He kept one eye on the woods while he dialled the Voice. He spoke in a terse tone as he told Voice about the arrival of the rebels. He described the size of the enemy force, the direction they had travelled from. The information would help D Squadron to plan their route to the stronghold, so they wouldn’t run straight into the enemy. He told the Voice to make sure D Squadron hurried the fuck up.

‘D Squadron has landed,’ he said as he hung up. ‘They’re on the way.’

‘Have we got an ETA?’ asked Loader.

‘Could be anytime. Depends what’s waiting for them lads en route to this place.’

Bowman felt his guts stir. We’re relying on D Squadron to get here fast, he thought. But if they run into a rebel ambush or hit a landmine, if they get held up for whatever reason, we’re done for.

The voices behind the treeline went silent. Bowman heard nothing except the faint whisper of the wind moving through the long grass, the gentle swishing of leaves. He surveyed the palm grove intently, waiting for the first sign of the enemy. Behind him, the other guys were spread out across the rooftop, watching their separate OPs.

‘Rebels approaching,’ said Webb. ‘Three of them.’

‘Where?’

‘Treeline, due east of the approach road.’

Bowman scrambled across the rooftop with Loader. They joined Mallet and Webb along the parapet, aimed their weapons at the dead ground to the south of the wooded area. A moment later, Bowman laid eyes on the rebels.

The three rebels were scuttling across the clearing towards the chain-link fence to the right of the archway. One of them wore a purple basketball shirt. Another sported an orange cap. The third guy was dressed in a gilet and a female blonde wig. He carried a pair of bolt cutters in his left hand.

‘Machete Boys,’ said Webb.

‘Must be the dregs,’ Mallet said. ‘The guys we didn’t wallop first time round.’

Bowman squinted at the treeline. ‘Looks like they’re alone,’ he said.

‘Why haven’t they got any support?’ Webb asked.

‘Them idiots must have a death wish,’ said Loader. ‘Either that, or they’re pissed out of their minds.’

‘Patrick, wait until they get closer,’ said Mallet. ‘As soon as I give the word, I’ll slot the bloke in the wig. You drop the others.’

They watched the rebels as they drew closer to the fence. The guy in the blonde wig was trailing a couple of paces behind his comrades, increasing his stride in a bid to catch up with them. He was almost level with the other rebels, fifteen metres from the fence, when the .50 cal exploded.