In the bitter cold of January 1982, Driver Steve Cooper found himself enduring yet another winter exercise. Despite the picturesque quality of the landscape before him, where snow draped the trees and ground in a scene reminiscent of a winter wonderland postcard, the stark truth presented a contrasting reality. The biting cold, at minus seven degrees Celsius, likely amplified to minus twelve by the wind chill, made it far from enjoyable.

Mere moments ago, he had been snugly ensconced within his sleeping bag, but now it was his duty to stand guard. He knew he would be here for another two hours before he could return to his vehicle and seek some much-needed warmth. The shrill cries and gruff snarls of wild boar reverberated through the thick underbrush, drawing nearer with each passing moment, uncomfortably close for his taste. He'd crossed paths with these creatures in the past and had no intention of reliving that encounter. Wild boars were creatures designed for battle – fierce and formidable, armed with razor-sharp tusks and devoid of any trace of humour.

He spat out a string of expletives, cursing the new Commanding Officer for calling another 'Active Edge.' These exercises were intended to assess the unit's agility in mobilising and deploying quickly, preparing them for potential Soviet attacks. Such drills carried weight when initiated at the divisional level – you could never discern whether it was a genuine alert or merely a practice session. But this had been called at unit level, meaning it was just the new guy in charge – power tripping and fucking everyone around.

Suddenly and without any discernible reason, the boar's grunts ceased, and the night was enveloped in an eerie silence, devoid of any sound – not even the rustle of a leaf or the crunch of anything moving in the snow. The darkness deepened, as though a sombre veil had been cast over the landscape, rendering the night many shades darker.

Mark's head throbbed like a drum beaten by the hands of a madman. His hangover was vicious, the kind that made him regret every drop of Asbach and coke he had downed the night before. As he lay in his bed, trying to nurse his aching head, he couldn't help but hear the cacophony of music blaring from adjacent rooms. ‘Smooth Operator by Sade,’ the haunting melody of ‘Peaches by The Stranglers,’ and the electrifying beats of ‘Abracadabra by Steve Miller Band’ all jumbled together in a dissonant mash-up.

The expensive hi-fi systems, purchased on credit, and tax-free from the NAAFI, amplified the sound to an unbearable level, sending sharp pains coursing through his already suffering head. Mark liked each of these songs in their own right, but together they were an ordeal. It was like a terrible mashup created by a twisted DJ in the depths of hell. He could imagine the soundwaves writhing and contorting, like tentacles from some cosmic horror, intent on driving him to madness. He groaned and tried to cover his ears, but the music was relentless. It was as if the speakers had become possessed, determined to torment him. The bass rattled his bones, and the high-pitched notes pierced his brain like needles – it was a sensory assault, and he was powerless to escape.

He sat up in bed, his stomach churning with a sickening intensity as he swallowed back the bitter bile that had flooded his mouth. He rubbed his temples with a shaky hand, trying to piece together the fragmented memories of the previous night. But it was all just a hazy blur, a drunken stupor that left him questioning if the agony he was enduring was worth the fleeting moments of pleasure he had sought.

Mark's mind was a jumbled mess, like a puzzle with too many missing pieces. Fragments of the previous night's escapades flooded his consciousness, threatening to drown him in a sea of regret. He recalled swaying to the beat of Michael Jackson's ‘Billie Jean’ like a madman possessed, his limbs flailing wildly as if to break free from his intoxicated state. But then, a glimmer of hope – a pretty blonde at the bar who had caught his eye. He summoned the courage to approach her, but his words tumbled out like a drunken mess, and she had made a hasty exit.

Dieter Schröder was a man of few words, and those he spoke were often blunt and curt. He had little patience for anyone, and preferred the solace of working alone in the fields and woods, far away from the incessant chatter of people. Despite the back-breaking labour and the biting cold that were a constant companion at this time of year, he found peace in the quiet of the countryside.

Dieter was as rough and tough as they come. He had weathered many storms in his life, both literally and figuratively, and the lines etched on his face were testament to that fact. His hands were thick and calloused, the kind of hands that could handle any tool and fix anything that needed fixing. He was a man who commanded respect, despite his gruff exterior.

Dieter was also a man of few pleasures. He didn't need much to make him happy, just the simple things in life – and a bottle to wash them down with. And sometimes, when the mood struck him, he would add Anna to his list of pleasures. Anna worked out of a grotty RV on Route 3, on the way to Celle. She charged fifty Deutsche Marks per hour, but for Dieter, it was worth every pfennig. She was a welcome alternative to DIY, and he enjoyed her company in ways that he couldn't quite explain. Together, they made an odd pair, but they were happy in their own way. Dieter with his tools and his bottle, Anna with her RV and her services. They were two misfits in a world that didn't quite understand them, but they found solace in each other's company. And in the end, that was all that really mattered.

For the past eighteen years, Dieter had been a civilian labourer for the British Army having spent the previous fifteen years working on building sites. He didn't care for his employer, but the pay was good, and work was scarce in these parts. He spent his days toiling away doing the jobs he was told to do, usually the kind of work that nobody else wanted.

John Gower stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror, his eyes scanning every inch of his No.2 dress uniform. He looked like a man who had stepped straight out of a military recruitment poster – a walking, talking model of discipline and order. He was, as his mum liked to say, ‘As smart as a carrot’.

But what truly filled Gower's heart with an overwhelming sense of pride was the crown that rested atop his three chevrons – a symbol of his recent promotion to the rank of Staff Sergeant. Achieving such a distinguished rank at the youthful age of twenty seven was an accomplishment that he was immensely proud of.

Within the Sergeant’s Mess, there lurked a fair number of senior ranks who had been kicking around longer than John ever had. He knew that there would be animosity, especially from the Royal Corps of Transport (RCT) crowd. Those blokes were a fickle bunch, more concerned with time spent in service than actual merit. They often joked that promotion in the medics was handed out like gifts in a Christmas cracker. They would not be happy with John’s rank at such a young age.

John didn’t give a fuck about what they thought, he knew that he had earned every bit of his recent promotion. The past three years had been spent at ‘Princess Marina College’ in Arborfield, where he had served as both a Platoon Sergeant for D Company and an instructor at the Medical Training Wing. The college held a revered status as an Army Apprentices College, offering specialised trade training to soldiers aged sixteen to eighteen. While the majority hailed from ‘The Royal Electrical Mechanical Engineers (REME),’ there was also a substantial presence of apprentices from ‘The Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC).’

It was a demanding posting, to say the least, with a dizzying array of cap badges adorning the headdress of the instructors. The Regimental Sergeant Major and the four Company Sergeant Majors all came from the ‘Regiments of Foot Guards,’ the remainder comprised a hodgepodge of Infantry, Artillery, and Corps. There were some very serious types in attendance, hailing from elite regiments like the Paras and Gurkhas. These fellas weren't to be messed with, not by a long shot. Most of the SNCOs had cut their teeth as instructors at Senior Brecon, the holy ground where Infantry soldiers were moulded into killing machines. If you weren't up to snuff, these guys would spot you from a mile away.

Captain Alexander Cavendish had been stationed in Bergen-Hohne with the 9th/12th Royal Lancers for what felt like a lifetime. His regiment had been deployed as the ‘1st Armoured Division Armoured Reconnaissance Regiment’ back in November of '80, and they had been there ever since. But despite the monotony, there was one thing that kept Cavendish going – his beloved FV101 Scorpion. The Scorpion served both as an armoured reconnaissance vehicle and a light tank, earning, in Alex's view, the status of the ultimate boy's toy. It was fast – capable of hitting over 50mph, and it was armed to the teeth. The 76mm L23A1 gun was a thing of beauty, and the ‘GPMG’ was nothing to sneeze at either. But the gadgets didn't stop there. The Scorpion was equipped with two multi-barrelled smoke grenade dischargers, one on each side of the turret, a ‘Nuclear, Biological, Chemical (NBC)’ protection system, image intensification sights for gunner and driver, and a floatation screen. Creature comforts included a commode, an internal water tank, and a BV for cooking and heating water.

Being stuck on exercise in the freezing cold of a German winter was made much easier and enjoyable if you were in a Scorpion. Alex was taking part in a demanding military exercise that aimed to enhance his combat abilities in preparation for war. The primary goal of his mission was to navigate through enemy territory, gathering critical intel on primary force deployments and encampments. The exercise proved to be both challenging and exhilarating, further enhanced by the Scorpion, that could conquer any terrain including the boggy conditions of the ‘Soltau-Lüneburg Training Area (SLTA).’

However, as much as Cavendish relished the excitement, there was a dull and tedious aspect to it as well – the seemingly endless hours of waiting. Such is the nature of the British Army, always hurrying up to reach their destination, only to be compelled to bide their time once they got there. And that is precisely what he was doing at this moment – waiting for the next set of orders, waiting for something to happen. It was a tiresome and tedious affair, that was necessary to prepare for the realities of war. The only good thing about ‘hurry up and wait,’ was the chance to catch up on the important things, such as getting some scoff and a brew inside you, taking a shit, cleaning your personal weapon and general cleaning of the inside of vehicles.

The Intelligence Corps team huddled together in their HQ, poring over maps of the training area like it was the key to unlocking a great mystery. They were like detectives, trying to piece together clues that would lead them to the elusive creature they had been tasked to find, and they were getting nowhere. The group was under the command of Major Frederick Whitmore, a veteran with two decades of service in the British Army Intelligence Corps. As a seasoned Military Intelligence Officer, he was well-versed in leading small teams of analysts to collect, collate, process, and produce intelligence. But nothing in his years of service had prepared him for what he was about to face.

This was something bizarre and weird, something that defied logic and reason. As a trained analyst, Fred was a master at predictive assessment. It was a bit like a game of chess, but on a scale that involved the lives and deaths of multiple soldiers. One wrong move, and it could mean the difference between victory and defeat, between life and death. This was no ordinary game – the stakes were higher, the moves were riskier, and the consequences were deadly. Fred understood that he had to be at the top of his game, prepared for anything that came his way. He was well aware that they were venturing into uncharted territory, facing something beyond their wildest imaginations.

It was a hell of a lot different from Fred's last gig. That time, he was stuck behind the Iron Curtain in East Germany, playing spy for the British Commanders'-in-Chief Mission to the Soviet Forces in Germany, or Brixmis as they called it. That job was a whole different ballgame, more like something out of a John le Carré novel than your average detective work.

Fred knew they needed someone with a deeper understanding of the area, someone who had lived and breathed the land for as long as they could remember. That's when he brought in Siegfried Wagner, a member of the ‘Schuetzenverein,’ a club dedicated to the art of marksmanship. Siegfried was a local, born and raised. He had seen the land change over the years, from the days before the ‘Soltau-Lüneburg Agreement’ had come into force, to the present day where it was a hub for military training.

Siegfried wasn't just a local, he was a walking, talking history book. He knew every detail of the area they were searching, from the battles fought and won to the regiments and corps that had called it home since the end of World War II. His mind was like a treasure trove of knowledge, filled with stories and facts that would make your hair stand on end. He could tell you about the horrors of Bergen-Belsen and the surrounding camps, painting a vivid picture of a time that most people would rather forget. But despite the darkness that lurked in the past, Siegfried was a beacon of light. He was a man who had dedicated his life to understanding the land and the people who had lived on it.

He had studied every inch of the training area, poring over maps and documents like they were sacred texts. Siegfried was an invaluable asset in their mission to find the creature, a living, breathing encyclopaedia of knowledge that would help the team to unravel the mystery that lay before them.

The team welcomed Gert Hoffman, a Zoologist from Hannover Zoo, with open arms. Gert had spent his entire career studying animals, both in captivity and in the wild. He was a guru in his field, a master of understanding the intricacies of undomesticated creatures and their mysterious ways. If anyone could shine a light on the creature's behaviour, it was Gert. He had seen it all, from the bizarre mating rituals of exotic birds to the territorial battles of fierce predators. He was a man who had spent his life on the front lines of the animal kingdom, and he knew how to read their every move.

Back at the Intelligence Corps HQ, the team had gained an unexpected ally in Captain Olivia Kensington of the Royal Army Veterinary Corps. She arrived with a sharp wit and a sharp scalpel, ready to join forces with the enigmatic zoologist Gert Hoffman. It was a curious combination, but one that Fred sensed held great potential. He had been sceptical at first, wondering how a vet could possibly contribute to their mission. But as he watched Olivia interact with Gert, he began to see the sense in their collaboration.

She was a master of the intricate details of animal anatomy and physiology, while Gert was a master of the unpredictable and often dangerous behaviour of wild animals. Together, they provided the team with a real chance at understanding where, when, and how to trap or kill the creature.

Meanwhile, Driver Hughes pushed the Land Rover to its limit, his foot heavy on the accelerator as he tried to outrun the monster behind them. He stole a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, catching a glimpse of the creature through the haze of snow and gunfire, and wished he hadn't. The thing was getting closer by the second, its shadowy form growing more defined with every passing moment.

John Gower sprang into action, grabbing both his own weapon and Driver Hughes' SLR as he hopped into the back of the vehicle. He could see that Harris's SMG was doing little to slow the creature's advance, so he aimed carefully with the SLR and fired three rounds into its centre mass.

The creature flinched, but it was a small victory. It was getting closer, now just twenty metres away and still gaining. Gower changed tactics, aiming for the creature's eye in a desperate attempt to take it down. The first shot missed, hitting the creature's head without causing any damage. But the second shot hit its mark, sending the creature reeling and staggering to the side.

For a moment, they dared to hope that they might have stopped it. But it wasn't long before the beast was back on its feet, letting out a bone-chilling howl of rage. Gower and Harris continued to fire, their shots ringing out in the frigid air. It was relentless, but so were they. After a while, it seemed to be getting tired, or perhaps the Land Rover had hit its top speed and was able to keep up. Regardless, the creature slowed and came to a stop, turning tail and running back into the cover of the trees. This was fortunate, because they were very low on ammunition.

The being was as ancient as the primordial abyss, a thing of unspeakable power and malevolence that had existed since the dawn of time. It had been born from the very essence of hate and contempt, with an unquenchable thirst for destruction. It had once been known by many names, feared and revered by those who knew of its existence. But now, after aeons of wandering the cosmos, those names had faded into obscurity, lost in the mists of time like forgotten relics of a bygone era.

The creature was no mere extra-terrestrial voyager, but a cosmic surfer, riding through the boundless expanse on a wave of electromagnetic radiation and celestial detritus. Its form was shapeless and ever-changing, contorting and undulating with the ebbs and flows of the currents that propelled it forward.

The journey was long and arduous, spanning countless light-years as the entity traversed space. Memories of past misdeeds swirled and twisted in its mind, a never-ending spiral of carnage and bloodshed that had driven it to the very edges of the universe in search of new prey. In the absence of flesh to consume, the being's palate was left with a dismal void, a hunger that gnawed at it with unrelenting ferocity. Its memories became its nutriment, its lifeblood – and it drank deeply from their wellspring of violence and death.

The entity had no destination in mind, no purpose other than the primal urge to seek out sustenance and sustenance alone. And as it rode the cosmic waves, it felt an irresistible pull, a beckoning from a nearby source, promising nourishment and entertainment beyond its wildest dreams. It did not know where this call originated, only that it was too tantalising to resist. And so it rode on, drawn ever closer to the source of this irresistible ‘siren song.’