“Like a medieval castle,” commented Rachel.

Sergeant Atkins shot her a warning look, and continued, “’We realise that not all of you are based in Sainsbury’s, McDonald’s, or Wetherspoon’s [groans from the girls at the inevitable single joke from the High Command] but generally there should be more than one storey and stairs or steps, there should be access to the open air, and the possibility of escape (though naturally within the confines of the base). We have given particular instructions for each individual base. At Glenlivet, the session should take place in the outer bailey. Do not restrict access to the battlement walk via the steps. The postern gate – ‘”

“The what?”

“The back door. ‘The postern gate should remain locked at all times.’ Private Sanders?”

“Sergeant?”

“Go and wait for Dud in the outer bailey. It shouldn’t take him long to recover after the reviver injection.”

Off went Debbie, while Sergeant Atkins continued, “Here is the rota. Private Bowes will fight the slightly pervy one – ”

“They’re all slightly pervy.”

“That’s true. The one in cell 7. Private Johns will fight the one in cell 3. I will fight Stephan – sergeants’ privilege – and Private Ford will fight our present guest,” she concluded, indicating a glowering man sitting at the table, who had taken the place of Angus.

“That’s Sue, Sergeant,” Lydia volunteered.

“Of course. The idiot who got himself tasered before he detonated his suicide vest. What a godsend that was! Our spooks learnt a huge amount from that vest, Sue. They’ve manufactured several hundred fake ones, and MI6 have smuggled loads of them to your friends dotted about across the world. You stand more chance of a blow job, than one of them blowing up!”

“Not here, he doesn’t,” commented “Boobs”, with distaste.

“I object to being called Sue,” protested the prisoner. “It is demeaning, and against my human rights.”

“Your human rights disappeared when you planned to kill and maim innocent people,” Sergeant Atkins told him firmly. “So on yer bike.”

“Eh?”

“Let me help,” offered Lydia. “’On yer bike’ is a London expression for awah wi’ ye!”

Sue shook his head mournfully. “Why did they ever send me to Britain?”

“Hold up, it’s starting.”

Julie, who had just joined them following her victory over Dud, indicated the screen. Sure enough, Debbie could be seen relaxing in the outer bailey with Dud, looking like fury itself, approaching her. It was comical to watch the almost lazy way that she spoke to him, and his blazing replies – better without the sound, as all the girls agreed, like an old silent comedy.

“She’ll win this on pure psychology,” commented Lydia admiringly. “Her indifferent attitude is going to enrage him into a heart attack or something.”

“It’s a pretence, look,” added Rachel, as they watched her adopt a karate stance, sprung and ready to pounce. “She’s not going to let him get any closer. Wow! Straight into the attack!”

One nylon right foot shot up, striking Dud on his left jaw. Pain and surprise equalled each other in his psychology. He copied Debbie’s kick, but it was futile and a waste of energy, as she effortlessly leant out of its path.

Her next strike restored some of Dud’s confidence, because he was able to ward off an attempted repeat of her initial attack. But it was a feint. She sensed Dud relax at his apparently successful defence, and she exploited his temporary hubris: she brought her right fist up, and savagely smote his mouth and nose.

“It’s Wobble’s palm strike all over again!” chortled Rachel.

“Why is everyone calling me ‘Wobble’ all of a sudden?” Julie demanded, pausing the action.

“Because when you punched Dud, your arse wobbled,” Lydia laughed.

“You cows! There was I facing Dud at his freshest, doing all the hard work for you, and you just comment on the size of my arse, like a lot of bitchy chorus girls! Anyway it’s not that big.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Rachel added reassuringly. “In fact it’s the sort of sight that drives men wild.”

“Old Stephan here was bowled over by it,” crowed “Boobs”, who did a fair imitation of him: “She is magnificent!” Then, addressing their current prisoner, “Men like a bit of shape and ‘give’ to a woman’s behind, don’t they Sue?”

“They are good for thrashing,” he agreed, leering slightly. The girls’ collective mood changed instantly.

“What did you say?” demanded Sergeant Atkins.

“You heard me.”

“Indeed I did. But what struck me was not so much what you said, but the idea you gave that you obviously enjoy ‘thrashing’ a woman, as you put it.”

“Why not? A woman has two main duties in life: to gratify her husband, and to bear him sons.”

“Ladies,” Tracy Atkins tried to keep her voice steady, “There’s a change to the fight schedule. Private Ford will now fight Stephan, and you can” - she addressed the smiling “Boobs” Ford - “flutter your eye lashes and point your tits at him as much as you like. I will fight Sue here, and – by God! – you will find out what it’s like to gratify a woman, sir!”

“Impossible.”

“No. See these?” Tracy interrogated him, indicating her thighs, “Well these are going to entrap you by your neck. There will be no escape, and I will inch you higher and higher. These tights will be sizzling with static electricity, as I force your face to your promised land.”

“She means it,” confirmed Lydia. “That sergeant she fought in the Anglian regiment had to have a transfer, because he couldn’t live down the embarrassment of his defeat.”

“Let’s resume the action, shall we?” Tracy sobered up her mood, so incensed had she been by the prisoner’s attitude.

Debbie’s palm strike had been with her right fist; now they saw a left uppercut delve into the apex of Dud’s stomach. He doubled up. She exploited the opportunity, and walloped his right jaw with her left knee. His mouth slammed shut and his teeth clanged together. All he could do was to try to respond to her initiatives. Any idea of attack had vanished.

Debbie ratcheted up the pressure, literally, by hauling Dud’s right arm into a lock. To the girls it looked as if she was going to drive him to the ground. But she had other ideas. Trapping him by that arm, she know kicked the back of his right leg, behind the knee, severely weakening it. His head shot back in pain, before his leg gave out, and he sank to his left knee.

“You know what’s coming now,” Lydia predicted, as they watched Debbie grab Dud’s chin and neck and lever him round to face her. It was obvious, with both her hands on the back of his head, and him facing her legs, kneeling on his good leg, and still feeling the back of his injured one. “A sharp knee under the chin … oh, well that told me!”

Instead, Debbie brought him swiftly up by his right arm, and kicked him in the groin with her right foot.

“Lovely,” mused Rachel, licking her lips.

“Disgusting,” protested Sue.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get some of that too,” crowed Lydia, “When you face the sergeant.”

Dud’s mouth was open in a scream of agony. He lurched forward, so Debbie brought her left hand down and “chopped” the nape of his neck, sunlight dancing on her bright red painted nails. It was a strong, firm stroke. Dud lurched forward, and faltered. For the second time, it looked as if he would collapse. But mental fear and despair were stronger than physical pain and discomfort. He fled.

As in his fight with Jane in the cage, terror overcame him, and he attempted to escape the onslaught of the ferocious female. Debbie set off after him. He made for the steps up to the battlement walk. Her training paid off, and his time in captivity hindered him. She cut the distance between them to just four steps. She would catch him in a minute, he knew. He had to turn and fight.

With Debbie still in pursuit, she wasn’t able to adapt to Dud’s abrupt, desperate, change of plan. He lashed out with his right foot, and caught her a glancing blow on her left shoulder. It was enough to halt her chase. She avoided his next, left kick, warding it off with her left arm.

Both of them gaining the battlement walk at the same time, Debbie aimed a right kick at his head, pivoting skilfully on her left leg. It was only partially successful, as Dud was able to blunt the force of it with his arms. He now struck out with a horizontal left kick, which Debbie managed to avoid altogether. It would have to be brute force then. With his back to the balustrade, he reached and grabbed her in a bear hug. Brute force has its moments! In vain did she try to repel his clumsy assault, but he swung her round, perilously over the balustrade, the ground 25 feet below. She appeared to go limp in his arms.

All eyes were on the sergeant. Soldiers, and even officers, may privately complain about them, but when a crisis emerges, they all look anxiously for Sergeant’s reaction. Tracy was absent-mindedly biting her lip, gazing at the screen. If they rushed out now, what could they do? The action was over. Where were the sharp shooters? They hadn’t been trained for any action outside the cage, so if they intervened it could be fatal to the wrong person anyway. All they could do was watch the screen. And hope.

Debbie grabbed the balustrade with her left hand, hoping to steady herself. Dud’s great right paw pushed at her face, forcing her head backwards, then downwards, until the small of her back was arched over the cold stone of the balustrade. Some of the girls looked away from the screen as Dud stepped up the pressure on her slender back, poised between life and death.

“Kill the bitch!” encouraged Sue to the screen, glorying at the woman dangling this way now that, over the balustrade. The girls scarcely heard him.

Debbie blunted Dud’s murderous final assault by swinging her left leg up as an obstacle. It was the reckless gamble of a desperate last chance. On the one hand, it may have bought her a few seconds. But on the other hand, it deprived her of essential support over, at most, three inches of rough stone before a plunge to the death. He toyed with his prey, easing her ever closer over that forbidding chasm. Her left hand came up, it appeared, in supplication.

Except it wasn’t. The surest, sweetest karate chop she would ever give, stunned the right side of his neck and the back of his throat. Dud stumbled and fell; Debbie regained her feet. She followed his descent with a kick from behind at his groin. But he was nothing if not resilient. Shaking off his unexpected reversal, he jumped to his feet, as Debbie knelt down on her right knee, with her back to the balustrade. With a sudden spring from her left foot, she sent a scorcher of a right kick into Dud’s astonished face.

The fact that he had been within a breath of victory drove Dud to exertions he had never known before. It seemed as if he didn’t feel the pain from Debbie’s last kick. Once again he charged at her, with her back against the balustrade. She crouched, making with her left hand to deflect his attack. The bravado of the charge led Dud to disregard details, such as the relatively low height of the balustrade. He ran at Debbie, roaring. She struck out with her left hand in defence; but the boundary between a successful defence and a counter attack is very blurred. Her hand numbed him, and disorientated him. He staggered, where he couldn’t afford to make a mistake. The balustrade tripped him by his left leg. He shrieked with the realisation that there was nothing further to cling to.

Debbie gulped and looked over the balustrade at the prone body on the slabs below. The girls gulped too, sensing how close their friend and companion had come to death. Tracy Atkins was torn between putting her on a charge for so dangerously neglecting tactics in her pursuit of the enemy, and hugging her. She decided to do both, and to make it the gentlest charge she could think of.

Debbie, meanwhile, stopped shaking enough to walk down the steps, and stand for a moment at the body of a man who had so nearly killed her. After a few moments she picked the body up and carried it to a discreet part of the castle, where she quietly celebrated her victory and salvation.