Operation Wolfe Cub: A Chilling Historical Thriller (THE TIME TO TELL Book 1) (20 page)

Lieutenant saluted. “Yes, sir!”

Captain Nelson then went back to scanning with his binoculars. “I see them,
ha!
More speed. I want more speed. Tell engineering to give me more speed.”

Another subordinate stepped around the corner. “Engineering says we’re maximum last checked—twelve knots, sir.”

Nelson looked like he had just tasted a lemon. “What? For God’s sake…our stuffed hull doesn’t weigh a thing. It’s not like we’re carrying iron ore. See what you can do.”

“Right away, sir. Sending commands to increase speed to more than maximum levels.”

Nelson turned to another official standing there. “Did dispatch get any more responses back from this,
uh
, fishing boat called the,
uh
,
Blessit
?”

“No, sir…she reported only machine gun fire and nothing else.”

Nelson resumed. “
Hmmm
, they surfaced on her with fifty calibers…my guess is they didn’t want to waste their torpedoes on her.” He kept on, “That pisses me off! Poor fishermen…
hmmm
, wonder if anyone’s still alive.”

The lieutenant pointed. “Getting within range, sir.”

Nelson mused, “
Hmmm
, can’t quite…there we are. I see two vessels now. Targets confirmed. We got them. Prepare for a full starboard attack. Tell our sea scouts on guns and depth charges to be prepared. Stand by to drop concealments—ready to engage on my command.”

The lieutenant took off again, yelling, “Gun crews…man the turrets! Man the machine guns! Concentrate starboard side! Standby to drop camouflage! No drill! I repeat…no drill!”

Ironic as it was, there was a calm breeze floating in the peace and quiet of the ocean just then. As far as the eye could see, the idle weather seemingly wished to be the only spectator over the vast area that would soon be the setting for an impending battle.
“To hell with it”
may have been one primitive way to say what was to come about. The gap of tranquility was nothing but a short promise that couldn’t be kept. Peace was but a small fraction.

And so it began on that wistful, calm day in the Atlantic in which the weather, did not interrupt. At both ends of the tormenting expectation of slaughter were two completely different vessels with completely different missions—to achieve the ultimate goal they shared in common. What remained to be seen would lay itself deep within the pages of censored history.

One side had hundreds of combatants scrambling across their decks, aboard “the unsinkable,” while the other side contained the far-fetched mechanics of a dream. A dream protected by one lone warrior who seemed to be barely motivated.

US-2 was the one. A real name might have given him honor, but just two letters and a digit was all they had given him. His fate looked to be tied up blindly as a massive dagger in disguise. He was taking his time kicking back and enjoying his cigarette, when a small, shadowy speck of his
assailant crested over the seascape directly behind him. Unsurprisingly, the speck didn’t stay small for long. For the first time, the U.S.
Chameleon
grew into full, naked sight while US-2 was mindlessly carrying on with his carefree attitude.

He didn’t notice several things. Something should have reminded him why he was there and surfaced above the water in the first place. When he nonchalantly glanced down to his fuel level gauge, he quickly awakened to the realization of why he was there.

Suddenly he jarred himself up from his chair and took several glances before he discovered the pod was still barely a float. Without wasting further time, he floated the vessel over to it for a quick refueling, but as he stood up in his cockpit, he gasped. To his utter shock, the barely-floating pod quickly sank out of sight, leaving only bare bubbles of where it once was.

“What the…? Wu-what happened?” He muttered as he jumped up on deck to challenge his disbelief. When he found his predicament to be true, he stomped in circles then burst in curses, “Swine-dirty-ass, Doc! I should…I’m dead shit! I’m out! Outta petrol! Son of a
bitch
! So mad I could… I’m sunk! My hatch is broke! The damn thing sunk! Like they said it would!
Son
of a—
shit
! I’m dead. That’s it. I’m dead! Should’ve stayed back home! I should’ve stayed—home!”

He yelled up into the sky, “
Raaaah! RAAAAH!
”

Surprisingly, in the midst of his powerful paroxysm, he calmed down. Perhaps a little unintentional stage fright was his dampener. Somehow, he intuitively gathered that someone had been watching him lose it. He tried to grow eyes in the back of his head. That didn’t do any good, so he jerked around, his eyes widening.

Sure enough, he was being watched. The baby he so fondly named “Junior Lieutenant” locked onto him with shocked eyes that wouldn’t blink. Not only that, he looked to be puckering up for a long-lasting cry.

US-2, for the most part, drew a soft concern for his poor, unintended spectator. Quickly, he traded his temper tantrum for a strong, sympathetic mix of wilting guilt. As he looked down and out, thinking in the middle of an unforgiving ocean of pain, he began tapping his foot as the baby began to cry.

Finally, he got a grip on what to do next. Slowly, he opened his arms, while waving nervously to the baby. “No—no, you didn’t see that. Don’t worry. That’s right.” He went on, “Don’t be like me when you grow up…there’s others nicer than me—really. I’m a bad boy, okay? I’ll say it first. Good, you understand now. I can figure us out of here. Watch me, okay? I’m figuring it out right now…just give me some time—to figure this out. That’s all I need.”

On the cusp of his very tiresome explanation, he looked around at the vast area of the ocean before catching his first sight of what was upon him a mile or two away. The U.S.
Chameleon
was steaming along like an ordinary business day.

At first he was startled, but then he calmed down quickly. Nothing more could really be seen of her, other than she was a massive, domestic cargo ship headed directly for him. To help him further identify her, she turned broadside and show all of her utilitarian shape at the last minute.

US-2 jumped back into his cockpit and then jumped into the center captain’s chair, which thoroughly entertained his junior lieutenant enough to stop crying. He brought his optical over his eye to study his potential visitor. What he saw through his crosshairs caused him to balk, “
Pfffff
, just a cargo ship, Junior Lieutenant.” He balked again, “
Pfffff
…she looks like she’s fifteen hundred meters away…
hmmph
. Wonder why the crew’s running around on deck very fast?”

He picked his teeth as he kept scoping them out. “Maybe they got to go shit. No, maybe they’re hauling shit.” Suddenly, he became serious. “
Hmmm
…why did she turn so fast and stop?”

Sightseeing became less entertaining, so he yawned and casually backhanded his optical away from his face. For the moment, scratching his side seemed like the comfortable thing to do.

Next on his agenda was hardly war-inspiring but productive, nevertheless. He gave his junior lieutenant a change of diaper and a fresh bottle. These priorities alone might have caused anyone to think or practically faint in disbelief.

The eeriness of the irony continued with all the audacity of shock and awe as the two vessels came together for a battle over peace. The so-called cargo ship, without cargo inside, was ready for war. Carrying hundreds of warriors aboard who were pretending to be workers. She was a true “chameleon,” all right. At least the members of
their
crew were not changing diapers like the single crewmember aboard the US
Wehrwolf
, which was not made in the United States.

Back on board the U.S.
Chameleon
, Captain Nelson looked through his binoculars as steady and still as a statue, locked on the little black figure of the US
Wehrwolf
. His lips grew wide with pleasure as he muttered, “The poor bastards don’t even know who we are.”

He pulled his binoculars down, grappling for a moment. Then he turned to his lieutenant as if he were befuddled. “I don’t know what it is for sure. Looks kind of like a U-boat—I guess. The thing’s got
wings
. What in the hell can you make of it? Go on, take a look.”

The lieutenant took the binoculars from his hands. “It’s got to be a new kind of German submarine, sir…it’s not from our side. That I know for sure, sir.”

Nelson took his binoculars back and tried twisting for more magnification, but the whole picture started to look even fuzzier. “
Hmmm
…looks like new camouflage too. It’s beat up…
those damn Germans
. They’re always coming up with new crap.”

He yanked down his binoculars, glaring. “I bet it’s a newer version of their Type VII subs. Look at that…they even tried to make it look like a whale with that fin sticking up.
Ah ha
! I can see the barnacles! Jeesuuus Christ, what the hell’s next?”

The lieutenant added, “I heard they’ve come up with Foo Fighters too, sir.”

“Foo Fighters? I heard-a-those…thank God they’re not for real.”

Nelson looked through his binoculars again. “The fishing boat next to them looks lame…they’ve gotta be dead by now. Wonder why they didn’t sink her? They always finish their jobs…you sure this vessel didn’t have any communications?”

“Positive, sir.”

The chief of guns rushed up to Captain Nelson, gasping, “We’re starboard full, sir—and close enough to engage, sir.”

Nelson tried rubbing the perplexity away from his face when he noticed everyone around was watching him. “
Hmmm
… my ass’ll be in the frying pan if the President finds out we sunk that fishing boat. Can you shoot around the civilian craft with your gunnery and not screw up?”

The chief of guns nodded. “Why, yes, sir! They’re Navy recruits, sir.”

Nelson replied, “What’s that got to do with it?”

“They came off the U.S.S.
Taft
destroyer ‘bout a week ago, sir.”

Nelson grinned. “Oh, I see, experience. Good, then do it…it’ll be them on the line, not us. Drop concealments and commence firing first rounds, but
don’t
hit the fii shing boat!”

The chief of guns darted down off the bridge, calling out loud, “Sea scouts! Drop concealments! Avoid the friendly! Commence firing first rounds, black watercraft only! Black watercraft only!”

Aboard the US
Wehrwolf
, nothing seemed too exciting still. US-2 tossed a dirty diaper overboard and wiped
his hands clean, when suddenly he heard something. The unmistakable whizzing sounds of ammunition flying by overhead. “
Awh!
What?”

Just as he heard big booms of cannon fire a second or two after, he shoved his optical back up to his eye for another quick peek at the unsuspecting ship. “What? Noooo….it’s a—it’s what? Those
swines!
It’s a battleship! Son—of a—lying
hurenshohn!
”

Several more huge rounds whizzed by overhead, clearly missing their mark before blasting the waters nearby.

US-2 reached for his pack of cigarettes, but the pack was empty. “
Hurenshohn!
” On the fll oor, he found another pack, but it was empty too. “
Hurenshohn!
” Immediately he moved on without them, buckling himself into his chair, when he saw the silver flask lying below his feet. Before one could say “cheers,” he grabbed it up and slammed the whole thing down and tossed it out his new convertible-topped vessel. “
Hmmm
. Good taste…breeze in my face.”

Instantly, he wielded the brass cranks until he lined his aim up his assailant. Close aim got a little closer as he flipped over his crosshairs. What came next should have been to pull the trigger and fire back, but not for US-2. Instead, he clinched his jaw suddenly feeling cruel. Then he turned red. Something was about to detonate inside his veins, and it did. He looked just short of turning psychotic. The crazy man screamed—then lay on his trigger.

“
Yaaauugghh!
”
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

After yanking for all he was worth, a barrage of mettle hornets spewed out the Zwilling Twins, boiling with recoil, pausing only for a second round:

“
YAAAUUGGHH!
”
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

In the meantime, his band of bullets ruled the roost. Ridiculous numbers of lightning rounds littered the sky, sending the red-hot signal that someone would surely die today. The only sign of his despair was the sluggish rocking
of recoils in his chair. He kept rocking the entire time. With the kind of delivery he was hooked into, he was getting his high from being an all-out manic.

However, the shock of his wartime world came and went as emptiness ratcheted through his finger.

Click, click, click
.

His twins were empty. Quickly, he switched his pistol grip, muttering, “It’s not over, you fake bastards! I’ll show you fake…take this!” He yelled into both auto cannons, “
YAAAUUGGHH!
”

Booof, booof, booof, booof, booof, booof, booof, booof!

In the wake of US-2’s seemingly endless assaults, the U.S.
Chameleon
received his answers in a very destructive way. Almost everything had met its target on the decks, leaving enough smoke to choke an elephant. Flames quickly burst, both big and small. Minor vessel damage was what they should have prayed for. What swept over the decks afterward was pure panic and peril. Those who were sorry enough not to return fire were literally spread out on the deck or dead.

The U.S.
Chameleon
looked as though she was changing, once again. Guns and munitions were quickly exchanged for water buckets and stretchers, as her mercenaries quickly turned to firemen and nurses.

Captain Nelson was safe behind three plates of solid steel wall, however. He lay face down, feeling just how hard and cold the deck really was against his cheek. He seemed to be gripping for memories of the last time anything similar had happened to him. Somber states of humility would kiss him good-bye if he didn’t move or act. It took a while before he became furious; fragments of thought as he realized what didn’t seem right. He knew he couldn’t just lie there, so he got part way up to his elbows and bellowed, “That’s no U-boat! What the hell is it?!”