Operation Wolfe Cub: A Chilling Historical Thriller (THE TIME TO TELL Book 1) (23 page)

Next, he took a nearby towel out of the cupboard and cleaned off almost everything around him: the blood from his chair, the battered controls, the broken windshield, and finally the banjo steering wheel. He would productively pause now and then for a break as he dialed in the radio for better tuning. Al Dexter’s song called “Pistol-Packin’ Mama” had just ended when the disc jockey announced a sponsor.

“Guard your skin the Hollywood way with Lux Toilet Soap. Nine out of ten stars use it. Sidney Fox, Kay Francis, and Bette Davis. Whichever star you see tonight—Lux Toilet Soap.”

US-2 turned his ear to the radio, as if he had suddenly became befuddled. He almost understood the American language. As proof, he took his cigar from his mouth while piecing the advertisement together with a little German influence.

“Holly who? Toilet?
Ah
, Mr. Holly Hood is the toilet? American idiots.”

Tokes of smoke and German jokes only went so far before US-2 quickly came to notice that yet another potential
problem had seemingly drifted in and there it was. The storm came creeping up easterly from the unsettled clouds. Eerily, it swooped down as it came together to form jaded shades of grays and black. Somehow, it had managed to form itself quite quickly, just then, it broke out from the oceans silence and thundered so loudly it caused US-2 to jump up from his chair.

Out of pure curiosity, he carefully stepped out to the edge of the boat for a better look and there it was in plain view. A barricade had formed across the ocean as far as the eye could see to the north and south. Swiftly, he picked up Junior Lieutenant off the deck and tucked him away while he clicked off the radio. He stared at the seemingly idle storm several miles away for the longest time, waiting for his patience to gave him what he beckoned for.
SsssssKAKAkakaka ka kaaah!

A shrilling noise echoed across the ocean, sending tiny shivers across the surface of the sea.

Rapidly, he grabbed up a pair of binoculars and looked deep inside the storm. No surprise. He couldn’t see a thing except a wall of darkness. He was only looking at a storm, so he put the binoculars back down—but carefully.

He tried to forget about the peculiar sound, but it was too fresh in his mind. Time and again, he turned around to face the storm, but with each passing glance, he grew more determined that whatever he was looking at didn’t feel quite right. Before he headed back into the cabin, he turned back around quickly and yelled, “
YAAUUGHH!
”

Then he calmly stood there, taking a long drag on his cigar. More calmly yet, he blew out his smoke and waited a little longer. The crazy, young warrior was controlled and calculated. The supposed believer of revolts and revelations through awe-inspiring anger was simply testing. Whatever it was, he had no idea. Nothing came echoing back to him, so he blew his smoke straight into the breeze. Perhaps his
answer came blowing back without him knowing it, but something else caught his attention. He stuck his hand out, feeling how unusually warm the breeze was.

What he witnessed next was expected. A few raindrops signaled that it was just a persistent weather front and it was getting a little too close for comfort. The air smelled of rain, so he closed his eyes for a peaceful moment. Normalcy seemed to subdue him once again as he watched a curtain of rain closing in for a downpour. About five miles out it was sure to come soon.

As he turned away, he looked at his watch while swiftly darting onto the captain’s chair to try and figure out how to start the
Blessit’s
old motor. When he had fii gured it out, the exhaust belched black smoke high into the air. This didn’t bother him nearly as much as the low fuel gage sputtering back and forth from a loose connection.

Nevertheless, he left the scene with a trail of black behind as he spoke, “You ready, Junior Lieutenant? Ready to save the world again?”

“I just saved you. Yes,
you
, how about that?”

“You owe me.”

He kept rambling.

“You want to return me the favor?”

“Tell you what…all you do is keep flashing those baby blues for me.”

“When the ladies fall for you, I get to choose the one I want.”

“That’s how you’re going to return my favor.”

“Are you listening to me? Can you say, ‘momma?’ Go ahead, say it…you need to practice.”

As for the old turncoat boat called the
Blessit
, she continued on. Perhaps she really was blessed. Her name at the stern was a confusing one as she was seen floating away on top of peaceful waves as black smoke drifted overhead. Somehow
the letter
I
showed up missing, but the other six wooden letters still hung in there on rusty nails. Anyone might find difficulty in piecing together what she used to be called but for now, she was called
Bless_t
.

Chapter 7

Another evening had passed since US-2 with his single crew of a baby kept barely ahead of bad weather off the coast of the northeastern United States. Coincidentally, the storm following along was one of the first in the United States to ever receive a name.

A new agency known as The Weather Bureau of America, officially called her “Hurricane Victoria.” Not that it mattered, really. She could have been called something else. It was just odd how nothing lined up too truthfully. Some storms were bad, and some were worse. Hurricane Victoria seemed a little more controlled than most in recent memory. The
Bless_t
vessel she seemed to be following was interesting enough, but where they both were going was what nobody fully understood. It was a place that had been troubled since the beginning of Earth’s time, a place riddled in eerie history.

The little coastal town that sat upon this ancient place was called Devil’s Gulch. Sadly, it was a town that caught more than its share of gale-force winds and sideways rain. Waves beat down and ravaged the town’s once long, beautiful, sandy beaches, taking megatons of rock and sand away. It was like some hideous work in progress. To put it bluntly, the coast looked as if it were a storm’s favorite playground, but the forces worked so slowly that hardly anyone noticed.

Plausible causes would be worth mentioning—if there were any. All that was known was that age-old storms seemingly had some grand, master plan to eliminate the land there
altogether. The patience of nature works within the centuries, while human beings work only within their lifetimes.

The people in the small town of Devil’s Gulch, or plain, old “Devil’s,” as they called it, felt quite safe within the milieus of their own lives. This particular time with Hurricane Vicky was just another wicked night. The town was modestly safe. The people seemed to be prepared for her, for hurricanes had happened before.

The resident ancestors were adept at surviving Devil’s young history in America. Locals evolved and learned how to survive there. For almost two centuries, they did so and did it very well. Other than an occasional demonic storm passing by, life seemed to carry on.

There was more of a dark side for those locals who were critically in touch with this ancient place, unfortunately. To some, life at Devil’s might have been called—barely adequate. The cute, quaint, little town, known for its historical storms, was, in fact, charmingly peaceful. One might say it was a place of beauty within the beast. Honestly, it would be an understatement to say the village looked anything less than a living dream—at certain times. Discounting this freakish fact, Devil’s had it all. The sleepy community could have been characterized as inviting.

There were no secrets about its weather. As a reminder, the nasty nor’easter storms slammed down their sledgehammers just to let residents know not to get too comfortable there.

The warning words
caveat emptor
were even placed on an occasional real estate sign here and there for anyone considering this land of the brave. Why this particular, almost free land, had to be slammed so wickedly for so long, no one knew. Indeed, this was the true nucleus of what was so profound. Few newcomers and outsiders knew about the storms, but who cared? To most, that’s just the way it was—as long as the confines of its problems stayed there.

Maybe it was the Gulch area? Maybe it was geography’s angle on the equator, just right for perfect storms? Of course, maybe nobody was willing to believe that Devil’s was like sleeping on a bed of nails. Worse yet, maybe it was the dawn of a nightmare. Maybe the place would get ripped away from the pages of history, where no one would remember. Maybe it had started long before.

Old-timers dating back to the early 1800s grew weary and wise of the periodic assaults staged by the Atlantic. This wariness led the villagers to shelter themselves with bricks as the building material of choice.

The other building material of choice was one that was abundantly affordable from nearby local mines—solid granite. Thankfully, this was a natural defense against the elements. As a result, comfort slipped in through the bricks and mortar and life seemed to change over time. Every so often, the hazardous weather was overlooked because of it. Rightfully so, the beauty of the brick soon overcame the secret about the nor’easter storms and their seeming destiny. Only a very few never forgot, and these few never forgot what their parents had told them. Those who knew, didn’t speak of the storms much. When or if they did, they talked as if a coming storm were just another storm.

So it was that most of the stores, shops, and service buildings were all well-prepared for the nor’easter’s occasional blows. The local courthouse, post office, gas station, craft stores, barber, bank, food stores, physicians, and even the children’s schoolhouse were crafted by the manly hands of masons. Some even used granite bases to give their facades the strongest messages of all. Most all of the main buildings followed along this way, except for one type of building, however. Incidental perhaps, but for some reason, the most faithful of them all did not build their masterful buildings of brick. These were the churches.

Devil’s Gulch had closed down early in anticipation of the storm. The streets were dark and desolate. Soon, the storm swept into town to pay one of its regular visits, though it had a brand-new she-name this time around.

A small piece of downtown still showed some signs of life moving about through the hurling gusts. Up a block from the shorelines being ravaged, a couple of brave business owners were hurrying themselves along, locking up their establishments in the squeeze-packed rack of long, tall, brick buildings.

One fellow standing out in front of his business with a flickering light over his sign, “Port Rock Lobster Restaurant,” was just about ready to leave, when another businessman across the street at the “Bell Light Bar” establishment was having trouble. He fumbled with his keys through the punishing rain. Their intentions were simply to go home to safety like the rest of the merchants already had.

The restaurant owner yelled out across the street to the bartender as he opened the door to his sporty-looking, Hudson Commodore, “Hey, Otter! This one’s a doozy!”

The oddly-named bartender found the right key finally. “What?! I couldn’t get my regulars down here tonight!”

“What? Speak louder!”

“Never mind! What brought this in, you think?!”

The restaurateur cupped his ear. “What?! Yeah, that’s right! Good thing we got rock walls!”

Otter dropped his keys, then fumbled for them again. “
Whaaaaat?!
”

The restaurateur didn’t feel like sticking around, for the wind’s howl was simply getting too loud. He just nodded as he stepped over to his coupe. Unexpectedly, he lost his fedora to a strong gust. Just like that, his hat was too far gone down the street for him to even think about chasing after it. Instead he hopped in his car and drove off in a hurry.

By then, Otter was well on his way too. He ran for the door to his late thirties, shark-nose Graham sedan, jumped in, then sped away.

Right after their departures, the buildings, along with the others connected to them, were left in the dark to fend for themselves. Hardly a single light was left in sight. What little bit of light that was left only showed lonely, wet sidewalks. Nearby, storm drains took in all they could handle from the curbs. Above them was more of the same. Flowing creeks were running down the streets to meet them.

A short time later, the outer rims of Hurricane Vicky came ashore, offering more than a casual visit. By looking hard through the sporadic spectacles of lightning at the street corner, her spotty, twisted shape could be seen. Indeed, she looked mean, hovering out there a mile or so. She was a terrible tempest, all right, breathing heavy with the invisible touch of her twisted winds.

She wasn’t the newcomer into the eastern United States like the brand-new name
Victoria
suggested, however. The storm had started off in Europe and made its way halfway across the world. Now it seemed like
it
was crashing down without invitation on one of its favorite places…downtown Devil’s.

Not too far from where the storm barged in, sat a quaint, white farmhouse on a four-acre clearing surrounded by a fortress of sturdy evergreens. Swinging in the wind at the edge of the farmhouse’s wraparound porch was a wooden nameplate, which could hardly be seen through the rain. The porch light helped out, somewhat. As the name plate swung just right, it showed off the residents’ name “The Coolidge’s.”

Around to the side of the Coolidge’s farmhouse, facing north through the window, was a young, blonde woman, easily seen under her kitchen light. She seemed warm and cozy inside as she did her dishes in the midst of the storm.
Every so often she’d glance out the window, even though she couldn’t see much. It was too black out there. She appeared to be staying nervously busy while the whistling winds and crashing of thunder gave off signs of the disturbance yonder.

SsssssKAKakakaka ka kaaah!

An eerie echo made its way right through the screen of her partially open window.

She jumped and dropped a dinner plate, sending it crashing into pieces all over the floor. Immediately, she slammed the window shut, not thinking of tending to her broken mess. She stood nervously staring out her window instead. With just the thin plate of glass protecting her from the unknown, she kept glancing through it, but still couldn’t see much. In front of her was nothing more than a wet pane of glass that appeared black inside the window frame. When she looked again a little harder, she noticed only her own reflection looking back at her. Her familiar face gave her some comfort, so she went about her business of cleaning up the broken dish on the floor.