My thanks goes as always to Marilyn Penner for her help and advice.

Chapter 32

Hogan slouched against the window frame in his quarters, arms loosely folded and brow drawn into a frown. The sun was sinking behind the tree line by slow degrees, the first stars just appearing far above. Hours remained until he and his men could sneak out of camp under cover of full darkness, which left him little do except watch the sun go down and think of everything that might go wrong.

He had thrown his original plan out for a simpler one, opting to use a couple of good arms and grenades to blow up the fuel barrels. The right timing, a lot of luck, and 'boom' - one made to order bull's eye for the bomber pilots.

Straight at 'em, cram it down their throats, simple.

Right.

His men had accepted the change of plans without argument. His changing of the team's members, however, had been met with swift and impassioned objections. Despite his patience wearing thinner as the mission loomed closer, he had let them speak their minds, then firmly restated his decision. The calculating look that had quickly passed over Newkirk's face had not escaped his notice.

Newkirk was infamous for finding and using loopholes at his own discretion. Knowing that, Hogan had looked him right in the eye and laid down his final words on the matter. Anyone caught arbitrarily adding themselves to the team would receive a one-way ticket out of Stalag 13 courtesy of a court martial. The conniving light had faded from Newkirk's eyes, but Hogan had found no satisfaction in it.

Five men would make up the new team. Kinch and Braveheart would throw the grenades over the fence, since they had the best arms in terms of accuracy and distance. Benson and Maddux, his two best marksmen, filled the bill as insurance if it all went south and they ended up in a firefight. He was the fifth member, taking the role of sniper. If luck was on their side, everything would go off without a hitch, and tomorrow morning at roll call, they would all smile when Klink whined about those rotten Allies and their bombs.

Hogan's thoughts were innterupted by the sound of footsteps moving toward him from the other end of the building. Schultz came to rest in his peripheral vision with a loud sigh and a disapproving expression.

"Colonel Hogan, it is verboten for the shutters to be open after roll call."

"Just taking in the view, Schultz," Hogan murmured, still watching the sun's descent. The stars were brighter now, the sky several shades darker. "No harm in that, is there?"

Schultz threw a quick glance at the sunset. "I suppose not. But only for a few minutes more. And then --" he smacked his palms together before Hogan's face. "Geschlossen."

Hogan suppressed a twinge of irritation. "Geschlossen. Got it."

Judging by the wary gaze that suddenly fixed upon his profile, his sudden obedience had surprised Schultz. After giving him a squint-eyed look loaded with doubt, Shultz shrugged. His ruddy features relaxed and tucking his thumbs in his great belt, he pivoted to admire the sunset.

"I can not blame you, Colonel, for wishing to watch. Sunsets are always most beautiful just before a rain."

A jolt of dismay shot through Hogan. His head whipped toward Schultz. "Your knee acting up again?"

"Ja. It is never wrong." Schultz bent down, cheeks puffing as his hand went to his left knee.

Hogan watched Schultz massage the offending joint, then looked back at the cloudless sky. Schultz's forecasting abilities had been accurate often enough that Hogan trusted them implicitly. If Schultz said it was going to rain, then it would.

"Tonight, you think?"

Schultz put a hand to the small of his back and straightened with a quiet groan. His chin lifted and he sniffed the air, nose wrinkling with the effort. "Before dawn."

"Terrific," Hogan muttered, no longer enjoying the spectacular display.

Rain meant low-lying clouds, which would make it even more difficult for the bomber pilots. They would have to drop below the cloud deck in order to sight their target, which made them easier marks for ground fire.

"You're sure?"

Schultz drew his shoulders back and looked down his nose, clearly affronted that the accuracy of his knee was being questioned. "My knee is --"

"Never wrong," Hogan recited along with him. "Sorry. Don't know what came over me."

Schultz leaned closer, waggled a school-marmish finger. "By dawn," he intoned.

Hogan donned an appropriately somber face, hoping it would soothe the last of Schultz's injured feelings. "Dawn. Gotcha."

Satisfied he was being taken seriously, Schultz nodded once and leaned back again. He started to turn away, then turned back. Their gazes locked and Schultz's palms came together before Hogan's face with a loud slap. It was enough to break a few more threads of Hogan's already strained patience. Taking a deep, calming breath, he straightened away from the window frame.

"Yeah, yeah." Hogan pulled the shutters closed and flipped the latch. On the other side of the wall, Schultz's heavy tread moved on.

A light rap of knuckles on wood sounded behind him and Hogan turned. Kinch stepped through the doorway, closed the door behind him and put his back to it, insuring their privacy. Hogan arched an eyebrow, hoping Kinch's grim expression was not due to more bad news.

"You heard the report from station K.N.E.E.?"

Kinch nodded. "We're going to get wet."

"Maybe." Hogan's lips twitched, but the smile refused to be born. "Maybe not. There's always a first time for our friendly Kraut forecaster to be wrong."

Kinch's eyebrow went up. "Schultz, yeah. His knee?" He shook his head. "Uh-uh. Even Newkirk won't bet against it."

Hogan sighed. Raking a hand over his hair, he glanced past Kinch's shoulder, picturing the men on the other side of the door. "It's pretty quiet out there. Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter still sulking?"

Amusement sparked in Kinch's eyes. "There's unrest amongst the natives tonight."

"They know the rules. The best men for the job and the minimum number needed to get it done."

Kinch's expression dissolved into a frown. His mouth opened, closed, and then he spoke his mind, despite the severe look Hogan turned on him.

"They're used to backing you up. They don't understand why this time is any different."

Hogan closed his eyes and bowed his head, thumb and forefinger coming to rest above the bridge of his nose. His nerves were jangling and his confidence was teetering. He wanted his men with him, and he wanted them as far away from him as possible. Dropping his hand, he brought his head up and let Kinch get a good look at how close to the edge he felt.

"The fewer men we take, Kinch, the fewer die if I can't . . . If I freeze up again . . ." His throat closed up under the storm of emotion. He shook his head, leaving his worst fears unspoken.

Kinch flinched, as if he had just taken a hard punch to the stomach. Then his dark eyes cleared and his expression hardened, steel girding his tone.

"Superior officer or not, if I thought you'd lost your nerve, I'd say so, straight up. There is absolutely no way I'd agree to let you go on this mission."

Hogan felt his jaw tighten. "Your faith in me is flattering, but I hope it doesn't get you killed."

Kinch's voice remained strong and confident. "It's been a long two days and all this waiting around is getting the better of your nerves. You'll be fine once we leave."

Hogan's jaw clenched even tighter.

Kinch cocked his head, his whole demeanor softening. "Colonel . . . we don't follow you because we have to. We follow you because we believe in you."

Hogan swallowed, overcome by a flood of warmth. The knot in his chest loosened and he sucked in a breath, feeling like he could breathe again. Squashing the crippling self-doubt into a box, he blew it a Bronx cheer, and then slammed the lid on it for good measure. He reached out, gripped the top of Kinch's shoulder.

"And you say I'm the one with the silver tongue."

Kinch chuckled.

"I'm going below," Hogan said, nodding to the door. "Do me a favor and keep the tribe here until it's time to change for the mission."

"Now that qualifies as hazardous duty," Kinch shot back, grinning wide.

TBC . . . .

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