Operation Wolfe Cub: A Chilling Historical Thriller (THE TIME TO TELL Book 1)
Read Operation Wolfe Cub: A Chilling Historical Thriller (THE TIME TO TELL Book 1) Online
Authors: H.C. Wells
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
https://www.facebook.com/pages/HC-Wells-Author
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.
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 ODESSA
1
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.”