Pitt nodded, understanding that pursuing Celik through official channels might entail a dangerous delay. The Turk was clearly up to no good, and Pitt would like nothing more than to put him out of business.
“Very well, Lieutenant, I’ll be happy to help.” He turned and faced the second officer. “Rogers, please inform the captain that I’ve left the ship. By the way, Lieutenant, how did you get aboard?”
“We have a small inflatable tied up off the starboard flank. Our departure will be made easier if your vessel can temporarily slow.”
Rogers obliged the request, then stood on the bridge wing and watched Pitt and several shadows slip over the rail and quietly vanish into the night. A few minutes later, the helmsman called him over to the radar scope.
“She’s disappeared,” the man said, gazing at the screen.
Rogers looked at the empty blue radar screen and nodded. Somewhere on the open sea, Pitt had disappeared from the surface along with the mystery vessel. It was, he fervently hoped, only a temporary vanishing act.
59
T
HE
TEKUMAH
WASTED NO TIME RETURNING TO THE stealthy depths. A Dolphin class submarine built at the HDW shipyards in Kiel, Germany, she was one of only a handful of subs operated by the Israeli Navy. Diesel-powered and relatively small in size, she was nevertheless packed with a sophisticated array of electronics and weaponry that made her a formidable underwater foe.
The inflatable had barely touched the side of her hull when waiting crewmen hoisted Pitt and the commandos onto the deck and hustled them down a hatch while the inflatable was stowed in a watertight compartment. Pitt had just taken a seat in the sub’s cramped officers’ mess when the dive command reverberated through the vessel.
Lazlo secured his weapons, then brought a pair of coffees to the table and sat down opposite Pitt. Reaching into a nearby folder, he laid out a satellite photo of Celik’s shipping facility, similar to the one Pitt had received from Yaeger.
“We’re going in with two small teams,” the Israeli explained. “One will search the tanker and the other the shore facilities. Can you tell me about the buildings?”
“Provided I can go in with you,” Pitt replied.
“I don’t have authorization for that.”
“Look, Lieutenant,” Pitt said, staring coldly at the commando. “I didn’t come along with you just to take a joyride on a submarine. Celik’s men killed two of my scientists and kidnapped a third. His sister abducted my wife at gunpoint. And sitting inside his compound is enough high-grade explosives to start World War Three. I understand that you want the
Dayan
’s crewmen back, but there’s potentially a lot more at stake here.”
Lazlo sat silent for a moment. Pitt was not the man he expected to find aboard the research vessel. Far from being some nebbish egghead scientist, Pitt was all substance.
“Very well,” the commando replied quietly.
Pitt took the photo and carefully explained the layout of the two warehouses and the stone administrative building.
“Can you tell me about any security elements?” Lazlo asked.
“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
L
AZLO 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.
“We were forced to load its contents, boxes of explosives, on the
Dayan
. I hid in here in hopes of escaping, but they locked the door, and I was trapped.”
“Where are the other crewmen?” Lazlo asked.
“I don’t know. Back on the ship, I suppose.”
“The tanker is no longer here.”
“They modified the ship,” Green said, his eyes still wide with fear. “Cut open the forward tanks and filled them with bags of fuel oil. We were forced to place the boxed explosives inside.”
“What do you mean ‘bags’ of fuel oil?” Pitt asked.
“There were crates and crates of the stuff in fifty-pound bags. They were marked as some sort of fuel oil mixture. Ammonium something or other.”
“Ammonium nitrate?” Pitt asked.
“Yes, that was the stuff.”
Pitt turned to Lazlo. “Ammonium nitrate fuel oil, or ANFO. It’s a cheap but highly effective blasting agent,” he said, recalling the devastating effect a truckload of similar material had on the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City back in 1995.
“How long have you been in the container?” Lazlo asked the seaman.
Green looked at his watch. “Just over eight hours.”
“Which means they may have a hundred-mile head start,” Pitt computed quickly.
Lazlo reached down and grabbed Green’s collar, then yanked him to his feet.
“You’re coming with us. Let’s move.”
Two miles to sea, the
Tekumah
’s captain was relieved to see the Bat Men approach the rendezvous point less than an hour after they had departed. But his sentiment turned when Lazlo and Pitt reported the disappearance of the
Dayan
. The submarine’s radar records were hastily reviewed, and the
Dayan
’s Automatic Identification System signal was accessed, but neither provided any indication as to the tanker’s whereabouts. The three men sat down and studied a map of the eastern Mediterranean.
“I will alert naval command,” the captain said. “They might already be within hours of Haifa or Tel Aviv.”
“I believe that’s a wrong assumption,” Pitt said. “If history repeats, they’re looking to detonate that ship at a Muslim site, to make it look like an attack by Israel.”
“If they were to strictly target a major population center, Athens appears closest,” Lazlo noted.
“No, Istanbul is somewhat closer,” Pitt said, eyeing the map. “And it’s a Muslim city.”
“But they wouldn’t attack their own people,” the captain said derisively.
“Celik has shown no shortage of ruthlessness to date,” Pitt countered. “If he’s already bombed mosques in his country and throughout the region, there’s no reason to doubt he wouldn’t kill thousands more of his own countrymen.”
“The tanker is that dangerous?” the captain asked.
“In 1917, a French cargo ship carrying wartime explosives caught fire and blew up in Halifax Harbor. Over two thousand nearby residents were killed in the blast. The
Dayan
may be carrying ten times the explosive power of that French freighter. And if she’s headed to Istanbul, she’ll be sailing into a city center of over twelve million people.”
Pitt pointed to the marine approach to Istanbul on the map. “At a speed of twelve knots, she would still be two or three hours from the city.”
“Too far out of range for us or our boats to catch her,” the captain said, “not that I would sail through the Dardanelles anyway. I’m afraid the best that we can do is alert the Greek and Turkish authorities while we remove ourselves from their territorial waters. In the meantime, we can leave it to the intelligence satellites to figure out exactly where she’s headed.”
“What about the crewmen?” Lazlo said.
“Lieutenant, I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do,” the captain replied.
“Three hours,” Pitt muttered quietly while studying the route to Istanbul. “Captain, if I’m going to have a chance at catching her, I need to get back to my ship at once.”
“Catch her?” Lazlo asked. “How? I didn’t see a helicopter aboard your ship.”
“Not a helicopter,” Pitt replied with a determined voice. “But something that’s nearly as fast as a speeding bullet.”
61
T
HE
BULLET
TORE ACROSS THE WATER LIKE A HIGH-SPEED hydroplane. Steering with a firm grip on the yoke as the turbo diesels whined loudly under full power behind him, Pitt shot Giordino a quick glance from the pilot’s seat.
“You were wrong about her top speed,” he said, nearly yelling to be heard.
Giordino craned his head toward the navigation screen, where a small readout indicated that they were traveling at forty-three knots.
“Always better to under-promise and over-deliver,” he replied with a thin smile.
Seated in the passenger seat behind them, Lieutenant Lazlo found no such mirth. The brawny commando felt like he was inside a blender, as the
Bullet
pitched and rolled over the waves. Struggling repeatedly to stay in his seat, he finally discovered the straps to a seat belt and buckled himself tightly in, hoping he could forgo a bout of seasickness.
Pitt had caught a break when the
Tekumah
returned him to the
Aegean Explorer
. The
Bullet
had already been fully fueled and prepped for launching. Rousing Giordino, they hurriedly deployed the submersible. When Lazlo realized that Pitt had a real chance of chasing down the tanker, he quickly insisted on joining them.
They soon found themselves screaming through the busy Dardanelles Strait in the dead of night, dodging ships, in a desperate race toward Istanbul. It took all of Pitt’s focus and energy to keep the
Bullet
on an even keel while slipping between the tankers and merchant ships traveling in both directions. A bright set of xenon headlights helped improve visibility while Giordino provided a second set of eyes to detect smaller vessels or debris in the water.
It wasn’t the way Pitt would have preferred to travel through the historic waterway. With a love of history, he knew that both Xerxes and Alexander the Great had led their armies in opposite directions across the strait formerly known as the Hellespont. Not far from Çanakkale, on the southwest shore, stood Troy, site of the Trojan War. And farther north, on the opposite shore, were the landing beaches where the failed Allied campaign of Gallipoli originated in World War I. The beaches and barren hillsides were simply a blur to Pitt, whose eyes darted between the navigation screen and the black waves ahead that quickly vanished beneath the speeding bow.