Meanwhile, Max had found out the major's name was Ezekiel Templar and that he was from Texas. During the major’s many visits they made small talk as best they could and, in the process, became better acquainted with each other. Max was fascinated with anything to do about the American West, so Ezekiel obtained numerous Western novels by Zane Grey, Max Brand and Will James printed in German, for the Luftwaffe officer to read during his convalescence.
During their many conversations Max would work on his English and Ezekiel would struggle in like form in German. The two men had many of the same interests: flying, hunting, literature and most importantly, an abiding faith in a Higher Power above. In this a deep, lifelong friendship was being born. From others at the base hospital, Max learned that his American counterpart was a well-regarded pilot himself who had flown numerous B-17 bombing missions over Germany. Max wondered if Ezekiel Templar saw the same irony in that as he did.
Several weeks later Major Templar was standing in the headquarters of his commanding officer, Colonel George Hapshell. They had already gone over a litany of subjects having to do with day-to-day operations at the base, as well as needed decisions about personnel and some swapping of the latest rumors. Now the two men were reaching the juncture of their meeting that had been forefront in both minds: What could they, or would they, be able to do for their former Luftwaffe enemy who had likely saved four American lives in the risking his own.
"I want to do the right thing by him, Zeke" said the colonel, pouring himself and Ezekiel a cup of hot black coffee. He handed a steaming mug to the major, who sipped lightly at the contents. "What he did at that crash scene is all over the Allied Sector."
Hapshell motioned Templar over to an overstuffed leather chair and seated himself in an identical facing twin. "If he was one of my men" he continued, "I'd put him in for some sort of commendation like the Soldier’s Medal."
"I think he already has plenty of medals, Colonel" observed Ezekiel.
"Yeah, the Knight’s Cross with Silver Oak Leaves," mused Hapshell. "I’d have to work hard to beat that, wouldn't I?" The colonel paused, leaning forward and looking intently at Ezekiel. "You've gotten to know him well, Zeke, what do you think? What can we do for this man?"
Ezekiel looked straight back at Hapshell and said, "Give him a job."
"A job?" asked the colonel, half incredulously. "What kind of job do you have in mind, Zeke?”
"Well sir, we both know the Germans possessed some very technologically advanced weapons, and they conducted numerous experiments and studies into the feasibility of others. We already know something about the V1s and V2s, as well as those Messerschmitt jet and rocket fighters we came into contact with late in the war. But what we don’t know would likely fill volumes and could be used against us by somebody else in the future.”
A troubled countenance settled on the colonel’s features. "You’re right about that, Zeke. It's a big concern for most everyone in the upper echelons of command. Evidently the Soviets have been running ops to snap up German scientists, and whatever plans and equipment having to do with that technology. I would suspect we’re doing the same thing."
Ezekiel Templar shifted his weight in the oversized chair and leaned forward. "Sir, I really think that Max Grephardt could help out substantially in that regard."
“Hmmmm?” the colonel questioned, caught about half off guard.
“Think about it, sir. He could open doors and reach people in ways we never could. Not more than a year ago his photograph was on the cover of all sorts of German magazines, lionized as a true son of their Fatherland and the only one of five brothers having survived. He was a hero, their hero, who fought for them with everything he possessed. They will remember that.”
Hapshell placed his righthand fingers on his chin in thought, rubbing it slightly as he considered the idea. "I understand what you’re saying, Zeke and agree with the potential of it. But the big question is, will he?" reasoned the colonel. "That's an awful lot to ask of a man. He might even see it as betraying his own country.”
"Or maybe saving it," rejoined Ezekiel. "Colonel, Max Grephardt and I have had some serious conversations on this subject. He and many others like him have long considered communism as the biggest threat to their homeland, and they still do. That is why they fought so hard against the Soviets, and why everyone who could came west when the Third Reich collapsed."
"You feel that strongly about him, Zeke?” queried Hapshell. “Because if I go along, we could both end up as some politician’s whipping boy over this."
"Yes sir, I do. Max Grephardt is an intelligent, brave and resourceful man. More so, he is a patriot. Not only for his country but for the entire human race. He proved that the moment he ran through those flames to get to our people.”
Ezekiel could see he had Hapshell thinking, considering both sides of a fairly big decision. The Texan bulled ahead, pushing his point.
“Sir, the way I see it is this. If the German people, who were so well educated and so steeped in Western civilization could be so badly misled so quickly, then the very same thing could happen in our own country. We are not immune to what occurred here. All it would take is the right crisis, the right faction and the right fiend to take control. It’s the oldest and most dangerous political con game known, give us your freedom and we will give you order and safety.
“In many ways there was very little difference between Hitler and Stalin. Both had the same goals, told the same lies and used the same ruthless tactics to achieve those goals. In the end, that’s probably why they hated each other so much. Grephardt believes firmly that Stalin will now try to swallow this entire continent whole, if we just stand aside and let it happen."
Ezekiel Templar paused and studied the half empty cup in his hand, choosing his words. "What’s more, Colonel, I tend to agree with him. If we don’t take action and do something now, we’ll be over here in another twenty-five more years, fighting in another world war."
He stopped again before looking his commanding officer square in the eye and adding, “And honestly, I really don’t know if humanity can survive a third one.”
"That could be construed as dangerous talk against a valued ally in our recent war, major." Hapshell stood and made his way to a nearby window, staring out for a few moments as he pondered Ezekiel’s words.
"Our world is currently in a giant mixmaster, Zeke, even as we try to figure out what to do next. Washington wants us to roll out the red carpet for the Communists and placate them in any way possible. Cripes, we both know what happened to Patton when he made the mistake of being honest about our Soviet ‘friends.’ That remark about kicking their butts back into Russia and making it look like they started it just about finished him."
The Colonel paused again and then remarked. "Maybe the wrong words and the wrong methods but right in regard to what the Communists have in mind, same as suspicioned by your German friend. Washington may not like it and the American people may not even know it yet, but the Soviet Union will be the next great threat that we’ll have to deal with. It’s already beginning and we’re going to need all the help we can get."
Hapshell turned and looked at Zeke, saying “I think I know where to place a bug in the right ear and I'm fairly certain they'll go for it. When I get the word, we’ll see if we can make your man a job offer."
Ultimately, the word did make its way back from higher authority and when asked Max Grephardt jumped at the opportunity. In short order he had gathered like-minded former German military officers around him, selected from the detainees at his camp as well as others. Each were meticulously investigated and vetted, not only for any past Nazi sympathies but also for anything the Communists might offer or could use against them.
Once chosen, this developing cadre was formed into operational units that were paid, equipped and led by Allied intelligence organizations. Ezekiel Templar, chafing at the bit to be a part of this, managed to have himself detached from air operations and into one of these teams.
Coincidentally, or likely more on purpose, he ended up in the same highly successful group that Max was working in.
Furthermore, it became the opinion of all concerned that Ezekiel Templar was not only a first rate combat pilot, but also had a natural inclination for intelligence work. With additional training and experience, the former bomber commander became an exemplary asset to whatever mission he happened to be involved in.
In those years much good work was done and a great deal of trust was fostered, trust that would be proven time and again in the years and decades to come. Friendships, both institutionally as well individually, were forged and fortified that would last a lifetime.
A new chapter was written in European history and although there were setbacks, disappointments, and lives lost, the next war that Ezekiel Templar warned of never came. In preventing yet another great cataclysmic conflict far worse than the two prior, men like he and Max would have their names printed large in the pages of that particular ledger.
Yet some of those setbacks, disappointments and lives lost weighed very heavily in the personal memories of Max Grephardt. At times between their intelligence endeavors and for many years afterward, Max would sometimes drive from Frankfurt and get as close to the border as he dared. The Iron Curtain had fallen on Eastern Europe and Germany itself was divided into two different, opposing factions.
Across the heavily guarded line sat his old home now located in East Germany, a puppet government propped up and ruled by the Soviet Bear. He would sit there for hours and gaze toward the Werra, remembering better times before the entire world went stark, raving mad.
Each time he promised himself that someday he would return. Vadi, Mamma and the rest of his family were gone, but there was still a church that needed to be rebuilt and a generational past that needed reclaimed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ezekiel Templar lay in the shadows of the store room, unconscious and groaning occasionally in the way that only a suffering man could. He had lapsed into a deep sleep brought on by the pain medications, but then was partially roused from his slumber by a blossoming fever that kept his mind in a state of disjointed, fitful dreaming.
But they weren’t really dreams at all, they were nightmares. For in them he was back in the war, once more leading formations of Flying Fortresses against the enemy. However, this time the aerial armada he was part of had Nazi insignias and were being targeted against American cities.
Messerschmitt 109s and Focke Wulf 190s, painted with American emblems and unit designators, would rise in a forlorn attempt to stop the incoming hordes of heavy bombers arrayed in their combat boxes. But there were far too few defenders to stem the continuing aerial onslaughts. The bombers would drone on and deliver their payloads upon the helpless civilian populations below, over and over again.
Far worse was what the massed formations of bombers were dropping. It was no longer high explosives or incendiaries, but rather every sort of sinister chemical or biological weapon known to man. They would make their runs, return to base, and go out yet once more as if they were part of a huge conveyor belt carrying devastation beyond description. There were no military targets, no complexes of industrial importance nor areas of strategic value. Each mission was specifically targeted only against the civilian populations, who died in hideously indescribable ways by the hundreds of thousands.
In his fevered mind’s eye a man stood in the background above it all, waving his hands about and speaking to adulating crowds who cheered him on. His form was masked in dark shadow and his face was indiscernible. Even if the language he used could not be understood, his manner and inflection were eerily effective in preying upon the gamut of raw emotions emanating from his mesmerized audience.
He spoke earnestly, passionately, and the millions who listened to him would begin marching in every direction on the dial of a compass. They would continue on purposefully in the form of the military goosestep, holding their right arms up and forward in salute to the man who spoke so forcefully and eloquently. Their lines were ruler straight, each a perfect reflection of the others to either side as well as to the front and behind.
They would march in robot-like precision until they came to the waiting fleets of heavy bombers, which sat on airfields amazingly large in size stretching as far as the eye could see. Amid the countless ranks he could see himself marching alongside the others as if in a deep trance, knowing that what he was doing was beyond reprehensible but unable to stop himself all the same. He would climb into the pilot’s seat, the engines would begin turning over one by one, and he and those with him would set out on yet another mission of mass murder.
All the while the sky grew a more lurid shade of red and the man, the one who controlled them all like some diabolical master of puppets watched their activity from afar, never stopping in his endless speech. No matter where they were going or how far, his presence loomed over the vast armada of killing machines and filled the heavens above them. When the bombs would drop the man would cease talking and gesticulating just long enough to smile widely and then hug himself in some sort of twisted self-rapture.
Then he would begin to speak again, faster and more emphatically. As he did so, his features became more distinguishable. He was in a uniform and was a person of rather small, frail stature with would have been, in another circumstance, a somewhat comical Chaplinesque moustache. In Ezekiel’s personal nightmare, the figure became distinct enough to identify the man so idolized by the adoring crowds as the one they called ‘Der Fuhrer,’ the demented, murderous leader of Nazi Germany who loomed so large in so many other people’s nightmares. It was the monster known to the world as Adolph Hitler.
But then another change came over the figure, it grew even larger and more ominous. The man, the uniform and everything around him slowly dissolved into multiple hues of red, purple and black, and the image of Hitler gave way to another form that could only be that of Satan himself. Through the transformation the voice continued on unabated; exhorting, encouraging, ordering and sometimes even using assorted threats to keep the masses focused on their horrifying, soul numbing task.
The cheering became ever wilder and more clamorous, as if the minds of a half billion people slipped the twin moorings of both sanity and common decency, and slid into the bottomless depths below. The visage, the prince of the power of the air who commanded it all began to transform again, and this time took on the features of the one known to Ezekiel Templar as Yahla al-Qassam.
Qassam…
The thought of the man, along with the mental image of the sinister shape in the nightmare, brought him to full consciousness. Ezekiel’s eyes fluttered open and he shifted his body abruptly without thinking, bringing forth shooting pain from his injured leg.
But he had to stop Qassam.
Ezekiel’s sudden movement startled the guard standing at the open doorway, who had apparently been watching the old colonel for some time now. He spoke quickly in Arabic to someone else in the adjoining room, which was followed by a brief pause and the sound of another voice giving out commands in return. It sounded like Qassam.
The Hezbollah guard remained at the door as one of the other terrorists stepped in, carrying an orange medical bag and a large canteen bladder. He walked over to Ezekiel and knelt down while reaching into a side pocket. Palming several pills in his right hand, he forced them into Ezekiel’s mouth and then held it shut until the old man managed to swallow them. Then the Shi’a allowed the elder Templar a long, greedy swig out of the water container. Ezekiel took in all that he could, trying to wash the bitter taste of the pills from his mouth and quench the desert-like thirst that permeated his body.
After allowing him to take his fill, the Lebanese turned his attention to Micah and Max. He checked them both over briefly, as if he was getting a quick determination of their physical health and condition. Surprisingly enough, he let them drink some water out of the bladder also.
It was wet, cool and immensely satisfying. Micah looked up as h
e took the proffered canteen and noticed the man’s eyes glowering at him with a cold and bitter hate. Evidently the terrorist was only carrying out orders, and he did not like them. For his part Micah really did not care, just as long as he could get a drink of water and that the Lebanese were looking after Tio Zeke.
Abruptly the terrorist jerked the container away and recapped it. Then he moved over and did the same for Max. Still scowling at Micah, he gathered up the medical bag and stood back up. Taking one last disdainful look at his hostages the Lebanese walked out the doorway, passing the guard without so much as a word.
Micah shifted around a bit, taking care as to not put any pressure on the handcuffs clasped around his wrists. He still had the idea of escape firmly on his mind, and of throwing the biggest monkey wrench he could come up with into the intricate machinery that made up Qassam’s scheme. Thinking back, it was just as well the restraining devices had not been removed when Tio Zeke was shot with that .25 Beretta. The terrorist leader had been correct in thinking that Micah might have been entertaining other thoughts than in helping his uncle.
And if Micah Templar knew nothing else in this world, he knew himself and what his personal weak points were. He also knew the sum total of those weaknesses was headlined by a quick, sometimes all-consuming temper. For most of his adult life he had worked hard on controlling it, yet that temper had gotten away from him in the other room and nearly flared to a full boil.
As an experienced and self-aware man who had been between a rock and a hard place a few times before, he knew that when one allowed himself to become that angry, one quit thinking rationally. He also knew that such an essential failing could mean the loss of an argument, an advantage or even somebody’s life.
Micah settled back, considering again his situation and possible options. They had to put Qassam and his bunch out of commission, that much was obvious. Whatever it took or whatever the sacrifice, fate had left them with no other choice.
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