Cats and paratroopers had nine lives.

Ice pellets made ticking noises as they fell, gathering in the folds of Parson's coat like spilled salt. He opened his compass and took a bearing, then sighed. The mist of his breath rose in the cold air, only to get torn away by the Afghan wind. (From THE MULLAH'S STORM)

At the far end of the taxiway, B-17s began to roll out of their hardstands and onto the perimeter track. Karl nudged the throttles up to 1500 RPM to exercise the turbos. One by one, he eased back the prop control levers and watched for an RPM drop to make sure the propeller governors were working. Everything checked good; Hellstorm gave him no release from the dilemma splitting his heart in two. Good hydraulic pressure, good suction, good voltages. Good Lord.

U-boats were on the run. Radar, sonar, aircraft, and new tactics by American and British destroyers had turned predators into prey. The future offered little but death. To survive another patrol, the men of the U-351 would have to beat long, long odds.