Susan looked around the room. The eyes of pigeon raisers were upon her. She sensed that they were all thinking the same thing but didn’t have the courage to open their mouths. Susan’s face began to sweat. Her palms turned sticky. Her heart pounded. And she forced herself to stand.

“Sit down, Susan,” Boar whispered.

Be an egg . . . be an egg . . . be an egg. Susan stood firm.

The commodore stopped. “Yes, Miss Shepherd.”

“Do you have trained pigeon handlers included in the mission?”

“Take your seat, Miss Shepherd.”

“Do you plan to use our pigeons for one-way or two-way communication?”

The commodore raised his voice. “Sit down, or I’ll have you removed.”

“Susan,” the lieutenant hissed.

“Did you know that the vast majority of the pigeons from our farms are one-way pigeons?” Susan asked.

The commodore shouted for a military private, who was stationed outside the door.

The soldier entered and saluted.

“Remove her,” said the commodore.

The soldier stepped toward Susan.

Susan gripped the table. “Do you realize that most of the pigeons you take will only end up back at our lofts? We may not need to know when and where you plan to use our pigeons, but we need to know how they will be used if you expect Source Columba to be a success!”

A staunch man wearing a spotted bow tie stopped as he passed the door.

The military men snapped to attention. Susan turned and saw the prime minister, Winston Churchill, accompanied by two military officers.

“Has the enemy invaded my war rooms?” Churchill asked with a cigar chomped between his teeth.

Susan’s eyes widened.

“Everything is under control,” the commodore said.

“She’s right.” A thin, elderly man stood. “Name’s Jonathan Wallace, National Pigeon Service. Most of the pigeons will end up back at our lofts. My apologies to everyone for not speaking.”

The remaining pigeon raisers nodded their heads.

Churchill looked at Susan. “May I ask who you are?”

Susan swallowed, noticing that the prime minister looked like a bulldog wearing a suit. “I’m Susan Shepherd. I raise pigeons with my grandfather, and I’m studying zoology. Or at least I was until the war.”

Churchill leaned in. “What do you think you’re doing by challenging a senior military officer?”

“My duty, sir.”

Jowl muscles contracted. Ash fell from his cigar. Churchill looked at the commodore and said, “I recommend we take time to listen to Mr. Wallace and members of the National Pigeon Service. Their insight may be extraordinarily valuable in the success of our mission. It’s our intellect, spirit, and tough British fiber that will lead us to victory.” He tipped his hat and left.

Everyone took their seats. The commodore gripped his chalk, flushness spreading over his face.

“Bloody hell, Susan,” the lieutenant whispered. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Nor I,” Susan said, feeling as if she had come within inches of being struck by a speeding train.