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Taliban were in the area? It wouldn’t have been a good idea to hang around and conduct a census.
    I took the steps down to the ground floor and contemplated my next decision – leave by the back door or by the front? I figured that my guys would put holes in any enemy fighters who were in full view; and maybe in me, too, if I wasn’t careful. The back door was still closed the way I’d left it, but I wasn’t confident about what might be waiting on the other side. So I moved to the front door and slipped the bolt. It was jammed. The wood was ancient and dried out. I took three steps back, and charged it with my shoulder just as the back door opened a few inches and three grenades rolled in. I hit the door and it splintered into matchsticks. Tangled up in rifle straps, I stumbled and planted my face in the road. And then, behind me, the building exploded in a howl of mudbrick chunks. A torrent of grenade fragments and glass shards warbled as they flew close overhead and landed with a musical tinkle between the Landcruisers and me. Gunfire came next as Taliban fighters charged through the suspect back door and reoccupied the remains of the house that their buddies had just died in.
    I got to my feet, dove for the Landcruisers and scrambled behind them. I was relieved to see Mattock and Bellows hunkered down with Stefanovic, Fallon, and Detmond. They’d taken up firing positions behind the Landcruiser on its side, the one I’d occupied with al-Eqbal. Unfortunately, though, we were now being outflanked by enemy reinforcements and gunfire was coming in on us from a number of directions. It was only a matter of time before the Taliban closed all the angles and started picking us off. Now the assholes were firing on the fuel tanks, too. I smelled diesel. At least it wasn’t gasoline.
    ‘Radio?’ I yelled at Stefanovic.
    He shook his head. ‘According to ops, nothing on the ground this sector.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ve got Apaches inbound, ETA fifteen minutes.’
    We didn’t have fifteen minutes.
    I took a few seconds to assess Detmond. He was lying on the ground behind the others, going into shock, and not entirely with us. His eyes were closed, but he was moving.
    ‘Wounded in the neck and just below his armpit – he’s lost a lot of blood,’ Fallon informed me, shouting into my ear.
    In fact, the sergeant was lying in a pool of it. We had to get him out of there. He also looked dazed. The blast had deafened him.
    Stefanovic’s hand and M4 were also sticky with blood. He was pale, the color having leached from his face.
    ‘Where’d you get hit?’ I yelled at him.
    He turned slightly. I could see a large chunk of flesh had been chewed out of the back of his arm.
    ‘Need a compression bandage here!’ I shouted at Fallon.
    We had two dead: Rogerson and al-Eqbal. Including myself, Stef, Fallon, Detmond, Mattock and Bellows, there were six of us left. Hang on, someone was missing. Oh, yeah . . .
    ‘Meyers is alive,’ I said. ‘Fallon, you’re with me. We’re going back in there to get him.’
    The look on his face said, You’re shitting me . . .!
    ‘Stand by. I’m gonna check Rogerson’s vehicle first.’
    Mattock and Bellows threw some rounds downrange at the enemy.
    AK rounds buzzed around my head. I could almost see them. I was in the groove, juiced up on adrenalin. It wasn’t that I believed I couldn’t be killed; I just didn’t give a damn if I were.
    The third vehicle was badly mauled, but at least it was still on its tires. I ditched the M16, crawled back to the vehicle and, staying low, opened the door. Specialist Rogerson was belted into the front seat, her hands clasped around the steering wheel at the ten-two position. I saw that she had beautiful nails; manicured, painted red. She wore a wedding ring. I reached in and released her belt and she slumped sideways across the bench seat. I tried not to think too much about her. The red lights burning on the instrument panel told me that