‘You’re going to rot in hell,’ Skeletor declared from on high.

‘Hell?’ Thomas asked through pursed lips. ‘Be like Miami Beach compared to this place.’ He sparked a match with his left hand, held it to the joint and sucked.

‘You may as well light a signal flare.’

‘Can you smoke those?’ Thomas shook the match dead.

‘You should try,’ Skeletor said. ‘Put one in your mouth and let it off.’

Thomas went back to staring at his cloud. He inhaled and exhaled, blowing smoke to join it.

Then he saw movement, a flicker in the top right corner of the rolling sandscape. He blinked, hoping it was a hallucination, then swatted, praying it might be a fly.

‘Chips,’ Skeletor said in warning. He saw it too.

Thomas stubbed out the joint, grabbed his rifle with both hands and watched the speck grow from the direction of Angola – communist-controlled Angola. As it tracked through the desert towards him, it became bigger, more defined and definitely human. It had to be a terrorist. Who else could slip through the tangle of barbed wire and minefields just over the horizon? Who else would want to?

Wishing he’d taken more time to dig his foxhole, Thomas shrank down and tried to make himself small. His trigger finger trembled as he stared along the barrel of his rifle. The only thing he had ever shot at was a target in training, and he usually missed.

The terrorist was running, leaving tracks in the sand, a zigzag pattern as though he was frantic and delirious and had lost his way. He disappeared behind the closest sand dune.

‘I’m going to take him out,’ Skeletor said.

Lurching over the crest of the dune, the terrorist became visible again. His hands were in the air, waving. He must have spotted them.

‘Hang on, bru.’ To get Skeletor’s attention, Thomas raised his own hand like he was back in class, about to ask a question. ‘He’s signalling to us.’