Operation Wolfe Cub: A Chilling Historical Thriller (THE TIME TO TELL Book 1) (4 page)

Immediately, he flipped on more of the cockpit lighting. With a brief sense of thrill, he and the others danced their eyes across their instrumentation like excited children. Before indulging, they slowly looked at one another with an awe-inspiring sense of what to do next. Quickly, they continued with their launch sequence, speaking out to one another:

“Closing cross shutters…locking in vapor redundancy.”

“Pressurizing bonnet…humidity check down, down… done.”

“Moisture lowering to normal, five minutes…God that was a lot of rain. Look at our instruments.”

“Setting humidity levels lower. Better switch to two or three…let’s get this place dry.”

Intriguingly, the triangular seating they were arranged in appeared to work quite well around the panel of components. Directly in front of their view were varieties of brass toggle switches, brass buttons, and three rows of T-handles that pointed to “Navigation,” “Transmission,” and “Subversive.” Ahead of the T-handles, presumably for steering or navigating, were crafty gauges protected in round bubble glass covers, tastefully outlined in brass rings.

Each navigational station featured a number of other instruments they seemed to be diligently feeling out. Through their tooling around, one of them repositioned his recliner, while another tested his shiny, brass wheel cranks just below the chair cushions. Maneuvering seemed to be what he was trying out and it worked as smoothly as a well-oiled wheel with the assistance of ball bearings.

The controls on each of their armrests might have been the reason the chairs moved as swiftly as they did. Each of them was furnished with a flip-up pistol grip, complete with a trigger, making the men smile when they tried them out.
Obviously, they were thinking of fun and guns. Of course, their source of aiming came from optics, which was hard to miss. They were brass too, intricately crafted with the same touch of class as the rest of their instrumentation. Each was fortified with its own set of crosshairs inside spotting scopes. They were the clever fixtures tucked away in the back of the headrests. Evidently, they just had to flip them in front with a blind grab of the hand to put them into action.

Dr. Wycliffe’s control panel and dashboard were virtually the same as the two navigators on each side of him with the exception of a few additional configurations worth mentioning. His extra controls were labeled as “Master Controls” giving every indication that the center navigator was capable of operating the entire ship alone.

What seemed to be most intriguing about his master controls was yet another unique set of larger brass push buttons, which looked as if they were designed to be noticeable and easy to get to in a hurry. Without question, these huge controls, the size of small saucers, were intriguing beyond just their size, but the crew didn’t pay much attention to them. In fact, they stayed away from them as best they could.

After the formalities of the launch sequence were almost complete, they strapped themselves in quickly and began to relax.

Dr. Wycliffe was the first to carry on by carefully leaning forward to flick on another two switches, turning on an overabundant set of external lights. Slowly, he sat back, pausing a moment to take a breath. As he tended to the baby in his lap, he cast a long look through the rain-speckled glass, as if pausing for thought, then commanded, “US-1 on port…start up sequence…activate engines one and two.”

First, the rumbling of one, then two large, gas-blasting engines sounded off, giving the shock of hair-raising flare. From outside the cockpit, the monster tune of the exhausts were wildly unexpected.

In contrast all was fairly quiet inside. The crew felt the rumbling more than anything. They exchanged smiles and snickers like their vessel had just played music for their ears.

US-2, the one with his foot on the acceleration pedal, tapped down for a quick test. Instantly, the tachometer raced up to the edge of its needle. The sound of the mighty engines roared all the way down the beach in both directions. From the sounds of it, the vessel was coupled with double the power, hardly sounding like a coward.

Dr. Wycliffe continued, “US-1, bring in ladder and sickle anchors…stage sea buoyancy sequence.”

US-1 reached forward and methodically flipped a couple of toggle switches, sucking the sickle anchors up into the hull with a huge clunk. At the same time, the ladder chattered back into hiding at the bow. “Externals in.” He patiently waited for the green light to glow and then ceremoniously put his index finger down for a few memorized taps on the sea buoyancy controls, as if he was playing a favorite piano tune. All the while he kept a cocky eye on US-2.

Dr. Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Not this again, you two.” He went on, “US-2…activate reverse—slow, damn it! Remember, it’s touchy.”

US-2 returned a sarcastic smirk to US-1, except with more laziness on his grin. Slowly and tenderly, he pulled his T-handle back as if he was pulling off his first girlfriend’s hair-band. Just then, a soft jolt of the automatic torque converters kicked in, and a green light began to glow. Ever so gently, the ship removed itself from the sand bar and glided out to sea as free as could be.

US-1 balked. “
Ha
…you made us move. What a surprise.”

Dr. Wycliffe scuffed. “No monkey business. Get serious. Christ O’Mighty…we’ve wasted enough time. The reefs are higher than ever now.”

Without anyone saying another word, the two officers pierced curious looks over the long, sleek bow to catch their
last glimpse of where they were just a few minutes ago. As their vessel continued rocking back against the waves, they kept a close eye on the man they had just left behind on the beach.

Wolfe stood there like a black statue, not moving a muscle.

Moments later, US-2 pointed back to him. “Hey, look… he’s finally moving…he must be going away.”

US-1 squinted. “I can’t see very well. Looks like he’s—he’s. What’s he doing?”

Dr. Wycliffe dropped back in his chair, looking for something with which to wipe off his rain-drenched face and spectacles. “He’s not going to do anything. He’s going back home—to his tomb. May Christ have mercy on his soul.”

US-1 and 2 gasped, “What are you saying?”

“To his tomb? You mean he’s going to die? We need to turn the ship around to save him if—”

“Silence, you two! It’s true, so best get used to it now. Our homeland’s done. Most of Europe…it’ll be gone. Consider both of you lucky to be on this mission.”

US-2 sat up to the edge of his chair. “Wait, I thought we were on a mission to end wars.”

Dr. Wycliffe seemed bothered. “We are. It’s the war going on now. That’s the problem. You wouldn’t understand. It would take me days or weeks to explain what’s at stake here… I’ve got no time for that.”

US-1 looked perplexed. “But I thought we were the final peace mission.”

Dr. Wycliffe jumped. “We are, and I mean it! I have no time for this. Maybe later…all you two need to know is that it’s all up to us…and this baby here.” He then pointed outside to the beach. “Wave good-bye to the man of vision before he leaves. Not that he’d wave back…I know him all too well.”

The two officers eagerly waved through the dim, beaded glass.

Wolfe hardly saw them in their dimly-lit cockpit, beaded down with rain in the distance. Their external lights were fading quickly into the turmoil of the blackened sea. He did return a minor self-sense of triumph, however. Calmly, he took off his fedora and faced the troubled sky above him. He looked relieved, but then again, maybe he noticed the sudden temperature swirling around had drastically changed too. In any case, he let the rain pelt down upon his face in the middle of the windy, wet solitude.

For a moment, he looked as though he might have even tried to see beyond the heavy barricade of the solid nothingness staring back down upon him. At least for a moment, he looked as though something was way up there above him. Showing some concern, he reached up into the sky at what wasn’t there—only to draw his hand back down to rub the rain into the empty palm of his hand. Quickly, he shook the feeling off, putting his fedora back on while he continued to unwind with a long, tired, overworked breath. His spirit, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as finished. Methodically, he raised both his hands high into the sky, gesturing the victory of his little accomplishment, it seemed.

Operation Wolfe Cub was indeed underway with some degree of success. Even if this was what Wolfe was so proudly standing there for, his little victory stance could have been misunderstood. Just then, a most unusual surprise came about which could have trampled the beliefs of almost anyone. Evidently, he had no idea of what lurked directly above. If only one could see through the nighttime sky, as it whirled about with a potently powerful presence. It was the eye of the storm looking down upon him and his vessel both.

Wolfe showed no signs of suspicion or fear. The occasional warning of lightning strikes barely caused him to flinch. He looked like he had something more earthly on his mind at that time. Perhaps he was feeling the minor success of their mission’s beginning, and rightfully so. If this were
the case, then he did what any winner would have done: he showed pleasure in his small triumph and hoped for further triumphs in the future.

One thing seemed almost too strange, however. It was the weather that had become so unnerving, leading up to this lonely, victorious moment of his. It could have been described as being just beyond the imagination. Once more, it was too hard to discard as merely chance or happenstance. It was the beginning of what seemed to be something unfathomable.

Whatever it was, it seemed to follow them through the continued travesty inside the storm that evening. It filled the nightscape with fire and ire, sending chiseling charges of blinding lightning so bright that anyone might have taken it as a horrific signal. It caught up and then quaked beneath their feet so deep that anyone should have stopped to think. It was so bizarre that it could have even challenged the worst of pessimists to question their boundaries of believability. No paradox so profound should have existed along that stretch of beach within the vast sights and sounds of merely the forces of thunder and lightning. But it was there. It was preposterous to believe such a quantum leap was possible, or worse yet—unleashed.

If the truth were known, something else horrific and unknown besides Operation Wolfe Cub began that evening. It was unlike anything bearing a resemblance to normalcy—far from it. It was as if some
thing
reached into the facets of existence where the very fear of reality actually resided here on earth.

Ssssskakaka Ka Kaaaaaaaaaah!

Petrifyingly so, the shrilling existence of an echo came from out of the thin air, but could be seen—absolutely nowhere.

Inside the warm, dry, and nearly soundproof cockpit of the US
Wehrwolf
, the crew heard only the crashes of thunder
mixed in with the muscular-sounding exhaust. They saw only what was there outside. The three of them gazed in awe at the light show, which, by then, encircled the beach. The spectacle just came and went without leaving a sign behind. It was as if nature and whatever other forces were working, performed a vanishing act before their very eyes.

US-2 rested his head back on his headrest in a sort of collapsed state of shock. He withered down in relaxation and said, “Wow, did you see that?”

US-1 asked, “See what? I didn’t see anything.”

US-2 saw that his comrade’s face was buried in a towel as he dried himself off. He slunk down again in his chair and then lit a cigarette. “What do you mean ‘what?’ You couldn’t see a thing with that towel on your face…the lightning out there. Wolfe, or whatever Dr. Wycliffe calls him…he didn’t even move when all that lightning struck. He must have nerves of steel.”

US-1 rocked back into his chair then stared into the night. Another flash of light lit up the cockpit as he looked over his shoulder. “Was that really him, Dr. Wycliffe?”

US-2 had to add, “Yeah, was that really him? Neither of us could see a damn thing all night.”

Dr. Wycliffe, while holding the infant in his arms, took a deep breath and then felt for something in his upper pocket. He took out a small, silver flask that flashed their faces. He unscrewed the cap then took a quick mouthful and held it. With closed eyes beneath his foggy glasses, he swallowed in relief. His small drink gave him food for thought. Finally he nodded, then grabbed US-1’s towel to dry his face next. “You mean you two never saw him before? That was he, my boys.”

He then wiped off his spectacles while he whistled a soft tune. As the cockpit began to warm up a little more, he slowly moved to click on the small metal blade fan in front of him. “
Ahhh
, that’s better.” He closed his eyes to let the warm
breeze dry his face while US-1 and US-2 looked at each other as if they were not going to let him off the hook quite so fast. “Why do you call him Wolfe?”

“Yeah, why is he Wolfe? Is it a code name like ours?”

Dr. Wycliffe carefully put his spectacles back on then took another small sip, with no apparent hurry to answer their curious query. He squinted swallowing again. His comrades’ stares weren’t going away, so he looked back at the two of them and shook his head, smirking. “Because that’s his name. I think deep down, he sees himself as a wolf.”

US-1 rebutted, “But I thought—”

“You thought nothing…I’m in command here. He chose you two, didn’t he? Give the dead man what he wants, for God’s sake.”

Dr. Wycliffe quickly explained, “Okay, now, as hard as it may be for both of you, I’m qualified to be in charge—fully. First, let me start by saying that you should call me ‘Doc.’ I don’t feel like being too formal anymore. Second, stop thinking this mission is too big—even though it is.” He muttered to himself, “Christ O’Mighty,
this is big
. What am I saying? Erase what I just said…do your job as if it is the most important thing in the world.”

US-1 and 2 both nodded. “Yes, Doc.”

“Okay, Doc, no problem.”

Doc went on, “My first line of business…US-1 is the midshipman—”