My iPod earphones sparked up again.

'This is Cody Zero One. I say again, identify yourself, over.'

'Cody Zero One, this is James Zero Two. Over.'

I couldn't wait for the day when the software was so smooth you could just talk.

Cody came back after a couple of seconds. 'Roger that, James Zero Two. Fifty-nine – I say again, fiver-niner. Over.'

I did a quick calculation to make sure I wasn't about to fuck up. 'Roger that. Fifty-nine, fiver-niner. That's minus fifty. Minus fiver zero. Over.'

I wanted to make sure I got this right first time. I'd only have one chance to confirm it. The password was nine. To get 59, you had to take off 50. If he had said 02, I'd have said plus 07.

'This is Cody Zero One. Ra'am is not airborne. Acknowledge.'

'Roger that, Cody Zero One. Ra'am not airborne. Out.'

I wasn't cutting off the phone. I was just making sure he didn't rattle on with the commentary until I needed to know.

Pilots all over the world like to give themselves nicknames. There are Lightning Strikes, Cobras, Hell Hawks, Flying Buccaneers – all sorts going on. 69th Squadron of the Israeli Air Force called themselves Ra'am – the Hebrew for thunder.

It was hard not to take the piss, but then again, I wasn't an Israeli with a fucking great mushroom cloud taking shape right on my doorstep. Nor was I a Yank with worries about what the fervently anti-American Iranians were up to. I was just a Brit low down the food chain doing a job, and that was the way I liked it.