December 7, 1941 -- London, England

"God damn it!"

The outraged shout echoed throughout the nearly empty office building. Hogan pushed himself up to a standing position, his chair crashing back against the filing cabinet crammed into the back corner of his tiny office. Behind him, the radio droned softly on. But no one was listening to that any more.

His tightly controlled anger was evident in his long strides and the dangerous snapping in his dark eyes. He strode past the rows of empty desks toward the back of the building where a light could be seen glowing dimly through the frosted glass panel.

Hogan threw open the door with a bang. General Brecker flinched a little and glared icily as he continued his phone conversation. "Let me go," Hogan declared loudly, not even caring that he was interrupting a superior officer, "now."

Brecker's jaw set and he jabbed a finger in the direction of the door. Hogan didn't so much as blink at the order, staring back at the General. "I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to excuse me for a moment," Brecker told whoever was on the other end of the phone tightly. Then he covered up the mouthpiece and glowered at Hogan. "Out," he snapped, returning immediately to his conversation. When there was no sound of footsteps, Brecker raised his head from his papers. "Now."

Hogan still didn't move. "Let me go," he demanded again.

If looks could kill, the one that Brecker gave Hogan would have been more effective than a German bullet. "I'm terribly sorry, but something," the bite on that word could have sliced bread, "has come up." He paused for a second, listening to the person on the other line. "Yes, of course, at your earliest convenience. Thank you for your time." The general's hand was shaking with fury as he placed the receiver back in its cradle.

"The only place you're going to be going, Private Hogan, is to the stockade unless you've got a damn good explanation for yourself," Brecker spat, as incensed as Hogan had ever seen him. "That was Lord Beaverbrook I had on the line. It'll be weeks before I get worked back into the man's schedule. So this had better be more than a damn good excuse. You're going to need to have a miracle, private."

Hogan's jaw dropped a little as he realised that Brecker didn't know. "Pearl Harbour, sir," he started.

He didn't get any further because Brecker's phone rang again. Staring wrathfully at Hogan, Brecker picked it up. "Brecker," he snapped. Then Hogan could watch as Brecker stood almost to attention. Whoever was on the line this time was someone important. Someone more important than Beaverbrook, which was saying something.

"Yes, sir," he said, as much anger as he could manage dropping out of his tone. "I was consulting with Lord Beaverbrook over the lastest aircraft production figures. There are still a few--"

"No, sir, I've been talking with him for the past hour or so. I had managed to get a block of his time."

Hogan didn't even bother to try and follow the one-sided conversation. He knew what it was about. Instead he abandoned his position at Brecker's door and started prowling around the office, blatantly ignoring Brecker's pointed glares and motions to get out.

"Not since early this morning." Confusion was starting to leach through the anger. "Has something happened, sir?"

This pause was longer than the others. When Brecker answered again, his voice was more subdued, almost shocked. "Yes, of course, sir. I understand. No official comment at this time. President Roosevelt will address Congress tomorrow. Yes, sir. I'll inform my staff. Thank you."

Brecker no sooner had the phone resting in the cradle when Hogan pivoted around to face him. "Let me go, sir, now," Hogan demanded once more.

"And where would you go, Colonel? Back home? To Pearl?" Brecker asked, the same anger that was nearly bubbling over in Hogan starting to build within his own eyes. "It won't bring our boys back."

"We're in this now. No more damned Neutrality. Let me fight." Hogan's sentences were clipped and sharp.

"Give those Nazi bastards hell for us all."