Thorpe's Candle

TIGER SHARK

“Escandoza has a second sub, sir.” White House Chief of Staff Nathan Templeton stood in front of the President’s desk. “It’s disappeared in the North Atlantic with the korium on board.”

The President stared back in silence, his hand stopped writing his notes. “My God. This is confirmed?”

“Yes, sir.” Templeton tensed.

“Satellite surveillance tracked the sub leaving the coast of Greenland before it submerged,” said Thomas Lancaster. The Secretary of the Navy had accompanied Templeton into the Oval Office. “Our SOSUS listening stations along the continental shelf are trying to establish contact.”

“How in the hell did he get a second…?” The President wiped his hand across his chin, already knowing the answer — just another business expense for the richest man in the world. “We should have said screw you to Denmark and gone into Greenland with a company of Seals to protect OceanQuest.”

“And caused a major international incident,” Templeton said.

The President stared at him. “I can assure you, Thomas, if that sub makes it to Colombia, I’m not going to ask anyone’s permission to go in and crush Escandoza.”

“We hope it won’t come to that, sir,” Lancaster said.

The President sighed. “Why didn’t you know about it? Destroy it before it even got to Greenland?”

“We had no clue that Escandoza had a second boat. Nothing in our intelligence led us to consider that possibility. We just weren’t looking in the right direction.”

“Then start looking in the right direction, Thomas. Either capture or sink it.”

“It’s not quite that cut and dry, Mr. President.” Lancaster eased down into one of the two chairs in front of the President’s desk. “We're talking hundreds, perhaps thousands of commercial surface vessels between Greenland and Colombia, and possibly dozens of submarines. Some are from the former Soviet Navy, the same type as the pirate sub. Confronting the wrong one would lead to a serious problem or embarrassment. To be honest, sir, finding and destroying any modern warship is difficult. But our strategic sensors are focused on that task. We’ve formed a 100 kilometer circle around the last known position and started dropping sonobuoys along the expected route. We’ve laid out a search pattern that will provide the highest potential for pinpointing the sub’s location. Our land-based ASW aircraft are ready to concentrate on any contact before the sub has a chance to escape.”

“I don’t like that word — escape.” The President felt his patience wearing thin.

“It’s a relative term, sir,” Lancaster said.

Slamming his hand down on the desk, the President said, “Hunt the damn thing down and destroy it. Is that understood?”

Templeton gave Lancaster a quick glance before saying, “There’s something we haven’t told you, sir.”

The President glared at the Chief of Staff.

“Matt Skyler is on board.”

The Carupano plowed through the heavy swells of the North Atlantic, black smoke pouring from its funnel. Registered to a Panamanian shipping firm, the 142-foot freighter carried diesel tractors and road graders manufactured in the United Kingdom along with irrigation pumps from Portugal. Its captain, a bull of a man named Sampson, watched from the bridge as the dark storm swept in, churning the ocean. Rain pelted the windows and the wind howled like a wounded animal. Sampson steadied himself as the deck rolled. He looked at his first officer beside him. “We’re in for a rough ride.”

“We’ve seen worse, captain,” the smaller man said with little enthusiasm as he tried to sip his jiggling cup of coffee.

Sampson shrugged and walked away. “I’ll be in my cabin if you need me.”

Ten minutes later, the captain lay on his bunk watching “Confessions of a Call Girl” on his iPad. He had watched it a dozen times since leaving port and no longer felt an arousal at the sight of the women spreading themselves before him. As he turned the tablet off and stared at the ceiling, he wondered why he had been ordered to leave Liverpool so quickly with two major cargo shipments still sitting in the warehouse. And why the ridiculous route across the North Atlantic, an area of the ocean he detested? He must travel thousands of miles out of the way costing him wasted days. It made no sense at all. But there was one consolation: triple pay. The first time the company had ever offered it. For that kind of money, the captain admitted before drifting off to sleep, he would sail to Colombia by way of Sydney.

The knot in the pit of Skyler’s stomach tightened as he stood in the control room of the missile submarine watching the activity around him. Surrounded by the enemy reminded him of the huge capture-the-flag games he played at the academy. The game covered acres of Maryland backwoods — one team's flag on a small island surrounded by a frigid creek, and the other in a deep, rocky gorge half a kilometer away. In the championship game of his senior year, Skyler had switched jerseys with a captured soldier and sneaked into the opposition's camp, stole the flag and won the trophy for his classmates. He felt that same knot in his stomach as he stood on the bridge of the pirate sub.

Dominating the middle of the control room was the periscope pedestal containing the Officer of the Deck watch station and two periscopes. To Skyler’s left were five men seated at the fire control consoles. To the right, the helmsman, planesman, and diving officer manned the control stations and navigational systems. An automated plotting table was on the opposite side of the periscope pedestal. The room hummed with electronics.

“Welcome to the Tiger Shark, Mr. Knebel,” said the man standing beside the OOD watch station. He was well over six feet and skeleton thin, his eyes dark holes recessed into his head. His blond hair, in need of a trim, was combed straight back. He walked to Skyler, extending a bony hand. “I’m Captain Helmet Schafer. You look familiar, have we met?”

“Perhaps,” Skyler said, shaking the German’s hand. He cringed at the thought of how his picture had appeared often in the world press. “I’ve represented my organization on a few local Johannesburg television talk shows.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Have you settled into your cabin?”

“A bit small, but it will do.” He tried to project Knebel’s arrogance.

“Something you have to get used to down here.” Schafer made a broad sweep of his hand. “Every square inch is needed for our electronic systems. There’s very little room left for comfort.”

As a former Navy Lieutenant Commander, Skyler was more than aware of shipboard confinement although he had never spent time on missile subs, only raised them from the ocean floor after they sank.

“I understand things went well at Cold Bay.” Schafer said.

“If you mean there are no witnesses left.”

“Something like that.” Schafer chuckled. “Neat and tidy, that’s what I demand.”

“So how long until our final destination?”

“Normally a little over eight days. But we are going to have to go a bit slower on this trip.”

“Problem?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned with, Mr. Knebel.” Schafer smiled and sat down in the captain’s chair. “Purely a military maneuver. Why don’t you rest in your cabin until dinner? Then you can join me. I’m anxious to learn all about your organization — the Afrikaner Resistance Movement, is it called?”

“Yes.” Skyler turned to leave the bridge. He had been briefed a few months previous on racist organizations, and the South African group had been one of them. He’d also visited their Web site and seen their hate literature. He tried to remember details. His father had always told him he should have been an actor.

Now he was getting his chance.