Camp David Has Fallen! by Stephen Mertz

Author:Stephen Mertz [Mertz, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781641196581
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2019-11-04T16:00:00+00:00

Rosebud Cabin

British mercenaries Ben Laughlin and Tony Graham stood beneath a looming oak, its shadow shielding them from lookouts stationed at their target destination's windows. Both, like all the other members of Blair's team, were dressed in snow camouflage from helmet covers down to cargo pants, with steel-toed insulated combat boots. Their hands and faces, likewise, had been streaked with gray and white combat cosmetics.

Although veterans of rival services—the SAS and SBS—Loughlin and Graham both had fought for queen and country in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria. Graham had also done a tour in Libya, fresh out of Sterling Lines at Hereford, when the SAS pitched in to aid rebels in toppling Muammar Gaddafi's rogue regime. He'd missed out on the warlord's execution by Misrata militiamen but had arrived in time to see Gaddafi with a broken broom handle protruding from between his buttocks.

Wild times in the desert, all around.

"How many do you figure are inside?" Laughlin inquired.

"No telling," Graham answered. "But the boss wants all of them."

"Too bad he couldn't spare the time to help out, eh?"

"RHIP, old son."

"Too right," Laughlin agreed.

Rank has its privileges, the time-honored enlisted man's lament.

Graham and Laughlin had no grudge against the strangers they had killed so far tonight, or those who still awaited death. It was a paying job that would allow them to retire, assuming that they both survived and seriously sought to end their stint as triggermen for hire.

One million U.S. dollars each, tax-free, paid into various numbered accounts scattered around the globe, from Vanuatu and Samoa to the Caymans, Seychelles, St. Lucia, or those old standbys: Switzerland, Monaco and Lichtenstein.

"We'd best get on with it," said Graham.

"Right you are."

Both mercs were armed with weapons they had used extensively while fighting for the Union Jack, MP5 submachine guns and Glock 17MB pistols, each seventeen 9mm Parabellum rounds packed in their staggered-column magazines, one in the chamber, and an ambidextrous magazine catch. Aside from firearms, they were well armed with grenades and C-4 charges, all topped off with Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knives carried by British troops around the world since 1941.

Something for everyone, no matter what it took to put a target down and out.

"No prisoners," Graham reminded his companion.

"And no witnesses."

"A clean sweep all the way."

"We're making history tonight, old son," Laughlin observed.

"The kind they never teach in school or talk about on tele."

"Who'd believe it, anyway?"

Graham was not precisely sure who they would find inside the Rosebud Cabin, and he didn't care. There'd been a time, when he was still a greenhorn, not yet blooded, when he might have said he'd joined the army to defend his homeland or to fight for those oppressed. Today, he didn't buy that codswallop or know many who did. A soldier fought for glory, sometimes for advancement, and above all else for pay.

Man-killing was a trade like any other. Those who practiced it extensively, efficiently, demanded higher rates than that raw recruits, regardless of their zeal.

After tonight, Graham supposed survivors of the Camp David attack could write their own tickets on any continent, with any paymaster.

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