That was crazy, as Carr had told him repeatedly, during several late night attempts to change McMullen’s mind. No-one doubted his soldiering, it was just that there were four troop staff sergeants in a squadron and only one SQMS: simple maths said that three quality men were bound to be disappointed.

But your strengths are often your weaknesses. McMullen would never, ever quit in the field, but occasionally his huge determination turned into a boneheaded stubbornness, an inability to know good advice when it was offered.

So he’d flounced out, in his mind making some kind of statement.

Almost immediately, he had regretted the move – no-one is irreplaceable, and the Squadron had just moved on without him, like the unstoppable train that it was – and he’d been too proud to ask to come back. He’d struggled with the transition to civvie street, and the money on offer for this job would make a massive difference to him and his family.

And Carr was very happy to have him along – Kevin was an exceptional patrol medic, and an equally good sniper, perhaps the best Carr had ever seen.

Back towards the end of his time leading the squadron, John Carr had led a team of blokes out near Sangin, the Afghan opium town in Helmand Province where his own younger brother had died with 3 Para in 2006.

Intelligence had come in which placed a key Taliban commander – a guy known as ‘The Butcher’ – in a compound deep in the green zone, near the river at the town’s western extreme.

The source said The Butcher was planning to lead an assault on the nearby FOB Wishtan, which was occupied at that time by an under-strength and battle-weary company of 1 SCOTS.

He had pulled together a major force, with heavy weapons, and his intention was to overrun the compound and slaughter every single man-jack inside.

Preferably in cold blood.

Under cover of darkness, the SAS patrol had got into the high ground across the river, and had watched the compound for near-on forty hours, as men drifted in from the surrounding area.

And then… Jackpot.

The Butcher himself had turned up towards the end of the second afternoon, on the back of a motorbike.

The Hereford team confirmed him inside the walls, and settled down to keep the bastard under observation, until the Squadron got there to kill or capture him.

But it rapidly became obvious that there wasn’t the time for that.

Outside, in the shade of the twelve-foot mud walls, the guy at the handlebars of the little red Honda had turned the bike back the way it had come, and now he was sitting in front of the main gate, waiting.

Engine running.

Clearly, The Butcher wasn’t planning to hang around to lead the assault.