‘I’m truly sorry to hear that, man,’ the oldest in the group said to Ben, speaking for the first time in an accent that was a long way from Lancashire. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with chiselled features and a buzz-cut as grey as his beard. He introduced himself as Chris Holt, a retired Master Sergeant previously with the US 19th Special Forces Group. ‘I did five tours of Afghanistan, last one in 2004. Can’t say the place has gotten any more pleasant over the years.’ He motioned to the other men standing beside him. ‘This here’s Gino Baldacci, ex-Delta; and this is Hank Schulz, formerly of US Marine Corps Force Recon.’

All top-level operatives, all retired. Most if not all had been to Afghanistan before. Now they’d returned, apparently of their own free will, to roam about the wilderness armed up to the eyeballs.

‘And you’re the commanding officer?’ Ben asked Holt, remembering what Wolf had told him.

‘Call me team leader,’ Holt replied with a dry smile. ‘Only because I got on board this show before these guys. We don’t do rank here. We’re not exactly what you’d call an official unit.’

‘So what are you?’

‘We’re the guys doing what the US military should be doing,’ Baldacci replied with a look of disgust.

‘Yeah. Thanks to an administration of worthless yellow-bellied rat-ass sleazebags in the White House, it’s left up to deplorables like us to take care of business,’ said Schulz.

‘Mad buggers,’ Nobby Scraggs added with a chuckle. ‘That’s what we are.’

Holt took out a radio and called up to the two unseen sentries high in the rocks. ‘Mike, Doug; how’s the view from up there?’

‘All clear for miles,’ came a crackly voice back. ‘Who’s the new dude?’

‘Unexpected visitor,’ Holt said. ‘He’s brought some chow with him. Come on down if you want your dinner.’

Soon afterwards they were joined by Mike Nielsen and Doug Liebowitz, who both came from similar military backgrounds to the others. With no apparent Taliban patrols in the vicinity they brewed up some evening coffee on their communal jet stove, which was running low on gas. As the red band in the western sky faded to full dark and a perfect crescent moon, sharp as a sickle blade, began its climbing arc overhead Ben shared out the remainder of his roast goat, and the eight of them sat around eating and drinking while Wolf finally explained to Ben why they were all here.

‘We might not look like it,’ Wolf said, ‘but we’re civilian volunteers. We all came over on our own coin as part of a non-governmental NEO task force, working side by side with the US military efforts to get the first wave of evacuees out of the country before the gates slammed shut.’