The sound of gunfire echoed off the rolling valleys and awe-inspiring summits of the surrounding hillside, sending the soldiers scurrying for cover beneath the foliage in the bracken and gorse-adorned countryside. Their approach to the farm that lay in the lip of the valley couldn’t have been better coordinated, as they moved stealthily in pairs, covering one another, as they crept and crawled forwards. They moved carefully, flanking the long gravel driveway that snaked its way down into the collection of buildings spread out below them.

With their SA80 rifles raised in their hands, they inched forwards, fanning out over the fields that flanked the gravel. Once Red Team were positioned at the first building, a ramshackle barn housing nothing but a number of broken tractors, they signalled to the rest of the men to swing round from the right. The others vaulted the fence leading out of the field and slunk into the farmyard. Simultaneously, Red Team checked the barn was clear and proceeded the final few yards to another gate, which led to the back of the farm and the largest of the outbuildings.

Meanwhile, Blue Team had finished clearing the small outhouses and were moving swiftly across the yard, passing disused quad bikes and dilapidated sheds. As they sneaked forwards, there was suddenly a rattle of gunfire from the remaining building, and they were forced to duck behind the burned-out shell of an old model Volvo. They returned fire and signalled to Red Team to move in, whilst one of them scanned the barn for the possible hostile. After ascertaining quickly that the only vantage point was an alcove to the left of the building, the soldiers focussed their fire on that spot. A figure stepped out momentarily, only to disappear in a hail of bullets; a haze of smoke rose gently over the dusty farmyard. There was no return fire, and both teams moved onwards in a pincer formation. Within seconds, the barn had been cleared, and the exercise had been pronounced a success. It was time to return to the barracks.

As they trudged back, the sun beat down on the weary members of the 1st Battalion Rifles (the Rifles for short), causing sweat to mingle grimly with the camo face paint they wore. This had been a punishing ten-day training-exercise deployment, and the men had been pushed to their limits – although they’d expected nothing less. Even hardened troops such as the Rifles didn’t enjoy their visits to Senta Barracks, positioned close to the sleepy village of Sennybridge in the heart of the Brecon Beacons. There was little opportunity to marvel at the spectacular rolling hills and sweeping farmland that lay between the undulating peaks of the countryside. Instead, they were subjected to days on end of gruelling intensity, both physical and mental, to replicate combat situations as closely as possible.

Over the past few days, the temperatures had soared in the Brecon Beacons, and the heat, combined with the sheer savagery of the training, had seen many collapse through exhaustion. Their plight was real enough, as were the dangers the soldiers faced in these conditions. It was only two years prior that the last soldier had lost his life on an exercise in this very camp, succumbing to a cardiac arrest in extreme conditions whilst partaking in an SAS selection test. The tragedy of his death had been amplified by the fact that he’d previously been deployed in combat under the extreme heat conditions of Afghanistan, had distinguished himself honourably and was one of the fittest men in his regiment. The sight of his distraught parents at the subsequent inquest into his death had shaken the military community to its core.

He hadn’t been the first and no doubt wouldn’t be the last. Several army reservists had died some years before in almost identical circumstances. Both inquests had shown that the army had failed in its duty to adhere to certain health and safety requirements. The reality was that some mistakes had been learned, yet others had not, and implementing the necessary amendments hadn’t been considered practical. There had to be an element of risk to the training; a fear for survival had to be instilled in exercises such as these, else the troops wouldn’t be as well prepared as they needed to be on the day they were called to fight on the front lines for real.

The controversy that had surrounded those inquests had largely been forgotten. The members of the British armed forces had been shown as true heroes in the recent pandemic crisis, second only to the NHS and care workers when it came to being hailed as national heroes. They were rightly lauded for their efforts during the crisis, which were many and varied. From ferrying vital protective personal equipment to hospitals and care homes across the UK to helping set up mobile testing facilities, all whilst maintaining the security of the country, their endeavours had been crucial in helping the country to come through the crisis.

As the rate of deaths had flattened and life gradually began to return to normal, the troops had swiftly been redeployed to training barracks around the UK to increase the country’s state of readiness once more. There was an expectation that, in the wake of the pandemic, the months would see an increase in the number of threats to the country’s security, both at home and abroad. Several regiments had already been despatched to foreign nations that had fallen into tyranny in the wake of the crisis or whose governments had collapsed, leaving dangerous insurgencies to fill the void of recognisable authority. It had seen an upsurge in British and NATO operations around the globe, but so far, none of these threats had reached British shores.

The Rifles were soon to be deployed on a peacekeeping operation abroad, and although the location of this mission had so far been kept from them, they all knew where they’d be going. Every member of the battalion had also known what that had meant– a stint at a training camp in the Brecon Beacons. It just so happened that they weren’t the only ones in Sennybridge at the moment. Training alongside them was a crack squadron from 22 SAS, the active regiment of the Special Air Service. Unfortunately for the Rifles, this meant they were partaking in several exercises in tandem with the SAS, adding to the intensity and gruelling nature of their time in Wales.

Only yesterday, the men had been dropped in pairs at preselected points in the Brecon Beacons, with very little in the way of orienteering equipment to help guide them to the next rendezvous point. Their starting position had been predetermined to ensure there was no avoiding the highest peaks, with the cone-shaped summit of Pen-y-Fan crossed twice in a punishing climb. With bergens strapped to their backs, which seemed to hold a steadily increasing weight as they strove to reach this rendezvous point, they attempted to avoid the sharpest cliffs and quarries. Their muscles were screaming at them to stop, but they pushed themselves onwards and returned to the barracks some hours later, exhausted and grimacing from the pain of the fresh blisters they’d accumulated.

A few members of the Rifles aspired to join 22 SAS one day, and that aspiration had only been heightened over the past few days. There was a reason it was one of, if not the, most accomplished and formidable special forces units in the world. During several of the drills, the men of the Rifles had experienced the disheartening yet inspirational sight of being routinely outstripped by the members of 22 SAS. Their exceptional reputation had grown in prominence, particularly in the Troubles in Northern Ireland and both Gulf Wars, with their missions ranging from counterterrorism operations to covert reconnaissance and operations behind enemy lines during active conflicts.

Corporal Ross Matheson wasn’t one such aspiring SAS recruit. He’d been full of ambition when he initially applied to join the British Army, but after two failures to make the grade during officer training, he’d joined as a private – the lowest military rank. He’d served with distinction on several combat tours, as well as on several peacekeeping operations in Africa. There had been a time when he would have pushed to make the step up from corporal to sergeant, which is typically a soldier who’s second in command of a platoon, or perhaps even forcing a move to another battalion to gain promotion. As it was, he was content to remain with the men who had become his family as much as the wife and young daughter he left behind when on deployment.

With a long face that characterised his family heritage, he looked almost waxy and gaunt in the winter. His short, dark brown hair matched the patchy stubble which made his wiry chin scratchy, with eyes so dark a grey they seemed almost black. Despite being in his late twenties, he appeared much older and tougher. Much of that was due to being battle-hardened from his years of service to his country, but some of it was more recent. Those stormy-grey eyes seemed to be fading, and the haggard complexion that haunted him throughout the winter had returned over the past two days, despite the scorching heat. His breathing was more desperate and rapid than that of an experienced soldier who was accomplished in composing himself and staying calm.

He knew this would be his final exercise in the scenery that had become almost a second home to Ross over the years. This was his fourth exercise in Sennybridge, and on each visit, he’d fallen more in love with the sleepy village and rolling hills surrounding it, despite the sometimes-torturous training he endured whilst there. He could recall few details from his first posting to the Brecon Beacons a decade ago, other than the extreme conditions that had dogged the training. Battling through firmly entrenched snow and swirling blizzards, with the cold biting his face, he’d hiked for dozens of miles with little in terms of orienteering equipment. They’d spent nights lying on the frozen ground, devising ambushes, and one such evening almost brought the chill of that night back to him.

The cold had been piercing, as though icy blades were stabbing every area of his body, and the hands holding his rifle had been numb with pain. It was an oppressive, inescapable sensation that kept him in a heightened state of alert. That had been a good thing, at least. His body had flexed beneath the undergrowth, eager to spring into action and send the blood pumping around his body once more. The first gold glint of dawn was overhead, the hills and undergrowth basking in its sovereign beauty, and yet he and the other members of his platoon had remained invisible to the naked eye. The hours had passed by until a flicker of movement near the treeline 100 yards ahead of him had caught his attention.

Five figures had been emerging stealthily into the designated kill zone, the rippling of their camouflage smocks almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. The lead figure had been scanning the area, his eyes darting over the undergrowth, but he’d failed to notice the tripwire hidden ahead of him. He was just a few steps from it now, and Ross had been counting down the steps, his finger stiffening over the trigger of his assault rifle. For a second, his eyes had deceived him, and he’d believed the figure had taken the crucial step to trigger the trip wire, which was their signal to fire. He’d been a fraction too early, and the burst of gunfire from his weapon had shattered the still air into a thousand pieces. The lead figure had fallen to the ground, and Ross had suddenly been flanked by the other members of his platoon, with the crisp double-taps from their weapons joining his own until all five figures lay motionless on the ground.

He’d known instantly that he’d made a mistake, and so he’d moved quickly to rectify it. He’d stumbled clumsily over the fallen ground and attempted to drag one of the bodies out of the undergrowth. He’d realised immediately that he was compounding his error, and his hasty efforts to move the body had rendered him vulnerable to any booby traps the enemy bodies might conceal. The captain in charge of that particular exercise – a sinewy, humourless northerner whose black hair was streaked with grey – had torn a strip off him in front of the entire platoon. At the time, he’d feared he’d be thrown out of the army with immediate effect, but it had been the making of him. He didn’t put a single foot wrong in the week that followed and had excelled at every available opportunity, determined not to be singled out again for the wrong reasons.

Not since that day had he felt as unsettled as he did today, however. He’d always coped well with the heat, but today, he’d struggled to keep up in the exercise and had fallen off the pace during the morning’s hike. Only sheer grit and willpower had helped him make up some ground on the rest of the men. That hadn’t saved him from the wrath of Major Pollard, who – despite having served alongside Ross for several years – wasn’t a man to make allowances. He demanded and achieved high standards from all the men under him and was one of the most feared but respected officers in the British Army. He’d served with the SAS in the past and was still capable of leading highly skilled covert operations abroad. The major had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that Ross had to up his game.

The subsequent gas-mask exercise had left him struggling to breathe, aggravating the cough that had plagued him for the past two days. The smallest cough still inspired a universal fear in the wake of the pandemic, and he’d been subjected to plenty of grief from the other members of his company in the barracks overnight. It had led to many jokes that he was the new patient zero for a further wave of the virus, and when he entered the mess for dinner, he was greeted by the sight of the whole battalion wearing face masks.

Swearing at each of them in turn, he’d collected his food – ignoring the cook who’d recoiled at his approach – and sat next to his long-time friend Corporal Dawkins. ‘Don’t you start,’ he muttered darkly as Dawkins slid further up the bench away from him, grinning as he did so.

His fellow corporal was several years his younger, with boyish features and a natural charm that many experienced veterans lacked. He was one of the shorter members of the regiment, at about five feet seven inches tall, with light-brown hair and not a scrap of fat on his well-conditioned body.

‘You’ll wake up dressed in nothing but a gas mask if the lads have their way,’ quipped Dawkins.

He wasn’t wrong. Ross had often seen such treatment dished out to his fellow soldiers, to the hilarity of the regiment, and he’d suspected such a plan was being formulated behind his back. Being stripped and handcuffed to his bunk with just a gas mask strapped to his face was the least of his worries, however. He’d been scanning the mess daily for any new faces or suspicious activity in the past few days, but so far, nothing had jumped out at him.

Private Faye, the baby-faced assassin – aptly named for his love of Manchester United, youthful features and sharpshooting prowess – was still the entertainer of the group, cracking jokes and holding poker sessions nightly. Nor had there been any change in behaviour from any of the other men, including those from 22 SAS. He’d trained with them all before, and they blended in seamlessly with the Rifles men, despite the slight air of superiority emanating from them.

The next morning, Corporal Matheson awoke, mercifully fully clothed but sweating profusely. It clung to his entire body and his head was pounding with pain. As he pushed himself into a sitting position on his bunk, he knew he’d been transported back to the terrifying place in his dreams once more. Shaking slightly, he looked around, grateful to see he was alone, and he hastily began to dress for the morning’s exercise. He reported to the barracks as normal to find the grim-faced Sergeant Hiscock awaiting his arrival.

Hiscock hadn’t been blessed with either good looks or a kindly face; his was more the sort of complexion that would scare rather than calm others. He was a rugged man with unkempt stubble; sallow, unhealthy-looking skin; and uneven, yellow teeth that parted into a leer, even when he was attempting to smile. Although he’d been a trained army man for the past twelve years of his life, he walked with a stooped back akin to that of a particularly ugly gargoyle. This had earned him the nickname of ‘The Hunchback of the Cotswolds’, on account of the barracks he was normally stationed at.

The unpleasantness extended beyond his mere physical appearance. He was a man it was impossible to trust, and in a role where togetherness and camaraderie were so essential, this was an especially unpleasant trait. There was no denying his expertise as a soldier, though, nor his ability to have the ear of the right people. In that regard, appearances were deceptive, as the sergeant appeared to be able to influence senior officers to ensure his own rise through the ranks, often to the detriment of his fellow soldiers. He was once more in line for a promotion after filing a report on the inadequacies of the armed forces on their recent peacekeeping operations in North Africa. This was despite having been involved extensively in the discussions about how the operations would be conducted. Upon his return to British shores – and perhaps having read certain press coverage of the missions – he’d sent a detailed report to the Ministry of Defence (MOD), criticising his commanding officers and stating how he would have handled the operations differently. Unsurprisingly, this had led to further resentment towards him from those within the barracks; however, he seemed supremely unconcerned by this.

‘You’re very nearly late for exercise, Matheson. Timekeeping is the only thing you haven’t failed on over the past two days,’ he sneered, pausing to smirk at his own joke.

Ten minutes later, the members of the SAS squadron were equipping themselves, alongside the Rifles, in preparation for the morning’s exercise. Ross found himself next to one of the SAS men, whom he knew only as Wolf. He was young, maybe even in his early twenties, with short, black hair; thoughtful, dark-green eyes; high cheekbones; and thin, firm lips. He had a tough, well-rounded physique and spoke with a North Wales lilt. ‘Ignore the sergeant. He’s a complete drewgi.’

Ross smiled in spite of himself. He recognised the Welsh insult after all the time spent in the barracks with men from that country, and he couldn’t help but think ‘skunk’ was an appropriate way to describe the sergeant. ‘Cheers!’ He grinned before turning sharply to direct a violent coughing fit in another direction. Ignoring the fresh jeers directed at him, he clutched his throat, struggling to instil a normal rhythm into his breathing.

He felt the arm of the SAS soldier on his shoulder and heard him say something, although he couldn’t discern what it was through the continuing coughing fit. After several minutes, he managed to compose himself enough to tighten the straps of his backpack and assure those around him that he was fine, but he’d just had something stuck in his throat. Nonetheless, he knew the truth, and it was with a grim certainty that he made his way back into the fresh morning air, gulping in as much oxygen as he could.

Bullets whizzed incessantly over their heads, indiscriminately homing in on life, despite this being an exercise. The troops jumped off the trucks, ducking their heads, and then assembled seamlessly into their attack formation, regardless of the deafening gunfire overhead.

The target today was a cottage that lay on the lip of a valley some half a mile from their drop-off point. Ross was with two of the SAS men – one of whom was Wolf – as well as five members of his own regiment, and they fanned out to the left flank. He found himself next to Wolf as they flattened themselves to the ground beneath a covering of bracken and laid down cover fire. The remaining members of the company were moving swiftly down the right flank, over the gorse-covered hillside; they were working in tandem, with one darting ahead whilst the other lay down a burst of covering fire.

‘Go,’ hissed Wolf, who was already twisting on to his feet and sprinting forwards.

Ross hastened to follow him, but he found himself clutching his throat, suddenly unable to breathe amongst the caramel scent of the gorse. He lost his grip on his rifle for a split second and fumbled to reclaim it in his grasp as bullets whanged dangerously close. Ahead of him, Wolf had dropped to the ground, rolling and then pulling himself forwards on his hands and knees. As the rifle tumbled to the floor, Ross’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground, almost in slow motion, with both his hands clawing at his throat.

Abruptly, the sounds of gunfire and the thundering footsteps coming towards him were gone, as the remaining oxygen was slowly sapped from his lungs. His mouth moved rapidly as he fought to push air through his body and flush out the toxins that were winning the bitter war with his immune system. Without the oxygen they required to function, his internal organs began to fail. Within a matter of seconds, his body was simultaneously experiencing multi-organ and respiratory failure – a deadly combination from which there was no return. For a man so used to combat, his body was losing its final battle – one against itself – deprived of the vital element it needed to stay alive.

Corporal Matheson barely felt the oxygen mask being strapped over his face and his head being lifted from the ground, nor did he hear the frantic shouts and hurried movement around the spot where he was struggling to stay alive. He reached up with his right hand, trying to touch the face of his daughter one last time, and his eyes filled briefly with tears before his head rolled back and his body became limp and lifeless.