My thanks to Marilyn for her help, and to those who have reviewed!

Chapter Seventeen

Kinch heard them before he saw them and felt an immediate sense of relief. Their voices were quiet and calm, with no hint of distress. He slowed his rush to a walk and around the next corner came face to face with Benson. They clasped hands in greeting.

"Everyone okay?" Kinch looked past Benson. Newkirk was next in line, but beyond him the tunnel was too narrow and filled with shadows for Kinch to see the other men.

"Nobody hurt, nobody missing." Benson unzipped his jacket, and pulled his cap off and stuffed it into his pocket. The scent of fresh breezes clung to him, noticeable in the tunnel's musty confines.

"What took so long?" Olsen asked from over Kinch's shoulder.

Benson shrugged. "That's a long story."

"Save it for the colonel," Kinch said, already turning to retrace his steps. "He's waiting for us topside."

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The headache was pounding merrily away behind Hogan's eyes, blurring his vision and making him slightly ill. He was tempted to put his head down upon the table, but was afraid if he did, he wouldn't be able to lift it again. He carefully shifted his weight on the bench, but not carefully enough. A spike of pain impaled his shoulder, and he drew in a quick, shallow breath. O'Malley was at his side in a flash.

"Colonel, why don't you lie down? You have my solemn promise that I'll come get you --"

"No." His voice – rough as coarse twenty-four grit sandpaper - sounded as awful as he felt. Sharp spasms lanced his stomach, LeBeau's eggs and toast threatening to make a return appearance. He forced his sagging body upright, biting back a curse as another stab of pain took him by surprise. "I'm fine right here."

He was lying and they both knew it. But rank had its privileges and the last time he'd checked, he outranked O'Malley.

A warm, diminutive presence settled at his other side. LeBeau lightly touched him upon the arm. "You do not look at all fine, mon colonel."

The entrance shot open, saving Hogan from expending the strength needed to argue. He'd need every bit of it to stand. Pushing up from the table with his good arm, he willed his legs to hold him. He kept his left hand upon the table as a precaution, while his eyes stayed locked upon the entrance. To his utter relief, every member of the mission team climbed out of the tunnel and fell in around the table. He felt his knees wobble and chose to sit down rather than fall down.

Kinch closed the entrance and turned, his eyes deeply shadowed in the low light. "You were right," he began without preamble. "It was a trap."

"Too right, it was." Newkirk swept his cap off and ran his fingers through his hair. "Good thing we were on our toes."

Benson crossed his arms over his chest, his expression turning pensive. "We were set to make our approach, but something just didn't seem right. So we stayed put and watched for awhile. That's what took so long."

Carter threw a leg over the bench and sat down. "For over an hour and a half to be exact."

Jones smirked down at him, the flickering shadows making it look more a leer. "Cheer up. We didn't waste your boom-booms."

Newkirk's eyebrows flew up. "Or our lives, ta very much."

Olsen smiled. "Always so picky about such things." Laughter lurked in his voice. Newkirk pulled a face at him and lobbed his cap across the table. Olsen dodged it easily.

Benson nodded in Broughton's direction. "Broughton mentioned he'd never seen such a quiet, fully operational fueling station, and he was right. There should have been guys everywhere, checking pumps and equipment, and there should have been trucks coming and going. But we didn't see any activity the whole time we were watching. There were only a couple of guards at the pumps and a few at the two outbuildings. We saw three other guys, and they didn't do much more than stand around."

"Two and two don't make five," Newkirk sighed, looking tired and worn.

Olsen snorted. "Not even for me, and I'm lousy at math."

Carter shook his head, thinking of how close they had come to capture or worse. "It all sure looked good, though."

"Unless you looked close, which we did." Jones sounded almost insulted by the Germans' attempt to lure them into a trap. "Stupid Krauts, lighting up cigarettes not five feet from the pumping station." He swept the group with a look of disbelief and scorn. "And they thought we wouldn't notice that?"

Hard lines furrowed Broughton's face. "Pretty stupid, all right."

"Ol' Hochstetter seemed to think so, too." Newkirk glanced in Hogan's direction. "He snatched those cigarettes right out of their mouths. Just about tore their heads off doing it."

Just the name he'd been dreading to hear. Hogan rested his right arm upon the table, preventing its weight from dragging upon the healing muscles in his chest and shoulder. "You're sure it was Hochstetter?"

"In the creepy flesh." Benson surrendered to his aching body and took a seat at the table.

"The creepiest," Carter agreed with a shudder. He scooted over on the bench, giving Benson more room.

Kinch frowned. "There could have been fuel in those tanks. Why were you so sure it was a trap?"

"Because Mr. Sneaky, here," Benson tipped his head in Tivoli's direction. "Decided to get up close and personal with Hochstetter and the guards."

Hogan's gaze cut toward Tivoli, the movement sparking another jab of pain behind his eyes. "How 'up close' are we talking about?"

Tivoli heard the slight edge to the question and his hipshot stance lost some of its looseness. "Close enough to do the job. I was thinking the same as Kinch, that those Kraut guards might just stupid enough to chance blowing themselves up for a smoke. The only way we'd know for sure if there was fuel was if I got closer." Seeing Hogan's eyes narrow, he quickly tacked on, "Sir."

Hogan's headache had reached blinding levels. He thought it might have something to do with Tivoli's habitual impulsiveness. "This up close and personal foray was done with Benson's permission, of course." It was more challenge than statement.

Kinch cast a sharp glance at him. The only time Hogan used that tone was when he was at the end of his patience . . . or when he was holding onto control by his fingernails. Judging by Hogan's increasingly rocky appearance, Kinch thought is was probably the latter. The brown eyes were barely open, shielded from scrutiny by black lashes.

Tivoli suddenly looked uncomfortable. Benson cleared his throat, drawing Hogan's attention.

"They never even knew he was there, sir," Benson said, darting an apology-laden glance at Tivoli for getting him into trouble. The Italian did that enough on his own. "And he was able to verify that it was a trap."

Hogan's heavy-lidded eyes slowly swung back to Tivoli. Slow as it was, the movement ignited another swirl of dizziness and nausea. His stomach's contents burned and churned, percolating at the base of his throat. He swallowed, forced himself to concentrate as Tivoli spoke again.

"The first thing I noticed was that I couldn't smell any fuel. There should've been some smell, even if there hadn't been any fueling done for hours. No matter how careful a guy is, some gas will always get slopped onto the ground around the tanks and drip down the hoses. The smell sticks around." Tivoli's voice picked up speed with the passion of his argument. "And another thing. I overheard Hochstetter saying he had plans for the 'Resistance vermin' that got caught in his snare."

"Lovely," Newkirk muttered, slapping his cap down upon the table.

But Tivoli wasn't done. "He also explained what would happen should anyone slip through the trap. Those guards were shaking in their boots by the time he finished jawing and stomped off."

Kinch barely registered Tivoli's last comments. He was too busy watching Hogan and the way he kept shifting, as if growing increasingly uncomfortable. O'Malley and LeBeau had been watching, too, and edged closer to the table, one to either side. Hogan held up a warning finger.

"Hold it, you two."

O'Malley and LeBeau stopped their advance, twin expressions of chagrin passing over their faces. Hogan slowly looked up at Kinch.

"Let London know they were conned, and that we're on stand-down until I think it's safe. And get the word out that the Gestapo are at it again with planting fake information. Everything is to be triple-verified before any action is taken." His hard expression softened. "And then get back up here and get some sleep." His gaze roamed over the group. "That goes for everyone."

O'Malley gave him a pointed look. "Yourself included, sir."

Hogan leaned heavily on the forearm resting upon the table. He knew he could no longer avoid his bunk – and the nightmares that would come.

"Myself included."

Alarm tingled down Kinch's back. Hogan had to be feeling horrible to so easily give in to O'Malley's wishes.

Hogan took a deep breath and stood, wavering slightly on his feet. O'Malley and LeBeau braced him from either side, O'Malley taking care not to put any pressure on his wounds. 'Good nights' rang out softly from around the room. Hogan glanced down at his escorts and dredged up a smile for their benefit.

"Ready when you are."

He just hoped he didn't throw up on them for their trouble.

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Alone again, Hogan lay quiet in his bunk, fighting to keep his eyes open. He felt foolish doing it, like a little boy afraid of monsters hiding beneath his bed. His body needed the rest that only came with sleep. Yet he just couldn't make himself relax and give in to it.

He'd made it into his quarters and through the slow and painful process of changing into his pajamas without losing his supper. But he was paying for it. His stomach wasn't done reminding him that it hadn't agreed with his decision to eat. Bracing a hand upon it helped, but he was too tired to keep the pressure up for long. He decided it might have been better if he had thrown up.

His thoughts returned to Hochstetter's trap. It would have worked, had it not been for his men's keen observational skills. He knew this wasn't the end of Hochstetter's determination to level his unique brand of justice upon the patrol's killer. The Gestapo major gave new meaning to the word obsessive.

He had to get his strength back. He had to look at least semi-healthy for his men's sake. Hochstetter might visit Stalag 13 at any time.

His head throbbed under the headache's assault. Wincing, he rubbed his brow, hoping the pain would ease soon. There had been a moment during the debriefing when even the lantern's soft light had grown too bright for his eyes and he thought he'd lose consciousness.

That would have set their minds at ease, he thought, sighing. His men had worked so hard caring for him. The best way he could repay them, alleviate their worry and keep them safe was to get well. Fast.

But to do that, he'd have to sleep.

A shudder ran the length of his body, so hard the bed let out a soft creak of protest. More pain rocketed through his head and he throttled the resultant moan in his throat. O'Malley had switched bunks with Braveheart to be closest to his quarters. The medic had very good hearing.

Hogan curled onto his good side, cradling a hand to the wound below his shoulder. Exhaustion soon won out. His eyes slid closed, his breathing slowed, and he fell asleep. He was soon locked in a nightmare world, tormented by images and sounds, events from the past and from many possible futures.

To be continued. Thank you for reading!