A minute later, and a pair of hulking soldiers joined them, led to the wardroom by a timid rating over whom they towered.

‘Thanks for joining me, gents,’ said the captain, when the door was closed. ‘A task has come in from London. A little trip to Morocco.’

The four men leaned forward, suddenly very interested, and listened intently as the detail of the mission was outlined.

When he had finished, he said, ‘So, what do you think? Doable?’

The Troop boss, a young captain, immediately looked at the staff sergeant, Dave Cummins, hoping he’d be allowed to go along but knowing he probably wouldn’t.

Officially, the captain was the ranking soldier; in reality, he deferred to Cummins, a fifteen-year veteran of the Special Boat Service, who would choose the best and most experienced three blokes to accompany him. He would want guys who had been battle-proven in the heat and dust of Afghanistan: this was not going to be a trip for passengers and FNGs, but for reliable hands who would do what was required, and who would not hesitate if it all ended up live-or-die time in a firefight.

Cummins snapped shut his notebook, and grinned widely.

‘Piece of piss,’ he said. ‘Nice evening for a ride in a chopper.’ He looked at his watch. ‘What time’s dark?’

‘Fully dark at 22:44,’ said the captain. He looked at his watch. ‘An hour from now.’

‘Let me get the blokes sorted and we’ll meet back here for my briefing in fifteen minutes.’

A quarter of an hour later, Cummins stood across a map, facing the helicopter crew and the chosen three – they didn’t include the young captain, though he stood to one side, listening in, with a face like a smacked arse.

Quickly, Cummins briefed them, being careful to stress to the pilots that this was his mission, and that they needed to do as they were told. He was used to flying with SF-trained aircrew, and, while he had no doubt that these were good blokes and excellent pilots, they’d not done much of this kind of work before.

‘The key thing, fellas,’ he said, in his broad Halifax accent, ‘is not to start thinking too much. Do as I say, and we’ll all be cock-on.’

The other SBS men chuckled; the pilots nodded, perhaps a little anxiously.

They left to get kitted up and inspect their aircraft, and the soldiers disappeared to collect their equipment. Each would carry a Diemaco C7 5.56mm assault rifle – an M4 variant fitted with a heavier-duty barrel, an Elcan night-sight, and a flash suppressor – and full fighting order, body armour, and sidearms. Don’t get caught was an absolutely redundant instruction: Cummins had no intention whatsoever of letting that happen, even if it meant shooting their way out.

Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six: it might have been an old cliché, but he and his men lived by it.