The Babylonian Mask

Chapter 6 — Dilemma in the Luftwaffe

“My God, Schmidt! I am the commander, the Inspector of the Kommando Luftwaffe!” Harold Meier shrieked in a rare moment of lost control. “These journalists are going to want to know why the missing airman used one of our combat fighters without permission from my office or the Joint Operations Command of the Bundeswehr! And I find out only now that the fuselage has been recovered by our own people — and hidden?”

Gerhard Schmidt, second in command, shrugged and looked at his superior’s flushing face. Lieutenant General Harold Meier was not a man to lose control of his emotions. The scene playing before Schmidt was highly unusual, but he understood fully why Meier would react this way. This was a very serious matter, and it would not be long before some snooping journalist got their eye on the truth of the escaped airman, a man who had single-handedly made off with one of their million-Euro planes.

“Has Airman Löwenhagen been found yet?” he asked Schmidt, the officer unfortunate enough to be designated to bring him the shocking news.

“No. There no body was found at the scene, which leads us to believe that he is still alive,” Schmidt responded thoughtfully. “But you must also take into account that he may very well have died in the crash. The explosion could have disintegrated his body, Harold.”

“All this ‘could have’ and ‘may have’ talk of yours is what bothers me most. The uncertainty of what ensued from the whole affair is what makes me restless, not to mention that some of our squadrons have men on short leave. For the first time in my career I’m feeling anxious,” Meier admitted, finally sitting down for a moment to give it some thought. He looked up suddenly, staring into Schmidt’s eyes with his own steely gaze, but he was looking further than his subordinate’s face. A moment passed before Meier made his eventual decision. “Schmidt…”

“Yes, sir?” Schmidt replied quickly, eager to know how the commander would save them all from embarrassment.

“Take three men you trust. I need sharp men, in brains and brawn, my friend. Men like you. They must understand the trouble we are in. This is a PR nightmare waiting to happen. I — and probably you as well — will most likely be dismissed if what this little shit managed to do under our noses comes out,” said Meier, going off on his tangent again.

“And you need us to track him down?” Schmidt asked.

“Yes. And you know what to do if you find him. Use your own discretion. If you wish, interrogate him to find out what madness steered him to this stupid bravery — you know, what his intention was,” Meier suggested. He leaned forward with his chin on his folded hands. “But Schmidt, if he even breathes wrong, put him out. We are soldiers after all, not babysitters or psychologists. The collective well being of the Luftwaffe is far more important that one maniacal pissant with something to prove, understand?”

“Completely,” Schmidt agreed. He was not just appeasing his superior, but was genuinely of the same mind. The two of them did not come through years of tribulation and training in the German air corps to be undone by some snot nosed airman. As a result, Schmidt was secretly excited about the mission he was being given. He slammed his palms down on his thighs and stood up. “Done. Give me three days to assemble my trio and from there we’ll report to you on a daily basis.”

Meier nodded, suddenly looking a bit more relieved at the cooperation of a like-minded man. Schmidt replaced his cap and saluted with ceremony, smiling. “That is, if we take that long to resolve this dilemma.”

“Let’s hope the first report is the last,” replied Meier.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Schmidt promised as he left the office, leaving Meier feeling considerably lighter.

Once Schmidt had chosen his three men, he briefed them under the guise of a covert operation. They must keep knowledge of this mission from all others, including their families and colleagues. In a very tactful manner the officer made sure his men understood that extreme prejudice was the way of the mission. He chose three mild-mannered, intelligent men of differing ranks from different combat units. That was all he needed. He did not bother with details.

“So, gentlemen, do you accept or decline?” he finally asked from atop his makeshift podium, perched on a cement elevation in the on-base repair bay. His stern expression and subsequent silence conveyed the weighty nature of the assignment. “Come on, boys, it’s not a marriage proposal! Yes or no! It’s a simple mission to find and exterminate a mouse in our wheat silo, boys.”

“I’m in.”

“Ah, danke Himmelfarb! I knew I chose the right man when I chose you,” Schmidt said, bullshitting his way through reverse psychology to push the other two. Thanks to the prevalence of peer pressure, he was eventually successful. Soon after, the red-haired imp called Kohl clicked his heels in his typical ostentatious manner. Naturally the last man, Werner, had to yield. He was reluctant, but only because he had plans to do a bit of gambling in Dillenburg during the next three days and Schmidt’s little excursion cock-blocked his plans.

“Let’s go get this little prick,” he said indifferently. “I beat him twice at Blackjack last month and he owes me 137 Euros anyway.”

His two colleagues chuckled. Schmidt was pleased.

“Thank you for volunteering your expertise and time, boys. Let me get my intel tonight and I will have your first orders ready on Tuesday. Dismissed.”