Crescent Dawn

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 Dayan was 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.