But Bowman already knew. The first wave had been sent in to soften the opposition up. The Russians had kept the second force in reserve, waiting behind the trees in case they were needed. As soon as the first assault had failed, the Russians would have brought these guys forward to finish the job.

In a few seconds, they’re going to sweep through the gap in the fence, he thought. And we’ve got no mortars left to hit them with this time.

As he took aim, a torrent of bullets slapped into the section of parapet eight inches to his right. Bowman quickly pulled back from the edge. The rounds ate into the coping, spitting out clouds of dust across the rooftop. One bullet narrowly missed his cheek before it embedded itself in the wall behind him. Loader and Webb shrank away from the parapet as sustained bursts of gunfire accurately raked their positions.

‘Who the fuck is shooting at us?’ Loader yelled.

Bowman said, ‘The Russians must have set up a support position. Somewhere along the clearing.’

‘Whoever it is, they’re getting close.’

The rounds were coming in thick and fast. They were getting hit by something heavy. Another PKM machine gun, perhaps. Or something similar. The Russians would have established by now that the main fire was coming from the top of the mansion. They would have positioned a lone shooter behind cover, with orders to put down sustained fire on the parapet to cover the main attacking force. One PKM could do the job. They were brutally efficient weapons. Effective to a range of 1,000 metres, with a rate of fire of 650 rounds per minute.

Another smart call from the Russians, Bowman thought. They’ve been more than a match for us today.

‘I’ll deal with the shooter,’ Mallet said. ‘You lot focus on the main group.’

They belly-crawled over to new firing points further along the northern side of the parapet. Mallet traded his C8 rifle for the meatier .50 cal and lay flat on his stomach, observing the ground to the right of the arch as he looked for the muzzle flash from the shooter. At their twelve o’clock, the main KUF force was pouring through the breach. They speedily divided into multiple assault teams and started pepper-potting forward. A carbon copy of the first attack.

Bowman and Loader brassed up the middle group with four rapid bursts, then backed away before a chunk of the parapet disintegrated under a savage volley of machine-gun fire. They shovelled their weapons to the left, laid flat on their stomachs, fired, scurried back. Rounds whizzed through the perforations and smacked into the low wall behind the soldiers. Loader swore as a chunk of debris tumbled down on him.

‘Locate that fucker, John! We’re getting hammered!’