The cable tensed as it hauled the pickup towards the stone arch. Bowman reeled in the winch wire until the technical was four metres from the arched entrance. He engaged the lever again, cupped his hands as he called out to the soldiers.
‘One of you, over here!’ he yelled. ‘Get inside the truck!’
Pockmark broke away from his mates and dashed across to the technical. He pulled open the door on the side of the front cab, dragged out the slotted driver, slid behind the steering wheel.
‘Yank the wheel hard to your right,’ Bowman shouted at him. ‘Keep it turned until we’ve brought the truck side on.’
Bowman released the winch lever again. At the same time Pockmark spun the wheel round, turning the pickup away from the archway so that the winch hauled it in at an angle. Bowman kept winching until the technical was broadside with the arched entrance. He pulled the lever, unhooked the end of the cable from the roll bar and walked over to the truck. Pockmark dived out of the cab as Bowman clambered on top of the rear platform. He climbed over the slotted rebel next to the mounted machine gun and wrenched up the carry handle on the side of the weapon, detaching the barrel. He quickly dismantled the other working parts, the guts of the gun. Then Bowman clipped the winch hook to the bipod welded to the platform floor, hopped down from the truck, hurried back through the entrance and dumped the barrel and the other working parts in the back of the Defender.
‘Get over here!’ Bowman shouted at the soldiers. ‘Now!’
Toothbrush hollered at his men. They scurried back from their defensive positions and linked up with Pockmark beside the truck.
‘Get round to the far side,’ Bowman said, pointing to the truck. ‘As soon as I give the word, start pushing it towards the Land Rover.’
The men slung their weapons over their shoulders as they lined up along the far side of the truck. Hands planted firmly against the bodywork. Waiting for the signal from Bowman.
He hit the lever. The winch started to wind in.
‘Push! Put your backs into it!’
The soldiers shoved their collective weight against the technical. The winch motor groaned under the strain. The truck rocked heavily on its wheels. Bowman thundered at the men, roaring them on. The soldiers pushed once more, and then the pickup came crashing down, landing onto its side between the archway pillars, the exposed chassis facing out towards the clearing. The dead Boy tumbled out of the rear platform and fell to the ground in a bloody heap. Bowman pushed him aside, untied the winch cable from the machine-gun bipod, released the lever, paid in the rest of the wire, then secured the hook on the front of the Defender.
‘Push again!’ he shouted. ‘Flip it over!’
The soldiers bent to the task, groaning with the effort as they pushed against the wheels. Toothbrush urged his colleagues, they gave it one last big shove, and the technical tipped over onto its roof, crushing the dead rebel beneath it. Bowman paused briefly to admire his handiwork. The upended truck blocked the archway leading to the front drive. It wouldn’t stop the rebels from slipping through the entrance on foot. But it would prevent any enemy vehicles from bombing straight down the access road and into the estate.
‘We’re out of here,’ Bowman bellowed at the soldiers. ‘Back to the wagons!’
The soldiers slipped through the small gaps either side of the technical and bundled back into the two Defenders. Pockmark and Toothbrush jumped back into the wagon closest to the archway, Lanky and the others got into the second Defender. They U-turned across the front lawn, tyres churning up the dry earth, then shot back down the driveway towards the mansion. They pulled up behind the Unimog near the front steps. The men got out again, Bowman grabbing his rifle as he leaped down from the vehicle. He ran for the front door while the Karatandans sprinted over to the gun pits.
The sun was coming up fast as Bowman emerged to the rooftop. He weaved past the skylight and the maze of satellite dishes, crouched down beside his GPMG on the west side of the parapet. Mallet and Loader had taken up spots across the eastern flank and rear. Webb observed the north side of the stronghold.
Bowman set down his rifle, helped himself to a glug of water from one of the plastic bottles. He hefted up the Gimpy. Looked out to the north-west. He saw the garden, the ruined wall, the irrigation ditch. The scrubland. The tall grass beyond the chain-link fence. The palm grove to the west. The landscape was utterly still. No movement. Nothing except the rustling of the palm fronds in the gentle morning breeze.
‘You see anything?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ Webb said. ‘It’s dead quiet.’
‘They’ll hit us soon,’ Bowman said.
Webb looked up and blinked, resting his tired eyes. ‘Reckon they’ll attack us the same way?’
‘I doubt it,’ Mallet said. ‘Even the Machete Boys aren’t that thick. They’ll want to try something new after seeing their mates get clobbered.’
‘There might be more of them, too,’ Bowman added. ‘Any rebels in the area will want to get in on the action. They’ll be all over this place like flies on a turd.’
Loader said, ‘So what? We’re up against a load of amateurs. Probably high as kites by now.’
‘As long as D Squadron doesn’t run into trouble.’
‘Mike’s in contact with the platoon guarding the runway,’ Mallet said. ‘They’ve
