Hammet instantly jumped to his feet.
“Everybody up,” he said quietly, shaking awake his first officer and those around him. As the groggy crew staggered to its feet, Hammet assembled them near the door and quietly formulated a plan.
“Zev, take the men and see if you can get them off the aft escape raft without being detected,” he ordered his exec. “I’m going to visit the engine room and see if I can disable the ship. You have my order to jettison without me if I can’t catch up in ten minutes.”
The exec started to voice a protest when the sound of gunfire echoed from the stern of the ship.
“Belay that,” Hammet said quickly. “Take the men across the deck and try to deploy the port inflatable. You might have to just toss it over the rail since we’re at speed.”
“That’s going to be a tough jump into the sea for some of the men.”
“Grab some lines and life vests from the day locker, and they can lower themselves down. Now, move!”
Hammet knew they had only minutes, if not seconds, and he hurriedly prodded the men out of the mess room. As the last man hustled by, he stepped onto the deck and closed the door behind him. They stood near the base of the high stern superstructure facing the starboard rail. The exec quickly led the crew forward and across the facing of the superstructure, each man hugging the wall to avoid detection from the bridge high above. Hammet turned and moved the other direction, heading for an aft passageway to the engine room.
The sound of automatic gunfire still ripped through the air, and as he reached the rear of the superstructure he could see a half dozen armed men at the stern rail firing toward the water. Ducking down, he sprinted across to a side doorway that opened to a stairwell. With his heart pounding, he rushed down the stairs, passing three decks, before exiting into a wide passageway. A door to the engine room stood just ahead, which he approached cautiously before opening it slowly. He was met by a gust of warm air and a deep mechanical rumble as he stepped inside and carefully peered around.
Hammet had hoped that the hijackers didn’t enlist a standby engineer for their one-way voyage, and he was correct. The engine room stood empty. He quickly climbed down a grated stairwell, then stood next to the tanker’s huge diesel engine, pondering what to do. There were assorted means he could use to shut down the engine, but a sudden power failure would raise immediate alarm. He needed a delayed effect that would allow time for the crew to safely escape first.
Then he gazed past the engine toward two large fuel bunkers that sat forward like a fat pair of horizontal grain silos.
“Of course,” he muttered to himself, quickly stepping forward with a glint in his eye.
64
IN LESS THAN TEN MINUTES, HAMMET WAS BACK AT THE TOP of the stairwell, peering across the stern deck. The shooting had long since ceased, and Hammet did not see any of the Janissaries about, giving him an uneasy feeling. Beyond the stern rail, he spotted the shadow of a small boat, angling away from the tanker, which he rightly suspected was the target of the gunfire.
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.”
65
THREE 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.
r /> “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.
66
BOTH 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.
67
MARIA 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.”
68
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 pro
grammed 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.
69
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.