Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

“It’s a functioning port facility first, but we encountered a number of armed personnel. I suspect that they were mostly Celik’s personal security detail, but a number were probably assigned to the site. I would anticipate a small but heavily armed security presence. Lieutenant, are your men trained in demolitions?”

The commando smiled. “We are Shayetet 13. Demolitions are an important part of our training.”

Pitt had heard of the Israeli Special Forces unit, which was similar in function to the U.S. Navy SEALs. They were called the “Bat Men,” he recalled, on account of the batwing insignia they wore on their uniforms.

“Members of my government are very concerned about a container of HMX plastic explosives that we found sitting in this warehouse,” Pitt said, pointing to the photo.

Lazlo nodded. “Our mission orders are for rescue only, but the elimination of those explosives would be of mutual interest. If they are still there, we will take care of them,” he promised.

A short man in an officer’s uniform ducked into the mess and stared at the two men with a humorless face.

“Lazlo, we’ll be at the deployment zone in forty minutes.”

“Thank you, Captain. By the way, this is Dirk Pitt, from the American research vessel.”

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Pitt,” the captain replied without emotion. He quickly turned his attention back to Lazlo. “You’ll have approximately two hours of darkness to complete your mission. I’m warning you, I don’t want to be on the surface at daybreak.”

“Captain, I can make you a promise,” the commando replied with cool arrogance. “If we’re not back in ninety minutes, then you may sail without us.”

60

LAZLO WOULD BE WRONG ABOUT THE MISSION’S DURATION, but not in the manner that he expected.

Surfacing two miles northwest of the cove, the Tekumah quickly off-loaded its commando team for the second time that night. Dressed in nondescript black fatigues, Pitt joined the eight-man rescue team that climbed into a pair of inflatable boats and raced away from the sub. Stopping outside the entrance to the cove, the pilot of each boat shut off its outboard engine and resumed propulsion with a silent, battery-powered electric motor.

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.