Satisfied that the feed tray and chamber were shit-free, I cradled the link in my left hand as I threaded it back on to the feed tray. Then I slammed the top cover down again and thumped it with my fist for good measure; the belt was firmly in place. I gave the gun's ancient wooden carry handle a jiggle to make sure the bipod was wedged firmly between the two sandbags lashed to the bonnet. We didn't know how many rebels there were down in the valley, or how well they were armed, but when the shit hit the gingham I wanted to be giving as good as I got.

I winced as I sat down. The seat covers were baking hot; so was the bodywork, steering-wheel, you name it. The whole front of the vehicle was open to the sun. We'd only had an hour to get our shit together, but we'd managed to strip the Renaults to the bone to make their profile as low as possible. We'd ripped the canopies off the cabs, the rear frame and canvas. There were sandbags where the windscreen used to be to provide a gun platform and the illusion of protection against small arms.

'Mad dogs and Englishmen…' Sam muttered, behind the wheel. In his Glasgow growl, even 'Good morning' sounded like a death threat.

'Mad Jocks, more like it,' I said.

Sam and I were both wearing cheap market sunglasses, and old woolly gloves to protect our hands against the UVA. He also sported his trademark wide-brimmed and very sweat-stained bush hat; if I'd been a pale-faced, skirt-wearing oatmeal savage I'd have done the same. Sam was so fair-skinned he got burned by a fridge light.

He checked the watch that hung from his neck on a piece of para cord. 'That's an hour he's been gone.' He kept it inside his shirt so the sun didn't glint off the glass and give our position away. Basic fieldcraft: shine was just one of the things that had to be concealed when moving tactically cross-country; shape was another – which was why we were below the crest of the hill and not on top of it.