Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Reid
Yesterday was a navigation exercise through forest terrain—eight miles, a map, no trail markers, find five flags with your number on it. That ensured no one could follow someone else’s path. It cost us two more contestants—one quit, one didn’t find all his flags. Down to nineteen now.
The camera crews are everywhere. Drones overhead tracking our movements.
Handheld cameras catching our faces at checkpoints.
Body mics recording every word. I’ve learned to ignore them, treat them like surveillance during a mission.
They’re there, you acknowledge it, you don’t let it change your behavior.
Mac is waiting as usual, looking fresh despite the early hour.
“Today’s challenge is different,” he announces. “No distance. No navigation. Just you and your ability to control your mind.”
That’s never a good sign.
“Transport leaves in ten minutes. Dress warm. You’ll want the layers and your wool hats.”
The transport takes us west, toward bigger mountains. Toward water. I can see a loch in the distance, gray and forbidding under heavy clouds. A camera truck follows us. Another drone tracks overhead.
We arrive at a staging area near the shore. The loch is massive, dark, and surrounded by steep hills. The water looks black. Wind cuts across the surface, creating whitecaps.
Mac gestures to a section of shore where crew members have set up a monitoring station. Medical equipment. Timers. Cameras on tripods.
“Cold-water immersion test,” Mac says. “Thirty minutes chest-deep in the loch. Water temperature is eleven degrees Celsius—about fifty-two Fahrenheit. You can quit at any time. Medical will pull you if you show signs of severe hypothermia. Questions?”
Fifty-two degrees. Cold enough to kill if you’re not careful.
Thirty minutes.
I’ve done worse. SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training—included cold-water scenarios. This is controlled. Medical standing by. Not actual combat conditions.
I can do this.
“Change into the provided swimwear,” Mac continues. “Women behind that screen, men behind that one. You have five minutes. Move.”
The provided swimwear is minimal. Standard competition swimsuit, nothing insulated. We’re supposed to suffer.
I change quickly, folding my tactical gear and leaving it with the crew.
The air temperature is maybe forty-six degrees Fahrenheit.
The second I strip down, the cold hits like a weapon.
My breath comes out in visible clouds. My skin burns with it.
Eyes stinging, nose going numb immediately.
I’m shivering before I even walk to the water.
When we emerge from behind the screens, the men are already lined up.
I catalog them. Zay looks nervous—big guy, more body mass to cool.
Trevor is shaking already, and we haven’t even entered the water yet.
Blake is making jokes, probably masking fear.
Aiden looks determined, jaw set. Jacks—the quiet one who meditates every morning—seems calm, almost peaceful.
Even now, with wind cutting across the water and cameras inches from his face, his breathing stays slow.
Deliberate. Like the cold has to ask permission to touch him.
And Sulla stands at the end of the line, completely still.
I heard him give Zay his name yesterday in the mess tent.
I can finally put a name to the thawed gladiator.
His body is lean, wiry muscle, old scars visible on his torso.
His face is blank. Waiting. The scars aren’t random.
They’re patterned—old discipline, not accident.
Whip marks, likely. Repeated, deliberate, over years.
The kind of scarring you don’t get in a modern training facility.
My eyes linger a second longer than they should. Then I look away.
The camera crews are positioning themselves. Multiple angles. This will make good television—contestants suffering in freezing water.
I ignore them and focus on the objective: Survive thirty minutes in fifty-two-degree water. My strategy will be: Controlled breathing. Mental distance. Don’t fight the cold, accept it. Mind over matter.
Mac points us into the water in groups of four, with three in the fifth group. Ten-minute intervals between groups. Sulla steps forward with the first group. I'm in the second group with Sienna, the MMA fighter from Tucson, and Juno, the woman with tats, a nose ring, and purple hair.
The four groups on shore are told to turn around so we can't watch the ones in the water.
But we can hear. Gasps. Cursing. Teeth chattering.
"Group two." Mac calls. Turning, I focus on the water, not the four already there.
The first step into the loch steals my breath.
Cold shock response—immediate, involuntary. My lungs seize. Can't breathe. Can't think. Every cell screaming to get out.
I force myself to keep moving. One step. Another. The water climbs my legs, my thighs, my waist. I've done this before, but I'd forgotten how each inch is a new level of brutal.
"Chest-deep when sitting down," Mac calls from shore. "Hands out of the water."
Smart. Keeping the extremities out slows heat loss, buys time before core temp drops.
I lower myself until the water hits my collarbones. The cold is beyond anything I've experienced outside of SERE. My chest is constricted. Breathing is hard—short, gasping breaths I can't control yet.
My body is already shivering violently. Automatic. Trying to generate heat.
"Thirty minutes starts now," Mac says. "Timers set."
The first minute is pure survival. The body's panic response fighting every ounce of training I have.
Control the breathing. In through the nose—hurts, cold burning my sinuses. Out through the mouth. Slow. Steady. Regulate the panic.
I learned this in interrogation resistance training. When they held me underwater, when my lungs were burning and my mind was screaming. You can't control the situation. You can control your response.
Breathe. Count. Distance yourself from the sensation.
Around me, the MMA fighter is cursing under his breath, a constant stream of profanity. Juno is eerily quiet, face set in grim determination. Sienna's jaw is clenched. She's holding.
Five minutes. The shivering is violent now. My jaw is clenched so hard it hurts. The cold is seeping deeper, into muscle, into bone.
This is nothing. Lieutenant Ramirez took a round on a ridge and went over the edge. I caught his hand. Couldn't hold him. Bled out in the dirt while we waited for medevac. This is controlled. This is temporary. This is not life or death.
I keep breathing.
Ten minutes. Group three enters the water. My vision is blurring at the edges. The cold is affecting cognition—thoughts coming slower, harder to form.
Mental distance. I'm not in Scotland. I'm somewhere else. I'm watching this happen to someone else.
On shore, Mac is watching with medical staff nearby. Drone circling low. Tripod cameras on shore. Handheld following Mac.
I don't care about the cameras. I care about finishing.
Fifteen minutes. Halfway. The shivering has plateaued at maximum intensity. I glance sideways without meaning to. Sulla hasn't moved. No frantic breathing. Jaw clenched. Just stillness. Like the cold is something he's negotiating with instead of fighting.
That kind of control doesn't come from training alone.
Someone in the first group calls out. "I'm done. I'm out."
"Medical, assist," Mac barks.
Crew members wade in. The man is stumbling, lips already blueing.
They get him to shore fast—strip the wet swimsuit, dry him, thermal layer first, then wool blanket, then mylar over that to reflect body heat back.
Someone presses a warm drink into his hands.
Medical checks his vitals and then monitors for afterdrop.
Trevor is in the first group. Shaking violently, jaw set. Staying in. Group one's thirty minutes complete—they're pulled. Trevor has to be helped out, he's that wrecked. But he didn't quit.
I catch a glimpse of Sulla as he makes his way to shore.
He's shivering but walking under his own power.
He looks back once toward the water. His face is still blank.
His shoulders are shaking hard enough to rattle bone, but he doesn't look at anyone.
Doesn't let anyone steady him. Pride, I think.
Or something harder. Whatever he's feeling, he's not showing it.
I keep breathing. Keep counting.
Twenty minutes. Group four enters. I've lost sensation in my hands even though they aren't in the water. My core is holding but the shivering is uncontrollable. My mind is sluggish. I have to work to remember why I'm doing this.
Dad. Memory care. The money.
I can do this.
“Twenty-five minutes,” one of the crew shouts at us. The MMA fighter next to me has gone quiet. Too quiet. His shivering has stopped—which looks like improvement and isn't. His hands have dropped into the water. Medical notices immediately and wades in.
"Hey. Look at me. What's your name?"
Slurred response. Confusion.
"We're pulling you." No argument from him. Can't argue. They get him to shore, thermal layer, blankets, warm fluids, vitals check. He'll be monitored for afterdrop—the core temp that keeps falling even after you're out of the water.
Just me, Sienna, and Juno left from our group. Those two are going to make it. So am I.
Group five—the three—enters the water.
Twenty-eight minutes. Almost there. My body has shut down non-essential functions. All energy maintaining core temperature. I can barely think through the fog.
But I can count.
Twenty-nine.
Thirty.
"Second group, time," Mac calls. "Medical, assist. Fifth group, enter now."
I'm walking but barely. The water streaming off my body feels warm compared to the air. The three of us are helped behind the screen.