The vehicles were laden high and the cab rear-view was useless, so Carr glanced at his wing-mirror regularly, making sure that Fred was still there. If something happened to Geordie’s Hilux at 45kph and Carr wasn’t concentrating, it would be easy to be a couple of klicks separated, maybe a lot more.

Behind him, Geordie Skelton was doing the same, to make sure that nothing was coming up to the rear, and, every now and then they had a quick comms check, just for confidence, and always initiated by Carr.

To minimise the time on air, they had agreed that Geordie would only come up if absolutely necessary; it was unlikely that they would be intercepted over UHF, but being cautious kept you alive.

Being armed to the fucking teeth did the same thing.

Carr had his pistol on his waist, his Diemaco – 40mm grenade launcher attached – between his legs, and a small bag over his shoulder containing an extra four magazines and half-a-dozen 40mm HE.

The remainder of his kit – and the day’s water and food – was neatly placed on the rear seat behind him, next to Kev’s.

In the rear footwell lay a Minimi, fully loaded and ready to go, with a belt of 200 7.62mm rounds, a mix of ball, tracer and AP, and a couple of 66mm LAWs.

Carr was confident that they could deal with most threats, but hoping that they didn’t have to find out.

It was monotonous, mind-numbing work driving through this empty, beige land, so they broke it up every hour with a stop, to stretch their legs, have a chat and a piss – and a fag, in the case of Kev McMullen – and do a map check.

At mid-morning, the sun high and bright and roasting overhead, they stopped for breakfast in the bottom of a wadi, in the shade of a rare wild pistachio tree.

Fred made the brews and handed them over.

‘Weird, ain’t it?’ he said quietly, as he sipped his own. ‘It must be near enough forty degrees out here, and I’d still rather drink this than anything.’

‘What’s that cider shit you like?’ said Kev, with a grin. ‘Cornish Rattler? How about a pint of that?’

Fred smiled. ‘Ice cold in Alex? Yeah, fair one.’

Carr smiled, went to dunk a biscuit into his tea – and then stopped, his hand in mid-air.

A few metres away, on stag in a slightly elevated position, Geordie Skelton had raised his own hand.

‘What’s that?’ he hissed.

All four of them held their breath and cocked their heads.

‘I can’t hear fuck all,’ whispered Carr.

‘Someone coming,’ said Geordie.

Carr crammed the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, and grabbed his weapon.

In a matter of seconds, each man was facing towards the threat.

And then Carr heard it: an almost musical jingling noise, carried on the southern breeze.