Sentinel

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The Russian submarine captain ran through the woods, searching for signs of anyone who might kill him. It was night, and the forest was dense. Sleet struck his face. His body trembled with cold and fear.

Reaching a tiny area of open ground, he stopped, crouched, and listened. The sea was only a few hundred yards away, and he could hear the sounds of waves crashing over shingle. Turning slowly, he braced himself, half expecting to see men with flashlights, guns, and dogs rushing toward him.

He stayed like this for two minutes before glancing in the direction of his car. It was hidden from view, parked in the trees off the nearest road. It would take him one minute to get back to the vehicle and another twenty minutes to reach his submarine base. He was allowed off the base for only one hour. Time was running out.

Walking quickly, he moved out of the clearing and into more forest. He counted each step, stopped when he had gone eighty paces, changed direction, and walked a further fifty steps. The tree was before him. It looked like those around it-tall, thin, no foliage, and slightly bent from easterly winds-but he knew it was the right tree. He’d been here seven times before and despised the location because on each visit he’d always wondered if it was the place where he’d be trapped and killed.

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