Our jump group is delivered to a heavy bomber painted with layered circles that, for my taste, too narrowly resemble a bull’s-eye. Up close, the four-engine Halifax, modified for drops, looks positively monstrous. Multiple turrets armed with protruding machine guns make it all the more formidable.

Safer, I tell myself.

A crewman directs us to the entry on the side of the fuselage. Our dispatcher climbs the drop ladder to continue preparations.

Bram gestures to me. “After you.”

I need a moment to bolster my will.

“You go on ahead.” I fake a need to adjust my jumpsuit.

He takes a breath, saying nothing more. He knows the flight is my first. Reluctance can’t be unusual.

One by one, the agents climb inside with the assistance of an airman.

When I can no longer delay, I edge forward with lungs tightening and hazard an ascent. Halfway up the ladder, I’m able to view the illuminated, cavernous interior, a moderate relief. I’ve taken refuge in air-raid shelters smaller than this. What’s more, working in Hutton’s bunker has further expanded my tolerance for such a space.

Although…not while thousands of feet off the ground.

“Having second thoughts, luv?” Bram’s voice tips toward concern. Surely it’s not all selfless; my fear and inexperience could cause him grave consequences, as they could me.

A whisper of temptation says I can bow out. I can retreat to the barn, give back my supplies. With or without me, the group will proceed.

But then, so will Bram’s mission.

Stifling my angst, harboring my disdain, I resume my climb and get ready for takeoff.

Chapter 49

Flying unescorted and without exterior lights, the pilot periodically changes altitude. I persist in clutching my seat, positioned along a curved wall of the hull, where air from every crevice of the bomber unites in a barrage of wind. For well over an hour, a red interior light has glowed eerily like a warning.

I breathe rhythmically to the tunes in my head. “The White Cliffs of Dover.” “That Old Black Magic.” “Serenade in Blue.” Anything to distract me from the shaking and rattling that with every passing mile brings us closer to occupied territory.

If we make it that far.

The dispatcher, with his sharp features yet easy manner, sits nearby sipping from a thermos. Hot tea. He offered me some, casual as can be while we crossed the Channel through a brief but grueling hail of gunfire. A German welcome party, he called it.

I hum another song: “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” If my jaw wasn’t clenched, I might smirk at the irony. All the while, my assigned plan circles in the back of my mind, with personal modifications.