Crescent Dawn

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 Gu

“Aegean Explorer calling Bullet ,” Gu

“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,” Gu

“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 ru

“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 ru

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.