For anyone who loves Gibbs' dad, Walter Beck is the German pilot who helped guide Jackson Gibbs back to Allied friendly base. Season 11, Episode 7, "Better Angels".

1944
WAR-TORN EUROPE

As the sun began to slowly sink below the horizon, the solitary twin-engine bomber made steady progress along the Baltic coast. Its pilot, Walter Beck, was well aware that twilight was the only safe window of flight for the Luftwaffe. Too late for the enemy's daytime patrols and too early for their night-fighter equivalents. Beck made an adjustment to his flight pattern as he flew on, using a free hand to light a cigarette. The Heinkel 111 he was flying was rapidly becoming something of rarity. This model had been one of the most abundant bombers at the outset of the war, but High Command's desire to channel their limited available resources into the development of new and untested aircraft designs meant that the heavy losses their existing bomber fleet had suffered were not being addressed.

His superiors had somehow found out about him helping that American P-51 pilot and had revoked him from combat duty, sticking him with operating as a test pilot. Though Beck was sure with the tide turning against the Fatherland, that would not last long and he would be called back to active combat soon.

"Oh, sorry Lieutenant Beck," he play-mocked his superiors as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "We are soooo sorry. The Americans are kicking our arses and we need you back at the front. Fucking pricks, punish me for not wanting to kill helpless prey... A man... A human just like me. Fighting for a leader he more than likely didn't vote for..."

Beck thought back to that lone American at D-Day. Piloting a P-51 damaged beyond all reason. Beck had shot down P-47s with tougher armor that had taken less damage than this particular American. He was helpless. Alone, lost, compass broken and more than likely out of ammo. Beck would not have been brought up on charges if he had shot down the American. Even if Germany lost the war and her leaders were charged with war crimes, Beck knew they all would swing, the Allies wouldn't prosecute him for downing an enemy air combatant, wounded or not. But Beck lost interest in getting another kill when he saw the fear, desperation and hopelessness in the American pilot. He couldn't kill that man. He was a human. Just like Beck. Flesh and blood. With hopes and ideals, fears and failures. He probably had a girl at home waiting for him, hoping the war could end so they could have a family.

The bomber he was now transporting from one side of Germany to the other was destined for modification in order to drastically expand its operational range. This was an unfortunate necessity, as the airfields which had originally been taken by the Wehrmacht as it had surged across Europe during the opening months of the war had slowly fallen back into enemy hands.

He flew on, the light outside the cockpit gradually fading, nurturing a growing sense of unease. Beck allowed himself one last look around, scanning for enemy fighters and searching for visual landmarks to take a bearing from. He wondered if he would catch sight of that American pilot. Would he remember Beck and let him go in return of the favor... He then glanced down to consult the map that rested upon his right leg.

By his flashlight and the dim overhead lighting, he reckoned that he was now passing somewhere to the south of Lubeck, continuing into the province of Mecklenburg. He was taking a second look at the map when the whole cabin was suddenly saturated by blinding white light. For about two full seconds, Beck couldn't see a damn thing, raising his hand to block the source that was blinding him. After the light had faded, he was shocked to see a gigantic cloud rising into the air off to starboard.

"Was ist los..." Beck whispered. He watched for about a minute, hypnotized, as it swelled into a huge mushroom shape. Then, all of a sudden... he was hit by a huge shockwave. It slammed him back into his seat, the control column violently yanked out of his grasp and the plane veered off to port as if it had been swatted by a gigantic open palm. The cigarette dropped from Beck's mouth as he struggled to get his bearings and grasp the yoke again. He was on the verge of descending into an unrecoverable dive, but Beck was somehow, through luck, skill and determination, able to both regain control and not soil the only good pair of underwear that he had.

This was not the first time he had found himself fighting to keep a plane in the air, but as he finally managed to level the Heinkel out, he was stunned by what he could now see out of the cracked cockpit windows. Approximately ten miles away from his position, the huge mushroom-shaped cloud now filled the sky. From Beck's experience as a bomber pilot, he deduced it was the pressure wave mitted from this enormous blast that had nearly turned the bomber into his own screaming-metal death trap. Gripping the control column firmly, he banked his aircraft towards the billowing cloud to see if he could determine what had caused such a massive explosion.

As he flew closer, the bomber's electrical systems started to malfunction. Beck tapped at his compass, but the shattered glass from the shockwave made the compass unreadable. He reached for the radio.

"Berlin, come in Berlin," Beck tried to sound off. He knew he was breaking protocol by not obeying radio silence but given the circumstances, that wasn't a priority. "This is Leutnant Walter Beck, JG-52. My compass is inoperable. I've seen a huge explosion near Lubeck. Request assistance and orders. Do you read me?"

All Beck got in response was static. Even the radio was inoperable. If I stay on course, I'm a dead man. He decided to turn away and report what he had seen back to base. He noted in a notebook how the cloud had an almost violet-blue hue to it and appeared to be illuminated from the inside by occasional smaller explosions. He also noted the cloud was approximately one kilometer wide. Through his rear-view mirrors, it was apparent that the edges were starting to dissipate after about half a minute, before Beck pushed the throttle to full power and RTB.

Half an hour later, Beck was in Berlin. Still sitting in the cockpit, he was unstrapping his A-11 flight helmet when he noticed two figures approaching. The usual maintenance crew had already gotten to work seeing to the aircraft, but these two seemed to be approaching with purpose. Four stormtroopers were approaching. The officer on the left was your typical officer. As he got closer, Beck could make out Hauptleute, or Captain, insignia. His pants were baggy like a typical officer. The Wehrmacht wore jackboots, but traditionally officers would ride horses and thus wear riding boot, which were taller and closely tailored to the leg. This is why officers in most militaries would wear puffy pants with their tall boots, as a nod to the old officer horse riding tradition. The captain carried himself like a typical, cocky young officer who thought he could win the war on his own. The other one...

"Fuck..." Beck said as a cold shiver went down his spice. Even veterans from the first war feared a visit by the Gestapo. The other man wore officer headgear with a black trench coat, black gloves and dark Gucci shoes. He carried a clipboard under his right arm.

"Leutnant Walter Beck," the military officer called as Beck descended from his aircraft. "I am Captain Brandt. This is Gestapo Inspector Dietrich. We need to speak with you about what you saw."

"What is this about?" Beck demanded. The Gestapo man just looked at the clipboard. Beck could guess it was a dossier file on him. He knew that many of the SS that would stop by would note his lack of enthusiasm with the Fuhrer or the Reich's war. Beck was no traitor. He was honoring his Bavarian family's tradition of military service. "All I did was report what I saw."

"You are not in trouble, Leutnant," Brandt assured him. He gestured for Beck to walk with them, pulling out of a pack of smokes. "Cigarette?"

"Thank you, Major," Beck gladly said. SS, Army, Gestapo or whatever, Beck would never turn down a free cigarette. Even if the Fuhrer offered, he'd accept. It would probably kill him sooner than the enemy or the SS. "We do however have to talk about what you saw. Secrets are the currency of the Fuhrer's profession. We need you to understand the value of secrecy. As you know, the Fuhrer's leadership has allowed the Fatherland to develop weapons such as the new jet fighters."

"The 262?" Beck asked as Brandt lit the cigarette in his mouth with his Zippo lighter. A simple thing invented twelve years ago.

"Correct," Brandt said, motioning Beck to follow alongside him. Dietrich followed silently behind, quietly writing on a notepad. "Of course, we don't just make these weapons and just send them into battle. Obviously, tests must be done. Data gathering, test runs, demonstrations, etc etc. You get the idea. What you witnessed was one of those tests. We can't go into details, but it could turn the tide of the war. And we don't want loose lips accidentally tipping off the British, the Russians or even the Americans. Obviously, we are not accusing you of leaking information, but we must make sure that the enemy doesn't find out."

"That is Captain Brandt's polite way of saying 'If you speak of this to anyone, you will be shot'," Dietrich finally said, to which Brandt could only respond with an exasperated sigh. He ignored a disapproving look from Brandt as he turned away.

"Are all Gestapo men like him?" Beck asked. "Or did I do something to piss him off?"

"No, it's not you," Brandt said, taking a drag. "He naturally has a stick up his ass. I was part of the former Emperor's guard before he died. Deitrich said the same thing to me what he said to you. 'If anything happens to the former Kaiser, you will be shot, Captain'." Brandt looked Beck in the eye. "Leutnant, I saw your record. In regard to the American pilot, I would've done the same thing... Look, just forget what you saw today, and you won't have any problems, all right? For Germany if not the Fuhrer." Brandt leaned in so only Beck could hear. "I honestly have lost a lot of faith in our 'glorious leader'. My time with the Emperor was... enlightening..."

"We're lost pilgrims in an unholy land," Beck said. "Trust me, Captain. I'll keep my mouth shut about this."

Brandt handed Beck his cigarette pack and patted him on the shoulder. "Good man. Good night, Leutnant Beck."

Beck clacked his boots together and saluted, a salute Brandt returned. "Good night, Captain."

2013
DIVIDED STATES OF MURICA

Beck awoke clammy. He thought of calling his nurse as his heart rate threatened to overtake him. But his heart settled after he employed a breathing exercise a physical therapist taught him to deal with panic attacks when PTSD struck him. Beck reached over to his left for the oxygen mask. His hand struggled to find it. It wasn't for the stars and the lights from the machines at his bed, it would be pitch black. The heart monitor screen showed the time was a few minutes past four in the morning. When his hand finally found the familiar mask, Beck brought it up to his face and inhaled purified oxygen as if it was spring water. At his age, it was spring water basically. Beck missed the spring wells of his native Bavaria.

Beck's mind went through his memories. His first memory was his sister pinning him down and tickling him. His most vibrant memory from his childhood was not a pleasant one. He and his sister were reading for their schoolwork at home when they heard a commotion. Flocking to the window, they were stunned to see a whole column of armed men marching through their street. At the very front of the column, in the center was a man. He was almost six feet tall and his facial hair was cut in a peculiar way. He had a slouch hat in hand and the collar of his grey trenchcoat turned up against the cold. To his left and silently behind him, in civilian clothes, a green felt hat, and a loose loden coat was a well-known man. The decorated hero of the battles of Liège and Tannenberg in the Great War, former General Erich von Ludendorff. There were several men Beck did not recognize. They all had a pistol in one hand. Behind them were a marching column of soldiers and armed men in brown shirts. Some were carrying huge red flags with a zig-zag black symbol in a white circle. Everyone had a red armband on their left elbow. They went around the corner and disappeared. Beck could remember going outside to see what they were doing. Maybe it was a parade. But Beck started to realize it was anything but when gunshots started going off. A mere minute later, he saw the man in the trenchcoat, nursing an injured left arm as two men with armbands were rushing him in the opposite direction of which they had come. Beck was stunned to see blood on the man's trenchcoat, though he didn't appear to have been wounded by a bullet. His right hand still carried a Luger pistol. That was when his mother grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back into the house. "If you're father was alive, he'd blister your ass for going out there!" she had told him.

Beck would later deduce that the injured man in the trenchcoat was none other than Adolf Hitler.

His mind went to the time he crushed on that Italian college girl studying in Germany while Beck attended the Luftwaffe Signals School in Salle. Despite both being Catholic, the girl's father, an Italian count, didn't approve of his daughter being with a commoner. He smiled fondly at the memory of the two taking each other's virginity in the barracks. It was her idea to spite her father in the most devious way she could. The old fool never knew.

Beck remembered hearing the news that Germany would invading Poland. He remembered shooting down multiple enemy aircraft, from Polish, to British and French, then Soviet, then finally Americans. He remembered being held as a prisoner after the war's end.

Those memories came regularly. After sixty odd years, he got used to it. But the one memory Beck had done his best to repress and never remember was the night he saw that mushroom cloud and the subsequent Gestapo visit. He had let the Americans write the history books.

The images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki also appeared in his head. The infamous photo of the Trinity test. But Beck knew. He knew the truth. The original discoverers of such raw power did not come from the West...

Beck grabbed the letter to make a final note on it. Jackson Gibbs would believe him.

Jackson Gibbs read through the letter again and again. His heart was in his stomach. The man who saved his life was dying. The German pilot who guided him back to a friendly base didn't have much time left. He had to get Leroy and go to North Carolina. This German was the reason Jackson lived and his only son even existed. Like Leroy, Jackson didn't become a father in his early twenties like most men of both of their generations. Did Beck write anymore? He turned over the letter. At the very bottom was a short sentence. It was written almost as if Beck didn't want anyone else to see the writing.

"You don't know truth about bomb," Jackson Gibbs read out loud. "World most know truth. Come quick. Will explain everything."

Gibbs stared at strange writing. What was Beck talking about? Truth? "Bomb? What the hell?"

Gibbs knew who he had to call. Of all the people who could get to the bottom of this, it was Leroy.

"Leroy..." Jackson said. "It's me. Listen, call me when you can. Some major business is going down."

Eh. I gave it a shot.