‘What the fuck is taking D Squadron so long?’ Webb snarled. ‘They should’ve been here ages ago.’

Bowman said, ‘We need to speak to Hereford. Get them to send a message to D Squadron. They need to know we’re in the shit.’

Mallet reached for his phone. One last desperate call. Bowman heard the Scot shouting down the line, identifying himself to the operator in Hereford. Telling them to get in touch with D Squadron and pass on the message. Hurry up. We’re about to get overrun. Then he hung up, retrieved his rifle and joined the others at the parapet.

The rebels were now two hundred metres inside the estate. Halfway to the grand prize. At that range, the two guys on the Gimpys didn’t need sniper spotters. Bowman and Webb were simply putting down frantic bursts left and right. The defenders were fighting manically to stem back the rebel tide. Loader was firing his C8 through a hole in the garden wall. Casey lay slumped in the mortar pit, clutching her bloodied shoulder. Gregory operated the Gimpy in the gun pit to the north. The staccato crack of gunfire echoed from the ground to the rear of the mansion as Mavinda and his men engaged the enemies pouring through the back fence.

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.