captain glanced out the bridge window, then clutched the helm with white knuckles, realizing the attempted escape had failed.
The unmanned workboat plowed into the yacht, striking the starboard flank just ahead of the stern. The boat’s blunt, heavy bow easily shattered the fiberglass shell of the yacht, mashing its opposite side into the pier pilings. The sound of grinding metal filled the air as the starboard driveline was crushed, mangling a score of fuel and hydraulic lines and high-spinning gears. The combined momentum swung the yacht’s stern to the pier, where its spinning port propeller was knocked off by a piling. The yacht gamely lurched forward as a final gasp, breaking free of both the workboat and pier before its motors fell silent and it drifted aimlessly toward shore.
Pitt didn’t bother watching the collision but instead swam hard underwater, surfacing only momentarily for a quick gulp of air. He pushed himself until his lungs ached, and his stroke count indicated he was close to where he had cut the Bullet loose. Easing to the surface, he gazed toward the pier while regaining his breath. The success of the attack was clearly evident. He could see the yacht drifting helplessly toward shore while the workboat, its motor still throbbing at high revolutions, pounded repeatedly into the pier as its mangled bow sank lower and lower into the water. Numerous people raced along the pier, surveying the scene and yelling in confusion. Pitt couldn’t help but grin when his ears detected a female
voice shouting amid the fray.
Secure for the moment, he turned and paddled into the cove, his eyes searching the surface of the water. He took a quick bearing from shore to convince himself he was in the right location, then slowly surveyed the waters around him. In every direction, all he could see was small, dark lapping waves, and he suddenly felt very alone.
For the second time that night, the Bullet had disappeared without him.
40
ROD ZEIBIG GRIMACED WHEN HE HEARD THE FIRST BURST of automatic gunfire. Any hopes of a stealthy getaway seemed to vanish with the metallic clatter of spent shell casings spewing across the wooden pier. Of greater concern was the safety of Pitt and Giordino, who were clearly the target of the barrage.
Zeibig was surprised to hear the gunfire continue for several minutes unabated. Curiosity finally overcoming his fear, he leaned over the edge of the pier and peeked around the stack of fuel drums. Near the opposite end of the dock, he could just make out the superstructure of the yacht and a number of men yelling to shore. On the pier, he noticed a crewman furiously engaged with one of the mooring lines.
Zeibig ducked back into his hiding nook as more gunfire resumed. Seconds later, the gunfire ceased, and then a loud crash shook the pier, jiggling the fuel drums around him. More shouts erupted in the aftermath, but the gunfire remained silent. With a melancholy conjecture, the archaeologist quietly wondered if Pitt and Giordino had died in a last rebellious act.
Staring blankly into the cove while contemplating his own fate, he noticed a sudden disturbance in the water before him. A dull greenish glow appeared faintly in the depths, which gradually grew brighter. Zeibig looked on, unbelieving, as the transparent bubble of the Bullet quietly broke the surface directly in front of him. Seated at the controls was the burly figure of Al Giordino, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips.
The archaeologist didn’t wait for a formal invitation to board but hastily lowered himself down a mussel-covered piling and into the water before the submersible finished surfacing. Swimming to its stern, Zeibig climbed up on one of the exterior ballast tanks, then crept to the rear hatch. Giordino immediately opened the hatch and ushered Zeibig inside, quickly resealing it behind him.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” Zeibig said, squeezing into the co-pilot’s seat while trying not to drip water on any of the electronics.
“I wasn’t relishing a swim home myself,” Giordino replied, rushing to blow the ballast tanks and submerge the vessel as quickly as possible. Craning his neck upward, he scanned the pier around the fuel drums for sight of any observers.
“No one has bothered to expend much time at this end of the pier,” Zeibig reported, watching the water rise up and over the top of the acrylic bubble. He then turned to Giordino with trepidation in his voice.
“I heard a big crash, and then the shooting stopped. Dirk?”
Giordino nodded. “He stole the workboat that had towed the Bullet to the other side of the pier. He cut me loose, then set off after the moored yacht.”
“I think he was successful,” Zeibig replied in a morose tone.
Eyeing a depth-gauge reading of thirty feet, Giordino halted the ballast pumps, then gently backed the submersible away from the pier. Reversing thrust, he angled into the cove, then gave Zeibig a reassuring smile.
“Knowing Dirk, I don’t think he rode the boat to the end of the line. As a matter of fact, I’d wager a month’s salary that he’s swimming laps in the middle of the cove this very moment.”
Zeibig’s eyes immediately perked up. “But how will we ever find him?”
Giordino affectionately patted the pilot console. “We’ll trust the penetrating peepers of the Bullet,” he said.
With his own eyes glued to a navigation screen, Giordino guided the submersible along a meandering track he had recorded at the point where Pitt had cut him free from the workboat. The dead reckoning system wouldn’t return him to an exact position the way GPS would, but it would be very close.
Giordino followed the trail at a depth of thirty feet, gradually rising to just ten feet as he approached the original starting point. He then eased back on the propulsion controls until they hovered in a stationary position.
“Are we out of range of their gunmen?” Zeibig asked.
Giordino shook his head. “We were lucky not to take any fire earlier. They were all focused on stopping the boat. I don’t think I’d like to give them a second chance.”
He reached over and toggled on several switches beside an overhead monitor. “Let’s hope the boss hasn’t strayed too close to shore.”
A grainy blank image appeared on the monitor as it displayed the readings from the submersible’s sonar system. Giordino dialed up the system’s frequency, which produced a more detailed image while reducing the range of the scan. Both men studied the screen intently, seeing only a flat display of mottled shadows. Giordino then feathered a side thruster, gently rotating the submersible in a clockwise direction. There was little change in the image as the forward-looking sensor scanned the center of the cove. Then Giordino noticed a small smudge at the top of the screen.
“There’s something small about a hundred feet away,” he said.
“Is it Dirk?” Zeibig asked.
“If it’s not a porpoise, a kayak, or a million other potential items of floating debris,” he replied.
He adjusted the thrusters and guided the submersible toward the target, watching it grow in size as they moved closer. When the shadow began to run off the top of the sonar screen, Giordino knew they were almost directly beneath the target.
“Time to take a look,” he said, then gently purged the ballast tanks.
Pitt was floating on his back, conserving energy from his swim from the workboat and several minutes of treading water, when he felt a slight disruption in the water beneath him. He turned over to see the dim interior lights of the Bullet, rising fast just a few feet away. He swam closer, positioning himself directly above the acrylic bubble as it broke to the surface. Giordino was quick to cut the ascent, allowing only the top few inches of the Bullet to bob above the water.
Pitt lay prone on the bubble, spreading his arms wide for support. Beneath him, he could see Giordino looking up at him with a relieved smile, then motioning to inquire if he was okay. Pitt pressed his thumb and forefinger together and held it against the acrylic, then pointed toward the center of the cove. Giordino nodded in reply, then gestured for him to hang on.
Hugging the acrylic with his arms and legs, Pitt held tight as the submersible began moving forward. Giordino eased the thrusters ahead slowly until they were creeping along at just a few knots. Pitt felt like he was waterskiing on his belly. The small waves sloshed around his face, and he had to strain his neck skyward every few seconds to grab a breath of fresh air. When the dock lights receded to a safe distance, Pitt rapped his knuckles as hard as he could on the acrylic. The forward movement halted immediately, and a few seconds later the submersible rose fully to the surface amid a small surge of bubbles.
Pitt slid off the acrylic nose and onto the Bullet ’s frame, then stepped to the rear hatch. He hesitated a moment, turning a last gaze toward shore. In the distance, he could just make out the workboat alongside the pier, sinking heavily by its bow. Nearby, some men in a Zodiac were trying to run a line from the pier to the yacht before it drifted aground. With some measure of relief, Pitt could see that hunting for the submersible appeared low on the shore crew’s priorities. The hatch then popped open beside him, and Giordino welcomed him inside.
“Thanks for coming back to get me,” Pitt said with a sideways grin.
“King Al leaves no man behind,” Giordino puffed. “I trust you kept our shore hosts duly occupied?”
“Put a nasty scratch in their yacht, which should keep them out of commission for the moment,” he replied. “Nevertheless, since you have already retrieved the good Dr. Zeibig I see no point in loitering.”
He followed Giordino to the pilot seats, where they q
uickly submerged the vessel. Silently, they crept out of the cove at a safe depth, ascending again once they were a half mile offshore. Giordino reconfigured the Bullet for surface running, and to Zeibig’s astonishment they were soon charging across the black sea at better than thirty knots.
A quick radio call to the Aegean Explorer confirmed that she was standing off the southeast tip of Gökçeada. Thirty minutes later, the lights of the research vessel came into clear view upon the horizon. As they drew closer, Pitt and Giordino saw that a second, larger vessel was positioned on the opposite side of the Explorer. Giordino slowly eased back the Bullet ’s throttles as it approached, guiding it alongside the starboard flank of the NUMA ship and an overhanging crane. Pitt recognized the second vessel as a Turkish Coast Guard frigate, which held station a short distance off the Explorer ’s port beam.
“Looks like the cavalry has finally arrived,” Pitt said.
“I’ll gladly point the way to the guys in the black hats,” Zeibig replied.
A pair of divers appeared in a Zodiac and attached a lift cable to the Bullet, then the sleek submersible was hoisted aboard. Rudi Gunn stood on the stern deck and helped secure the sub before stepping to the rear hatch. His downturned face brightened when he saw Zeibig climb out ahead of Pitt and Giordino.
“Rod, are you all right?” he asked, helping the archaeologist step to the deck.
“Yes, thanks to Dirk and Al. I could use a bit of help in losing these, however,” he added, holding up his handcuffed wrists.
“The shipboard machine shop should be able to manage that,” Gunn replied.
“Al’s got the location of the yacht and its crew,” Pitt said. “A little base of operations up the coast. We can pass the coordinates to the Turkish Coast Guard or run up there with them in the Explorer.”
“I’m afraid that’s not in the cards,” Gunn replied, shaking his head. “We’ve been ordered to proceed to Çanakkale, a port town on the Dardanelles, as soon as we got you safely aboard.”