Lukas didn’t want any help putting on the rucksack, or slinging the weapon across his chest. He loaded up and faced in the direction of the course without speaking to or even looking at Woody or Max. When Woody gave him the go-ahead, he sprinted. And of course he didn’t look back.

‘Lukas is going to make it, isn’t he?’ Max said. ‘He’s going to be a cadet.’

‘Hector likes him,’ Woody said. ‘And the people above Hector, they like him too.’

‘Why doesn’t Hector like me?’

‘He does,’ Woody said. He made an obvious effort to become his former chirpy self. ‘Course he does. Come on, let’s get you ready.’

The rucksack was even heavier than it looked. In a way, Max was glad of the M16’s weight. He felt more balanced with it slung across his front. But the combined weight felt like it was pulling him down to earth. Woody stood in front of him. ‘Pace yourself, Max,’ he said. It was the first time he’d given any advice. ‘Don’t use too much energy too soon. Now go. Knock it out of the park.’

Max ran. There was no sign of Lukas. With Woody’s advice ringing in his ears, he suppressed his urge to sprint. Keep a steady pace, he told himself. Think tortoise and hare.

Within minutes, he was sweating. His camouflage gear was soon damp. It was impossible to sprint. He jogged steadily, trying to regulate his breathing. Three paces as he inhaled. Three paces as he exhaled. His left ankle twinged from where he had hurt it on the snowy mountainside, but it seemed to be holding out. He tried to ignore the weight that could so easily drag him to the ground.

There were flags marking the way every two hundred metres. Max started to count them, but soon lost track. He was concentrating too hard on his breathing and his pace. They were all that mattered.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. The shooting range slid past in his peripheral vision. The mountain slopes were a blur on either side. Max found himself in something like a trance. He kept a strict rhythm to his footsteps and his breathing. He tried to put all thoughts from his mind, apart from the thought of carrying on.