Operation Wolfe Cub: A Chilling Historical Thriller (THE TIME TO TELL Book 1)

  Operation Wolfe Cub is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, incidents, and interpretations are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons, or entities, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 by H. C. Wells

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Second Edition

  The Time To Tell series, logo and marks are trademarks of H.C. Wells

  Information about the author and the continuing books in The Time To Tell series:

  Wolfe Odyssey, Book II

  http://www.hcwells.com

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/HC-Wells-Author

  henry@hcwells.com

  ISBN: 1480242551

  ISBN 13: 9781480242555

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921041

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  Acknowledgments:

  To my only love, a dedicated reader of all genres, a former librarian’s right hand and the nurturer of my stumbling passion. She is my wife, Sherry M. Wells, an unmistakable extraordinaire who stood up and prevented me from abandoning my work. Time and again, since 1995, she saved this project through her discipline and unwavering support. Without her, The Time To Tell might never have been told.

  To my mother and father, Peggy L. Wells and Charles W. Wells. I love and miss them so. Thank you for giving me that precious chance.

  FAILURE

  Everyone tells of the success they are,

  But to be a failure is harder by far.

  No credit is given for failing in life,

  Though it’s harder to do and causes much strife.

  It doesn’t come easy nor is it bought cheap.

  The way is paved by the tears they weep.

  Broken dreams are strewn along their trail.

  The air is thick with their mournful wail.

  So give a hand to a failure you’ve known.

  They have to harvest the seeds they’ve sown.

  A poem, 1971

  By Peggy L. Wells (1932-2005)

  To all those who have suffered, or are suffering, the hardships of war, both at home and abroad.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

  Chapter 1

  This extraordinary story began on a stormy winter’s night in 1944 during one of history’s most trying times. The loathsome carnage of the Second World War had spread across the lands like a plague, affecting almost every major continent around the globe. The gruesome consequences of what some people thought might be close to the end were far from over. Nobody really knew what lay ahead for the world at the time. What the multitudes of people standing by their countries did know was they had to belong to a side in order to survive. Those opposing would have to face the fate of utter decimation.

  Total blackness of the night left little to describe the surroundings of the barren, rocky landscape. A periodic flicker of the lightning in the sky showed only glimpses of the few people engaged in their little ad-hoc plan. The wind, rain, and distant crashing of waves from the ocean were the only sounds heard above the thunder of that dangerous night.

  None of it seemed quite right. The small group was out there in a torrential downpour of rain, but somehow they didn’t seem alone. Somehow, it was the hot feel of the storm’s air that brought on their troubled looks. Odd it seemed, for the forlorn warnings of the storm were so horridly close to their backs. It was as if the weather itself tried to track them down and do away with them. Troublesome as it was, the most frightening of all were the mammoth thunder cracks and deadly lighting strikes the storm harnessed. Every so often, one of the stray charges would fry the very ground upon which these few desperadoes had shuffled across just moments before.

  There were four of them. That’s all there were. Their faint silhouettes seemed to be lost or wandering, but that wasn’t the case. Their wondering had a distinct direction. They had only one dim lantern carried by the front-runner leading them into the abyss of the wet, rainy night. They looked as if they didn’t want to be seen.

  Sounds of an air raid whistle in the distance might have offered at least some explanation as to why they were in such a hurry. Muffled thumps of massive, earth-shaking bombs lit the sky like thunder and lightning. At first there were only a few bombs, but then came several. Echoing quakes from the blasts behind them shook across the territory as if they were out of control, blowing almost everything to smithereens about a mile or two away behind the bluffs.

  Instinctively, all four of them stopped to look back and gawk at the flickers and they felt the thumps that rumbled up through their feet. After that, they peeled back around and picked up their pace. They had been running away from the subtle glow of civilization being bombed, but just then, those lights faded as the air assault grew heavier and heavier.

  Regardless of their surroundings, they were determined. They kept in loose stride with one another as they crept closer to what sounded like the violent spill of waves at a nearby ocean beach. The men were German, from the sounds of their speech.

  The third man, known as “Dr. Wycliffe,” shouted over his shoulder to the last man running in back, “How far were those bombs, Wolfe?”

  Wolfe did not answer.

  Dr. Wycliffe looked ahead to the two in front, “US-1, US-2! Wait up!”

  The two men up front with the rather odd code names appeared to be the strongest and youngest of the four. Quite frankly, it was too dark to tell exactly what they looked like. However, the lightning did offer some subtle silhouettes to fit together at least some description. They were escorting officers, strategically armed and dressed for combat in solid, flat black.

  They didn’t wear any sort of traditional uniform of German or European style, however. Their Denison coats reflected a special operation of some kind. They were dressed in black officer hats and boots resembling German military attire. No identification was seen on their clothing except for a unique symbol that glimmered once in a while when illuminated by the lightning. It resembled a badge. Really, it was hard to make out any details other than the fact that it shone beautifully with the glistening of gold with every spark of lightning that reflected upon it. One of the men pulled down his hat over his blond crew cut in an effort to block the wind and rain pelting him as he ran.

  Dr. Wycliffe wasn’t suited for such an outing, due in part to his age and physical condition. The poor, round-faced man with the white smock, carrying a plastic-covered clipboard and satchel, clearly belonged inside a laboratory or other professional facility somewhere and not out in such dire conditions. Besides being drained and drenched head to toe, he sported no kind of hat at all, which he could have used to shield his bald head and spectacles. To make his state of affairs worse, he kept wiping his lenses off until he eventually bent his frames. This made him have to stop more frequently than the others.

  The man named “Wolfe
” was obliged to stop with Dr. Wycliffe, even though he seemed to be the one carrying the authority. Not speaking much, and in better physical condition than Dr. Wycliffe, he seemed hardly deterred. Occasionally, he took a grip on the bill of his fedora and pulled it down to shelter his eyes. Suddenly, a series of lightning strikes revealed the bottom portion of his jaw. It wasn’t much, but he continuously clenched it like he had the determination to see almost anything through. Literally, come hell or the high water of the storm, he was going to do what he was going to do.

  Other than that, there were no other immediate explanations regarding the purpose of the man in the rear other than listening in on the conversations of Dr. Wycliffe, who piped up and said, “I know this was your idea, but I don’t understand why you wished to be here. We have this under control to the last detail.” He went on, “How do you expect to do your job if your here anyway?”

  Wolfe didn’t say a word. In spite of his indisposed presence in back and the eroding economy in Germany, he was very well-dressed for such an event. From the looks of him, his attire must have come from some of the finest tailors in Europe. His clothing was protected with water repellant. It had to be, since the water beaded down every strip of his double-breasted, black trench coat and black fedora like a finely-waxed surface.

  The Reichsmark, or literally the Reich’s mark, was the currency at the time. Inflation had its way, shoving the mark’s worth down so far it had become a worldly joke. It might have taken suitcase loads just to buy what he wore that night. The mysterious man could afford to dress up that evening, and did so, regardless of the awkward timing and weather.

  Perhaps he dressed up for the occasion of what he was gingerly protecting in his arms. It was plain to see that what he was carrying was very dear to him, as he carefully slipped around the jagged rocks, making sure not to fall with his bundle. It was a baby, of all things; the sweet little sounds of a muffled whimper giving it away. As determined of a German as he looked, there must have been a soft side to him too. In a very heartfelt and worried way, he kept looking down at the newborn cuddled within the baby blankets.

  The men continued onward, shuffling, bobbling, and tripping across the barren land of jagged rocks and hard, wet sand without a single soul to see them. An occasional splash of a puddle or the sound of a boot striking a boulder could be heard now and then during their desperate skirmish. Dr. Wycliffe’s breath intermittently whistled as they slowly made their way closer to a much stronger sound, which soon deafened almost everything behind them, the unmistakable sound of the open sea. Surprisingly, as they got closer, the sounds calmed the tiny nighttime team. They occasionally stopped and smiled, listening to the wild water as if the ocean was exactly the safe harbor to which they had been running.

  Dr. Wycliffe coughed and yelled with every ounce of his tired breath inside the howls of wind and ocean over his shoulder, “I assure you! Nobody has seen us! Our new work in the ODESSA1 project was well financed! Well organized! It guarantees the baby’s top-secret departure.” He gasped for air. “Also, just to be sure along the way, your unknown baby was marked with our symbol hidden on the back of his head beneath his hair!”

  Wolfe stopped dead in his tracks. “No! He will be discovered!”

  Dr. Wycliffe backpedaled. “Sorry! We needed positive identification to get him through! The marks are difficult to see! They may fade in time!”

  Wolfe tried to see the marks for himself, but it was too dark.

  Dr. Wycliffe went on, “No worry. All of the other scientists knew he was The One! He will secure a new, peaceful world. Forever! As you’ve said, peace, once and for all! Peace for at least a thousand years! Forget the mark! It’s up to the baby now—just as you planned.”

  Wolfe was so disturbed he hesitated before continuing.

  Dr. Wycliffe begged, “Please…the B-B route to the Italian port of Bari was hard to get through for the baby’s emergency departure. You wanted him undetected. He’s going to the safest place on earth, remember? It should not matter.”

  Wolfe blasted out, “Fool! Review now!”

  “Our network, ‘Die Spiner,’ was alerted of the special condition…the mark wasn’t good enough. Some did not know what it was, so ODESSA was placed on his head too! This assured them he was the one...The Chosen One!” He went on, “Absolutely all aspects of this operation were given no chance of mistake…total secrecy. You have to believe.”

  Wolfe settled down, then pointed ahead. “And them?”

  “Who? Our two special officers? They are never to speak their names again. Their names are US-1 and US-2 from now on…I’ll complete their training aboard the vessel. They know their mission. That’s all. Nothing more.”

  Wolfe warily nodded then flagged Dr. Wycliffe to move on.

  Just ahead, the two officers stopped briefly to let Dr. Wycliffe and Wolfe catch up. US-1, smiled cockily, with hardly a loss of breath. He held his lantern up high, signaling where they were. Just then, the lantern’s light swung across the chests of their jet black uniforms revealing their symbol more vividly. It was most unique, glistening in a darker shade of gold, but of a design unlike any other. It was simple, looking like nothing more than perhaps a rolling star encased in an outline of a circle or like an authoritative badge might look. Interestingly, the golden symbol proudly embossed itself to the left of their chests—right square in front of their hearts. No doubt, it was a symbol dear to them, for they both glanced down at it whenever they got the chance.

  As Dr. Wycliffe closed the gap between him and the officers, he labored to talk further over his shoulder: “All—Christ, it’s hard to breathe—all of the equipment and rations are on board the vessel. All was checked—verified by separate technicians—without knowing any details of the mission.”

  Wolfe caught up with him. “And the medallion?”

  Dr. Wycliffe paused to think and then continued jogging: “Ah, yes. We used the chain to secure the baby’s medallion. It’s permanently locked on the baby’s ankle.” He continued, “All—whew, forgive me. I’m not used to this running. I have to stop momentarily.”

  As he caught his breath, he raised his head up to Wolfe. “Forgive me. All the other scientists were troubled. How do you expect the baby to know with certainty how to get there? More importantly—when to get there.”

  Wolfe didn’t answer, so Dr. Wycliffe began to panic. “Christ O’Mighty—how did you choose him? He’s just a baby.”

  Wolfe lashed out beneath the shadow of his rain-drenched fedora, “He will succeed!”

  From the tone of Wolfe’s voice, Dr. Wycliffe knew he had overstepped his bounds. Just then, the men became mildly distracted by the sounds of sirens fading off in the distance and the bombs, which had stopped dropping. Coincidentally, the wind and rain had also died down, as if the squall itself wished to hear what was being discussed. The oddity of tempest turning to silence was so overwhelming that all four of them scattered in a loose line, stopping briefly to wonder what happened to their surroundings.

  US-2, next to US-1, held his hand out, feeling the air. “It’s warmer than it was before.”

  US-1 stuck his lantern out to shine into the darkness, but saw nothing from any direction.

  Farther back behind them, Dr. Wycliffe wasn’t shaking off the odd feeling too well either. He grabbed his weak chin, for the secure sense of thinking. He then glanced back to Wolfe with a look of fear. He tried to chuckle, “Odd weather, I guess.”

  Wolfe himself seemed just as puzzled as he stepped up closer. He stared directly at the ground with a little sense of lost hope. Slowly he brought himself to the realization it was just the weather.

  Dr. Wycliffe asked again, “Well? All of us back at the lab—back at the facility of Thule!2 Christ O’Mighty—the whole world depends on the works of this operation. Who’s the boy?”

  Wolfe blindly looked around as he became angry. “Quiet…we’ve said too much.”

  Even though he couldn’t be seen, he caught his simmering temper wi
th a long, exhausted exhale. As if he were tired of it all, he dropped his face all the way down, revealing more of his regret and sadness. Slowly he lifted his shadowy head, as if clinging to perhaps what little bit of pride he could muster. His pride was in short supply, for he looked to the ground for composure again with a quivering, clenched fist. Desperately, he sought comfort in the midst of his conflicting thoughts. With great difficulty he searched through his mind for answers in the midst of the sadness which was troubling him.

  Dr. Wycliffe caught on. “Hey! It’s just the war! The war’s to blame—we haven’t died yet!”

  His supportive words seemed to work, but something else worked too. Through a single flash of lightning, Wolfe caught a tiny glimpse of the baby’s bright, blue eyes shining, seeming to send a message that whatever he was dealing with was okay.

  Surprisingly, the child hadn’t been disturbed through this trying time. In fact, the child even returned a smile.

  Wolfe let out a sharp breath as Dr. Wycliffe suddenly looked relieved too. He took the time to pause, wipe the rain from his glasses, and think about Wolfe’s hidden problems. Then he hunched closer to the baby. “He’s not your baby, is he?”

  “No!”

  Cra-crack-crack!

  The shrilling shock of thunder and lightning struck from behind, just beyond the bluff. US-1 and US-2 immediately shook their curiosities aside to sprint ahead again while the weather still allowed.

  As the rain and wind emerged again, Dr. Wycliffe and Wolfe paused briefly beside one another. In that very moment, their troubles seemed to fade. Even though they were standing in an increasing torrent of rain, both of their harsh realities seemed subdued by the tiny, magical prospects of the baby and his mission.

  Wolfe looked sharply ahead and then began to march forward as Dr. Wycliffe tried to catch up. “Okay, I don’t care who he is—Christ O’Mighty—how can we be sure this operation will work?”

  Wolfe kept marching, then raised his fist. “It is desire! He will have the strongest desire in the world!”