Somewhere in the forest, Gauja National Park, Latvia

MORLAND STRETCHED HIS cramped legs and wiggled his toes in his boots in an attempt to get the blood circulating in his chilled feet. He was lying prone under a camouflaged waterproof poncho, which covered his shallow trench overlooking a track that led down the slope to a rickety hunter’s footbridge over the River Gauja. Another poncho beneath him gave minimal protection from the damp and cold seeping from the earth up into his body. He lay behind a Latvian 7.62 General Purpose Machine Gun—known universally as the GPMG, or more familiarly as the “gimpy.” It was Belgian-made, but exactly the same weapon Morland had been trained on as a cadet at Sandhurst and still, after fifty years, the main British infantry section heavy machine gun. The GPMG was made ready with the first round of a belt of 200 in the breach. The remainder of the belt was coiled neatly on the poncho to the left of the gun.

Just like being on stag, on sentry duty, back in the forest blocks at Sennybridge in Wales, he thought. Only difference is, it’s not raining . . . yet.

Normally he would have a number two beside him to feed the belt smoothly into the breach—they might be fearsome bits of kit, but they were also temperamental and prone to jamming, if not operated correctly—but right now Morland was alone. He was on guard while the rest of the team slept in the bunker behind him. He liked taking the last stag before dawn “stand to.” It meant he was awake before the rest of his team and able to think through and reflect on what the day ahead would bring. It had been bitter overnight, but around him the forest was coming to life. The dawn chorus of songbirds was sounding as the first gray light began to filter through the fresh green of the new leaf cover. In front of him, the river tumbled over stones into pools of clear water. A red deer stag grazed on the far side of the river, blissfully unaware of his presence.

However, try as he might, he could not expunge from his mind’s eye the blinding flash and roar as HMS Padstow had been blown apart five days earlier. Since then events seemed to have gone into uncontrolled overdrive. During the drive to Ādaži, Krauja remained silent at the wheel, stunned by the violence she had witnessed and the probable death of her brother at Riga Airport, but staying focused and determined as she drove the Toyota at speed through Riga and back to the Latvian Special Tasks Unit training camp. They had arrived not a moment too soon, as the Latvians were preparing to deploy into the forest; going underground to fight. Ādaži would be a key military target for the Russians as soon as they were established in Riga. They had to get out and fast.