After ten minutes, a whispered message in the earpiece of the personal role radio, given to him by the Latvian Forest Brothers, told him that the gun group were in position and ready.

Wordlessly Lukša followed with the rest of the scout group. Fifteen minutes later, they were through the forest and moving southeast along the eastern edge of the tree line. Morland felt a faint breeze bringing the scent of newly cut hay from a distant field. The moon was still low in the sky, its silver light, thankfully, still mostly obscured by clouds.

Then Lukša stopped and pointed ahead to Archer on the gun and Watson lying beside him, ready to feed in the belt of ammo now stacked in a neat pile to the left of the gun on a poncho, to stop the ammunition getting dirty. Perfect, but Morland would have expected no less from these two.

They took up positions in all-round defense. Morland tapped Watson on the shoulder and he tapped Archer. The gun group, carefully and quietly and making no effort to rush, re-shouldered the ammunition before moving off to their next fire position, on the heel of the forest covering the open ground.

Morland’s stomach clenched involuntarily and his mouth was dry with fear. They were about to go into the unknown; away from the comforting proximity of the forest into the open ground beyond.

Look at the others, thought Morland. They’re equally scared, but they’re just carrying on as if it’s a walk in the park.

He glanced surreptitiously at Krauja; face streaked with cam cream in the moonlight, blonde hair scraped back under a borrowed Latvian army combat cap, her combat smock with the overlong sleeves rolled up, Heckler & Koch 5.56 millimeter assault rifle—standard issue to Latvian infantry—tucked into her shoulder as she covered her arcs of fire. She looked professional. And deadly. If she was scared, she was not showing it.

Another wait. Another short radio message from Watson. The gun group was in position and ready.

They stood up and left the edge of the forest. Four hundred meters ahead of them Morland could see the hedge running along the edge of the sunken lane—and beyond was the perimeter fence of the Iskander Battery site.

Something’s not right, thought Morland. The lights were blazing earlier . . . they’ve turned off the lights. Why . . . ? Are they expecting us? But it was too late. The air assault troops were on their way and they were committed.