Even worse again – Moroccan military of some sort.

So they knelt in place, scanning right to left, looking for movement, and listening, heads cocked on one side.

Not that Dave Cummins could hear anything other than a slight ringing in his ears, thanks to his severe tinnitus – an occupational hazard, caused by putting a hundred thousand rounds through various rifles and machine guns and pistols, not to mention lobbing hundreds of grenades and flash-bangs, and spending what sometimes felt like the rest of his operational life danger-close to artillery, missile strikes, A10 cannon fire, and the like.

But he could see nothing, and clearly the younger guys could hear nothing, so, after a minute or two, he signalled two of the team to move left and right and forward, up to the treeline.

They did so, taking up positions which would provide both protection and early warning, should anyone approach the area.

‘Boat first, Trigger,’ said Cummins, quietly, to the fourth man.

Sergeant Paul ‘Trigger’ Stevens – one of Cummins’ closest mates, and so-named not because he was quick on the draw but because he looked and sounded exactly like the character from Only Fools and Horses – nodded.

With Cummins giving cover back towards the area of threat, Trigger moved off to the gentle waves, and paddled out to the half-sunken RIB, which lay in knee-deep water a dozen or so metres offshore.

He conducted a quick search, took a dozen snaps with a waterproof camera with an infra-red flash, and splashed back to his staff sergeant.

‘Fuck all there, Dave,’ he whispered.

They moved towards the nearest body, that of a man in his fifties who was lying on his back, a few metres away in six inches of water.

He had gunshot wounds to his chest and forehead, and his eyes had been pecked out by gulls.

‘Say cheese, sadiqi,’ said Trigger, chuckling to himself as he took several photographs of the man’s face and body.

‘I dunno about say cheese,’ said Cummins. ‘He smells like fucking gorgonzola.’

Trigger put the camera in his pocket and pulled a large, serrated-edged knife from a sheath on his chest rig.

He knelt down in the water beside the body, took its right hand and swiftly separated it from the wrist at the joint.

In an ideal world they’d have taken the bodies for identification, but there wasn’t the room on the heli, so hands would have to do.

They’d provide DNA, Cummins supposed, and maybe fingerprints, though he’d done a double-take and confirmed twice if that was the order.

And now he looked away: shooting a man is easy enough, but cutting bits off bloated corpses… that required a certain kind of constitution.

Which Trigger possessed in spades.

In the treeline, through his night-sight, Cummins thought he saw movement.

He keyed his throat mike, but then held off speaking.

Just the wind moving branches.

He needed to…

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

Half-turned.