Gliding into the cove, Pitt took a disappointed look toward the pier, then whispered to Lazlo.
“She’s gone.”
The Israeli commando silently cursed as he saw that Pitt was right. Not only was the tanker gone but the entire pier was empty. The buildings on shore appeared dark and uninhabited as well.
“Alpha Team, revise landing to joint shore recon,” he radioed to the other boat. “Assigned target is the east warehouse.”
There was still a chance that the tanker crew was held captive ashore, but he knew it was false optimism. The success of any covert operation, he knew from years of experience, was always the quality of the intelligence. And this time, the intelligence appeared to have failed.
The two boats ran ashore simultaneously a few yards from the pier, their occupants scrambling ashore like silent ghosts. Pitt followed Lazlo’s squad as they approached the stone building and then stormed in with a fury. Watching from the front courtyard, Pitt could tell by sound that the building was deserted, like the rest of the port facility. He made his way toward the west warehouse, hearing the light steps of Lazlo approach as he reached the door.
“We haven’t cleared this building yet,” the Israeli whispered in a hard tone.
“It’s empty like the others,” Pitt said, flinging open the door and stepping inside.
Lazlo saw that Pitt’s words were true as he flicked on the interior lights, revealing a cavernous building that was empty save for a large metal container on the far side.
“Your explosives?” the commando asked.
Pitt nodded. “Let’s hope it’s still full.”
They stepped across the warehouse to the container, where Pitt slid the dead bolt free. Pulling on the handle, he was suddenly confronted by a lunging figure from inside who swung a piece of broken crate. Pitt managed to sidestep the blow, then turned to throw a punch. But before he could strike, the toe of Lazlo’s boot appeared out of nowhere, burying itself in the attacker’s stomach. The startled assailant gasped as he was lifted off his feet and slammed into the side of the container. He meekly dropped his makeshift weapon as the muzzle of Lazlo’s assault rifle was prodded into his cheek.
“Who are you?” Lazlo barked.
“My name is Levi Green. I am a seaman from the tanker Dayan. Please don’t shoot,” he pleaded.
“Fool,” Lazlo muttered, pulling away his rifle. “We are here to rescue you.”
“I . . . I’m sorry,” he said, turning to Pitt. “I thought you were a dockworker.”
“What are you doing in this container?” Pitt asked.
“We were forced to load its contents, boxes of explosives, on the Dayan. I hid in here in hopes of escaping, but they locked the door, and I was trapped.”
“Where are the other crewmen?” Lazlo asked.
“I don’t know. Back on the ship, I suppose.”
“The tanker is no longer here.”
“They modified the ship,” Green said, his eyes still wide with fear. “Cut open the forward tanks and filled them with bags of fuel oil. We were forced to place the boxed explosives inside.”
“What do you mean ‘bags’ of fuel oil?” Pitt asked.
“There were crates and crates of the stuff in fifty-pound bags. They were marked as some sort of fuel oil mixture. Ammonium something or other.”
“Ammonium nitrate?” Pitt asked.
“Yes, that was the stuff.”
Pitt turned to Lazlo. “Ammonium nitrate fuel oil, or ANFO. It’s a cheap but highly effective blasting agent,” he said, recalling the devastating effect a truckload of similar material had on the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City back in 1995.
“How long have you been in the container?” Lazlo asked the seaman.
Green looked at his watch. “Just over eight hours.”
“Which means they may have a hundred-mile head start,” Pitt computed quickly.
Lazlo reached down and grabbed Green’s collar, then yanked him to his feet.
“You’re coming with us. Let’s move.”
Two miles to sea, the Tekumah’s captain was relieved to see the Bat Men approach the rendezvous point less than an hour after they had departed. But his sentiment turned when Lazlo and Pitt reported the disappearance of the Dayan. The submarine’s radar records were hastily reviewed, and the Dayan’s Automatic Identification System signal was accessed, but neither provided any indication as to the tanker’s whereabouts. The three men sat down and studied a map of the eastern Mediterranean.
“I will alert naval command,” the captain said. “They might already be within hours of Haifa or Tel Aviv.”
“I believe that’s a wrong assumption,” Pitt said. “If history repeats, they’re looking to detonate that ship at a Muslim site, to make it look like an attack by Israel.”
“If they were to strictly target a major population center, Athens appears closest,” Lazlo noted.
“No, Istanbul is somewhat closer,” Pitt said, eyeing the map. “And it’s a Muslim city.”
“But they wouldn’t attack their own people,” the captain said derisively.
“Celik has shown no shortage of ruthlessness to date,” Pitt countered. “If he’s already bombed mosques in his country and throughout the region, there’s no reason to doubt he wouldn’t kill thousands more of his own countrymen.”
“The tanker is that dangerous?” the captain asked.
“In 1917, a French cargo ship carrying wartime explosives caught fire and blew up in Halifax Harbor. Over two thousand nearby residents were killed in the blast. The Dayan may be carrying ten times the explosive power of that French freighter. And if she’s headed to Istanbul, she’ll be sailing into a city center of over twelve million people.”
Pitt pointed to the marine approach to Istanbul on the map. “At a speed of twelve knots, she would still be two or three hours from the city.”
“Too far out of range for us or our boats to catch her,” the captain said, “not that I would sail through the Dardanelles anyway. I’m afraid the best that we can do is alert the Greek and Turkish authorities while we remove ourselves from their territorial waters. In the meantime, we can leave it to the intelligence satellites to figure out exactly where she’s headed.”
“What about the crewmen?” Lazlo said.
“Lieutenant, I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do,” the captain replied.
“Three hours,” Pitt muttered quietly while studying the route to Istanbul. “Captain, if I’m going to have a chance at catching her, I need to get back to my ship at once.”
“Catch her?” Lazlo asked. “How? I didn’t see a helicopter aboard your ship.”
“Not a helicopter,” Pitt replied with a determined voice. “But something that’s nearly as fast as a speeding bullet.”
61
THE BULLET TORE ACROSS THE WATER LIKE A HIGH-SPEED hydroplane. Steering with a firm grip on the yoke as the turbo diesels whined loudly under full power behind him, Pitt shot Giordino a quick glance from the pilot’s seat.
“You were wrong about her top speed,” he said, nearly yelling to be heard.
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.
62
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.
Tensions heightened when a large, unidentified ship appeared on the radar screen, steaming north. Suspicions were immediately raised when the vessel’s Automatic Identification System transponder was found to be deactivated. When repeated radio calls went unanswered, the smaller and speedier police boat was dispatched to go investigate.
Racing toward the ship, the police soon saw by its shadow and running lights that it was clearly a tanker the size of the Dayan. The police boat zipped down the tanker’s high flanks, then circled around her stern. The police commander took note of the Israeli flag flying from the aft mast as he read the ship’s name beaded in white letters across the transom.
“It’s the Dayan,” he said, transmitting to the Coast Guard patrol boat.
They were to be the last words he would ever speak.
63
THE DAYAN ’S DECK AND RUNNING LIGHTS CUT TO BLACK an instant before the fusillade erupted. A line of armed Janissaries materialized on the tanker’s stern rail and simultaneously fired down on the small police boat. The small boat’s captain was the first to die, cut down by a direct burst through the bridge windshield. Another police officer standing on the deck was gunned down an instant later, shot in the back before he knew what hit him. Another man on the deck, a veteran police sergeant, reacted quicker, divin
g behind the gunwale and returning fire with his service automatic. But he was killed when the boat drifted aside and he lost his cover, the Janissaries all concentrating fire on him.
The shooting fell quiet for a moment as the fourth and last man aboard the police boat climbed up from below. Seeing his dead comrades, he stepped onto the stern deck with his hands in the air. He was a young rookie, new to the force, and his voice quivered as he begged the gunmen not to shoot. But his plea was met by a short burst of fire, and he crumpled to the deck, joining his comrades in death.
The lifeless police boat meandered behind the tanker for several minutes like a lost puppy. In its wheelhouse, the radio sputtered with repeated hails from the Coast Guard vessel, calls that fell only on dead ears. The big tanker’s wash finally nudged its bow aside, and the floating morgue motored aimlessly toward the western horizon.
THE SOUND OF GUNFIRE was Hammet’s call to action. The Israeli tanker captain had been in a state of anguish for hours, ever since he and his crew had been forced back into the mess room after loading the plastic explosives aboard ship and setting sail. He knew that the armed Turks, whoever they might be, had converted his vessel into a suicide bomb ship, and that the Israeli crew would likely be part of the blast.
The captain and his first officer had quietly discussed escape plans, but their options were few. The pair of guards watching them at the door appeared at a higher state of readiness than before and was rotated out for a fresh pair every two hours. Food had been cut off to the captives, and they were no longer allowed to approach the bulkhead and peer out the porthole.
At that late hour, the tanker’s crew were mostly sprawled out on the floor asleep. Hammet was lying among his men, although sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He feigned slumber, however, when the door opened, and a man whispered excitedly to the guards. The two men arose immediately and slipped out, leaving the Israeli crew temporarily unguarded.