I watched Davy gun his bike towards the last wagon. They'd rested a plank on the back and he just rode up it and on to the flatbed.

I checked the link one last time, settled the butt into my shoulder, then made sure I had muzzle clearance over the sandbags and wasn't about to shoot holes in the engine.

'Hello, High Commissioner? It's Miles. I sent out a recce patrol and it looks as if they're still in the building. I'll send you a sit rep as soon as we've linked up.'

The front Renault started rolling. Sam threw us into first gear and the wagon jerked. Standish fell with the set still in his hand. The heat of the engine washed over us as we moved forward.

We crested the hill in a rough diamond formation, Frankenstein at point, us to the right. The other two were to the left and rear.

Sam was worried about the sat comms getting damaged. 'You'd better close that thing down now, boss. We might need a hand on another weapon soon.'

There were eight of us bayonets, two in each wagon, and the boss made nine. We had just two GPMGs, one on each flank, so the more hands to the pump the better when this thing kicked off.

Standish started to pack the set away as if it was his own idea.

The valley opened out below us. It was maybe six or seven kilometres wide, a huge swathe of sand, scrub and dust that shimmered in the heat haze. A track snaked along the bottom from left to right. A large grey building stood to our half left, surrounded by a perimeter wall to keep out the lowlife. There was stuff going on, vehicles on the move round it. Sunlight glinted off windscreens. At this distance I couldn't see if they were the Mercs. I certainly couldn't see the row of body parts.

Standish finished packing the sat comms into its case and wedged it between the front seats, then stood up on the flatbed behind us, one hand gripping a section of frame, the other his AK. He was clearly going for the Lawrence of Arabia look.