The team worked up a sweat, wheeling the crates down the ramp and lifting them in the back of the truck. James rode with the cargo, while the others crammed into a ratty Mercedes taxi, getting a dust shower as the unmarked plane throttled up to leave.

The drivers deliberately steered clear of Viransehir’s centre, speeding past streets of tiny homes and cutting through recently harvested fields. Their destination was an isolated, modern farm building, tall enough to house a giant cotton harvester and equipment used to pack raw cotton into truck-sized bales.

‘You won’t be disturbed here while you prepare,’ the truck driver told James. ‘The rest of your equipment arrived last night. I’ve also brought food and cooking equipment, as instructed.’

After getting everything inside, a scrum over the only toilet and a light lunch of yoghurt, bread and local soft cheese, the team began to unpack and make final preparations. Tovah checked all five microlights for transit damage. The package that had been waiting for them contained new grey inflatable wings, replacing brightly coloured ones designed to maximise safety during flight training.

While the olive-skinned and dark-haired Ryan and Tovah fitted and test-inflated the new grey wings, James and Lauren had to make themselves look more like Syrians. The pair had an uncomfortable – if amusing – experience dying their blond hair, with no hot water and a pressure hose designed to clean agricultural equipment. Then they stripped down to underwear and Kyle gave them a once-over with a spray tan, designed to darken subtly rather than turn them sunbed orange. The final step was disposable contacts, designed to make blue eyes brown.

Ryan didn’t have much growth, but James, Kyle and Bruce hadn’t shaved and the trio posed for selfies with four-week beards and James’ dye job.

The next stage was to try on their kit. Combat boots, tight-fitting stab-proof undershorts and vests, then lightweight bullet-stopping body armour. They didn’t want to appear too militarised, so the men got waterproof jackets, plaid shirts, cargo pants with lots of zip-up pockets for storing equipment. There were also combat helmets, only to be worn at the dangerous end of the mission.

Since they were entering Islamic State territory, Lauren and Tovah would have to wear double veils, full sleeves and gloves for their road journey.

‘Why did I just dye my hair?’ Lauren asked, as she peered out through the tiny slit in her veil. ‘You can’t even bloody see it. And I can barely see where I’m going.’

‘You need to practise walking around in it,’ Tovah said seriously. ‘You’ll stand out if you keep tripping over.’

James couldn’t resist a wolf whistle as Lauren walked up and down the concrete floor. ‘Man, you so sexy, sistah!’

Lauren snapped her head around. ‘Shut up or I’ll break your legs, asshole.’

‘Not very ladylike,’ James teased.