They took their seats. Susan scanned those in the room, a mixture of military officers, British intelligence, and members of the National Pigeon Service. The British intelligence, likely from the Government Code and Cypher School, wore suits and ties and clung together at the far corner of the table. The National Pigeon Service was a civilian organization, and even though Susan didn’t recognize anyone she knew, she could spot the members by their gray hair and woolly farm attire. Susan noticed she was the only woman in the room. Be an egg, she thought.

A decorated military man stood at the head of the table. “I’m Air Commodore John Breen.”

The room went silent.

The commodore wrote “Source Columba” on a chalkboard in large letters. “This is the code name for our mission.”

Susan noticed men glancing at one another. But she knew from her studies at the university that Columba was the Latin word for pigeon.

“We need a hundred thousand pigeons,” the commodore said, dusting chalk from his hands. “Before the war is over, we may need two hundred thousand.”

Susan saw jaws drop as members of the National Pigeon Service took in this information.

“The first objective of our meeting is a commitment from each farm on the number of birds and delivery dates.” The commodore wrote again on the board. Farm . . . No. of Birds . . . Date. “Once this is accomplished, members of the National Pigeon Service will be dismissed.”

Packets were distributed. Susan selected her envelope, which was addressed to Bertie Shepherd. Inside was nothing more than a sharpened pencil and a sheet of paper on which to chart the number of pigeons and target delivery dates. Susan placed the paper facedown on the table.

The commodore quickly began obtaining commitments from pigeon raisers as though he was pressed for time or frustrated to have drawn the short straw to coordinate a mission involving pigeons. Regardless, it was obvious to Susan that the commodore was eager to get this meeting over with and move on to more important endeavors, such as the air battle over the Channel. And one by one, the old men did what the commodore requested, as if they had been conditioned by years of climbing out of muddy trenches by whistle-blowing officers.

Susan’s mind raced. What was the military going to do with all our pigeons? Where were they going? Who was going to care for them? She raised her hand.

“Susan,” Boar whispered. “Not now.”

Susan hesitated, then inched her hand higher.

The commodore stopped. “Yes, Miss . . .”

“Miss Shepherd. I’m here on behalf of my grandfather, Bertie Shepherd. He was unable to come because—”

“You have a question, Miss Shepherd?” the commodore interrupted.

Susan swallowed. “May I ask what you are going to do with our pigeons?”

“It’s confidential. Only a few are aware of the plans to limit potential compromise of our intelligence.” The commodore turned to another pigeon raiser and requested his quota.