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Angels of Chaos
Angels of Chaos
Angels of Chaos
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Angels of Chaos

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Book One in the Path of Angels Series.

Angels of Chaos follows the mission of Dr. Frederick Hoffman to confront and vanquish a mysterious being who appears at key points history to foment chaos and suffering. The first half of the novel is set during the labor wars in Colorado in 1913 and the second half, in Europe during World War II. Hoffman's life is bookended by catastrophic events of cruelty that leave him and the reader contemplating whether evil is a force in its own right, or simply an extension of human ambition.

Dr. Hoffman begins his pursuit of Bahram when he is hired as a negotiator by the Rockefeller family in 1913. After being kidnapped from his hotel by Bahram's men, he is taken to a tent colony housing striking workers, all followers of Bahram. While being detained, he attempts not only to secure his own release, but to diffuse what he believes will soon be a violent showdown between the striking workers and the National Guard. While he manages to escape, he is too late to bring about a peaceful end to the standoff. He blames himself for the resulting bloodshed that includes innocent women and children burned to death in a tent.

After a brief interlude, the story jumps to 1945 and World War II. Bahram has embedded himself within the SS and the Allies send an aged Hoffman with a squad of soldiers on a secret mission to neutralize him. By the time the allies enter Germany, Hoffman is hot on Bahram's trail, his collaborators have a competing side mission to capture German V2 scientists, and he is in a race against time to settle his score with Bahram as atonement for his past mistakes.

The events, characters, and setting of Angels of Chaos are based on meticulous research and first-hand accounts. More importantly, the novel gives voice to ordinary people who find themselves, through no fault of their own, caught up in extraordinary events.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherChris Gerboth
Release dateFeb 29, 2012
ISBN9781476018317
Angels of Chaos
Author

Chris Gerboth

Chris Gerboth lives and works in Denver, Colorado. He holds a BA and MA in history. He has published two previous non-fiction works and edited several manuscripts for publication. The inspiration and voice for Angels of Chaos came following his grandfather's death in 2009 and the subsequent discovery of approximately 200 letters written in 1944 and 1945 from the European theater to his grandmother and other family members.

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    Angels of Chaos - Chris Gerboth

    Part One

    Foreword

    February 20, 1945

    London, England

    Dr. Frederick Hoffman sat despairing in front of his library fire; his arthritic hands and feet aching from the cold, damp air. On the table next to him was a telegram from the Supreme Allied Commander in the European Theater of Operations instructing him to report to an airfield to return once more to the general's headquarters, this time near Paris in war-torn France.

    On his lap he held a scrapbook full of articles telling stories of death and destruction on a massive scale: gas attacks in the First World War, labor unrest, massacres in African villages, the rape of Nanking. In each case, he had spent years searching in vain for information linking them to the reckless chaos espoused by Bahram, and he wondered more than a few times if Bahram or someone like him had, in fact, been present at each catastrophic event.

    He sunk into his chair, unconsciously raising a hand to rub an old scar on his temple. He thought about Andrew McFarland and how, so many years ago now, he had failed him as both a friend and a teacher.

    How he wished, at this moment, he could simply be left alone. It was not just the physical ordeal of travelling that worried him, or even the prospect of being shot down by a German fighter along the way. He had been told that his mission could help hasten the end of the war but, more than death, he feared a reengagement with the being who had stymied him before.

    He could no more not go after Bahram, however, than he could simply put away his scrapbook and let the obsessive mystery of Bahram wither and die. This time, though, he would chase this specter – this agent of malice and hate – on his own terms.

    1

    Correspondence of Dr. Frederick Hoffman

    Denver, Colorado

    February 12, 1913

    Dear Dr. Hoffman,

    I am in receipt of a letter from the Colorado Chautauqua League indicating that you will be traveling from England to the United States and to Colorado to speak on the subject of recent advances in the humane treatment of the insane. As the publisher of one of the leading newspapers in the western United States, I was hoping I could impose upon you to send me a brief biographical sketch, as well as any other particulars you believe would serve to acquaint our readers with your life and work.

    I keenly await your reply and look forward to welcoming you to Colorado and Denver next month.

    Sincerely Yours,

    William Bowles, Publisher

    The Denver Evening Post

    London, England

    February 28, 1913

    Dear Mr. Bowles,

    I am in receipt of your letter of 12 February requesting biographical information on myself along with notes regarding my work. Enclosed please find my curriculum vitae listing my degrees, publications, & etc. I am fortunate to be both a doctor and a lawyer, holding degrees as a doctor of medicine and Juris Utriusque Doctor. I am fluent in English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, and Russian. My chosen profession is that of psychiatrist in the treatment of the severest cases of paranoid and criminal lunacy, the application of which has afforded me the opportunity to speak throughout Europe.

    In addition to psychiatry, I have been engaged by private concerns, as well as government ministries, as a mediator and negotiator. Recently this has led to my appointment in a number of cases involving sensitive issues of commerce between my country and ones in your own hemisphere. As a result, this is not my first trip to America, nor hopefully my last. It will, however, be my first visit to Denver and to Colorado.

    I have taken the liberty of enclosing a photograph (which you may consider publishing), from which you can see that I am of average size and stature with a full head of hair and beard, containing at present more grey hair than black. I am 41 years old and a bachelor, having committed the vast portion of my life to my work rather than pursuing the comforts of home and family. I note as a point of clarification that I consider myself an Englishman, having been raised in London by my German parents; however, most of my education was completed in Germany.

    I do hope that this short letter serves your needs, that the enclosed photograph is suitable, and that neither leaves your readers in wont of details. I have heard that the great Rocky Mountains rival the Alps of Switzerland in both elevation and splendor; I look forward to visiting your fair city next month, and hope that we might have the opportunity to meet personally.

    Until that time, I remain yours truly,

    Dr. Frederick Hoffman, M.D., J.U.D.

    2

    Dr. Frederick Hoffman’s Private Journal

    Aboard NY Central Railway

    March 23, 1913

    Since arriving in America I have had scarcely the time or energy to record my thoughts and experiences of the United States and the gracious and curious reception I have received among her public. Therefore, I note for the record that I arrived aboard HMS Carpathia on March 3 and disembarked on a rainy New York afternoon. Following two days of rest at the Astor, I was taken by auto car to the Apollo Hall for the first in my series of lectures. From there, I traveled to Albany, Buffalo, and Rochester (all in the state of New York) then across the mountains into Ohio, where I attended a physicians’ conference in Canton, before boarding a train bound for Cincinnati, upon which I record these words though near exhaustion. Travel and a middle-aged body remind me that I have not as much stamina or physical prowess as I once enjoyed.

    While still in New York, I received a telegram at the Astor which has left me intrigued and perplexed with regard to what I am to see and do once I reach the Rocky Mountains in about a week’s time. The particulars are these: upon entering the hotel lobby at approximately 10 p.m. (following my lecture and a light supper), I was hailed by the bellman and given an envelope containing a calling card and note from none other than Mr. John D. Rockefeller, Jr. which read:

    Dr. Hoffman, It would give me great pleasure if you would dine with me at my home tomorrow, assuming your travel schedule will allow you to remain in NY an additional evening. Please address your reply to Mr. Simon Van Owen, manager of the Astor, and he will contact my secretary to arrange particulars, etc.

    Having some knowledge of Mr. Rockefeller’s family as one of the most prestigious in New York (and indeed in America), I conveyed a message to the hotel manager’s evening assistant to immediately reply in the affirmative. I then retired to my room understandably curious about why Mr. Rockefeller had taken any interest in my being in New York in the first place, much less what he wished to discuss that would lead him to issue such a hasty invitation.

    I awoke the next morning to find an envelope had been slipped beneath my door sometime during the night. Inside was a hand-written note from Mr. Rockefeller’s secretary, Mr. Nathan Poole. It instructed me to come to Mr. Rockefeller’s home that evening at 7:00 p.m. to dine with him, his personal limousine being sent for my comfortable conveyance from and back to the hotel. Mr. Poole passed on his master’s regrets that Mrs. Rockefeller would be unable to join us due to her being in Rhode Island attending to her ailing father. As to the reason for the request, the note mentioned only that, Mr. Rockefeller is keenly interested in the nature of your work and looks forward to meeting you in person.

    I spent the majority of that day resting until two in the afternoon when Drs. S. Vanduyn and A. Wolfstein of the New York State Asylum joined me in my suite for tea. Having attended my talk the previous evening, they had numerous questions of a general nature, but had also brought several patient dossiers in hopes of receiving consultation on treatment for some of their more serious cases.

    At exactly 6:30, an enormous limousine arrived in front of the hotel. Upon my entering the car, the driver spoke to me through a speaking tube and indicated that we would be arriving at Mr. Rockefeller’s home in about twenty minutes, and to please ring if I required any means of comfort in the interim. The intermittent rain was beginning to move out of the city and the wet concrete reflected the vast array of electric lights that lined the streets, reminding me of home for the first time since arriving. It was a Thursday evening and it seemed the whole of Manhattan Island teemed with life as people began to stow their umbrellas on their way to the subway stations bound, I presume, for home in one of the five boroughs of this great city. The driver navigated through auto and carriage traffic with great confidence and agility, several times bringing us close to what I thought would be certain collision with other drivers. Given the extreme length of the limousine, I was amazed by how much of the front half of the car had to clear a corner before he began the ship-like navigation from one narrow street onto another.

    Upon our arrival at 10 West 54th Street, it was very dark and the rain had resumed. The driver disembarked and briskly walked about the hood of the car to open the door to the passenger compartment, at the same time producing a large black umbrella to shield me from the inclement weather. A few steps later, a butler in formal tails beckoned me into Mr. Rockefeller’s library, relieved me of my overcoat and hat, and bade me wait for his master.

    3

    March 6, 1913

    New York City

    The two-story library shelves stretched upward over Hoffman’s head as he waited in the five-story brownstone in the heart of the city. A crackling fire at one end and three crystal and gold chandeliers made the room a warm and welcoming reprieve from the wind and rain. During his few minutes of solitude, he mentally catalogued the extensive private library. On the ground floor alone he noted a wide range of volumes in the sciences, social sciences, psychology, medicine, current affairs, and history, indicating Rockefeller’s wide range of interests. On a sturdy table adorned with ornamental lamps, he found a copy of his own book, along with a transcribed copy of his medical dissertation.

    His wonder was cut short, however, by the sound of a door in the rear portion of the library. A semi-stocky man dressed in black tie and tails, who appeared to Hoffman to be in his mid-thirties, entered the room. Upon approaching, he thrust his hand out and introduced himself. Welcome to America and to my home, Dr. Hoffman. I am John Rockefeller. Hoffman bowed slightly and introduced himself. I hope you had a pleasant journey from your hotel, Rockefeller said. I apologize for keeping you waiting. He pointed at the volumes on the table. As you can see I have had the privilege of reading some of your work, though my German is a little weak so it took me some time to read your dissertation.

    I am honored you would take any time at all with it, Hoffman said.

    I am very interested in new advances in medicine and the science of the brain, along with a great many other subjects, Rockefeller said. Since my father has been such a good shepherd of our various businesses, I have been blessed with the time and inclination to learn a little bit about a great many things, including your work in England with the criminally insane. When I heard that you would be in New York, I simply had to meet you in person. The entire time he spoke he continued to hold Hoffman’s hand in his. Hoffman was struck by the broad features of his face and, despite the formality of his manner, the sincerity in both his eyes and speech. Tonight I hope to have the opportunity to get to know the man behind the science, Dr. Hoffman, and later, to be perfectly honest with you, I wish to solicit your help in a most vexing matter. But for now, let us please enjoy dinner.

    He released Hoffman’s hand and beckoned toward the door in the back of the library. Hoffman walked in front of him attempting to tread lightly on the wooden floor so as to make himself less obvious. Rockefeller, on the other hand, bounced in his hard-soled shoes with every step – a buoyant character to be sure. Even with his good nature, Hoffman couldn’t help but feel as if he might just become the latest addition to a precocious boy’s butterfly collection.

    They passed through a wood-paneled private office and into a small dining room, roughly fifteen feet on a side, with an oblong table and six chairs. Two waiters in waistcoats moved in on cue to settle them into their respective chairs at either end of the table. I hope you enjoy venison, Dr. Hoffman, as that will be our main course tonight. I have been to hunt in the Adirondacks recently.

    Hoffman was in fact looking forward to experiencing an American preparation of venison. I thank you in advance for what should be a very pleasant meal, he said.

    Preceding the entree was a deceptively simple broth containing potato dumplings. Rockefeller pointed out that the potatoes were brought from South America. No sooner had they finished it, however, the host dispensed with small talk. He rocked gently back into his chair looking toward the chandelier, apparently collecting his thoughts. These are troubled times, Dr. Hoffman, troubled times indeed. You must understand that, in spite of the fact that I have been handed a great fortune, I work very hard. I admit that I have not had to experience the trials of my grandfather, or even my father, but with these advantages, I have inherited a web of interdependencies. I have to constantly worry about interruptions in resource allocation, transportation, and distribution, but the unrest among the laboring classes concerns me the most.

    The waiters hesitated for a moment allowing him to finish. Rockefeller gestured to them to serve the next course, an assortment of cheeses. Appearing oblivious to the plate in front of him, he suddenly appeared crestfallen. I consider myself, Dr. Hoffman, a consumer of men and material, extracting the marginal value out of both. I take their life – their energy – and use it to build skyscrapers not ten blocks from where we sit. Some would say that I have no humanity – that I might as well serve up their children on the menu tonight. He paused. That is why I asked you here tonight.

    Hoffman composed his thoughts for a few moments while he enjoyed a small bite of cheese. I have seen in the course of my lifetime, Mr. Rockefeller, he said, how my own country has changed. I have toured the mines of Scotland and Wales and have been appalled by the conditions of the workers, including the women and children. If it is a confessor you need, I am afraid my qualifications are not quite up to the job.

    I’m a Baptist, Dr. Hoffman, Rockefeller said. We’re not big on confession, and I would not impose upon you for any form of pity. In time my actions, or inactions, in this life will be squared with God. What I need, and what so fortuitously you can provide, is someone who understands what drives men to the breaking point, and how to possibly pull them back.

    On that score I may be able to be of assistance, sir, Hoffman said. Can you tell me more about the particular circumstances? Is it a friend or a family member who concerns you?

    As I said earlier, Dr. Hoffman, Rockefeller continued, these are troubled times. Under the surface of our prosperity, there is great unrest among the working people. While my friends and close acquaintances – people in so-called society – go along happily living off their trusts, the working people have fully awoken to their exploitation and suffering. Again, I don’t offer a confession. I simply state this so that you know I am sincerely aware and concerned that if the workers truly organize and revolt we have more to lose than our well-appointed Fifth-Avenue homes and gardens. We will lose whole communities, churches, institutions, and an entire way of life.

    You paint a rather dismal picture, Hoffman said. I am not a big believer in doomsday prophecies, at least when there is still room for reason to prevail. More importantly, I am afraid a reformulation of the American system is a little beyond my paltry arts as a physician.

    Not so, Dr. Hoffman, Rockefeller retorted, at least not as it pertains to your immediate future.

    Then tell me how I might be of service, Mr. Rockefeller, Hoffman said.

    Tomorrow you travel upstate, then off to the Midwest, and finally to the Rocky Mountains. In Colorado I have a rather serious situation in one of our coal mining communities.

    Unbeknownst to Hoffman, at his feet Rockefeller had a leather satchel. He bent slightly and produced a manuscript. He waived with it to one of the dutiful waiters who took it from him and handed it to the doctor. Hoffman briefly scanned the cover letter which indicated that there was a man living among the miners in a tent city in the southern portion of Colorado, and that he had become a spiritual leader of the rebellious workers. Around him had formed a secret society, and not only had this fermented unrest and a lengthy strike, but weapons were probably being stockpiled to prepare for a widespread insurrection.

    If you read carefully, Doctor, Rockefeller broke into the silence, you will come to understand how this situation could become extremely dangerous. You will also notice that there is one man at the center of it, this man they call Bahram. The politicians and their state militia are ready to go in and clear out the camp. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of armed men surrounding him and I see nothing short of a disaster should it come to open conflict.

    What exactly does he want, Mr. Rockefeller? Hoffman asked.

    That’s part of the problem, Rockefeller replied. It appears that they are organizing for much more than a typical wages and working conditions strike, but we cannot make the necessary contact with him to determine his goals or begin any kind of negotiations.

    Surely you tried, Hoffman said.

    We managed to get an undercover agent near him. After only one report he disappeared and we believe he ended up dead and buried in a slag pile somewhere. We have another one who is getting close, but it may be many weeks or months before that person is able to earn Bahram’s trust.

    Hoffman thought to himself for a moment. Is it your hope that because I am an outsider I can succeed where these agents have failed?

    There are three reasons why you are exactly the person I need, Rockefeller replied. First, your qualifications as a physician would allow you to evaluate the mental state of our subject. Second, you have a first-rate reputation as a negotiator. Most importantly, there is a possibility that you could get to Bahram through a rather advantageous personal connection. You see, we have a company doctor who went rogue last year, and is currently attending Bahram as his personal physician. He spends several hours with him every day.

    Who is he? Hoffman asked.

    His name is Andrew McFarland, Rockefeller replied.

    Hoffman was shocked. McFarland, his beleaguered student and one-time friend, was mixed up in a secret society of dangerous labor radicals? I don’t know what to say, Hoffman said. It has been years since we spoke.

    What do you know about him? Rockefeller asked.

    He was my student in England, Hoffman said. I met him as just a lad from a prominent Boston family. By sixteen, he had already completed his baccalaureate study at Harvard. He was socially awkward but brilliant, attaining a doctor of medicine at twenty. He then returned to Boston and married the long-time object of his affections. Sadly, his bride died of tuberculosis after only a few months. He left behind everything and journeyed west on a mission to provide medical care to the Navajo Indians on their Arizona reservation.

    And then what happened? Rockefeller prompted.

    "He went classically native, Hoffman continued, marrying the daughter of a local tribal leader and living his days on the reservation. His extended family’s livelihood, if I recall, entailed herding sheep over a wide expanse of country. For a time he was content and he and his wife had a healthy daughter. However, shortly after the birth, he began drinking regularly and heavily.

    McFarland’s Indian wife went out one spring afternoon during a late-season blizzard to gather sheep and became disoriented and died. Apparently McFarland was at home in a drunken coma. In the Navajo custom, the daughter went to his mother-in-law to be raised as her own, and McFarland drifted into Colorado where he presumably has been ever since.

    What else do you know about him or his mental state? Rockefeller prompted.

    Well, I suppose, Hoffman

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