Crescent Dawn

But her shell of armor cracked slightly when the ship’s radio suddenly blared.

“Istanbul Coast Guard to tanker Dayan . Istanbul Coast Guard to tanker Dayan . Come in, please.”

An angry scowl crossed her face, then she turned and spat to the pilot.

“Assemble the Janissaries.”

Ignoring the radio call, she turned and quietly studied the tanker’s radar screen, mentally preparing for the coming engagement.

* * *

The emergency midnight diplomatic warnings from Israel and the U.S. were ultimately directed to the Turkish Coast Guard, whose Istanbul command base gave assurances that all approaching tankers would be stopped and searched well short of the city. A local fast patrol craft was scrambled, joined by an Istanbul police boat, to stand picket south of the Bosphorus.

Tensions heightened when a large, unidentified ship appeared on the radar screen, steaming north. Suspicions were immediately raised when the vessel’s Automatic Identification System transponder was found to be deactivated. When repeated radio calls went unanswered, the smaller and speedier police boat was dispatched to go investigate.

Racing toward the ship, the police soon saw by its shadow and running lights that it was clearly a tanker the size of the Dayan . The police boat zipped down the tanker’s high flanks, then circled around her stern. The police commander took note of the Israeli flag flying from the aft mast as he read the ship’s name beaded in white letters across the transom.

“It’s the Dayan ,” he said, transmitting to the Coast Guard patrol boat.

They were to be the last words he would ever speak.

63

The Dayan’s deck and running lights cut to black an instant before the fusillade erupted. A line of armed Janissaries materialized on the tanker’s stern rail and simultaneously fired down on the small police boat. The small boat’s captain was the first to die, cut down by a direct burst through the bridge windshield. Another police officer standing on the deck was gunned down an instant later, shot in the back before he knew what hit him. Another man on the deck, a veteran police sergeant, reacted quicker, diving behind the gunwale and returning fire with his service automatic. But he was killed when the boat drifted aside and he lost his cover, the Janissaries all concentrating fire on him.

The shooting fell quiet for a moment as the fourth and last man aboard the police boat climbed up from below. Seeing his dead comrades, he stepped onto the stern deck with his hands in the air. He was a young rookie, new to the force, and his voice quivered as he begged the gunmen not to shoot. But his plea was met by a short burst of fire, and he crumpled to the deck, joining his comrades in death.

The lifeless police boat meandered behind the tanker for several minutes like a lost puppy. In its wheelhouse, the radio sputtered with repeated hails from the Coast Guard vessel, calls that fell only on dead ears. The big tanker’s wash finally nudged its bow aside, and the floating morgue motored aimlessly toward the western horizon.

* * *

The sound of gunfire was Hammet’s call to action. The Israeli tanker captain had been in a state of anguish for hours, ever since he and his crew had been forced back into the mess room after loading the plastic explosives aboard ship and setting sail. He knew that the armed Turks, whoever they might be, had converted his vessel into a suicide bomb ship, and that the Israeli crew would likely be part of the blast.

The captain and his first officer had quietly discussed escape plans, but their options were few. The pair of guards watching them at the door appeared at a higher state of readiness than before and was rotated out for a fresh pair every two hours. Food had been cut off to the captives, and they were no longer allowed to approach the bulkhead and peer out the porthole.

At that late hour, the tanker’s crew were mostly sprawled out on the floor asleep. Hammet was lying among his men, although sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He feigned slumber, however, when the door opened, and a man whispered excitedly to the guards. The two men arose immediately and slipped out, leaving the Israeli crew temporarily unguarded.

Hammet instantly jumped to his feet.

“Everybody up,” he said quietly, shaking awake his first officer and those around him. As the groggy crew staggered to its feet, Hammet assembled them near the door and quietly formulated a plan.

“Zev, take the men and see if you can get them off the aft escape raft without being detected,” he ordered his exec. “I’m going to visit the engine room and see if I can disable the ship. You have my order to jettison without me if I can’t catch up in ten minutes.”

The exec started to voice a protest when the sound of gunfire echoed from the stern of the ship.

“Belay that,” Hammet said quickly. “Take the men across the deck and try to deploy the port inflatable. You might have to just toss it over the rail since we’re at speed.”

“That’s going to be a tough jump into the sea for some of the men.”

“Grab some lines and life vests from the day locker, and they can lower themselves down. Now, move!”

Hammet knew they had only minutes, if not seconds, and he hurriedly prodded the men out of the mess room. As the last man hustled by, he stepped onto the deck and closed the door behind him. They stood near the base of the high stern superstructure facing the starboard rail. The exec quickly led the crew forward and across the facing of the superstructure, each man hugging the wall to avoid detection from the bridge high above. Hammet turned and moved the other direction, heading for an aft passageway to the engine room.

The sound of automatic gunfire still ripped through the air, and as he reached the rear of the superstructure he could see a half dozen armed men at the stern rail firing toward the water. Ducking down, he sprinted across to a side doorway that opened to a stairwell. With his heart pounding, he rushed down the stairs, passing three decks, before exiting into a wide passageway. A door to the engine room stood just ahead, which he approached cautiously before opening it slowly. He was met by a gust of warm air and a deep mechanical rumble as he stepped inside and carefully peered around.

Hammet had hoped that the hijackers didn’t enlist a standby engineer for their one-way voyage, and he was correct. The engine room stood empty. He quickly climbed down a grated stairwell, then stood next to the tanker’s huge diesel engine, pondering what to do. There were assorted means he could use to shut down the engine, but a sudden power failure would raise immediate alarm. He needed a delayed effect that would allow time for the crew to safely escape first.

Then he gazed past the engine toward two large fuel bunkers that sat forward like a fat pair of horizontal grain silos.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, quickly stepping forward with a glint in his eye.

64

In less than ten minutes, Hammet was back at the top of the stairwell, peering across the stern deck. The shooting had long since ceased, and Hammet did not see any of the Janissaries about, giving him an uneasy feeling. Beyond the stern rail, he spotted the shadow of a small boat, angling away from the tanker, which he rightly suspected was the target of the gunfire.

Stepping quickly, he made his way across the rear wall of the superstructure to the port-side deck. Peering around the corner, he was relieved to find it empty. A pair of ropes tied to the rail and dangling over the side gave him hope that the crew had already escaped. But his heart sank when he spotted the inflatable life raft still secured in its rack alongside the bulkhead. He cautiously moved closer, peering over the side to see if anyone was hanging from the ropes but saw only empty water below.