Fifty yards further back, two more vehicles were advancing down the track, making a total of four. They looked like regular SUVs, but they had been armour-plated and had machine guns built onto them.
Steve grimaced. He looked towards Ganju.
‘I’m doing the best I bloody can,’ snapped the Gurkha.
It was the first time Steve had seen the man lose his rag. That was how bad their situation was.
‘We’ve got to drive that vehicle back,’ Dan said.
Ollie nodded. ‘Wait until it advances closer, then give them the RPG.’
Behind him, Steve could hear a burst of life from the radio - ‘Come in, come in . . .’ - and recognised the voice even through the crackle. The same Old Etonian drawl he’d taken a dislike to back in Britain.
Wallace.
But right now, he thought, I’m sodding pleased to hear the smarmy git.
‘We need assistance,’ said Ganju. ‘Repeat, assistance.’
Newton grabbed the receiver, spitting instructions on their position into the machine. Then, as he waited for the reply, the static returned. ‘Did you hear? Repeat, did you hear?’
‘It’s gone,’ said Ganju. ‘There’s nothing to do now but pray he heard.’
Another grenade exploded in front of them. This time it was only ten feet away. You could feel the ground all around you tremble, and the rain temporarily stopped, blocked out by the heat and smoke, before coming back as a shower of hot mud and stone.
‘I’m not staying here to get killed,’ shouted Maksim. ‘If I’m going to die, it’s with my guns on automatic.’ He started to run forward, his finger jammed on the trigger of his AK-47, firing wildly.
‘Give them the RPG,’ yelled Ollie. ‘Before that Russian nutter kills himself.’
Dan had placed the launcher onto his shoulder, while Chris loaded the missile. Taking a brief second to steady himself, Dan then fired it straight into the armoured vehicle. It hissed through the air, then exploded on impact. A huge flame leaped into the air, followed by a plume of thick black smoke, but it was soon washed away by the torrential rain. As it cleared, you could see that one man had been killed, and the vehicle had been damaged but not immobilised. Its thick steel plating had absorbed the worst of the explosion.
‘They don’t realise it’s our last missile,’ said Dan, watching as the vehicle started to back away.
‘But they soon will,’ said Chris. ‘And then they’ll be back - we can be sure of that.’
Minutes ticked away. Steve sat back in the muddy pool of water. How long could it take Wallace to get here? he wondered. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. They had a few dozen rounds of ammo left per man, and a couple of hand grenades each, but no heavy weaponry.
Maybe they should make a run for it.
It would be better than dying in this muddy ditch.
‘Kill,’ muttered Nick to his left.
Steve glanced upwards. The second of the two armoured vehicles was advancing into the valley. Nick had put a couple of rounds into its skin, but he might as well have been using a peashooter for all the difference it made. It was edging forwards, the driver testing and probing to see if there were any more RPG rounds coming their way. But as it advanced, the driver was growing in confidence. The machine gun opened up, peppering the foxhole with bullets; these were sticking in the mud and stone, but before long the wall would collapse, Steve knew. Even Maksim had retreated, rejoining the rest of the unit.
A grenade was flung towards them, detonating fifteen yards away. Then another. This time it was just ten yards. The acrid smell of sulphur drifted on the fierce wind.
‘Right, boys, let’s die with our boots on if we have to,’ said Ollie. ‘We can’t wait for Wallace. We’ll make a fighting break-out.’ He grabbed Tshaka by the scruff of the neck, hauling him up to the air. ‘At least this bastard will go down with us,’ he growled.
Each man picked up his gun, and slotted its bayonet into place. There wasn’t any point in arguing about it, decided Steve. All they could do now was gamble their lives on breaking through.
They formed themselves into a tight unit. Newton led the way, followed by Steve, Maksim and Dan. Chris, Nick, Ganju and David brought up the rear. Ian was hobbling in the centre of the group, holding on to Tshaka.
‘Straight over the top,’ shouted Ollie. ‘Then down into the valley beyond the last vehicle.’
They started to run, loosening off round after round from their AK-47s as they did so. Steve was pushing himself, his heart thumping in his chest, the way illuminated only by the tracer fire of the machine gun tracking their every step. You could feel the bullets peppering the mud all around you. It must have been something like this when you went over the top into no-man’s land in the First World War, he decided in one of those odd seconds of clarity that sometimes came upon him in moments of maximum danger. Running for your life, through heavy fire, knowing that if you went down, you’d be left to die slowly in the mud.