Northern Perthshire, Scotland, a 420-meter mountain outpost.
Four o'clock in the morning, with a temperature of minus nine degrees.
British Army Corporal Tom Hardy curled up behind the lookout in the watchtower, raising his infrared binoculars every thirty seconds to scan the snow-covered slope ahead. Frost clung to his cold weather face gear, and each breath condensed into tiny droplets on the inside of the nylon fabric.
The outpost, codenamed "Black Swan," is a forward observation point fifteen kilometers north of the A9 Road, manned by a squad from C Company, 2nd Battalion, Royal Anglian Regiment. Originally twelve men, two were sent out with frostbite last week, leaving only ten.
Of course, one of them has a dad who's a big shot in some department, but the dossier would say he's serving in some tough spot.
"Two more hours till the shift change."
Private Duncan murmured, blowing on his frozen hands, "Not even a rabbit in this godforsaken place, and we have to stay put."
