Ten seconds in. Four rebels left. Four panicked silhouettes. Loader plugged two of them as they crawled towards a dip in the ground in front of the fence. One rebel was hit in the neck by the AWC as he attempted to climb over the technical blocking the archway. A Boy in a white string vest bolted past his mate as he ran for the gap between the truck and the archway pillar. Another boom erupted as Mallet aimed the .50 cal at the fleeing figure. The back of the rebel’s head exploded in a red mist. He fell forward and face-planted on the ground beside the technical, kissing the blacktop.

The firefight had lasted twelve seconds.

Bowman scanned the killing ground. The grass was thickly carpeted with the mangled dead. Thirty slotted rebels. None of the bodies showed any signs of life. He wasn’t surprised. The GPMG had a rate of fire of 650 rounds per minute. No one could survive an onslaught from two well-aimed Gimpys.

Loader lifted his gaze from his weapon. He stared across the parapet at the archway and shook his head in astonishment.

‘Jesus. Now I know what people mean when they talk about a turkey shoot.’

‘So much for the Machete Boys being rock hard,’ Webb said.

‘We’re not out of the woods yet,’ Bowman said.

‘These Boys ain’t gonna lay a glove on us fighting like this.’ Loader sniffed. ‘If they keep this up, we’ve got no worries. This is a piece of piss.’

‘So is taking the mick out of your love life, Tiny,’ said Webb.

Mallet shot them both a stern look. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourselves,’ he warned. ‘You won’t be laughing if we get overrun by those bastards. Back to your positions.’

The team returned to their observation points on the other sides of the parapet. Looking out across the flanks and rear, watching for the enemy. The sun climbed above the mountains to the east, burning fiercely in the cloudless blue sky. Sweat leached down Bowman’s face as he scanned the ground to the west. He suddenly remembered he was thirsty, grabbed a bottle of water from a crate near the skylight and took a long swig. The warm liquid refreshed him. Like the best pint he’d ever had. He set the bottle down, checked his G-Shock.

06.57.

Still more than an hour to go until D Squadron was due to land.

Mallet called out to him.

‘Get down to the mortar pit,’ he said. ‘See if you can bolster the defences around that garden wall. Give them two some more protection.’

‘Roger that.’

‘Take the RPG from that dead fucker as well,’ Mallet added. ‘Leave it with Alex. Might come in handy.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Bowman.