Crescent Dawn

by Clive Cussler

  “That’s our boy,” Giordino said, examining the first photo. “What else do we know about him and his wife?”

  “Maria is actually his sister. And data is somewhat scarce. Yaeger indicates that the Celiks are secretive types who keep a very low profile. He says he had to do some real digging to find any juice.”

  “And did he?”

  “Listen to this. A genealogical trace puts both Celiks as greatgrandchildren of Mehmed VI.”

  Giordino shook his head. “Afraid I don’t know the name.”

  “Mehmed VI was the last ruling Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He and his clan were kicked off the throne and out of the country when Atatürk swept into power in 1923.”

  “And now the poor boy has nothing to show for it but a mangy old freighter. No wonder he has a chip on his shoulder.”

  “He apparently has a lot more than that,” Pitt said. “Yaeger believes the pair may be among the richest people in the country.”

  “I guess some of that explains the fanaticism over the Ottoman shipwreck.”

  “And the brashness of the Topkapi theft. Though there might have been another motivation.”

  “Such as?”

  “Yaeger found a possible financial link to an Istanbul marketing organization. The organization is helping promote the candidacy of Mufti Battal in the upcoming presidential election.”

  Pitt set down the page he was reading. “Rey Ruppé in Istanbul told us about this Mufti. He has a large fundamentalist following and is viewed as a dangerous power in some circles.”

  “Never hurts to have friends with deep pockets. I wonder what’s in it for Celik?”

  “A question that might have an illuminating answer,” Pitt said.

  He set down the last of the report and pondered the wealthy Turk and his savage sister while Giordino took a look at the satellite photos.

  “I see the Ottoman Star has returned to home port,” Giordino said. “I wonder what a Greek tanker is doing alongside her.”

  He slid the photo across the table for Pitt to examine. Pitt took a look at the high overhead shot of the now-familiar cove, spotting the freighter at the dock. On the opposite side of the dock was a small tanker ship, its blue-and-white flag barely visible atop its mast. The flag caught his eye, and Pitt studied it a moment before grabbing a magnifying glass from behind the chart table.

  “That’s not a Greek flag,” he said. “The tanker is from Israel.”

  “News to me that Israel has its own tanker fleet,” Giordino said.

  “Did you say something about an Israeli tanker?” Captain Kenfield asked, overhearing the conversation from across the bridge.

  “Al found one parked in the cove of our Turkish friends,” Pitt said.

  Kenfield’s face turned pale. “While we were in port, there was an alert making the rounds about an Israeli tanker that went missing off the coast near Manavgat. It’s actually a water tanker.”

  “I recall seeing one a few weeks back,” Pitt remarked. “What’s the size of the missing ship?”

  “The ship was named the Dayan, I believe,” he said, stepping to a computer and performing a quick search. “She’s eight hundred gross tons and three hundred ten feet long.”

  He turned the computer monitor toward Pitt and Giordino so that they could see a photograph of the ship. It was a dead match.

  “The photos are less than twenty-four hours old,” Giordino said, noting a date stamp on the image.

  “Captain, how’s your secure satellite phone working?” Pitt asked.

  “Fully operational. Do you want to make a call?”

  “Yes,” Pitt replied. “I think it’s time we call Washington.”

  57

  O’QUINN, GOOD OF YOU TO COME BY. PLEASE, STEP INside and grab a seat.”

  The intelligence officer was startled that the Vice President of the United States greeted him in the second-floor foyer of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building and personally showed him into his office. Washington protocol surely dictated that a secretary or aide escort a lesser being into the sanctified lair of the Number Two. But James Sandecker was that rare breed who had little use for such pageantry.

  A retired Navy admiral, Sandecker had been responsible for founding the National Underwater and Marine Agency decades earlier and building it into a powerhouse oceanographic unit. He surprised everyone by passing the reins to Pitt and accepting a vice presidential appointment, where he hoped to further the cause of protecting the world’s oceans. A small but fiery individual with flaming red hair and goatee, Sandecker was known in the capital as a blunt and outspoken man who was nevertheless highly respected. O’Quinn had often been amused during intelligence briefings to see how quickly the Vice President could dissect an issue, or individual, in order to get to the heart of the matter.

  Stepping into the large office, O’Quinn admired a collection of antique oil paintings, featuring old ships and racing yachts, which lined the paneled walls. He followed Sandecker to his desk and took a seat opposite of him.

  “Do you miss the sea much, Mr. Vice President?”

  “There’s no shortage of days that I’d prefer to be sailing something other than a desk,” Sandecker replied, reaching into a drawer and jamming a large cigar between his teeth. “Are you monitoring events in Turkey?” he asked pointedly.

  “Yes, sir. That’s part of my regional assignment.”

  “What do you know about a nutcase named Ozden Celik?”

  O’Quinn had to think a moment. “He’s a Turkish businessman who’s been associated with members of the Saudi Royal Family. We think he might be involved in helping to finance the fundamentalist Felicity Party of Mufti Battal. Why do you ask?”

  “He’s apparently been up to a few other things. You’re aware of the Israeli tanker ship that went missing two days ago?”

  O’Quinn nodded, recalling mention of the incident in a daily briefing report.

  “The vessel has been observed at a small shipping facility controlled by Celik a few miles north of the Dardanelles. I have reliable word that this Celik was behind the recent theft of Muslim artifacts at Topkapi.” Sandecker slid a satellite photo of the tanker across his desk.

  “Topkapi?” O’Quinn repeated, his brows rising like a pair of drawbridges. “We believe there may be a link between the Topkapi theft and the recent mosque attacks at al-Azhar and the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.”

  “The President is aware of that possibility.”

  O’Quinn studied the satellite photograph.

  “If I may ask, sir, how did you acquire this information?”

  “Dirk Pitt at NUMA. Two of his scientists were killed by Celik’s men and a third kidnapped and taken to the same facility,” Sandecker replied, pointing to the photo. “Pitt got his man out, and he discovered a container of plastic explosives at the facility. An Army supply of HMX, to be exact.”

  “HMX is the explosive compound identified from the mosque bombings,” O’Quinn said excitedly.

  “Yes, I recall that from your presidential briefing.”

  “Celik must be acting on behalf of Mufti Battal. It’s clear to me that the anonymous mosque attacks, utilizing our explosives, are an attempt to incite fundamentalist outrage across the Middle East, and particularly in Turkey. Their goal must be to sway public opinion in order to sweep Battal into office.”

  “It’s a logical motive. That’s why this hijacked Israeli tanker is cause for concern.”

  “Have we contacted the Turkish government?”

  “No,” Sandecker replied with a shake of his head. “The President is worried that any action on our part could be construed as American meddling in the election outcome. Frankly, we don’t know how deep Battal’s tentacles may reach into the existing government. The stakes are simply too high, and the race too close, to risk a potential backlash that might throw the election to his party.”

  “But our analysts tell us that the Mufti stands an even chance of winning anyway.”

  “T
he President understands that, but he nevertheless has ordered absolutely no U.S. involvement until after the election.”

  “There are backdoor channels we could use,” O’Quinn protested.

  “It’s already been deemed too risky.”

  Sandecker pulled the cigar from his teeth and examined the chewed end. “It’s the President’s mandate, O’Quinn, not mine.”

  “But we can’t simply look the other way.”

  “That’s why I called you here. You have intelligence contacts in the Mossad, I presume?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course,” O’Quinn nodded.

  Sandecker leaned over his desk, his bright blue eyes boring into the intelligence officer.

  “Then I would suggest that you consider calling them and telling them where their missing tanker is located.”

  58

  RUDI GUNN HAD COMPLETED REPAIRS ON THE FAULTY AUV sensors by dusk, shortly before the Aegean Explorer reached its survey grid some twenty miles southeast of Çanakkale. The AUV was deployed, and the ship’s crew resumed their round-the-clock tracking schedule. By the time the midnight shift went on duty, the bridge had emptied to just the ship’s second officer and a helmsman.

  The ship was cruising at a slow speed to the north when the helmsman suddenly gawked at the radar screen.

  “Sir, a vessel has suddenly appeared off our port beam, less than a quarter mile off,” he stuttered excitedly. “I swear, she wasn’t there a minute ago.”

  The bridge officer glanced at the radar scope, seeing a small amoeba of yellow light nearly merge with the center point, which represented the Aegean Explorer.

  “Where on earth did she come from?” he blurted. “Right twenty degrees rudder,” he quickly ordered, fearful that the unknown vessel was on a perpendicular heading.

  As the helmsman turned the ship’s wheel over, the officer stepped to the port bridge window and peered outside. The moon and stars were concealed by low clouds, draping the sea in darkness. Expecting to clearly view the lights of the nearby vessel, the officer was surprised to see only black.

  “The fool doesn’t have her running lights on,” he said, searching the sea unsuccessfully for a shadow. “I’ll try her on the radio.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that,” barked a crisp voice with the hint of a Hebrew accent.

  The officer turned in shock to find two men dressed in dark camouflage entering the bridge from the starboard wing. The taller of the two men stepped forward, exposing a lean face blunted by a lantern jaw. The intruder stopped a few feet from the officer, leveling a light machine gun at his chest.

  “Have your helmsman resume his course,” the commando said, a stern look from his dark eyes expressing his will. “There is no danger to your vessel.”

  The officer reluctantly nodded to the helmsman. “Resume original heading,” he said. Turning to the commando, he stammered, “What are you doing on our ship?”

  “I’m looking for a man named Pitt. Bring him to the bridge.”

  “There is no one aboard by that name,” the officer lied.

  The commando took a step closer.

  “Then I will clear my men off and sink your vessel,” he threatened in a low voice.

  The officer wondered if it was an idle threat. But a gaze into the battle-hardened eyes of the commando left no doubt that it was a possibility. Nodding sullenly, the officer relieved the helmsman at the wheel so he could retrieve Pitt. The second commando immediately fell in step behind the helmsman as he exited by a rear stairwell.

  A few minutes later, Pitt was marched onto the bridge, a look of anger searing his drowsy eyes.

  “Mr. Pitt? I am Lieutenant Lazlo, Israeli Navy Special Forces.”

  “Excuse me if I don’t welcome you aboard, Lieutenant,” Pitt replied drily.

  “My apologies for the intrusion, but we require your assistance on a sensitive mission. I have been assured that sources in your government at the highest level have approved your cooperation.”

  “I see. If that is the case, then were the midnight theatrics really necessary?”

  “We are operating in Turkish waters without authorization. It is essential that we maintain our secrecy.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant, put down your guns and tell me what this is all about.”

  The commando reluctantly lowered his weapon, indicating for his partner to follow suit.

  “We have been ordered to effect the rescue of the crew of the Israeli tanker Dayan. It has been reported that you are familiar with the facility where the ship is being held.”

  “Yes, the cove north of the Dardanelles. Is she still there?”

  “Intelligence reports within the last ten hours confirm as much.”

  “Why not use diplomatic channels to get their release?” Pitt asked, baiting the man.

  “Your government has provided information that there may be a connection between the hijackers and the recent attack on the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. The report of an explosives stockpile at the facility has our intelligence specialists fearing another attack.”

  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

  THE 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 t
he 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

  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.