Carstairs had explained the various methods they’d considered to land the task force in enemy territory without being detected. The ideal would have been a HALO drop, in which the parachutists would jump from over thirty thousand feet, high enough to put the aircraft out of sight of anyone on the ground, as well as beyond the effective range of surface-to-air missiles. But because they’d additionally be dropping heavy vehicles to enable the task force to travel from close to the border into Kabul, the high command had opted instead for a low-altitude drop from around 1750 feet. For that purpose they’d be using a new kind of experimental heavy drop platform for the vehicles, to cushion the jolt of a two-thousand-kilo hunk of metal hitting unforgiving rocky ground from a great height. Their total destruction on impact remained a distinct possibility; while the risk of paratroops jumping from relatively low altitude, to say nothing of the hazards of detection and/or destruction of the aircraft from the ground, wasn’t insignificant either. ‘But then,’ the colonel had added with a cold smile, ‘none of you men are strangers to taking risks.’

The pilots made their way up to the flight deck and Ben followed the rest of the task force on board via the tail hatch as the four massive turboprop engines, the most powerful ever built by a western country, started cranking noisily up for action. The old Hercules had been able to accommodate between sixty-five and ninety parachutists, plus any amount of heavy cargo. To use this even larger aircraft to transport just eight men and their kit seemed like ridiculous overkill, and was just another indicator of the unusual degree of urgency surrounding this mission. No expense was being spared to recover the mysterious ‘Spartan’, whoever the hell he, she or it was.

Inside the plane’s cavernous hold were two American Humvees in desert camo livery, tightly strapped up inside their massive steel airdrop crates. ‘We’re using these instead of our own vehicles,’ Buchanan said to Ben, raising his voice over the rising roar of the engines. ‘Seeing as the Yanks left so many of the damn things behind in Afghanistan that they’ll blend in and won’t attract too much attention if we have to abandon them. The colonel’s idea.’

Ben nodded. It was smart thinking on Carstairs’ part. Meanwhile, everything else needed for the mission – weapons, ammunition, food, water, communications and medical gear – had been packed into supply pods that would be dropped along with the vehicles.

‘The old man thinks of everything,’ Buchanan said with a smirk. ‘We’ve even got false beards.’