[Location: Fallujah, I-raq. Dateline: November 2004; well past your bedtime. US Rangers and special forces operatives advance on a complex of residential buildings believed to be crawling with the enemy. Watching one entrance through night vision goggles, Sergeant Steve “The Rock” Jenovich leads a half-dozen of his best men into what they believe will be a fierce but small firefight. Although in daylight he bears a passing to his WWE nicknamesake, Jenovich lacks the permanent grimace and the over-large man-breasts.]

[After a few minutes of observation he silently signals that his crack team should advance. Before they can progress, it is as if the gates of Hell have opened and its tormented former denizens have erupted from the earth. The Americans have been betrayed. From all sides screaming jihadis stampede, shouting for death in the name of Allah. Two of his men are down within an instant as they are overwhelmed. Spraying his attackers with automatic fire, Jenovich has the sense to use his headpiece radio to call in the Ultimate Weapon.]

JENOVICH: Viking leader to base! It’s a trap! Requesting “CODE A” support. Repeat: Requesting “CODE A” support!

[At Mission Command, Colonel Benson knows this is the moment he has been dreading. One of his most valued teams is in mortal danger and is asking for him to break every rule of civilised warfare to save them.]

RADIO OPERATOR: They’re outnumbered ten-to-one, Colonel. They’re dying out there! We gotta help them.

BENSON: Goddamit, soldier! I don’t have any choice. Hit the red button. May God have mercy on our souls.

[High over the city, a stealth helicopter swings round to the site of combat. Within seconds it is releasing its load above the desperate gunfight. Three upright canisters about the size of a tall filing cupboards fall earthward on chutes into the darkness. As they land in the street, bolts blow. One of the containers unfolds like a Mars probe.]

[Inside is a huge electric fan, framed by spotlights and mounted on its own enormous military grade battery pack. The metre-long blades begin to rotate, driving a stream of air towards the other two as-yet-unopened pods. The lights begin to burn halogen-bright, illuminating the large doors in their respective sides.]

[The doors open simultaneously. From one canister a man emerges. He pauses at the entrance to preen the golden tresses of his hair in the airstream, reaches over his shoulder and pulls his Gibson guitar into playing position. He stretches his right arm up and plucks a titanium plectrum as if from the nothingness. It, and his teeth, glint for a moment in the light. He begins to play.]

[As the last note of a sky-shaking riff decays into the gunfire, a sound system bellows out a loping dance-rock rhythm and another figure appears in the entrance of the other canister. It is enclosed in a kevlar corset and wearing giant sunglasses at night. A keening cry rings fills the blackness. Realising that a WF (White Funk) attack has begun, the American soldiers desperately scramble to don their protective headwear. The unearthly sound grows in intensity and crashes against the walls on all sides. Even the most battle-hardened holy warrior is forced to drop his Kalashinov and bring his hands up to his ears.]