Bowman reached the end of the belt. He brushed away the piles of link and spent cartridges littering the cement floor. Grabbed another belt.
‘I’m running low on ammunition,’ he called out. ‘Three belts left.’
‘What have you got left, Patrick?’ Mallet asked.
‘Five belts,’ said Webb.
‘Ammo report,’ Mallet said into his mic.
‘Two belts,’ came the reply from Gregory.
‘Four mags,’ Loader said.
‘Five mags,’ said Casey.
‘We’ve got next to nothing back here,’ said Mavinda. ‘One box of two hundred.’
‘It’s not enough,’ Webb said. ‘We’re gonna run out of ammo soon.’
Bowman briefly scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of the dust clouds that might signal the imminent arrival of D Squadron. But the skyline remained agonisingly clear. Almost fifty minutes had elapsed since the reinforcements had landed at the nearby airfield. For the first time, Bowman started to lose faith.
They’re not coming. We’re not going to get any help.
‘Rebels at our eleven o’clock!’ Webb shouted. ‘They’re in the drainage ditch!’
Bowman swung his weapon round, focused on the ditch running south towards the corner of the ornamental garden. The rebels on the right flank were working their way down the spine of the canal, using the dead ground to sneak up close to the house. Just as he had feared. Once they reached the garden wall, it was all over. At that point the enemy would be less than fifty metres from the stronghold.
A few more paces and they’ll be in hand grenade range.
‘Tiny! Enemies approaching in the ditch. About forty metres from your position,’ Mallet hollered over the comms. ‘Get ready to detonate those Claymores. On my signal.’
Down in the mortar pit, Loader put down a three-round burst and crawled over to the clacker, staying low to avoid the rounds whipping overhead. Enemy bullets and grenade shrapnel splintered the mound of rocks around him. On the far side of the wall, the horde of rebels in the ditch crept towards the north-west corner of the garden.
Closing in on the mortar pit.
Mallet counted down their approach to the team.
‘Rebels are about thirty metres to the Claymores . . . Twenty metres . . . Fifteen.’
Bowman and Webb blasted away at the assault groups to the north.
In the mortar pit, Loader prepared to detonate the Claymore clacker. The enemy rounds were striking dangerously close to his firing point, chipping away at the rocks.
‘Ten metres to the Claymores,’ Mallet said. ‘Five . . . Fire!’
The ditch erupted with a pair of thunderlike booms. The rebels disappeared behind a swirl of blackish smoke, earth and debris. Hundreds of steel balls smashed into their tightly packed ranks, puncturing flesh and bone. Metal fragments and dirt ricocheted off the steep sides of the ditch, increasing the lethal field of debris cutting through the men. The agonised cries of the wounded and the dying split the morning air.
‘They won’t be trying that again for a while,’ shouted Webb.
‘Aye, but it won’t stop the rest of them,’ Mallet said.
Bowman hooked the Gimpy back round to the main assault groups and fired at the next team on the move. The rebels were still pushing forward aggressively. By this point, they had covered almost three-quarters of the ground to the stronghold. In another few minutes, he knew, they would be dangerously close to the main building.
There was still no sign of D Squadron.
He fired another burst. The GPMG glowed red hot, distorting the barrel and rendering the weapon useless.
‘Gimpy’s fucked!’ he shouted as he chucked aside the flaming machine gun. ‘Switching to my rifle.’
Time became a blur. Minutes stretched into hours as the team kept on putting rounds round. Bowman’s eye was suddenly drawn to a puff of smoke from the rebel ranks. He saw one of the fighters launching an RPG at the rooftop and shouted a warning at his comrades. The rocket whistled just over the parapet, missing the team by inches before it self-detonated somewhere in the distance, exploding uselessly over the forest.
‘Christ, that was close,’ Webb hissed.
Bowman got to the end of a clip. He fished out another from the pouch, reloaded. Then he heard Gregory’s voice in his earpiece. ‘I’m out. Repeat, I’ve got no more ammo for the Gimpy.’
‘We’re almost out, too,’ Loader said. ‘Down to our last mags. We’re taking a lot of incoming.’
‘Prepare to fall back,’ Mallet said into his mic. ‘Back to the stronghold. Josh will cover you. We’ll make our stand here.’
He glanced to his right.
‘Get downstairs,’ he said to Bowman. ‘Give the others a hand. Once you’re all inside, secure the front door. Don’t let anyone get through. We’ll defend this place or die trying.’
Bowman pulled back from the parapet. He scrambled over to the fire exit, stooping low to avoid the bullets zinging above his head. He flew down the stairs, raced across the central atrium and shouldered through the front door. Knelt beside one of the stone bases buttressing the marble columns along the porch. Brought up his rifle, pointed it through the gap between the pillars and filled his lungs.
‘Get back!’ he thundered. ‘This way!’
At his twelve o’clock, Gregory began sprinting back from the gun pit, AK-47 in his right hand. Bowman supported him with sustained bursts, engaging any rebels showing an interest in his old boss. The second guy in the pit, Toothbrush, lay motionless beside the abandoned GPMG. Gregory ducked and weaved his way across the front drive, bullets sparking against the ground behind him. Like a million firecrackers going off. He sprinted up the steps and shrank behind the pillar to the right.
‘Thanks,’ he said between ragged draws of breath.
‘Thank me later,’ Bowman replied. ‘If we ever make it out of here.’
Further away, several of the Karatandan soldiers had hastily abandoned their gun pits, sensing that the tide of the battle had turned. Some dived into bushes, others fled towards the eastern side of the estate or threw up their hands in surrender. Still Loader and Casey fought on. They were coming under heavy, remorseless enemy fire. The rebels were roughly eighty metres from the mortar pit.
