Hope to Die

It’s a perfect night for it. No cloud, and barely any moonlight. Though cold comes with clear skies – they said on the radio it could hit freezing tonight. But he’s done this before and he’s come prepared. The backpack is digging into one shoulder and he hoists it a little higher, then starts off again. His stride is sure, despite the dark: he knows where he’s going – he did the full recce a couple of days ago. All the same, it’s hard slow-going at night, especially with all this kit. But he made allowances for that, and in any case, this game is all about patience. The right time, the right place, the right conditions.

The path is winding up through the woods now, and he feels the earth give like mattress beneath his feet; generations of leaf litter compressed to sponge. There are owls calling to each other, invisible in the thickets above his head, and small animals moving in the undergrowth, and – louder than any of them – the thud of his own heart. When he breaks through the treeline at last he stops on the ridge and inhales deeply on the cold damp air, peppered with woodsmoke from the house in the valley below. There’s nowhere else for miles – the only sign of habitation is a scattering of lights on distant hills, mirroring the constellations. It’s completely silent now, out in the open. Not a wisp of wind, just the earth breathing.

He scans the sky for a moment, then swings down the backpack and crouches next to it, flicking on his torch. He pulls out his mount and night-sight and, his excitement growing, starts to snap them together.