Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

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.

But the pilotless Dayan wasn’t there yet. It had just narrowly missed colliding with an early-morning ferry when the Bullet approached from behind. Pitt noticed the ferryboat’s captain shaking a fist and angrily tooting his horn at the tanker, oblivious to the fact that its wheelhouse was empty.

“No sign of anyone aboard,” Giordino said, craning his neck at the tanker’s high deck and superstructure.

Pitt throttled around the Dayan’s port flank, looking for a means of access, then shot around the tanker’s bow to her starboard side. Giordino quickly pointed to the stairs extending off the rear flank.

“Beats climbing a rope,” Giordino said.

Pitt guided the submersible close alongside the lowered steps.

“The helm’s yours, Al,” he said. “Stick around . . . but not too close.”

“You sure you want to go aboard?”

Pitt nodded with a firm eye.

“Lazlo,” he said, turning toward the commando. “With your expertise, we’ll take a crack at defusing the explosives. If that fails, I’ll try to get her turned toward the Sea of Marmara, and then we can bail out.”

“Don’t do any unnecessary sightseeing,” Giordino said as they made their way out the rear hatch.

“I’ll dial you up on channel 86 if I need you,” Pitt said before stepping out.

“I’ll keep my ears on,” Giordino replied.

Pitt crept along the port pontoon until reaching the lowered stairs, easily grabbing its handrail and pulling himself on. Lazlo followed right on his heels. Pitt raced to the top of the stairs, then leaped onto the tanker, gazing ahead at the huge forward deck. He immediately saw the two large steel cutouts that Green had described, housing the mixture of explosives materials.

“Give us time,” he said to himself as Lazlo followed him at a sprint toward the storage tanks. “Just give us time.”

70

THE JANISSARY APPROACHED MARIA TENTATIVELY, REluctant to intrude on her conversation with the yacht’s captain. Noticing him gradually encroach on her space, she finally turned and snapped at him.

“What is it?”

“Miss Celik, the boat we just passed traveling in the opposite direction? I . . . I believe it may be the same vessel used by the intruders at the Kirte port facility.”