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.
RUN SILENT
“Ah, there you are.” Captain Schafer looked up smiling. “Please sit down, Mr. Knebel.”
Skyler stepped into the small, private dining room and took a place opposite Schafer. The two men were alone.
“Help yourself.” Schafer pointed to a bottle of Schloss Castel Muller Kabinett. “This is from the Mosel region. It’s slightly drier than wine from the Rhine. I hope you like it.”
Skyler poured the pale German wine into his glass and took a sip. “Refreshing.”
“I prefer their Auslese, but it would be a little too heavy with dinner.
“Are you from the Mosel region?”
“Actually Wiesbaden, near Frankfurt.” Schafer said. “My father was a diesel mechanic, my mother a nurse. And you?”
“Born in Munich, but we moved to Pretoria when I was a small boy. My father was a school teacher, my mother stayed home trying to keep us in line.”
“Both honorable positions in life, my friend.” Schafer smiled and gestured with his glass. “And today we sit across from one another pondering the world.”
“To pondering.” Skyler returned the toast.
The door opened and a young seaman entered carrying a tray. He placed a bowl of soup in front of each man and left.
“A hearty meal of potato soup.” Schafer motioned with his spoon for Skyler to start.
Skyler resisted wiping his forehead and hoped the captain would not notice his uneasiness. Maybe the conversation would stay casual and not delve into the Afrikaner Resistance Movement.
“Tell me about your group,” Schafer said between spoonfuls.
Skyler tasted the soup, buying time to collect his thoughts. “We have about five thousand members mostly in South Africa, but some in other parts of the world. We’re fortunate to have some wealthy contributors who are generous with their support, allowing us to carry out our work.”
“Which is?”
“In its simplest form, the preservation of the white race by any means, individually and collectively, as a people of God.”
“A holy war, then?”
Skyler sipped the wine. “We fight to safeguard the existence of our race, the sustenance of our children, the purity of our blood, and the freedom and independence of our people. We do it to fulfill the mission allotted to us by the Creator of the universe.” Skyler took another spoonful of soup. “This is delicious.”
“My mother used to make potato soup along with thick, crusty salt bread. I still don’t know why we all weren’t as big as elephants growing up on meals like this.” Schafer paused, giving Skyler a stern look. “So what do you plan to do with your Candle?”
“Cleansing.” Skyler smiled over the bowl at the captain. “Mass cleansing, of course.”
“And once you have… cleansed?”
“Then we take back our country.” He was about to go into his rehearsed speech on why whites are the superior race when the intercom on the wall squawked.
“Captain to the bridge!” the metallic voice called.
Schafer rose and pushed the talk-back button. “What is it? I’m eating.”
“We have contact, sir.”
“Our friend?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’m coming.” The captain turned to Skyler. “Mr. Knebel, you must excuse me. We are about to rendezvous with another vessel and I am needed on the bridge. Continue enjoying your dinner.”
“I’d like to tag along if you don’t mind. I’m intrigued with your impressive ship and its complex inner workings.”
Schafer paused for a moment. “I’ll instruct my steward to keep our meals warm for us.” He opened the door for Skyler. “You might even find this entertaining.”
The private Gulfstream banked into the setting sun as it made its final approach to the small airport on the northern tip of San Andres Island, the main island in the Caribbean archipelago. It was remote—700 kilometers northwest of the Colombian mainland and 230 east of Nicaragua.
Pablo Escandoza gazed down on the slender, finger-shaped strip of land glistening like an emerald in the sunset. Coconut palms almost entirely covered its hilly terrain. The lights of the town of San Andres sparkled in the twilight as they passed beneath.
The town’s heritage dated back to 1527 when Spanish explorers settled there. Serving as a pirate stronghold for decades, the legendary Henry Morgan recognized its strategic location and established his base while waiting to sack gold-laden galleons bound for home. Escandoza often thought of himself as a pirate of the highest order.
“We’re getting closer to our final destination, William,” Escandoza said. “From San Andres, we travel by boat to a smaller island about an hour from here. I think you’ll find your new home nothing short of paradise.”