‘Where the fuck is D Squadron?’ Loader ranted. ‘They should be here by now, for Chrissakes.’

‘I’ll check,’ Mallet said as he grabbed his phone. Bowman looked round at the treeline and the surrounding terrain, the tension building in his chest. The minutes dragged. Like the last quarter of a football match. They were still winning, but the scoreline was much closer now. The enemy had pulled back a couple of goals. The defenders were clinging to their lead by the skin of their teeth. Hanging on, physically drained, waiting for the final whistle to blow. Bowman was running on fumes. I don’t know how much longer we can hold out, he thought.

Mallet hung up.

‘What’s the news?’ Bowman asked.

‘Six hasn’t heard from D Squadron since they landed. Half an hour ago.’

Loader checked his watch and grunted. ‘The airfield’s only twenty miles away. A straight run on the main road. What’s taking them so long?’

‘Maybe the Russians have sent out a force to ambush them,’ Webb said.

‘Could be,’ Bowman said. ‘The way they’ve masterminded this attack, it wouldn’t be a surprise.’

Loader said, ‘Whatever’s holding them up, those fellas need to get a move on. Foot to the floor, like. We’re in the shit here.’

‘It’s out of our hands now,’ Mallet replied. ‘Nothing we can do about it except sit tight.’

‘Christ, no,’ Webb said as he stared at the woods. ‘It can’t be.’

‘What is it?’ Mallet asked.

Bowman planted his left hand on the Gimpy stock and scanned the trees. At first, he saw nothing except the mortar-churned earth, the shrapnel-slashed bodies, the blood.

Then he spotted the figures charging out of the gloom of the forest, and his heart sank.

‘Oh, fuck!’ Loader shouted. ‘There’s more of them. They’re coming again!’

Thirty-One

Thirty-One

The rebels streamed forward in a loose throng, sprinting across the open ground in the same formation as the first wave. Except the second wave was bigger. Eighty or so fighters. Sixty men, plus the twenty survivors from the initial attack. The defenders on the rooftop stared at them in shock for a moment. Then their training instincts took over. Mallet shouted into his mic, screaming at Casey to pop off the few remaining bombs at the treeline. Bowman and Loader aimed through the holes in the parapet and squeezed off bursts from the Gimpys at the mass of figures flooding towards them. Mortar shells battered the clearing, killing half a dozen of the rebel fighters. The machine guns picked off a few more. The rest ran on unscathed towards the demolished stretch of the perimeter.

‘I’m out of bombs!’ Casey said over the radio. ‘Switching to my rifle.’

‘Where did this lot come from?’ Loader shouted.