Текст книги "Crescent Dawn"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

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.”

Maria’s jaw dropped, but only for a moment. Wheeling around, she peered out the back window, just catching a glimpse of the Bulletas it rounded the bluff into the Golden Horn.

Turning back to the yacht’s captain, her eyes blazed with fury.

“Turn us around at once,” she bellowed. “We’re going back.”

* * *

Pitt barely knew where to start. The forward port hold was like a rat’s maze at eye level. Six-foot-high pallets filled with heavy bags of ANFO were stacked everywhere, loaded in apparent haste. Somewhere in the middle were hidden the powerful stores of HMX. And attached to that, Pitt hoped, would be a readily apparent fuze and blasting cap.

Pitt had told Lazlo that they had five minutes to locate and defuse the explosives. Lazlo was simultaneously searching the starboard hold, after having given Pitt an on-the-fly explanation of what to look for. Half the allotted time had already been expended by the time Pitt had worked his way to the center of the hold and discovered dozens of blocks of the plastic explosive stacked in several wooden bins. With the seconds ticking by loudly in his head, Pitt hastily opened the bins one by one, tossing the explosives aside when no visible fuze was found inside. It wasn’t until he reached the last bin that he found an electric timer wired to a small blasting cap pressed into a block of the plastic explosive. With a hopeful nod, he quickly yanked the mechanism from the HMX, then retraced his steps through the maze.

Five minutes had already elapsed when he climbed the ladder out of the hold and stepped onto the deck. Lazlo was just climbing out of the starboard hold and sprinted over to Pitt, carrying a pair of timers in his hand. Pitt held up his timer and blasting cap, handing it to Lazlo.

“I found this in the main cache of HMX,” Pitt said.

“It’s no good,” Lazlo replied with a stern shake of his head. “They’ve got multiple charges hidden throughout the hold. I inadvertently found this one tucked into a crate of the ANFO,” he said, holding up one of the timers. “I’m positive there are more.”

He looked at Pitt’s timer, then compared it to the two that he held.

“Fourteen minutes until she goes off,” he said, turning and winging the timers over the side rail. “There’s no way we can find them all.”

Pitt digested his words.

“Try to find the crew,” he ordered. “I’ll get us turned back into the strait.”

Pitt didn’t wait for a reply, taking off at a sprint for the bridge. The deck beneath his feet rumbled and vibrated, and he suddenly felt the whole ship shudder. Reaching a side stairwell, he took a quick glance aft, then wished he hadn’t.

Bearing down on the tanker from the east was the blue yacht of Ozden Celik.

71

Tailing off the stern of the tanker, Giordino had already spotted the hard-charging yacht bearing down in his direction. He flicked the marine radio to channel 86 and tried sending a warning call to Pitt, but there was no answer from the Dayan’s bridge. Accelerating the submersible, he eased away from the tanker, heading into the center of the channel while pulling parallel with the Dayan’s superstructure. He was too low in the water to see anyone on the bridge, but he did spot Lazlo working his way across the deck.

Peering behind him, he was surprised to note the yacht had altered course and was suddenly closing fast on the Bullet. He realized they must not have seen him drop Pitt and Lazlo at the tanker. Despite the early-morning gloom, he could make out two figures climbing to the yacht’s forward rail. In their arms, he knew, were automatic weapons aimed at him.

Giordino immediately goosed the throttles to the submersible. The Bulletnearly leaped out of the water, surging quickly up to speed. Giordino tore past the bow of the tanker, then pulled close to the northern shoreline. A short distance ahead was the Galata Bridge, which he figured would provide some cover. But a quick glance behind revealed that the fast yacht was less than fifty yards behind, having closed the gap while the Bulletwas accelerating. Giordino cursed aloud as he spotted a small flash of yellow light erupt from the yacht’s bow.

The burst of gunfire struck the water inches from the submersible’s hull, though Giordino could neither see nor hear the bullets striking. He nevertheless whipped the steering yoke hard left, followed by a sharp turn to the right. The nimble submersible responded immediately, zigzagging across the water. The action was enough to temporarily disrupt the accuracy of the yacht’s shooters.

The Galata Bridge suddenly loomed up, and in a flash Giordino passed under it. He banked hard once more, then he looked back to see the yacht burst from under the bridge and follow suit. The faster and more maneuverable Bulletwas finally showing its legs, and the distance between the two vessels gradually began to increase. But that spurred only more shooting from the yacht.

Giordino kept up the zigzag pattern as he eyed another bridge, the Atatürk, less than a half mile ahead. A sudden banging above his head forced him to duck involuntarily, then he looked up to see that a trio of bullet holes had pierced the submersible’s acrylic bubble. Any thoughts of ducking behind an obstacle and trying to submerge suddenly vanished, so he set his sights on the bridge.

Several thick footings arose from the channel to support the Atatürk, and Giordino targeted them for cover. Circling in and between the footings, he knew he could distract the yacht while avoiding a direct line of fire. But his concern for self-preservation diminished when he thought of Pitt and the explosives-laden tanker.

Just over a mile behind, the Dayanwas surely on its final death march. He had to be available to get both men off the tanker, and most likely soon. Right now, he had no way of knowing if Pitt and Lazlo had any hope at all.

Then he turned and looked behind him and saw that the pursuing yacht had suddenly vanished.

72

Lazlo only had to follow his ears to locate the tanker’s captive crewmen. Though in a weakened state from his gunshot wound, Captain Hammet had his men seeking an escape route the minute the guards left the mess room. The heavily wrapped chain locking the entry door was quickly deemed unbreakable, so the men turned their sights elsewhere. They were surrounded by steel bulkheads, and so there was in fact only one way to go and that was up.

Using butcher knives from the small galley, the crew began making their way through the ceiling panels and into an overhead duct, hoping to breach the deck above. Lazlo heard the clatter from a storeroom he was searching in an adjacent bay and immediately raced to the mess’s door. Quickly unraveling the chain, which was tied in a simple knot, he kicked open the door. Several crewmen, standing on tabletops with knives in their hands, stopped what they were doing and stared at him in surprise.

“Who’s in command here?” Lazlo barked.

“I’m captain of the Dayan,” Hammet said. He was seated in a nearby chair with his leg resting on a stool.

“Captain, we have just minutes before the ship blows up. What is the quickest way to get you and your crew off?”

“The aft emergency lifeboat,” Hammet replied, rising to his feet with a grimace. “You can’t disable the explosives?”

Lazlo shook his head.

“Every man to the lifeboat,” Hammet ordered. “Let’s move.”

The crewmen quickly piled out the door, Lazlo and the executive officer helping Hammet out last. Stepping onto the deck, Hammet felt an unusual vibration beneath his feet, then looked over the rail. The Israeli captain was shocked to see the minarets of the Süleymaniye Mosque rising a short distance ahead of them.

“We’re in the middle of Istanbul?” he stammered.

“Yes,” Lazlo replied. “Come, we have little time.”

“But we must get the tanker turned around and out of here,” he protested.

“Someone is on the bridge attempting that.”

Hammet started to follow the others toward the stern, then hesitated as the deck shuddered again.

“Oh, no,” he groaned with a sullen frown. “I made her run dry of fuel.”

73

Pitt had only just discovered that same fact. Racing onto the bridge, he had ignored a pair of flashing red lights on the main console as he searched for and found the control that disabled the auto helm. The tanker was just approaching the Galata Bridge, steaming toward its center span, as Pitt regained control of the helm. Glaring at a bridge support off his port bow, he realized there was insufficient room to cut the big ship around. He would have to cross under the bridge first, then make a sweeping turn around and back under to exit the Golden Horn.

As the bow began to slip under the bridge, Pitt saw that the span ahead appeared to be at nearly eye level, and he wondered whether the tanker’s tall superstructure would fit beneath it. Waiting for it to approach, he finally looked down at the flashing red lights. With dismay, he saw they were low-fuel indicators for both the main and auxiliary fuel tanks. When Hammet had sneaked into the engine room, he had opened release valves on the bunkers that dumped fuel into the bilge, where it was then pumped over the side. The tanks were now dry, Pitt knew, as evidenced by the faltering engine that was drawing on the last remaining bit of fuel.

With a sudden certainty, Pitt knew he had no chance to guide the tanker back toward the Sea of Marmara, where it could explode without harm. Just sailing it safely away from the city was now a lost hope. Standing on the bridge of a ticking time bomb, one that was about to lose power, most men would have fallen prey to panic. They would have felt only the heart-pounding urge to flee, to get off the death ship and try to save their own skins.

But Pitt wasn’t like most men. His pulse barely beat above normal, as he coolly surveyed the surrounding coastline. While his nerves were calm, his mind was in hyperdrive, exploring any and all remedies to the crisis at hand. Then a potential solution appeared across the harbor. Risky and foolhardy, he thought, but it was a solution all the same. Dialing the bridge marine radio to channel 86, he picked up the transmitter.

“Al, where are you?” he called.

Giordino’s voice immediately crackled back through the speaker.

“I’m about a mile ahead of you. Been playing cat and mouse with the yacht, but I guess they got tired of my scent. Keep your eyes open, because they’re screaming back in your direction. You and Lazlo ready for me to come fetch you off that ship?”

“No, I need you somewhere else,” Pitt replied. “A large dredge ship, sitting off the southeast corner of the bridge.”

“I’m there. Out.”

The tanker’s superstructure had just slipped under the bridge span when the engine shuddered again. Passing back into the morning light, Pitt saw the blue yacht bearing down on the tanker barely a hundred yards ahead. Ignoring the yacht, he applied full left rudder, then stepped to the rear window, wondering how Lieutenant Lazlo was making out.

74

The Israeli commando was helping carry Captain Hammet to the lifeboat when the sound of gunfire erupted a short distance away. A second later, shattered glass fell crashing to the deck from above. Lazlo peered up, seeing that the fire was concentrated on the windows of the bridge. He could just make out the radio masts of the yacht as it slid along the tanker’s starboard beam.

“Quickly, into the boat,” Lazlo urged the sailors.

Six of the crewmen had already climbed into the covered fiberglass lifeboat. It was positioned on a steeply angled pad just above the stern rail, its bow pointing to the water below. The executive officer and another man then assisted Hammet as he stumbled through the boat’s rear entry. He fumbled with his seat belt and ordered his crewmen to fasten themselves in. Then he looked up at the entry just as Lazlo was about to close it from the outside.

“You’re not coming with us?” Hammet asked with a shocked look.

“My work is not finished,” Lazlo replied. “Launch yourself immediately and head to shore. Good luck.”

Hammet tried to thank the commando, but Lazlo quickly shut the door and jumped off the boat. Seeing that his crew were all secured in their seats, the captain turned to his executive officer.

“Set us loose, Zev.”

The exec pulled a lever that released an external clamp, sending the lifeboat sliding. The boat slipped off its ramp, then plunged to the water some forty feet below, its prow knifing several feet beneath the surface. The boat barely had time to right itself on the surface when the blue yacht appeared nearby, and the clatter of machine-gun fire erupted. Only this time, the gunfire didn’t originate from the yacht.

Hiding on the stern, Lazlo let loose with two quick bursts from his M-4 assault rifle. Aimed at two armed men crouching on the yacht’s bow, the burst killed one of the men outright, his limp body rolling over the side. The second gunman barely escaped injury and quickly retreated into the main cabin.

Standing on the bridge, Maria watched the incident with anger. Glancing at her watch, she shrieked at the yacht’s captain.

“There is still time! Take us alongside the ramp.”

“What about the lifeboat?” he asked.

“Forget them. We’ll deal with them later.”

The yacht surged forward, escaping Lazlo’s view as it ran up to the lowered ramp. Maria quickly ordered two of her Janissaries up the steps.

“I’ll go secure the bridge,” volunteered the Iraqi Farzad. He retrieved a Glock pistol from a concealed shoulder holster, then stepped toward the cabin door.

Maria nodded. “See that the tanker runs ashore. Quickly!”

Lazlo had crossed the stern and just peeked over the rail as the yacht pulled away from the ramp. A spray of gunfire from a gunman on the yacht peppered the rail, forcing Lazlo to dive for the deck. Looking up, he cursed as he spotted the two Janissaries crest the ramp and dive onto the ship, taking cover behind a bulkhead near the superstructure.

Remaining prone, Lazlo rolled against the rail, then shimmied backward to a large scupper that drained the deck of seawater. He curled inside it, finding some cover behind a flat flange in front of the scupper. It was far from an optimal defensive position, but Lazlo didn’t think he had been seen and might surprise the boarders.

He was right. The trained commando waited patiently as the two Janissaries attempted to move aft in tandem. When they both had revealed themselves on the deck, Lazlo raised his rifle and fired.

His initial aim was true, as his rifle pumped four rounds into the chest of the first man, dropping him dead instantly. The second man immediately dropped and rolled behind a stanchion before Lazlo’s aim could catch up with him.

Both shooters now found themselves pinned down in their defensive positions. A protracted volley erupted back and forth, as each hoped a lucky shot would subdue his opponent.

On the bridge, Pitt tried to ignore the gunfire while keeping the tanker’s rudder turned hard over. But he still maintained a wary eye on the yacht, tracking its roving position. It was while sneaking a peek out the rear window that he had spotted a third man climb aboard behind the Janissaries and disappear toward the forward deck, several moments before Lazlo started shooting.

As the firefight erupted below, Pitt searched the bridge for a possible weapon of his own, digging through an emergency kit mounted above the chart table. Poking his head briefly out the side window, he saw that the surviving Janissary engaged with Lazlo was positioned almost directly below him. He quickly dashed back to the kit and returned with a large fire extinguisher. Hanging out the window, he took quick aim and let it fly.

The makeshift red missile missed the Janissary’s head by inches, instead striking him on the back of the shoulder. The gunman gasped at the surprise blow, more from the shock than pain, and instinctively turned and craned his head upward to eye the source of the attack.

Twenty yards away, Lazlo locked in on the man through the sights of his carbine and squeezed the trigger. The quick burst produced no violent scream or splattering blood. The Janissary simply slumped forward in death, leaving a sudden, uncomfortable silence about the ship.

75

The tanker’s bridge appeared to be empty when Farzad entered slowly from the rear stairwell. Noticing the shoreline of Sultanahmet sliding horizontally across the bow, he stepped to the helm to halt the sweeping turn. He lowered his pistol as he located, then reached for, the rudder controls.

“Let’s not fiddle with that just now,” Pitt said.

Pitt emerged from a crouched position behind a console by the port bulkhead. In his hand, he held a brass flare gun pinched from the emergency kit.

Farzad looked at Pitt with surprised recognition that quickly evolved to anger. But his ire turned to mirth when he gazed at Pitt’s weapon.

“I have been anxious to meet again,” Farzad said in a deep accented voice.

As he subtly tried to raise his pistol, Pitt pulled the trigger on the flare gun. The ignited flare burst across the bridge, striking Farzad in the chest with a cloud of sparks. His clothing promptly caught fire as the charge fell to the floor, then spun off into the corner like a rodent on fire. A second later, the starburst ignited, sending a shower of flame and smoke across the wheelhouse.

Pitt had already dived to the floor, covering his head, as the sparks blew quickly by. Farzad had been less reactive, patting down his incinerated clothes when the starburst sent a second wave of flames his way. He was enveloped in a cloud of smoke and sparks before stepping away from the eruption, coughing for air. Pitt immediately jumped to his feet and bounded forward, hoping to tackle the man before he could see to shoot. But the hired gunman was still aware of Pitt and turned the Glock in his direction.

A loud gunshot thundered through the bridge, but Pitt knew that Farzad hadn’t pulled the trigger. The gunman’s body was instantly thrown back toward the helm, then slid to the floor, leaving a bloody trail along the console.

Lazlo stepped quickly onto the bridge, his smoking rifle aimed at the prone and smoldering body of Farzad.

“You okay?” Lazlo asked, eyeing Pitt off to his side.

“Yes, just enjoying a small light show,” Pitt replied, coughing because of the heavy smoke that lingered in the air. “Thanks for the timely entrance.”

Lazlo passed over the now-dented fire extinguisher, which he had held tucked under one arm.

“Here, thought you might like this back. I appreciate the earlier aerial support.”

“You just returned the favor,” Pitt said, then applied the extinguisher to a scattering of small fires that the flare had ignited.

“I didn’t notice this one slip aboard,” Lazlo said, ensuring that Farzad was indeed dead.

“He quickly jumped on behind the first two.”

“I imagine that they’ll try again.”

“Time’s running short,” Pitt replied. “But you might raise that ramp all the same.”

“Good idea. What about us?”

“We might be cutting it close. I trust you can swim?”

Lazlo rolled his eyes, then nodded. “See you below,” he said, then disappeared down the stairwell.

The smoke from the flare cleared quickly out of the shattered bridge windows as Pitt stepped to the helm and gauged their position. The Dayanwas more than halfway through its wide U-turn, its bow inching slowly toward the southern span of the Galata Bridge. Pitt tweaked the rudder to guide the big tanker dangerously close to the shoreline as it completed its turn, then he nudged up the engine revolutions. The stuttering and hesitation from belowdecks was worse than before, and Pitt fought to squeeze as much speed out of the faltering engine as he could.

He quickly scanned the shoreline waters for signs of the Bullet, but it was nowhere in sight. After Pitt’s earlier radio call, Giordino had raced at top speed toward the dredge ship and had already passed under the Galata Bridge. As if he knew Pitt was searching for him, Giordino suddenly hailed the tanker on the marine radio.

“ Bullethere. I’m past the bridge and just pulling alongside the green cutter dredge. What do you want me to do?”

Pitt told him his plan, which evoked a low whistle from Giordino.

“I hope you had your Wheaties today,” he added. “How much time do you have?”

Pitt glanced at his watch. “About six minutes. We should be along in about half that time.”

“Thanks for bringing the powder keg my way. Just don’t be late,” he added, then quickly signed off.

By now, the Dayanhad completed its turn, and the south span of the Galata Bridge loomed ahead less than a quarter of a mile away. Pitt willed the ship to go faster, as he felt the seconds tick by, while the bridge seemed to hold its distance. The timing would be close, he knew, but there was little he could do about it now.

Then the unwanted sound of silence suddenly drifted from the tanker’s bowels. The rumbling and stumbling beneath his feet vanished as the console in front of him lit up like a Christmas tree. The Dayan’s fuel-starved engine had finally given up its last gasp.