Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

“Hezbollah was not opposed to the nature of the mission?”

“I didn’t provide them all of the details,” Maria replied with a sly smile.

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Celik walked over to his sister and gently stroked her cheek. “You have always proven to be the best partner a man could ask for.”

“We have a destiny,” she replied, echoing his earlier words. “When our great-grandfather was exiled by Atatürk in 1922, the first Ottoman Empire ended. Our grandfather and father spent their lives as outcasts, failing to fulfill the dream of restoration. But by the grace of Allah, a renewed empire is now within our fingertips. We have little choice but to act, for the honor of our father and all those before him.”

Celik stood silent as teardrops welled in his eyes, his hand squeezing the gold coin until his fist shuddered.

PART II

THE MANIFEST

19

THE LEMON YELLOW SUBMERSIBLE SLIPPED BENEATH THE sloshing waters of the moon pool and rapidly disappeared from sight. The pilot descended quickly, not wishing to loiter about the mother ship while fierce currents matched wits with a Force 7 wind.

The frigid waters off the Orkney Islands northeast of the Scottish mainland were seldom mild. North Atlantic storm fronts routinely pounded the rocky islands with towering waves, while gale force winds seemed to blow without relief. But a hundred feet beneath the raging waters, the submersible’s three passengers quickly turned a blind eye to the violent surface weather.

“I was a bit afraid of the descent, but this is actually much calmer than that rolling ship,” stated Julie Goodyear from the rear seat. A research historian from Cambridge University on her first dive, she had been fighting the ill effects of seasickness since boarding the NUMA research vessel Odin in Scapa Flow three days earlier.

“Miss Goodyear, I guarantee that you are going to enjoy this flight so much, you’re not going to want to go back to that bouncing tub,” replied the pilot in a Texas drawl. A steely-eyed man with a horseshoe mustache, Jack Dahlgren toggled the diving controls with a surgeon’s deft touch as he eased their descent.

“I believe you may be correct. That is, unless the claustrophobia in here gets the better of me,” Julie replied. “I don’t know how you two manage the confinement in here on a regular basis.”

Though Julie was a tall woman, she still gave up a few inches to both Dahlgren and the woman seated in the copilot’s seat. Summer Pitt turned and flashed her a comforting smile.

“If you focus your vision on the world out there,” she said, motioning toward the submersible’s forward viewing port, “then you tend to forget how cramped it is in here.”

With long red hair and bright gray eyes, Summer posed a striking figure even in her grease-stained dive jumpsuit. Standing six feet tall in her bare feet, the daughter of NUMA’s Director, and the twin sibling to her brother, Dirk, she was well accustomed to tight quarters. Employed as an oceanographer for the underwater agency, she had spent many an hour studying the seafloor from the constricted confines of small submersibles.

“How about I shed a little light on the matter,” Dahlgren said, reaching up and flicking a pair of overhead toggle switches. Twin banks of external floodlights suddenly came on, illuminating the dark green sea surrounding them.

“That’s better,” Julie said, peering nearly forty feet into the depths. “I had no idea that we would be able to see so far.”

“The water is surprisingly clear,” Summer remarked. “It’s much better visibility than we had in Norway.” Summer and the crew of the Odin were returning from a three-week project off the Norwegian coast where they had monitored temperature changes in the sea and its impact on local marine life.

“Depth of one hundred seventy feet,” Dahlgren reported. “We should be nearing the bottom.”

He adjusted the submersible’s ballast tanks to neutral buoyancy as a sandy brown bottom appeared in the depths beneath them. Engaging the vessel’s electric motor, he applied forward thrust, making a slight course correction as he eyed a gyrocompass.

“We’re near high water, and the current is still ripping through here at about two knots,” he said, feeling the push against the submersible’s outer hull.

“Not a fun place to go free diving,” Summer replied.

They glided just a short distance before a large tubular object filled the view port.

“Mark one funnel,” Dahlgren said as they hovered over the huge tube.

“It’s so large,” Julie said excitedly. “I’m used to looking at the funnels in proportion to the ship on grainy old black-and-white photographs.”

“Looks like it came down pretty hard,” Summer remarked, noting one end of the thin rusting funnel was twisted and crushed flat.

“Eyewitness reports claim that the Hampshire stood on her bow and actually flipped over as she sank,” Julie said. “The funnels would have popped out at that point, if not earlier.”

Summer reached to a console and engaged a pair of high-definition video cameras.