‘We’ll get through this,’ Loader said confidently. ‘Everything’s sound, boyo. We’ve got nothing to fear.’
Bowman checked his watch.
06.05.
Two hours until D Squadron was due to arrive.
We’ll be out of the shit soon.
They watched and waited on the rooftop, scanning the various approaches to the stronghold. Mallet checked in with the guys on the ground. Gregory was in constant contact with the private airfield, feeding information back to the team on the roof. Casey and Lanky were standing by with the mortar. Mallet got on the phone to Six, letting them know they had been in a skirmish with the Machete Boys and expected another attack soon.
Mavinda’s voice carried over the radio net. ‘Message from one of the garrisons outside the capital,’ he said. ‘They’ve got reports of a large rebel force leaving Marafeni airport.’
Bowman automatically tensed. ‘KUF?’
‘Got to be,’ said Webb. ‘They’re the ones who captured the airport.’
‘When was this, Major?’ Mallet asked.
There was a pause before Mavinda replied. ‘An hour ago.’
‘How far is Marafeni airport from here?’
‘Three hours, give or take.’
‘Then the KUF could be on their way here now,’ Bowman said, knotting his brow. ‘They could be here in a couple of hours.’
‘Or they might be moving on to another target. The mines, the port. One of the garrisons. We don’t know where they’re going.’
Before Bowman could respond, Webb called out to the team.
‘Enemy vehicles, inbound,’ he said as he scanned the horizon. ‘Coming from the north-west.’
Bowman narrowed his eyes in the direction Webb was looking. In the distance, a mile or so away, he could make out the tiny settlement at Rogandu, the T-junction leading south towards the main metalled road. The faintest puff of dust clouds swirled high above the treeline.
‘How many, Patrick?’ Mallet said.
‘I see three of them. One technical. Two pickups. Guys on the back. Looks like more Machete Boys.’
‘The bastards want another taste,’ Loader said.
Mallet talked into his throat mic. ‘Guys, looks like we’ve got more rebels coming our way. Hold your fire until I say otherwise.’
For the next several minutes more rebels arrived in dribs and drabs. Two pickup trucks, then another three civilian cars. They came bombing in from the village to the north-west, spewing up clouds of grey-brown dust as they RV’d with the surviving gang of rebels sheltering behind the woodland to the north.
Webb kept a close eye on the enemy, reporting their movements and numbers. Bowman, Mallet and Loader surveyed the other approaches to the stronghold. Looking to see where the rebels would hit them next.
Twelve minutes passed.
Bowman figured the rebels were psyching themselves up for the next attack. Pouring booze down their throats, smoking the local ganja, egging each other on. Their mates had been pasted. They had been personally humiliated on the field of battle. Pride was at stake. They would be itching to get their revenge. They would be feeling bullish about their chances of victory, now that their ranks had been bolstered.
Won’t be long now, he thought.
Four more minutes crawled past.
Then Webb said, ‘I see them! The treeline! Here they come again!’
Twenty-Nine
Bowman ran over to the northern side of the parapet. He propped up his GPMG barrel on the stone coping and centred the sights on the woods beyond the body-strewn clearing. Loader took up a spot to the right with the other Gimpy. Mallet went down to a prone firing position between the two soldiers, aimed the .50 cal barrel through a hole in the decorative stonework. All four of them targeted the treeline on the north side of the clearing.
Bowman saw the figures at once. A throng of Machete Boys, clearly visible in the thin light of the early dawn, creeping forward from the wooded area to the left of the approach road. Maybe another thirty guys, he estimated. They were moving in a rough line formation, three ranks deep, staying low as they crept towards the entrance. Bowman swiftly grasped their intention. The Boys were hoping to sneak up to the archway using the natural cover available. They would slip through the gap between the upturned technical and the stone pillars, then spread out across the estate, taking on the defenders in detail. Not a terrible plan, thought Bowman. Not as foolish as strolling up the approach road in massed ranks.
But still a bad idea.
One of the Boys in the front rank had an RPG resting on his shoulders. A skinny rebel wearing a trapper hat, a rope of gris-gris charms tied like a belt around his waist. The others were armed with AK-47 rifles or machetes, or both. They were five hundred metres from the stronghold now. A hundred metres from the fence.
‘What’s the plan?’ said Bowman.
Mallet rolled his tongue around his mouth and spat.
‘We’ll let the buggers get through the archway,’ he said. ‘Once they’re inside, Patrick will take down the fucker with the RPG. As soon as he’s down, you’re free to go.’
Mallet relayed the orders over the mic. Bowman tracked the enemy as they advanced stealthily across the clearing. They were moving in a loose group, crouch-walking through the tufts of long grass to conceal their approach. He watched as the front rank of rebels picked their way past their slotted comrades and reached the archway. They waited for the rest to catch up, then slipped through the gaps either side of the technical.
Bowman felt his pulse quickening as he centred his sights on the enemy. The rebels shuffled past the overturned truck blocking the road and spread out across the estate in a ragged line. The guy in the trapper hat motioned to the others to hurry up. Only four hundred metres separated them from the stronghold and the president’s family. Revenge was on the cards. The Boys thought they were going to win.
Bowman said to Loader, ‘I’ll take on the guys to the left of the group. You aim for the rebels on the right. We’ll work our way in and meet in the middle.’
The last
