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Subject: RP: The Final Mission (complete) by Spook (MF violence) [1/2]
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Reposter's note: previously, I posted the first few chapters of this story.
I have since become aware that there are many more chapters, and so here is
the complete text. The only source is a *very* badly formatted post by Red
Dragon from last year; I have gone through and corrected the line lengths
and technical errors. This explains the rather uneven appearance after the
initial chapters.

Pleased be warned that this story contains graphic violence, particularly
in the later chapters. I am not the author of this story, obviously.

- Apuleius

----------------------------------------------

The Final Mission
By Spook


"The Final Mission," first posted late last year, is the story of Lt.
Tracy Parker, a member of the US Navy's Special Operations Unit, the
"Sweet SOUs."  Beautiful, intelligent, deadly, her mission is to stop a
madman with a nuclear bomb.  2 others have tried before her.  Both have
failed. I have reformatted into 17 chapters.


Part 1

Alexi Garazimov looked at himself in the reflection of the dirty
storefront window. Pouting he removed his hat and wiped the dull gold
and spotted brim with his woolen sleeve. At 6' 2", he was a tall,
handsome Russian. His dark brown eyes and nearly black hair belied his
Tartar roots. In him, he remebered his father saying often, there was
the blood of conquerors. Now, he was an officer in a once proud military
of a once-upon-a-time world power; a Lt. Colonel in the armed forces of
a shabby, empoverished and petty country; its currency worthless; the
government overtly and clumsily ineffective and corrupt.

Of course, the government was always corrupt; but, now the corruption
was on the surface, like a stain that blemished the once polished image
the Soviets presented to the world and to itself. Garazimov felt himself
stained, too.

5 years ago, he lived very well-buying what he needed from the military
post exchanges and hard currency stores, providing an almost luxurious
life for himself and his wife and 2 children. A mistress on the side was
satisfied by his lovemaking and the 2 cartons of Marlboro cigarettes per
week and a supplement to her meat ration. Now, he could barely scrape
enough together to pay for the on-base 2 room flat that satirized the
idea of what was a home in post-Soviet Russia, potato soup 4 nights a
week and the occasional drunken binge in the officer's club; even vodka
cost money. So, he reasoned, if the system couldn't pay him what he
deserved, he would do what he had to to get the hard currency he needed
to survive. "Everyone else does it," he rationalized to himself. "So,
why not me?"

Garazimov heard the approaching car and smoothed out the wrinkles in his
impressive uniform. The perfect place for a rendezvous, Factory City 452
had been abandoned soon after Yeltsin's 2nd term began and the economic
situation worsened. Formerly one of many nameless towns across central
Russia involved with the manufacture and storage of nuclear weapons, the
residents moved away as soon as the government was unable to pay the
workers and the military for their loyalty and patriotism. It was now a
ghost town. Empty and far from any people, Garazimov found it
appropriate that he should complete his business here.

A late-model Mercedes pulled up near him and stopped. Garazimov watched
as a tall, dark man with sunglasses stepped out from the back seat on
one side; the man was Western, handsome, and obviously very rich. In the
old days, Garazimov would have labelled him "decadent." As he considered
the man, he noticed a 2nd occupant get out of the car from the other
side. A dark, long-legged woman, she was stunning.

"You have the item?" the rich man asked non-chalantly. "Did you bring
the case," Garazimov answered. The rich man hefted a large briefcase; it
was apparently heavy. "One million dollars." Garazimov felt his mouth go
dry. He tried to swallow. He straightened himself out into near
attention, turned and walked deliberately into the empty store.
Momentarily, he emerged pushing a cart on which rested a dark olive drab
crate, about the size of 2 coffins laid one on top of the other. He
pushed it up towards the rich man and stopped. "It's yours, sir."
Garazimov smiled nervously.

The rich man undid the clasps on one side of the crate and lifted up the
top. As he looked inside, he smiled. "The money is yours, my friend,"
the rich man handed the briefcase to the Russian. "Use the money in good
health. And good luck." Garazimov stepped back and dropped to one knee.
Opening the briefcase, he saw, neatly stacked and wrapped, the unique
greenish gray print of the US dollar, 1 million dollars' worth.
Garazimov was moved beyond words; so moved that he didn't notice as the
long-legged companion of the rich man removed a small pistol from her
handbag and pointed it at his head. Suddenly, a small lorry turned up
the road and roared noisily towards them. This broke the Russian's
attention long enough so that he looked right into the barrel of the
pistol held by the beautiful, long-legged woman.

"If you'll turn to your left now, please, lieutenant," the female petty
officer asked. Her voice echoed slightly in the empty examination room.

Lt. Tracy Parker turned nonchalantly to her left. These were her
"graduation" photos after all, she thought. But, no graduation like she
or anyone else ever had. All Special Operations Unit members were
required to have these shots taken before missions. An additional way of
identifying the bodies should the worst occur.

Tracy left her mind wander as the flash-pop of another set of close-ups
were taken of her head, each limb, torso, identifying marks -- now on
her right side. She was thinking of Tom and graduation from the Academy
2 years ago, her application to the new Special Operations Unit, the
"Sweet SOUs" because of the all-female composition of the units, the
incredible physical and psychological training, and the satisfaction she
felt about being 5th in a class of 32 women -- 32 women of an original
75 entrants. She and her 31 "sisters" survived basic training while
witnessing the other 43 disappear one by one-some because they couldn't
handle the stress and abuse, some because of fatal carelessness during
basic. "Better now than in the field," she remembered their Marine DI
growl after each accidental death. Those words had always left her with
a chill. They echoed in her mind when tracers were crackling past her in
her last mission, and now, they came back to her again. "Pretty cold,"
she whispered under her breath. She closed her eyes and sighed slightly.


"S'cuse me lieutenant?" the photographer asked. "Oh, nothing!" Tracy
quickly responded. She didn't realize she had spoken aloud. "I know,
ma'am. Couple sets left, that's all." The petty officer was chirpy and
that seemed to annoy her slightly. Tracy refused to suspect she was more
nervous about the mission than she let herself feel. She was number 3.
The first 2 SOUs didn't complete the mission and came back in bags. The
photos were important in identifying the remains, she remembered being
told. Of course the petty officer didn't know that. She just thought
Tracy was cold in her SOU outfit.

Actually, Tracy's outfit was a basic bikini-an old-fashioned bikini for
the particular location where she was going. "Leave it to the DOD and
the Navy to design a khaki string bikini," she thought sarcastically.
Name over the left breast, "US Navy" over the right. On the bottoms, the
same was repeated on either side of the pelvis with an id number
underneath the name. The same id was on the left cup of the top under
the name. Amazingly, the suit was a thin polyester-cotton blend with no
padding and held together with Velcro strips. Supposedly, research
indicated Velcro had the most endurance and survivability in water and
land action; aided in removal during triage, as well. All Tracy knew was
that anyone could see what they wanted to see when she wore this outfit.


"If you'll undress now, please," the photographer quietly asked. Even
though the photographer was female and a petty officer, it was obvious
to Tracy that she wasn't 100% about this part. Front and back shots
without clothes; same series: full length, head, limbs, torso,
identifying marks. Tracy undid the Velcro fasteners and was quickly
naked in the empty white room. She had her field knife sheathed and
strapped tightly midway up her left thigh. The light-weight ammo belt
and holster - basically a covered nylon cord with her .45 and holster, 2
ammo clips and a small utility pouch draped loosely over her right hip.
Around her waist was an 1 inch wide mylar strip repeating "Navy" all the
way around that drooped slightly below her small navel. Her tags were
around her neck; a pair, the edges wrapped in black rubber, they lay
very neatly between her breasts. Strapped around her left bicep was her
2nd, small utility pouch. In it were 2 "suicide" capsules-just in case.

"Lt. Tracy Parker," the petty officer began. Tracy didn't realize the
photographer was required to record a description as well. She was
slightly surprised. The petty officer continued, "Female, brown hair,
aged 25. Height: 5 feet, 8 inches, weight: 123 pounds." Tracy was a very
tight 121 pounds, actually. Tanned because of her training routine, she
didn't have any tan lines. "Practice" was with and without clothes-day
or night, rain or shine, in the tropics and in the snow. A very nice
long-legged 34-23-33 with graceful arms and long-fingered hands, her
breasts were round, firm, and lifted , like small domes capped by
perfect half inch, pinkish nipples surrounded by small pinkish areoles.
(Her nipples were standing up because the room was chilly, and she was
naked.) Although not overtly muscular (it didn't run in her family), her
body was well-defined-the muscles easily distinguishable, ribs slightly
visible as regular shadows on either side of her torso and flat, rippled
abs. "Small mole above right nipple, light brown in color. 2 very small
pink moles on left side of navel, 10 o'clock, and small dark mole above
right side crotch 11 o'clock." Above her crotch was a soft, small
triangular pillow of reddish brown pubic hairs.

Tracy was a soft brunette with reddish highlights. Her hair was
regulation cut, in her case a longish page boy, 2 inches below her ears
with eyebrow level bangs, slightly parted in the middle. Her face was
angular with a pointed nose with a straight bridge and perfect nostrils.
She had middling lips: not thin, not full; but they were dark pink even
without any make-up-and Tracy wasn't wearing make-up. When she smiled, a
dimple appeared just to the right of her mouth. Her cheek bones were not
too high or too obvious. Her chin was small but well-defined and square.
Her dark green eyes were flecked with gold-large and almond shaped, set
nicely, full with dark, long lashes. Her neck was long, but not Audrey
Hepburn long; just long enough. Every midshipman for 4 years had tried
to get her in bed. Only Tom had succeeded. Now, he was gone. "No
abrasions or lacerations seen, no evidence of contusions. Please turn
around, lieutenant."

The camera continued its flash-pops and the photographer continued her
photographic monologue. Each flash highlighted the small goose-bumps
raised on Tracy's skin and the soft downy hairs on her arms and at the
base of her neck. On Tracy's naked skin was further identification. In
blue ink (not indelible, but long-lasting for the mission), on her right
breast, above her right nipple was written in small, legible characters,
her name, rank and serial number; on her left breast was "US Navy." High
on her left and right buttocks, the same was written, very small and
discrete, but legible. In addition, very close to her crotch, where the
right leg met her pelvis, her id number was written in small but legible
characters. Worst case scenario, again, she was told. Naked and facing
the wall, she just blanked out her mind and let herself drift. This was
going to be a dangerous and high probability mission. "If a person has
it in their mind," her DI was fond of saying, "that they gunna die,
they'll usually find a way of doing jus' that. So, you never goin' to
die, right?" Tracy remembered the "sisters" yelling "No fuckin' way,
Gunny!" at the top of there lungs and grinning at each other. 32 young
women, and they were going to live forever.

Only now, there were 30. "Turn around again, ma'am?" Tracy turned back
for her final full length photo, sucked it up a bit, posed and smiled;
"Just like Penthouse," she thought provocatively to herself-naked,
beautiful, and confident.





Part 2





Lt. Tracy Parker had just finished the photo session. She was in the
adjoining room and had removed her SOU swimsuit. After glancing at her
attractive nakedness in the full length mirror on the back of the door
for a few minutes, she thought, "Not bad. Too bad I can't get copies for
boyfriends." She looked at the pile of clothes on the chair and smiled
to herself. Crisply, she slipped the cups of her bra over each breast
and fastened the front closure with a quick twist. After some minor
adjustment-a tuck on the left and a lift on the right-she slipped on her
bikini bottom, sat down and pulled her panty hose over her legs; first
her right leg-running her hands up from the feet to make sure the lines
were all straight-then her left. Her long legs were shapely with thin
ankles. Her feet were size 9 but thin and pointed-the 2nd toe slightly
longer than the rest. Even with the training regime and periodic
comprehensive re-examinations, she had managed to maintain an almost
delicate femininity in her look and the soft, silky feel of her skin. In
an instant, she had on her regulation khaki shirt with insignia, a
couple of ribbons and the SOU badge; slipped on her slacks and cinched
the belt. The gold bars of a lieutenant glinted in the fluorescent
lights. Tracy was standing in front of the mirror in her stocking feet,
making sure everything was ship-shape, when Capt. Susan Clement knocked
on the door and poked her head around into the room.

"You decent?" she asked. Most people would have been joking. But, for
Capt. Clement, there was no such thing as a joke. She stepped into the
room. "Looks are deceiving," thought Tracy as she gave the captain a
quick once over. 35 years old, Naval Intelligence, some covert
operations work, Capt. Clement was 5' 5", 115 lbs. max, with straight
blond hair pulled back to a very Navy ponytail. She was thin, flat
chested and very pretty-belying her Pennsylvania farm girl roots. And
she had incredibly cold blue eyes. That, matched with her ability to
deliver every line without an expression of emotion, plus the fact that
she successfully fought the male military leadership to create the SOU,
made her an intimidating CO. She was also a legend among the covert
operations community having completed 11 successful solo missions over
her 10 year career and was known for delivering maximum damage to her
targets. "I know you're due at Andrews in 2 hours and you probably
haven't slept since your arrival from Tampa. But, we need to go over a
couple of changes to the routine," Capt. Clement delivered the lines
like a laser printer: crisply and effortlessly. Tracy furrowed her brow.
"Changes?" Tracy asked. "Yeah, something's turned up on the SD-5 we
re-tasked yesterday. My office 5 minutes." And then Capt. Clement was
gone from the room. No salutes; no time for an aye-aye, nothing. Short,
sweet and to the point. As Tracy put on her shoes, she began to get an
unsettled feeling. Change was a bad word this close to an SOU
"jump"-launching of a mission. Despite careful planning, 2 were dead.
She wasn't going to be number 3 in a rush.

In Capt. Clement's office, Tracy was struck by the overt masculinity of
the setting. Everything was regulation; battleship gray metal and green
vinyl chairs, Korean War issue officer's desk, 2 bookcases filled with
non-descript black binders labeled "SOU 0101," etc. On the wall were 3
large round plaques: the DOD, the Navy Department, and the SOU. SOU had
a stylized Calypso similar to the Cousteau Society's; just more American
and Deco looking. But, Cousteau's Calypso didn't kill for a living.
Tracy let her eyes scan the room. Surprised, she suddenly noticed a
small photo of a man, Navy captain, and a boy about 2 years old on the
captain's desk in a definitely non-regulation Edwardian silver frame.
"So, Suzy-Q has a kid," thought Tracy as she overtly glanced at the
photo twice. All the "sisters" referred to Capt. Clement as "Suzy-Q
because she wasn't anything like the song. "My Joshua," Capt. Clement
broke the silence noticing Tracy's interest in the photo. "My husband
Steven was SEAL team before we met 5 years ago. Got married 2 years ago
and had Joshua right away." Tracy was slightly embarrassed at the
personal content of the words she was hearing.

"Thought we wouldn't or couldn't later with everything. But, Steve's
with the CNO at the JCS now, and I'm strictly a desk jockey." As Capt.
Clement laughed, for the first time as far as Tracy could remember, she
placed her hands on the desk. Her left hand was badly scarred. Suddenly,
Capt. Clement's face went cold. "Parker, let's hear it from the top, "
she asked softly. So, Tracy went over the jump plan verbally with one of
the only 3 people allowed to know the details of the mission.

"0100 hours, I transfer from transport and swim 4 miles to designated
start point. Allowing for heavy seas, I will be at start at 0215. Dive
to coordinates Alpha Hotel 015 designated Entry Point Baker as scouted
by Recon 2 and 3 by 1000 on night of jump. Without their O.K., the
jump's cancelled. If it's a go, they can't assist and won't be available
during the duration of mission. Entry at Point Baker is 33 feet below
surface, a narrow cave running northeast approximately 1 mile underneath
the island. At 0250, I surface in a cavern designated Jump 1, set-up and
climb 20 feet to designated entrance to facility. Make my way to storage
area and disable the bomb. Afterwards, I will disrupt operations in
facility to greatest extent possible given time and resistance, make my
way back to Jump 1, through to Point Baker and rendezvous with transport
at 0415 hours. If Jump 1's not available, there's only one entrance to
ground level and the pier. And I know, if I have to use it, I'm fucked,"
Tracy smiled slightly. Capt. Clement's face didn't even twitch. Tracy
concentrated, "Evac at ground level will be made from the pier on the
island's north side and a point 6 miles offshore. Transport will be
there at 0500 and wait only 15 minutes." Tracy had computed the
distances and times over and over. Plans detailed through the use of the
SD-4 satellite indicated a medium sized underground complex of bunkers
and storage used by the Shining Light terrorists. She knew every
corridor and exit in the site. The SD-4 satellite had the ability to
trace structures underground through ultra-sensitive ground penetrating
radar and low level radiation scans. The terrorists thought that by
burying their facility in the relatively hot ground of a volcanic
island, they'd be safe from overhead detection. They were wrong. But,
they had the Bomb. And she was the 3rd attempt at knocking it out
without irradiating Micronesia.

The Shining Light was a loosely Muslim extremist organization headed by
a Jamal Aziz, aged 35 years, Lebanese Christian by birth. Now he was
leading a jihad against the enemies of the Muslim world and,
specifically, against Western capitalists. A real throw-back to more
political Marxist terrorists of the 70's and 80's, Aziz was known as the
Liberator of Souls-probably due to his work in Morocco and Algeria in
the mid '90's killing priests and nuns and the massacre at the synagogue
in Haifa when he and his terrorists executed 247 worshippers in 1996. He
had followers in the Middle East, Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia, and
among many powerful and rich Muslims. In return for their assistance, he
was promising the usual rewards: control of oil reserves, Western
submission, the return of Palestine.

"Please don't take this lightly, Parker," Capt. Clement commented
without emotion. "I've lost Monroe and McKeeson in the last 2 go
arounds. I don't want to lose you. Uncle Sam has invested lots of
taxpayer money to ensure your survivability in this type of action."
Tracy knew the reasons for sending the SOU instead of Special Forces,
Delta, SEALS or CIA. They were just better; better than the men in those
units and better than any special unit in the world. They'd demonstrated
their stuff in the Straits of Hormuz in late '95, again in Baghdad in
early '96. And against the drug lords in China, Malaysia, Myanmar, and
Latin America, SOU was the source of continuing nightmares and paranoia
for the drug business beyond anything felt in the early 1990's. SOU
actives worked alone for maximum mobility and were trained hard to be
very lethal.

"Parker, you did well on Rosario Island last year. The Navy Cross is
clear indication of that. Our Mexican friends haven't even figured out
it was us. But, Aziz's a loose cannon and unpredictable. According to
forensics, his men use clad bullets.

12 rounds were found in Monroe and 8 rounds in McKeeson; there were 58
entry and exit wounds in what was left of her. Monroe had 49 of the same
type of wounds in her torso and upper body. Strangely enough, their
faces hardly had a scratch," the captain clinically noted from a file.
"But, I thought only the Swiss military uses clad bullets, and they
aren't available outside the country. More important, they don't stop as
well. I don't get it," Tracy puzzled aloud. Clad bullets left clean
entry and exit points, did minimal internal damage as opposed to the
hollow, blunt, and filled heads in US ammo. If Patty and Trish were
killed with this ammo, Aziz's men had to use more of it or be very
accurate. According to the pathologist who examined their remains, both
women took dozens of rounds and died only towards the end of their
ordeals. Aziz's men, apparently, weren't that good shots. "Well, he
might use the ammo out of some sort of prestige thing. You know: it's
Swiss; he has it and nobody else does," Tracy volunteered, "In any case
that increases my survivability, doesn't it?" "The point is," Capt.
Clement calmly spoke, "that 2 didn't make it. They should've, and they
didn't. We don't know what happened inside; their last moments; how far
they got; what tripped them up. Furthermore, the pathologist who
examined McKeeson thinks that the pattern of fire in what was left of
her remains indicates that she was meant to suffer-entry and exit wounds
indicated that they were meant to cause suffering but not immediate
death. We all know he's a sadist. But, he's seems to be well-informed,
too. He knew we were coming and when. For that reason, you, Kate and I
are the only ones who know about the operational aspects of this jump.
Not even the skipper of the sub knows what's up. Don't take this
lightly." "He might be that good after all," was Tracy's only thought.
And she felt a slight shiver run up her spine when she thought of Trish
and Patty.

"Now, about those changes," Clement went on emotionlessly. "First, the
first 2 used Point Baker and Jump 1. I'm not confident about their
viability anymore. So, I've redesignated jump to Point Delta. It's
longer, narrower and deeper; approximately 47 feet below and 1.5 miles
running dead North. Same type of cavern structure is indicated at the
end. Only, it's smaller. Accordingly, I've bumped the jump to daylight
1200 the following day. Meteorology indicates a system moving in so the
seas will be heavy, visibility bad, and after sundown, there'll be no
moonlight. Accordingly," Clement started reading from her notes, "you'll
jump at 1200, rendezvous will be at 0430 and secondary will be in place
at 0515. That puts it half and hour before light. Again the seas will be
heavy. But, I think you'll need the time. From Point Delta, you'll have
to climb to the surface. Facility entry point will require you to go
cross-country east for 2 miles to a hot spring at coordinates Hotel.
You'll ingress the facility through a water discharge grate in their
power room. It's tricky, I know. You'll have to dive to 42 feet just to
access the discharge tube. It's appears to be only 4 feet wide, and I
don't have an indication of barriers. But, I don't know where I lost the
first 2. It might have been at Baker for all that I know. And I've got
to assume he knows about it. Delta was unknown until we saw the photos
from the retasked SD-5. It's a more sensitive satellite. So, there will
be no Recon confirmation. This is critical. You're on your own. But,
there's a plus. Langley thinks Aziz's in residence. SD-5 got photo
confirmation that his aide, Justine Loudon is on the island. And as you
know, where he goes, she goes. So, second," Clement took a breath. But,
Tracy already knew what was next. An opportunity like this might not
come up again for a long while. "So, why not take the opportunity,"
Tracy came to the obvious conclusion. "Second, attempt to take Aziz out.
Do whatever is necessary. I know the reason we don't bomb the hell out
of this little piece of crap island is political. But, he owns the
government. Then, there is a high probability that the bomb is wired to
go off in an attack. And that would make us look pretty lame. You might
have to create some fireworks and not be as discrete as a usual SOU
operation. But, we have to try." Capt. Clement stopped and rubbed her
eyes for a moment. Tracy thought, "She's feeling the pressure; some
nutcase has an atom bomb, willing to set it off anywhere. Besides,
losing 2 SOUs to the same bastard hurt. And she wants the SOB."
Suddenly, Tracy felt closer to her CO; Clement was no longer just her
commanding officer, but a sister and someone who cared.

"Finally, I just wanted to add something. I didn't say it to the other
2; I should've. And I know how dedicated td to it you are. I know you'll
suck it up when it comes to it. But, this is not a suicide mission. If
you feel even slightly compromised, I want you to abort and return to
rendezvous. That's an order, is that clear?" Capt. Clement was standing
now. Somehow, in giving that order, she had raised herself to well above
her 5' 5" frame and seemed to stare down on Tracy from on high. Tracy
stood up and saluted. "Aye-Aye, sir!" Tracy smiled, her dimple showing
deeply. At attention, with her square shoulders, her chest out and rod
straight, it was clear to see that the Lieutenant knew she was one of
the best of the best; lovely and confident. "That'll be all," Capt.
Clement responded, returning the salute. "And good luck." As Tracy
turned and left, Capt. Clement watched the beautiful and graceful young
woman-a killing machine she had just unloosed. Next stop a C-135 at
Andrews to Honolulu, on-board the USS United States in the Pacific in 12
hours, and rendezvous with Wahoo. "She'll be in position in 36 hours,
and she won't obey those final orders," Clement concluded, sat heavily
back in her chair and stared at the photo on her desk.





Part 3





Lt. Tracy Parker was the only passenger on board the special MAC flight
from Andrews to Hickam. From there, after an hour's rest, she boarded an
A-2 sent from the U.S.S. United States to pick her up. It was obvious
she was an important passenger. The pilot, Lt. Bobby Gates from
Kerrville, Texas, was a "nugget" or Navy aviator on his first tour
aboard an aircraft carrier. So was his co-pilot and flight school
partner, Shelly Schlumburger, a sarcastic brunette from Amsterdam Avenue
in Brooklyn. Both knew better than to pry into the affairs of the young,
attractive female officer. All they knew was that she rated a special
pick-up and a tanker rendezvous en route; radio silence until 350 miles
from the carrier, land in one piece, and Schlumburger and Gates knew
they'd be finished with their job. They both decided it would be better
if they didn't know hers.

The fan-jets' loud whine in the cabin necessitated the use of intercoms
and earphones. Conversation was all but impossible. So, with at least 8
hours of flying and 2 seemingly disinterested crew, Tracy decided to
relax for a bit. As she balanced between sleep and drowsy awareness, her
mind was on Tom.

Tomaso Anthony de Guarda was a midshipman majoring in nuclear physics
when they plowed into each other on the quad final Spring session. She
had just finished her class in the Napoleonic Wars and was headed back
to the dorm to change for a quick run. She must have been looking at the
Chapel dome when someone yelled "Look out!." A heavy thud and 2 heads
banging dully, and Tracy was flat on her back in the grass. Next to her
was a tanned, dark and very good-looking midshipman with his face next
to hers and his right hand on her left breast, butt in the air and legs
splayed. There was numb, blank consciousness in his brown eyes, and she
was too dazed to realize he had his hand resting flat on her breast.
But, in the instant before her mind cleared and she understood what had
happened, his red-faced grin was above her and helping her back to her
feet.

"I'm really sorry," he explained. "I was going back for the ball, and I
didn't look behind to see you in time." He was sweaty with navy blue
shorts, bare feet and cut-off T-shirt. Tracy noticed the bit of hair
underneath his navel, above the elastic of his shorts and the size of
the shape under the shorts as she stared at the ground in front of him.
"I-I'm okay, really," Tracy stammered. She was still a little woozy from
the crack on the head. She looked back up and saw that he wasn't really
tall, about 5' 10". But, he was built like Van Damme; very angular with
square head and broad square shoulders, a thin waist, lots of muscles,
and thick weightlifter's legs. I'm Tom de Guarda," he introduced
himself. He was thinking that he'd had his hand on the very nice breast
of a very pretty midshipman.

Tom knew like every other midshipman who Tracy Parker was. Daughter of
Admiral Parker, Navy brat, she'd been in the top 5 of her class every
year at the Academy. Her talents were in history and tactics (that was
good for the War College), languages (for overseas postings), and she
was athletically inclined: field hockey, basketball, track, swimming.
Like Tom, every midshipman knew that in their junior year, while on the
summer tour, she'd saved 3 crewmen's lives when the cutter she was
assigned to overturned in Alaskan waters. She'd kept them on the
overturned hull for 2 and a half hours until help arrived; this, while
pbattling the effects of hypothermia and exposure herself. Most
intriguing of all: no boyfriend. She didn't seem to be lesbian, Tom
thought as he regarded the pretty package standing before him. Tracy
turned around and bent over to pick up her things. Tom admired her
outstanding butt. Tracy knew he was giving her a once over; and she
didn't mind too much. "Just to let you see what the real thing is like,"
she thought to herself. Upright again, she turned to sarcastically thank
him. But, he had gone back to his friends and the softball he was
chasing. Tracy was slightly miffed. Not even a pass. Tom turned and
shouted "See 'ya!" and went back to his game. "Yeah, like right," was
all Tracy could think as she headed back to her room.

By graduation, they were old lovers. A couple of weeks after their first
encounter, they were dating; on the 3rd date there was heavy petting; on
the 4th they made love. Tom remembered that water was pouring through a
gutter outside their motel room; outside, it was stormy and dark. They'd
been soaked through the skin when they checked in; a small place outside
of Annapolis. In the dark and stuffy room, dripping wet and laughing,
Tracy suddenly realized she was shivering. She was looking at Tom-his
wet shirt skin-like, emphasizing every muscular curve of his chest and
ripple of his torso, his head dripping wet and his smile less amusing
than sexually arousing. And she started to shiver. "I'll be right back,"
is all she said as she headed to the bathroom and closed the door.

Tom sat down on the arm chair in the corner of the room. He had barely
asked "What you doing in there," and hadn't even turned on a light when
he saw her silhouetted against the light in the bathroom doorway. She
was naked and smiling. For the first time, he saw the thin and graceful
lines under the midshipman's uniform, saw Tracy's breasts without a bra
restraining them. They were already full, the nipples hard and
elongated. As she passed from shadow to light and again into shadow, he
noticed that her breasts were traced with light blue veins. Her abdomen
was flat, her hips were tight and round. As she came very close to him,
facing him as she crouched down and undid his fly, he reached out and
felt without the interference of any panty the softness of her pubic
hairs and warm, moist fleshiness of her vulva.

She undressed him; and as she did, they kissed; first furtively, then
more passionately, then hungrily-as though each kiss was meant to
fulfill a lifetime of starvation and thirst. Gently, Tracy stopped
kissing and moved quickly down Tom's chest with her lips and tongue. He
was out of breath as she licked his penis and made the already swollen
erection even harder and more rigid. She put her mouth over the end and
started to pass it in and out of her soft, warm, wet mouth; up and down,
very carefully. With each movement his penis would involuntarily twitch;
more semen being prepared for an ejaculation unlike any he'd ever
experienced. Tracy slowly extracted Tom's enlarged and rigid organ from
deep within her mouth and at the very tip started her tongue back down
towards his scrotum. He was desperate not to come; he grimaced and felt
wildly pleasurable spasms as she neared the based of his organ. At the
last moment, Tracy moved back up his penis with her tongue and at the
very moment she forced it deeply into her mouth, Tom came; more
powerfully and satisfyingly then ever in his young life. Tracy just
swallowed, licked, sucked and swallowed. Then as she removed her mouth
from his penis, she looked up at him and smiled a dirty smile, a bit of
saliva and semen dripping slightly from her lower lip and put her hand
on his organ.

Tom lifted her up, picking her up from under the arms in one powerful
and gentle motion. Even with the mighty ejaculation he'd just been
encouraged to experience, he was still very hard and with an easy
movement slipped his penis into Tracy's very soft and wet vagina. Tom
was amazed at how little resistance past the labia there was. She fit
perfectly. As she wrapped her long legs around his back, he stood up
straight and arched his back slightly backwards. Tracy crossed her
ankles behind him and pushed back from his chest until only her hands
were locked behind his neck. Tom felt her hips squeeze; and his organ
felt a rhythmic pressure begin. One hand behind her back, one hand
squeezing her breast, he supported her weight, with her help, on his
penis and slightly thrusted with his hips upward; again, Tracy
shuddered, her body quivering from a series of mini-orgasms; again, she
moaned and pulled back her head, again, her face came close to his, her
eyes were half closed, she was biting her lower lip; her brown hair was
over her face. In the deepening dark of the room and the day, Tracy's
body was hot and both of them seem to glow from their desire. Again, Tom
thrust his hips upward, and Tracy shuddered; again, and her pelvis began
a soft shudder; again and she let out a gasp, eyes closed tightly in
ecstasy. On his final push, she came, twisting and moaning, shivering,
breathless; he kissed her, and her lips were ice cold, the blood drained
from her lips, her fingers, her feet. Tom moved slowly to the bed, his
firm but now less rigid penis still firmly held deep within Tracy's
still pulsing vagina. As he finally let Tracy down on the bed, she let
him go and came again as he withdrew from her. Moving carefully next to
her in the bed, Tom lay down, turned his face towards hers and whispered
"Thank you." Her mind bleary from pleasure, she looked into his eyes and
felt her body released, floating above their little world in the motel
and beyond life itself.

The whine from the fan-jets were very distant at that moment. Tracy's
eyes were closed. And for the first time, in a very long time, she felt
herself wanting to cry. She was going to do the impossible in the next
12 hours; her life was very much in question. And the one thing she
wished she could have at that very moment was Tom for that instant in
that motel all over again.

Suddenly, Gates' voice crackled over the intercom. "Sorry to disturb you
Ma'am. We're less than 40 minutes from the United States." "Too late,
Tom," thought Tracy. She sniffed and began to prepare herself all over
for the mission.


Part 4

The approach to the United States was rough.  The weather was rainy and
the seas were running high -- whitecaps disintegrating at the tops of 7
ft. swells.  At 1,500 feet, the carrier's flight deck was one of the
longest in the world.  Approaching at 250 knots from 2,500 ft., the
ship looked like a toy bouncing up and down in a swimming pool.  On the
glide path, the A-2 made a full throttle landing on the rolling deck; the
arresting cables stopped the 35,000 lb., 150 mph airplane in less than 2
seconds.

Inside, Lt. Parker grimaced as her mass came down on the hard surface
of the flight deck with the plane and again when forward momentum came to
an abrupt halt, slamming her against her restraining harness.  Gates was
whistling; not that Tracy could tell -- the whine of the fan-jets was
so loud.  Schlumburger had pulled out her intercom cable and was running
the checkout list as the A-2 was rolled into its parking position on deck.

Cmdr. Darnell Davies met her as she climbed out of the plane.  The
deafening roar of turbines, the rattle of arresting gear and hiss of
steam catapults at the same time lent an almost hellish atmosphere to the
image of hundreds of orange-clad men and women scurrying across the pitching
flight deck.  At eye level, Tracy could barely make out either end of
the carrier.  Even in her flight suit and helmet, she felt the wet cold of
the spray and the unreal sensation of slick and unstable asphalt under her
boot-clad feet.  Cmdr. Davies was 1st Officer.

He greeted her, and she gave him a quick salute, "Permission to come
aboard, sir," Tracy gave the mandatory delivery.  Returning her salute,
Davies said, "Permission granted, Lieutenant.  We have a bunk, some
chow, and a few messages from CINCPAC for your eyes only.  If you'll follow
me. After a bit, Admiral Thomas would like to see you."  Davies led Tracy
from the howl and roar of the flight deck and to the lift where as they
descended, he added, "I'm afraid we've been instructed to keep you in cognito
to an extent.  So, there will be some restrictions for the next 6 hours.
Sorry."  Tracy knew this was routine for SOU.  But, it was probably the
first time a carrier had been used to ferry a SOU to a jump.  "He's
probably full of questions," thought Tracy as they finally entered
the hallway to her cabin.

Inside, door locked, Tracy looked around.  On the bed was a small pile
of envelopes -- including her sealed orders transmitted by courier and
electronically.  A pair of coveralls without rank or id in pilots' dark
green was spread out next to the envelopes; some wrapped sandwiches, an
electric pot of coffee and the ship's commemorative mug were on the
nightstand next to the bunk.  Tracy wearily lifted the visor on her
helmet, pulled it off, and gave her head a toss to release the tangles
in her hair.  Removing her boots and flight suit took a bit of time.  But,
once out of their confinement, stretching her arms towards the low
ceiling of the cabin, she began to relax.  She had 6 hours before leaving
for rendezvous with her transport: the Wahoo, an old fleet-type diesel
submarine used by covert operations crews for silent penetration and
shallow depth approaches.


In the fluorescent light of the cabin, Tracy's skin looked grayish.
Bare-legged and barefoot, she was dressed in only her bra and panties.
Some of the id markings in blue ink peeked out beyond the straps and
cups of her pale undergarments.  With her hair tousled and skin goose-bumped
from the transition from cold flight deck to the undress of the cabin,
although she didn't know it, she looked very much like the afternoon
she first made love to Tom.  Pondering her next action, she decided that
she was going to relax and had no intention of putting on any more clothes
for a few minutes more.  Sitting on the bunk, it was time to review the
messages left for her.

Capt. Clement passed on the most important news.  According to sources,
the bomb was a Russian type: 15 kilotons, very dirty.  Designed during
the disintegration of the Soviet Union, it incorporated various
microprocessors and memory chips in its trigger.  This was good news.
"The more high-tech they make these things, the more low-tech the solution,"
Tracy noted to herself.  A TZ-425, Mark 3 device, she knew that the
removal of SIMM 1 from bank 2 on the trigger board would leave the bomb
a radioactive nuisance -- useless as a weapon unless Aziz planned to
throw it at someone. "Getting to it," thought Tracy, "Now, that's the
trick."

The second envelope was confirming orders for the captain of the sub.
She'd keep them unopened: for his eyes only.  It probably contained
tactical information, coordinates and navigation codes.  The 3rd note
was from SOU -- generic, providing updates and directions on the use of 2
new pieces of field equipment; first, a new lightweight pistol: 7.62 mm, 21
round clip, short bore with silencer, gas propelled, high-velocity; the
second, the new automatic based on the Uzi: 7.62 mm, 51 round clip, flash
guard and silencer.  "Don't get them dirty," Tracy mocked as she read the
text to herself.

The final note was hilarious.  It was from the Navy Department
confirming her enrollment to the MIP for another year.  Included was a
booklet describing compensation for various forms of dismemberment and death.
Tracy started to laugh aloud; shaking so hard her breasts bounced up
and down from the convulsions.  Squeezing herself very hard, she looked
around; her face became very serious.  "Snap out of it, Trace, " she told
herself. "You've never felt this uneasy about a mission.  Why are you getting
so mushy about everything as though it was your last time?" She thought about
her DI's admonishment on dying.   At that instant, she suddenly noticed
that the cabin had a shower.  "Nice," she whispered to herself, slipping off
her bra and her panties.  A quick stretch, rubbing her legs, scratching
her ribs, her buttocks and breasts and she walked over to the shower curtain
in the private head.  Pulling it back, she turned on the water and adjusted
it to warm. She stepped in.

After the shower and lying in damp, naked bliss on the bunk for an hour,
Tracy pulled on her underclothes and slipped on the coveralls.   She
combed her hair out.  Having no hair dryer, she toweled it as thoroughly as
possible.  She looked into the mirror: "You look like a 12 year old
boy," she remarked to the image in the glass.  "Some way to look in front of
the Admiral."  She quickly turned and opened the cabin door.

A marine corporal was standing guard.  He looked down at Tracy from 6'
6" up and immediately stared straight forward and snapped to attention.
"At ease, Marine," Tracy tried to relax the young man.  "Would you mind
showing me to the CON?"  "The Admiral is waiting in his stateroom,
ma'am," the Marine snapped back.  "I'm supposed to escort you there at your
convenience."  "Well, then," Tracy remarked lightly, "lead on."  And
the Marine giant and Tracy, looking very small, went down the corridor
together.

The Admiral's stateroom was basically a living room with an adjoining
dining room, office and bedroom suite.  The privilege of flag rank was
being able to escape the constant noise of flight and ship operations
once in a while.  Standing inside, facing Vice-Admiral David Beauregard
Thomas, Tracy suddenly found the sound deprivation making her slightly
light-headed.  Thomas was a big man.  From Tennessee, his family was
American Revolution, Civil War, Remember the Maine, Pearl Harbor, Tokyo Bay
Navy all the way.  Balding, gray haired, gray-eyed, sun-wrinkled, 6' 4" of
Navy defensive lineman, he'd commanded destroyers, planned the naval
bombardment of islands off Kuwait in '90, lead the battleship Wisconsin
back into active service in '95 and now commanded a battle group capable
of destroying by itself most of Asia. He was also Tracy's mom's first love.

"Lieutenant, it's good to see you!"  Tracy saluted and was caught up in
a big bear hug.  "At ease, Tracy, at ease.  Good golly, it's been awhile.
You look just like your mother did when she was your age."  Admiral
Thomas looked at her like her "Uncle Beau," which is who he was when she was
growing up.  He may have been her mother's first love.  But, he was her
father's best friend after that and never dwelled on her mother's and
his relationship or its mutually fond end.   Even after her father's death
from
cancer and her mother's shortly after that from a "broken heart," Thomas was
there for her.  "Tell Suzy-Q when you get back that I've got a gift for her
son's 2nd birthday.  I'm sorry I was away for that."  Thomas also was a strong
supporter of the SOU.

"Listen, Trace," the Admiral grew serious.  "Your terrorist buddy has
most of the navies in the Pacific on alert -- ours, theirs, and some others,
too.  SOU has got to get rid of that man and remove that bomb.   I'm
waiting for orders to vaporize the friggin island of his.  But, I know
he owns the government over there.  I also realize that they're real
chummy with the PRC these days.  Ever since Deng died, the Chinese commies
have had it in their heads that if they distract the proles by clobbering
small countries, no one will bother about throwing them bastards out of power.
The trouble is, we're the only country left to clobber.  Your pal Aziz could
take us into World War 3."

The Admiral looked at Tracy's face; it was pale and tired.  She smiled
into his eyes like a small girl.  Thomas felt his official demeanor
melt. "Sorry, about the tirade, girl.  How about some eats?  Looks like they
aren't feeding you enough stateside."

After a light meal (Tracy wasn't hungry), she said her good-byes.
"Remember to be safe, girl," Thomas softly hugged her.  "You're like my
daughter, you hear?"  Tracy's eyes welled; so did the Admiral's.  A
couple of clumsy sniffles later, a salute, a return of salute, and she was
back in her cabin.  2 hours left before she boarded the helicopter that
would drop her into the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a meeting with an old
submarine.  She stripped again, made sure all of her id markings were still
clear, lay back on the bed naked and closed her eyes.

Even on her back, Tracy's bosom was firm enough to stand up like 2
domes capped by her perfect, pink nipples.  Her flat abdomen was relaxed and
soft.  She started to go over the operational plan in her head.  But,
her thoughts were clouded by images of Tom, Clement, autopsy photos, the
sudden booms of the fighters catapulting off the deck of the carrier,
and a strong desire to play with herself.  "This is stupid." Tracy sat up.
She climbed off the bunk and onto the floor.  Still naked, she began with a
series of push-ups, followed by sit-ups and leg-lifts. As she exerted
herself more, her already taut body grew tighter and harder.  Sweat broke
out all over her and beads rolled down her chest, over her face, along her
thighs, over and around her rapidly filling breasts.  As she concentrated on
exercising, she became more aroused, more desiring of sexual stimulation.
"This isn't helping," Tracy breathlessly concluded.  Dripping with
perspiration, she went back to the shower where while soaping herself,
she decided to go with her desire.

Slowly, she began to massage her breasts while the soap and water
helped make them slippery and soft.  Her breasts swelled.  With one hand
working across her chest, Tracy took the other and started fingering the lips
of her vulva and clitoris.  Soapy and wet, she added her own lubrication
as she slowly caressed the edges of her opening and inserted her fingers
into the gap between her legs.  Tracy bit her lower lip.  She tried to
picture Tom or anything or anyone that might help her fulfill her need for
pleasure just once.  As her pelvis slowly moved and thrusted and her hands
became more animated, Jamal Aziz suddenly glared at Tracy face to face;
smiling, he stood silently in front of her.  Tracy started. Opening her eyes,
she realized it was the face she had seen from the file photo, and she had
just
imagined it.  "Thanks for ruining the mood, jerk," Tracy muttered to
herself as
she rinsed off the soap and dried herself off.

Now, fully dressed for the next leg of her trip, indistinguishable from
a man or woman with helmet on and visor down, Lt. Parker emerged onto the
frenzied flightdeck and ran towards a helicopter with increasingly
faster rotating rotor blades. Along side was Cmdr. Davies. "You'll be over
your
rendezvous point within 3 hours.  The copter will stay in position for
15 minutes.  Then, they'll have to come back with you.  Understand?" He was
screaming at the top of his lungs assured of the absolute privacy of the
conversation aided by the helicopter's engine.  Tracy nodded and gave him a
low thumbs up. With a quick salute, she barked, "Permission to leave the ship,
sir!"

He saluted an aye-aye.  She looked up at the flag snapping in the near
gale force wind, saluted it and climbed in; chocks were released; and the
helo lifted off the carrier's deck and swung low over the water, due west
towards what should have been a sunset but was just a light patch of gray
against the steely ocean.


Part 5

The UH-45 bucked up and down as it headed for its rendezvous with the
Wahoo.Inside, Lt. Tracy Parker grasped the handholds tightly even
though she was strapped into the jump seat behind the helo's pilot, Ensign
Betty Knight.  Choppers rarely flew in these types of storms; approaching
dusk, this flight was nearly insane. Occasionally, the co-pilot, CWO Ted
Griggs would glance back at the passenger.  He was trying to figure out what
all the fuss was about.  Even buried in flight suit, boots, helmet,
survival gear, and Mae West, he could see that Tracy was a very attractive
woman. "So," Griggs wondered.  "What's she doin' meeting up with a submarine
2000 miles from nowhere?"  The seaman in the jumpseat next to Tracy was
thinking the same thing.

Jamal Aziz looked at the rain pouring off the metal awning of his
private hooch above ground.  The storm had eased and then gained strength
during the day.  According to CNN, this weather would continue for the next 3
days.  Even with the rain, the island was unbearably hot.  The volcanic
action underneath the complex was calm but constant -- like a sauna,
heating the air all around and the water.  Even the breezes were hot
and wet.  "Well, at least I have a fan and cable," he mused as he studied
the still form of his aide and mistress Justine Loudon on his comfortable
mosquito-netted bed.

Justine Loudon was an aristocrat by birth.  Born to an English lord and
Egyptian mother, she was an only child -- spoiled and pampered.
Willful from birth, she developed latent tendencies towards cruelty and
carelessness as she got older. The culmination of 22 years of
reckless living, her relationship with Jamal had begun at the Puerto Bahnus
during an alcoholic party and sex binge at the height of the season.  With
supreme self-pity and self-love, she concluded that her life was at a
dead-end and that her parents and a corrupt system were to blame.
Jamal, already known in some circles for his flamboyant acts of political
daring, in other circles as a ruthless murderer, met Justine at a party and
was immediately obsessed by the beautiful aristocrat's blatant hatred of
her class and her culture. With her wealth, she could be very handy.  "And
amusing, too," he recalled remarking to himself.

Now, 3 years later, Justine had become more deadly and more beautiful.
Lying uncovered in his bed, Jamal inspected the 5' 7", tanned body of
his companion.  She looked like a Nefrateti or Cleopatra; darker than the
average Caucasian, with dark brown hair streaked with henna.  Her round
bottom was balanced by her full and shapely breasts, capped by large
dark areoles centered with small dark nipples.  Her long legs occasionally
twitched from some unconscious dream; her toes curled and then relaxed.
Jamal considered himself very lucky.  She was an insatiable lover.
Lazily, he stood up and walked over to a mirror on the wall and a pan
of water.

He splashed idly at his face knowing that the water could not cool
because the humidity would not allow evaporation.  His face was strong
and dark -- typically Lebanese.  But, it had a European look to it, too.
Because he was a child of Western corrupted Arabs, he almost saw his handsome
Western features as a flaw -- an ugly disfigurement.   Yet, combined with his
6'3" frame, he somehow passed unmolested through customs -- another wealthy
and tanned Euro-Playboy on his way to another pleasure dome.  He contemplated
the stupidity of the customs officers he'd met.  Hanging from the mirror, he
regarded 2 sets of chains with bent and broken metal tags attached.  He
remembered how proud he was on the occasion of his 500th execution and the
part
Justine had played in it.  He also contemplated the pleasure he and Justine
experienced as they "punished" the 2 American whores stupid enough to try and
intrude on his island and attempt to sabotage his bomb, his Atomic bomb.

"Stupid bitches," he grumbled as he fingered the 2 sets of differently
dented metal identity tags.  "Monroe and ah, yes, McKeeson, Patricia,"
he read aloud.  She was the one that didn't leave the grotto.  5 of his
men behind the rocks surprised the pretty red-head as she climbed out of
the hot pool.  Jamal remembered how he and Justine waited as she climbed
out of breath from the water, her thin naked body glistening, giving her
the time to stand up, remove her equipment and brush back her dripping, red
hair when he stood up from behind one of the rocks and greeted her.
"She looked like a wet, naked virgin in the boys' room," he chuckled to
himself.  With her big blue eyes and her mouth wide open as she
reflexively filled her lungs, he and his men began to fire.  He
relished the way she screamed and grimaced in exquisite pain as he and his men
delivered "delicate" spray after spray of bullets that tattooed her
lovely freckled body -- first with spots, then with gashes, and then,
ultimately, bloody, spurting knots of torn flesh.  The first seconds of rapid
gunfire raked her torso, back and her small, exposed breasts -- multiple slugs
cleanly drilled into and through her.  She didn't fall, but, because of
the pattern of fire around her, stayed upright, jerking and twitching
-- almost suspended puppet-like by the hot strings of bullets that tore at
her body.  When he and his men finally stopped firing, he was amazed
that she was still standing and able to turn her head, staring with a
shocked expression and spitting up blood towards him.  He left strict
instructions that no one was to shoot her in the head or face; and no one had.

This was good.  She had a beautiful, freckled face with upturned nose and
pointed chin.  In seeming slow motion, McKeeson fell backwards over a
large boulder and sprawled over it face-up, exposing her bloody,
twitching body to the audience in the grotto.  Arms straight out at her sides,
her long, pretty legs spread far apart exposing a dripping bloody orifice,
her thin torso arched over the alter-like boulder, her perfect small but
bullet-pocked breasts and long nipples oozing blood and milk, her
tearful long-lashed blue eyes were still wide open and her blood-filled mouth
moved incomprehensibly.  Was she trying to plead, or was this a reflex
only?  Then he recalled the way the girl stiffened, gurgled a plop of
blood from her mouth and a spurt of fluid from her vulva, a convulsive
jerk, a shiver, and she was dead.  Very amusing.  He smiled as he
fingered McKeeson's dog tag.  "Yes, more satisfying than the other," Aziz
noted to the now waking Justine, flashing the tags in his hand. Justine nodded
her head sleepily, tossed her long hair back and lay back down on her other
side.  She smiled and dozed again.

Now, over the rendezvous point, Tracy saw the telltale sign of the
sub's conning tower as it surfaced directly underneath them. As swells rolled
over the little submarine, one of the hatches popped open and men in
slickers scurried on to the deck.  Quickly attaching the cable from the
winch to her harness, Tracy gave the crew a quick thumbs up, climbed
out over the side of the chopper and began to descend towards the pitching
boat below.  The rough air tossed the chopper about, making it hard for
the pilot to keep Tracy's body over the deck of the sub.  The rolling
chaos of the seas below made the recovery operation for the submarine
team equally difficult.  At 5 feet over the water, Tracy decided to unhitch
the harness and fall into the surprisingly warm sea.  Recovered quickly
with help from a frogman from the Wahoo, Tracy waved to the chopper as it
began its difficult journey back to the carrier.  Tracy and the rest of the
crew climbed down into the sub.  The sub dived into the calm of the depths
of the ocean.  On the surface of the ocean, Nature boiled angrily,
laboring to confound everyone and everything.  Below, the surface it was as
though Nature slept.

In the small cabin supplied to her for changing and preparation, Tracy
quickly removed her wet clothes, dried off her body and hair, and put
on another coverall.  Only this time, she omitted her underwear.  "This
close to jump, who cares?" she decided as she put aside the Navy bra and
panties supplied.  She slipped her feet into the rubber thongs provided.
Straightening herself, she stepped back out into the companion way and
moved into the control room.

Wahoo carried a small crew compared to the same class of submarines
during wartime.  Since Wahoo's mission was covert operations, there were no
torpedoes; more room devoted to electronics and SOU prep; no need for
weapons specialists.  In the former torpedo room, for instance, SOU had
a small but well-supplied surgery; an airlock provided underwater ingress
and egress; a larger cabin allowed SOU actives privacy prior to
jumps. In addition, the only decent head was located forward.

"We'll be in place in 6 hours, Lieutenant," the skipper, Cmdr. Luis
Diego, informed Tracy.  If you want to get some chow and some rest, I'll get
us there, okay?" he grinned a reassuring grin.  Around her, the sub
groaned as the wieght of the sea above and around her pushed against the
bulkheads.  At the diving control, 2 sailors manned the helm, staring
at the gauges that replaced the windows of any other vehicle.  "Down by
the nose, 20 degrees," the Chief of the boat announced.  "Make your depth
80, Chief," the skipper said almost off-handly.  "80 feet, aye."   The men
and women in the bridge were intent on their stations; no one bothered to
look at the damp lieutenant as she took in the scene around her: a female
sailor sat towards the far end of the bridge lientening through
headphones, 2 sailors monitored the ballast tanks and pressure gauges,
the other 6 sailors were at various stations monitoring the batteries,
engines, air quality, and tactical displays.  "Thanks," Tracy
acknowledged the encouraging word and started forward towards the SOU area.

Cmdr. Diego nodded absently in her direction.  "Pretty girl," Diego noted to
himself.  Tracy was aware of the claustrophobic atmosphere on this
fleet-class submarine. On Los Angeles-class subs, Tracy remembered, a
person could actually take a jog.  "I'll be lucky if I can bend over
for a bar of soap in this coffin," Tracy complained to herself.  Trying to
shake the shadows of panic, she got into her cabin and sat cross-legged on
her bunk and tried to clear her mind.  Then, she lay back and took a nap.
She'd be awakened 2 hours prior to their arrival and until then, there
was nothing left to do.


Part 6

Lt. Parker was lying on her back in the cramped cabin of the Wahoo.
She wasn't exactly sleeping but seemed to be suspended between the state of
sleep and being awake. In this state, she perceived the batteries
hissing as they discharged the energy they held into the electric motors of
the
submarine.  She could feel the vibrations as the screws rotated and
kept the sub at its snail's pace 17 knots; 17 knots that brought her hour by
hour closer to a little pile of volcanic rock and vegetation in the middle of
the South Pacific.  Tracy also perceived that the interior of the sub was
getting slowly warmer as time went on.  Even though there was a fan that
periodically blew the stale air over her as its head cycled back and forth,
she
seemed to be able to tell that this poor breeze was getting less and less
refreshing.

Suddenly, Tracy sat up.  She was sweaty.  The underarms of her coveralls were
moist; there was line of perspiration moistening her back and across her
chest.
She looked at a cheap thermometer hanging from the cabin bulkhead; it read 91
degrees. "Whew!" Tracy puffed a complaint.  "I think something's wrong with
the
air exchanger on this tub," Tracy thought as she got up and opened her cabin
door.  Surprised, she found herself face to face with an older woman with
gray-streaked dark brown hair and an equally distinguished-looking older man.
They seemed as surprised to find her up and about.  It was 3 and a half hours
before the jump.  As they sized each other up, the young female officer and
the
2 older question marks, Cmdr. Luis Diego appeared as if on cue to answer the
obvious questions everyone had.  "Lieutenant, this is Dr. Lunt," he motioned
towards the woman, "and Dr.Selig," motioning towards the man.   "They are with
the NSA.  We're supposed to help them with an experiment during this trip."
Cmdr. Diego was trying to keep it light, but obviously saw Tracy's spine
stiffen. "I'm sorry doctors.  I don't know anything about an 'experiment.'
But, I'm going to be too busy to provide lab notes and observations for the
folks back home."  Tracy was trying to be civil as she got more and more
angry.
"What kind of shit was SOU trying to pull on her this close to a jump?" Tracy
fumed to herself.  Didn't they know that it was going to be difficult enough
after losing 2 others?

Even more importantly, didn't Capt. Clement care enough about her emotional
state to have protected her from this crap? "Was Capt. Clement aware this
would
be part of the mission?" Tracy asked, hoping that the answer was no. "Your CO
was fully briefed and actually encouraged our participation," Dr. Selig
volunteered.  Tracy felt betrayed.  "Actually," Dr. Lunt interjected, "we're
going to test a device that may provide you with an edge as you go in. It will
monitor your bodily functions; heart rate, blood pressure, etc. and will
provide you with limited one way communications to this submarine during your
mission.  It will be undetectable and may provide us and the SOU with
additional insights upon your return."  Tracy looked the woman in the eyes.
She remembered Clement's frustration about not knowing what happened to Munroe
and McKeeson.  So, Tracy concluded quickly that she was going to be loaded
with a "black box" to record vital information in case she didn't get back.
After all, Aziz always returned the remains. The doctor probably knew
that, too.  Tracy saw the confirming look in Dr. Lunt's eyes.  "Well,
okay," Tracy softly submitted.  "How much time do you need to set me up?"

Tracy sat in the middle of the long surgical table in the forward torpedo
room of the Wahoo.  She was wearing a hospital smock.  As she shifted her
weight from buttock to buttock, she felt small puddles of sweat underneath
her skin.  The temperature was at least 95 degrees in the sub. "Doctor,
does it seem too hot in here?" Tracy asked Dr. Lunt.  She was wearing
surgical gloves. No assistants; the torpedo room hatch was closed.

"Dr. Selig asked the captain about the heat. He said it was due to the
volcanic
nature of the surrounding ocean floor," she stated kindly but clinically.  As
Tracy watched, 2 small devices no larger than watch batteries were removed
from
sterile packing.   Tracy noticed the concentration Dr. Lunt showed in her face
as she checked each device by eye and then electronically by some testing
device.  She was in her fifties; she looked a bit like Olympia Dukakis but was
much prettier.  Her eyes weren't exactly brown but almost amber in their
clarity.  She didn't hesitate as she connected a very long, thin wire to
one of
the devices; her brow peppered by rolling droplets of sweat.  "There," Dr.
Lunt
turned and smiled.  "Lieutenant, this is one of Dr. Selig's toys.  It is an
anterior monitor that will allow us to hear you as you go about your duties."

She showed Tracy a small wafer about the size and thickness of a penny with a
long, very thin wire hanging from it.  "It will be worn within your body. This
will provide the most protection and also increase its effectiveness when you
are broadcasting.  Do not worry about being discovered," Dr. Lunt anticipated
Tracy's concern about detection.  "The signal is very low frequency; very
similar to the ELF used by this submarine for emergency broadcasts."  The
doctor's face became clinical and distant.   "Unfortunately, you will have to
be purged before introduction of this device."  Tracy looked at her
quizzically. "You mean," Tracy half laughed.  "You'll have to have an enema
and
empty your bladder completely. No water or food before your start," Dr. Lunt
explained dispassionately.  "It is a lot to ask," suddenly the doctor's tone
was warm and understanding, "but it will protect the device and increase your
chances of getting home."  Tracy was surprised. That comment made it clear
that
she knew the nature of the mission.  There weren't just 3 people who knew;
now, there were at least 5 -- Dr. Selig had to be in on it, too.  Tracy
stewed.  "A lot of people are beginning to know about this.  And that's bad,"
Tracy's brow furrowed.

The enema was effective.  But, Tracy wasn't eating much prior so the process
went quickly. There was some additional flushing and cleansing; Tracy thought
her insides must be as clean as ever in her young life. Through the process,
which took 45 minutes, Dr. Lunt was kind and gentle, supportive and discreet.
When everything had been done to prepare, Tracy got back on the surgical table
now fitted with stirrups used in deliveries.  "If you'll please place your
feet
here," Dr. Lunt motioned. Tracy absently placed each foot in a stirrup and the
doctor lifted the hem of Tracy's gown.  A cold touch in a very sensitive spot
made Tracy start. "I'm sorry," Dr. Lunt said flatly.  "I'll be inserting the
device into your vagina and attaching it to the wall against the uterus."
Tracy could feel an icy probe slowly enter her body.  "The attachment will be
made by a surgical staple; the device produces a low voltage pulse that
acts as
a local anesthetic.  You won't know it's there," the doctor offered.  Tracy
wasn't taking. "Attach a small radio inside my vagina, and I won't notice?"
Tracy humorlessly thought.  At once, she felt her pelvis spasm.  The
thought of
the procedure making her react in this way caused her to blush slightly.

"Perfectly normal," Dr. Lunt reassured her.  Of course, she was right. Regular
examinations by the SOU doctors told Tracy that.  But this was different.
Only, Tracy didn't know why.  The second device was a backup unit.  As soon as
Dr. Lunt was done inserting and attaching the device, she slowly and carefully
uncoiled the thin wire.  One end was attached to the device inside Tracy's
vagina.  It lead out through her vulva and was glued into place running along
her left pelvis, up her left side, around her left breast and ending attached
by a small pad to the left of her sternum.  Tracy, fully unclothed in front of
the doctor, made mental notes about its placement and position along her body.
It was practically invisible -- the wire was so thin and attached so well.
"The wire is attached in several places so that it will not come off in
physical activity.  The end is capped with a special microphone.  In a sense,
your body becomes a transmitter, and your bones the antenna for the device,"
Dr.Lunt was obviously proud of the combination of electronic and biological
wizardry Tracy had become. "There's no chance of this wire slipping and
snagging, is there?" Tracy regarded herself in a full length mirror on one of
the bulkheads. "Not a chance," Dr. Lunt was certain.  "Please say anything,
and
whisper. It's a test," Dr. Lunt smiled.  "I feel like the bionic woman," Tracy
muttered.  Suddenly, with a crackle of the intercom, Dr.Selig's voice
responded, "You are much prettier than her."  Dr. Lunt face was a proud grin.

With less than an hour to go before the jump, Tracy prepared herself. First,
she put on her SOU swimwear -- the khaki bikini held together with Velcro; the
small utility pouch on her left arm with pills, a small tube of antibiotic
salve, tape and a lighter.  Her holster and ammo belt with larger utility
pouch
hung over her right hip; she secured the holster firmly around her right
thigh.
Her field knife attached to her left thigh finished the basic dress.  Tracy
made sure the pistol in the holster was loaded and ready.  She then put on her
watch; it was a combination chronometer and light source if needed.  Over her
left shoulder she slung the new ultralight submachine gun SOU was sending into
the field.  A second strap allowed her to cinch it so that it was held on her
back firmly without bouncing around.  Finally, the mylar strip around her
waist
was wrapped and ends fused together.   Looking at herself in the mirror, Tracy
thought she looked less like Penthouse this time and more like Rambo with
tits.
She smiled.  "Never mess around with a heavily armed woman," she reminded
herself.

The underwater departure from the sub was made through the special airlock
in the forward torpedo room.  Up until this time, the rest of the crew had
been barred from entering the area; obviously because of the various
procedures
being performed by the doctors; but, also because of the real disruption that
could be caused by a bunch of sailors seeing a bikini-clad SOU operative prior
to a jump. At this, point, however, the members of the crew required for the
preparation for departure entered; there were 3 men and one woman.  The men
whistled with spotaneous appreciation.  Tracy was sweaty and beautiful.  The
interior temperature of the sub was now over 100 degrees.  Her suit was damp
and perspiration highlighted every muscle of her form; her nipples were
extended from the excitement; her breasts round and firm.  The tightness
of her body was amazing.  Dr. Selig was even stirred by the sight.

But, containing himself, he made sure that Tracy understood how the device
worked. "Remember, you don't have to shout. We'll be monitoring your body
functions during your mission; we'll know everything about your physical
condition.  In addition, please make comments.  We'll hear them.  If you need
confirmation, we can send a feedback to the device that will result in a
mild tickle," Dr. Selig became slightly embarrassed.  Tracy nodded, "Thank
you doctor.  I'll remember that."  She looked at Cmdr. Diego who was trying
not
to laugh.  "Lieutenant, I've got us within 4 miles.  It's real rough.  Want a
look?"  The skipper offered. Tracy responded, "Sure."  They walked back to the
con.  The 8 male crew members in the control room audibly whistled as one when
Tracy came through the hatch.  She was gorgeous; and they'd been at sea for 3
months straight. Diego hrumphed with disapproval, and the crew tried to go
back to business as usual; but, it would be difficult.  Motioning to the
periscope, Diego ordered the sub to 40 feet. Slowly, Tracy felt the boat lurch
upwards and begin to sway slightly. The periscope was extended and after the
skipper had a look, Tracy stared into the eyepiece.  Outside and above the
surface, the seas were gray and wind-swept with 6 ft. swells, the sky was a
darker gray and the island a still darker lump in the horizon.  It was 1200
hours and it ought to have been light; it looked like dusk.  Visibility must
have been zero on the island; it was a miracle to have glimpsed it that far
out
to sea.  Tracy looked at Diego and smiled.  "My kind of weather," she remarked
as she walked, maybe slightly sashayed, past the crew in the control room
towards the forward torpedo room.

Tracy tied her hair back into a pony tail with a plain rubber band.  An
underwater exit was prescribed because the boat would nearly flounder
exposed to the rough seas if it surfaced, not to mention the possibility
of detection.  So, she got ready for the airlock.    It took 3 crewmen to
control the flooding of the special airlock Tracy was going to use. Too fast,
and she might burst her lungs.  She was using a special rebreather used for
jumps.  Having a fixed volume of air it could hold and process, it was
necessary to control breathing during use.  The benefits of it were that it
was
small, silent and very portable.  The negative was that it had a short
life-span.  Tracy would have to get to the surface, seal the unit from
salt-water contamination, and swim until she got to the cavern entrance.
Then she'd have to dive again, preferably without the use of the rebreather.
It would have to be saved for the underwater cave and passages to the entry
point later on.  Tracy fitted her swimming goggles over her eyes and checked
her vision.  Underwater, she'd have to be alert to any booby-traps that might
have been left.  A popular technique was to leave a spear gun aimed over an
underwater entrance; one wrong move and a swimmer could be shishkabob.  But,
Tracy wasn't thinking about these aspects; her training had moved those
concerns to the point of reflex. Tracy concentrated on the mission objectives,
now.  Aziz, the bomb. That was her universe.  Both doctors watched her as she
slipped on the special low profile flippers on her feet and as she stepped
into
the watertight compartment.  As the door was sealed shut by Cmdr. Diego, he
gave Tracy a quick salute.  "Goodluck."  Tracy smiled at him. He looked kind
and caring.

She cleared her head and waited.  Her breaths were regular now even though she
could hear her heart pounding in the echoey little chamber. Suddenly, with a
woosh, water began to flow in around her feet, now over her ankles, towards
her
shoulders, and over her head.  Sound had changed from echoes to muffled, heavy
rumbling and humming from the submarine and her head as her body attempted to
equalize with the water pressure around her.  Her breasts were now buoyant and
suspended.  She rose to the top of the chamber and released the outer door.
A dull clank as it lifted free and swung out and against the deck, and Tracy
swam up, turned around and closed and resealed the hatch.

She saw the dark form of the sub beneath her; in her ears, she could hear the
thrum, thrum, thrum of the screws. She quickly swam towards the surface --
effortlessly and efficiently like some sleek and deadly mermaid. Suddenly,
Tracy realized how warm the water was and the sudden blurring of her vision.
The heat was causing her goggles to fog.  Worse, she was having difficulty
drawing air on the rebreather.  The heat must be affecting it too.  Her
training suppressed any hint of panic as she hastened her rise to the surface.
Above her, the film of the surface water was grayish green; not bright but an
undulating blanket that seemed to shadow everything beneath.  As she reached
the surface safely, she gasped, quickly sealed the rebreather and pulled down
her foggy goggles around her neck.  She was being carried up and down by
the large swells.  The wind flew stinging, hot spray into her face and eyes;
and water came into her mouth every time she tried to take a breath of the
humid salty air.  "Suck it up and get it done," Tracy told herself and started
swimming strongly towards the island.


Part 7

The seas around Aziz's island seemed to boil in the storm.  From shore,
looking all around, it would be impossible to see anyone or anything
approaching on the surface of the water.  Still, Aziz had made sure
that lookouts were posted at every approach; everyone was linked by radio.
There were even sentries posted in the grotto that had been the sight
of Lt. Trish McKeeson's gruesome death in the event that the Americans were
stupid enough to send another intruder through that entry.  But, no one knew
about the second grotto; no one except 2 military planners in Washington, D.C.
and a single female swimmer laboring to reach the fortified island in the
midst
of a storm.

Tracy swam the crawl; her body being swept up and down one swell after
another and down into deeper and deeper troughs.  If anyone had been
able to see the young woman, they would have seen the strong and supple body
of a swimmer rhythmically struggling forward; first one arm outstretched
and then the other; the nearly naked form of a woman making her way towards
the southern end of Jamal Aziz's rocky base.

On board the Wahoo, Drs. Lunt and Selig monitored the physiological
data being transmitted from Tracy's implant.  Dr. Lunt, especially, was
impressed by the sustained exertion the young Navy Lieutenant was able
to endure.  "Her vitals are looking very good," she commented almost to
herself.  Dr. Selig was an electrical engineer; she didn't know what if
anything Cmdr. Diego knew about physiology.  Meanwhile, Dr. Selig
monitored through a pair of headphones, the labored sounds of
breathing, water, rushing blood, and pumping heart that was being broadcast
real-time from Tracy's extraordinary body.  "I can hear her struggling in the
water," Dr. Selig said as he looked up at Lunt and Diego with concern.
The other members of the crew were now caught up in the adventure, as well.
They'd seen the beautiful body and heavenly face of the young woman less than
an hour before; many of the male members of the crew had instantly fantasized
about her.  Now, she was one of the good guys, trying to make her objective.
They rooted for her quietly; some even prayed.

Tracy was having a difficult time.  The storm was much more than she
expected.  The warmth of the water and the difficulty in getting a
clear breath in the heavy seas was causing her to become more fatigued and
more quickly than she was prepared for.  Unconsciously, her body began to
relax in an attempt to allow the wave action to assist her swim; the swells
carrying her for a while -- up, down, up, forward, and down; again and
again.

Tracy stroked with less energy; her arms were definitely beginning
to get tired, and her legs were feeling rubbery.  She didn't even think
about the implant and the audience her audible efforts were attracting
on the unseen submarine.  Training and discipline had replaced thought and
judgment; Tracy was simply a programmed device in the water; armed and
guided by remote control; trying to make her objective within an
allotted time.

Somewhere in the middle of her efforts, Tracy realized that the storm
was blowing her towards the island.  Stopping, she struggled treading water
as she looked at her watch.  As far as she could judge, she had already
gone almost 1 and a half miles in one hour -- despite the waves and the wind
of the storm.  She was now about 2 miles from the rocky shoals that were
the entrance to her objective.  Tracy began to feel better.  She was ahead
of schedule; making landfall, she'd have several hours to rest and collect
herself before she dived to the access tunnel and into Aziz's compound.
Of course, she also reminded herself, she'd have to get through the
underwater tunnel to the grotto that would give her access to the island
itself.

Wahoo sat suspended under the waves and wind, exposing only her long
antenna to the air as she monitored Tracy's progress.  Inside the
control room, the crew watched the skipper and the 2 civilians anxiously as
they, in turn, monitored Tracy's progress.  Dr. Lunt had turned on a monitor
attached to a small computer and was watching with rapt interest the
virtual image of a naked woman as it moved and twisted in simulated
swimming motion.  The image looked vaguely like the woman the crew had
seen nearly 2 hours before; but, the image lacked the definition or
physical beauty of the real thing.  Dr. Lunt's "virtual" Tracy was
based on the telemetry being sent from her implant; the figure was shapely
but smooth and inhuman.  The image had no face but an impression of a face
with
indications of eyes, eyebrows, a nose and mouth.  The hair was stiff and
unmoving.  Where perfect, lovely breasts with well defined nipples should have
been, the computer generated 2 round forms protruding from the upper torso of
the figure; where the small soft mass of Tracy's pubic hairs should have been,
the virtual image displayed only a smooth surface.

Yet, the ability to generate a real-time virtual image of a subject with the
implanted device was a breakthrough in technology.  Dr. Selig occasionally
turned to watch "his" image as it moved and twisted; he felt proud about his
achievement, but felt a tinge of modesty as he turned away each time to
concentrate on the digital indicators instead.  "Besides," he told himself,
"the unit will record everything anyway."  Dr. Lunt, on the other hand,
watched
everything and monitored Tracy's vital functions as they were displayed around
the virtual image of young woman.  In all of this, Cmdr. Diego was dumb-struck
by the advanced  technology and ran his hand back and forth along a well worn
brass rail -- feeling less important than the technology that was making
all of
this possible.  Meanwhile members of the crew alternately gazed at the various
dials and lights of their stations and glanced over to the computer image
flickering in the humid submarine control room.

Tracy had finally made it to the shoals off shore from the island. More
like a low wall, she'd have to climb over them and swim an additional
800 yards in shallow water before reaching deep water and the rocky face of
the island itself.  Climbing over the barrier was a concern; she might
expose herself to any watchers Aziz had patrolling the approaches to
the island.  Stopping, practically lying on the rough ledge protruding from
the shoals, Tracy felt the sting of abrasions on her stomach and chest
as the crashing waves shoved her across and over the rough volcanic rock
of the ledge.  She winced and looked around; rain and salt water poured
from her head and over her face, making her own sight difficult.  It was
dark for afternoon; the rain obscured everything.  Anyone on shore looking
to this point, Tracy figured, wouldn't see anything.  Besides, she was
going to be ripped to shreds if she rested any longer on this one spot.  With
that, she crouched cat-like on the balls of her feet on the rocky shoal
ledge, raised herself up and over the 3 ft. wall of volcanic rock,
scraping her knees and calves in the process.

On the other side, Tracy was concerned to find the wave action
noticeably lessened.  "Probably shielded from the brunt of the wave action by
the shoal," thought Tracy as she quickly swam towards the deep water just
before the rough walls of the island.  Her objective was to get into
the deep water before she was spotted.  A daylight approach was the most
stupid way, some people would argue, of getting to an objective.  To the
contrary, SOU actions had suggested that, if properly timed as during a storm
or other periods of decreased visibility, an SOU operative could reach an
objective undetected and thus gain the maximum element of surprise.  In this
case, the storm still raged, the wind and rain still made visual sighting
nearly impossible, and there was enough rough seas to obscure Tracy.  Still,
she didn't want to take any chances.  She was exhausted and needed to rest;
and that rest would only be found on the island.

On the Wahoo, Dr. Lunt observed with greater concern the level of
physical fatigue she was seeing indicated on her monitors.  She'd observed the
virtual image as it climbed over the shoal and noted the registration
of physical discomfort bordering on pain as Tracy's image scraped its
knees and calves.  "I'm watching blood toxicity levels," she commented aloud.
In the water, Tracy finally made it into the deep water surrounding the
shear walls of the island's south face.  The waves were crashing
against the volcanic rock wall.  In an instant, a large swell carried Tracy up
and shoved her very hard against the rock.  She felt the breath leave her
lungs and became dizzy.  Instinctively, she reached around and grabbed
at the rock face.

Her hands groped along as wave after wave pushed her chest-first against the
rock wall; the volcanic rock scraped her fingers and knuckles as she clinged
like a bat to the rough face.  For the first time in the approach to the
island, Tracy was beginning to feel panic; she was too tired to fight the
surging waves and knew there would be trouble if she let go.

As she struggled to get her bearings and catch her breath, Tracy realized that
very near her the wind was howling through a large opening.  Moving towards
the
opening, her eyes focused on a large volcanic rock cave with a gray sand beach
inside.  As she moved inside, she could feel the rain stop and the hot, humid
wind whistle past her towards the opened back roof of the cavern.  The sand
was
hot, but it was stable and unmoving.  Tracy dragged herself onto the strip of
sand on her hands and  knees, coughing up salt-water as the waves broke over
her bruised body. She crawled farther up and away from the water; her bikini
bottom was pushed far down her buttocks; her top was askew exposing her
scratched right breast.  Finally far enough from the waves, Tracy closed her
eyes and rolled heavily onto her back and lost consciousness.


Part 8

Aboard the Wahoo, Drs. Lunt and Selig were very concerned about the motionless
body they were monitoring electronically.  Vital signs analyzed by Dr.Lunt
indicated that Lt. Parker had fallen asleep; her heartrate was returning to
normal, her blood pressure and the toxicity level in her blood were lowering
quickly.  Dr. Selig motioned to the monitor that showed that Tracy was lying
prone on her back; one arm crossed over her midriff, the other extended at 5
o'clock from her left side.  Cmdr. Diego conferred with the radio man, a
slightly plump female sailor; he and she were exchanging printouts of flash
traffic from CINCPAC and other Navy operations centers.  The crisis
surrounding
Jamal Aziz's nuclear bomb was growing, and a NY Times article had leaked its
existence and even hinted at the possibility that covert operations were being
considered. Publicly, the US was starting to feel the political pressure from
Aziz's friends in China in the UN Security and APEC councils. All the while,
their SOU operative was lying unconscious on Aziz's hostile beach.  The
rest of the crew watched and waited.  Beginning, at first, with the 8
crewmen in the control room, the unfolding drama had now captured the
interest of all 29 men and women aboard the little submarine.  With
nothing to do but wait, the hot, sweaty sailors whispered any bits of
news relayed from the con down the line and moved around quietly and
expectantly.

Tracy was breathing regularly, now.  Her top was twisted down and
towards the left fully exposing her right breast.  It was scratched; the
abrasions left dozens of thin vertical stripes in her skin, across her nipple
and ending near her clavicle; the letters "P-A-R-K-E-R," her rank and
serial number were still clearly readable.  The left breast was covered, but
probably just as scratched.  In fact, from mid-calf to the tops of her
shoulders and under the left side of her jaw, Tracy's body was scraped
and cut.  None of the cuts were deep; most were very mild surface
lacerations. But, the more serious injuries were welting up from exposure to
the air and the salt water.  Tracy's bikini bottom was half way down her
thighs, twisted around and partially inside-out.  Her pale and tight labia was
visible below the matted and sandy pillow of her pubic hairs from between
her slightly spread legs.  Her body was bruised; she was covered with
grit and small pieces of debris that had washed up on the covered beach with
her.  Her hair, still tied back in a pony tail was now matted and
gritty from the fine volcanic sand; the bangs were tangled in front of her
eyes. All of her equipment was still with her, though.  Tracy's rebreather
was still slung around her neck; her id tags were tangled around it.  She
still had her weapons, and her pouches were still attached and sealed.

As she breathed, her chest moved up and down in a regular fashishisracy
was exhausted [sic] -- beyond sleep and dreamless.  She lay in the sand on
her back for a long time.

Suddenly, Tracy opened her eyes and looked up and around; it was dark;
the seas boomed less forcefully; the wind howled less fiercely.  The very
warm water at the entrance of the beach cavern was near her ankles.   And
inside her body, an odd electrical tickle periodically stirred her feminine
reflexes.  "It's the Wahoo trying to wake me up," she thought
desperately. Tracy fumbled about in the near pitch darkness, and as she did,
the tickling stopped.  "Sorry," she whispered.  Finally getting her
bearings, Tracy looked at her watched and activated its illuminated dial.
It was after 1900!  She'd been unconscious for almost 6 hours.  Tracy gathered
her thoughts:  it had taken an hour and a half to cross the final 1 mile of
ocean to this spot.

"Only, I don't know what this spot is," Tracy rebuked herself.  Then she came
up with an idea.  "If the sub can hear me and track me, maybe they can help me
get back to the right position." Tracy breathed in and whispered, "Wahoo, can
you help me out?  Buzz me once if you can."  Tracy immediately felt a
tingle in
her loins.  She smiled.  "Do I need to move east?" 2 tickles indicated a
negative. "West, how many clicks?"  She felt 4 distinct twinges.  "4 clicks to
the west. OK, and thanks," Tracy whispered very quietly to herself and her
audience.

On board the Wahoo, the scene was all cheers and hugs.  Dr. Selig was clearly
pleased as he paced back and forth in the cramped area of the CON. The device
worked.  And it had potentially saved the entire mission. The good guys
were on
shore and now ready to move in.  Selig was smiling when he recalled the
first 2
girls he had seen off. If only the devices were ready for them.  "So young.
The blond girl was the same age as my daughter," he noted as he revisited each
woman with discomfort.  At the end of this train of thought, Dr. Eugene Selig
found himself and a frown. Cmdr.  Diego also recalled the last 2 drops; he
recalled the anger he felt in himself as he was forced to abandon the primary
and then back-up recovery sites and return to the rendezvous point minus one
passenger. They were both young and pretty, Monroe and McKeeson; the flower of
womanhood:  brave, beautiful, dedicated.

Diego looked at Dr. Lunt.  It seemed to him that the grays in her hair weren't
there before she accompanied the last 2 Sweet SOUs to this island. "Cool
lady,"
he noted to himself.  Dr. Lunt's face didn't move from the monitor in front of
her.  Amidst the back slapping relief, she forced herself to feel nothing.
There was no room for that right now.  As far as she was concerned, the
subject
was operational again and the experiment could continue. Tracy crouched on her
haunches as she tried to straighten herself out. "This little cave was lucky,"
she thought.  If she had been washed up on an exposed beach, she could have
been discovered; maybe she'd never have had a chance to wake up.  She deftly
turned her top back around and stuffed her aching breast into the cup.  Then,
she pulled up her swimsuit bottom and made sure the Velcro straps were tight;
they felt a little soft; but, she figured that was due to the moisture.
Untangling her id from the sling of the rebreather, she slipped it off from
around her neck and rinsed it off in the warm water.  Tracy was having
difficulty breathing from the humidity of the air.  It was dark, but the heat
index in the cavern was well over 100 degrees.  Sweat poured from her body as
she prepared for her dive; as streams of sweat rolled down her face,
all she could do was lick them from her face as they flowed past her lips;
she blinked spastically trying to keep the perspiration from stinging her
eyes.  Then, Tracy realized her goggles were gone.  They weren't around
her neck.  She fumbled in her utility pouch and produced a small red
light torch.  Turning it on, she carefully examined the area around her
-- mindful that even the low light might be seen by Aziz's goons.  The
sand was indented where she lay, but here was no sign of them; they must
have been ripped off during the struggle to get to the beach.  Tracy cursed
to herself.  Nothing to do but do without.

Entering the much calmer waves, the salt water stung all over her body.
Without the benefit of a mirror, Tracy couldn't have known about how
much abuse she'd received in the effort to get to this point.  She ignored
the burning and glanced at her watch.  It was 1915; she had until 0430 the
next morning to get it done and meet up with Wahoo.  If she missed
that, 0515 was not going to happen.  She put her lips over the open
rebreather, exhaled to fill it and submerged.

Opening her eyes, Tracy realized the saltiness and dissolved minerals
around the hot island aided in her ability to see underwater.  The
sensation was a bit like saline solution in the eyes; only this saline
was nearly at body temperature already.  Her vision was only mildly cloudy
and better than when the goggles steamed up on her departure from the
Wahoo. She dove down and headed west along the submerged rock face.  Her body
was softened underwater; her breasts undulated and slowly jiggled with
every movement she made.  Her muscles seemed longer, too; her legs moved up
and down as she dove deeper along the wall; her pony tail streamed behind
-- no longer matted, but soft and free.  With the temperature of the
water, she seemed less to be diving than sinking into a sensory deprivation
tank -- without sensations into a deep void.  Tracy turned on her red torch
and dimly illuminated the way.  Looking at her chronometer, she noted the
depth: 12 ft., 21, ft. 33 ft.; she continued to dive.

As Tracy went deeper, the water became warmer.  She saw the shadows of fish
flicker by -- some small, a couple much larger.  "I hope I don't look like a
meal," she quipped to herself.  At 47 ft. down, and almost 4 clicks to the
west of her original beach position, Tracy started to search for the
entrance to the underwater cave.  When she found it, she almost bubbled the
rebreather.  It was barely 3 ft around!

On board the sub, Dr. Lunt and Dr. Selig were beginning to become
concerned with more and more frequent interruptions in the telemetry
from Tracy. They had adjusted various signal strengths in order to compensate.
But, the virtual Tracy continued to cut in and out on screen while the
audio transmissions became weaker and more distorted.  "I can only
think that the volcanic activity around the island is interfering with the
signal," Dr. Selig threw up his hands in disgust.  "I don't know what
else to do!"  Dr. Lunt frowned.  She wasn't prepared to lose significant
information because of a technical glitch.  "Is there anyway we can
boost the signal from the device itself?"  Dr. Lunt asked, almost demanded
an answer from the disheartened Selig.  "Yes, we could do that, but it
would result in a constant sensation for the woman; it might be, er,
distracting," Dr. Selig reluctantly looked for the least provocative
words.

"Do it," Dr. Lunt snapped.  "I'm reluctant, Lunt.  At that strength, I don't
know what the implant will do.  Everything is calibrated against the
anesthetic
effects of the electrical signal."  Dr. Selig looked to Cmdr. Diego for
guidance.  "She's the doctor," Diego replied quietly.  "If she needs to
monitor
the SOU, do it.  But, make sure it doesn't endanger her!" he interjected.
Diego figured he was still the highest ranking officer of the bunch.  And he'd
was fed up with these 2 and their technical gadgets.  Dr.  Lunt looked at
Selig
and gave him a grave look.  Dr.  Selig quickly punched a few buttons into the
keypad in front of his station.  Looking at the monitor, he found the display
of the corresponding set of numbers, looked back at Dr. Lunt and doubled them.

Tracy shined the dim red lamp into the opening.  There was nothing but craggy
overhang and darkness in the passage.  Stiffening a bit, she swam head-first
into the opening -- her red light illuminating the immediate area around her.
It was instantly too narrow to swim; Tracy practically had to begin crawling.
Her buoyant body softly banged up and down and from side to side in the
passage
as she began this 1 and a half mile passage.  It seemed to Tracy that it was
moving deeper.  She was making mental notes of the stability of the tunnel's
rocks when her pelvis contracted and she felt herself twitch, sexually
stimulated.

Immediately after that, she felt the much stronger vibrations of the device
implanted in her vagina. The sensation was overwhelming and unexpected.
Her eyes opened wide as her whole body became numb and her mind went blank.
Worse, deep inside her vagina, it was starting to hurt.

Dr.  Lunt noted the physiological changes that received from Tracy as
the spasms began.  Dr.  Selig was frantic, "Do you see?  We must shut it
down! It will burn out, and we'll have nothing.  At least turn it back down
and we can review the recordings."  Dr.  Lunt's mind was blank.  She
weighed the information being displayed with Selig's emotional words.  On
screen the virtual image seemed to become suspended; vital signs indicated
shallow breaths and increased and rapid heart rate.  "Well, Lunt?  Do
you want to hurt the girl? She is obviously experiencing discomfort!"  Diego
looked at both of them.  He felt like an idiot assuming that the 2
egg-heads knew what they were doing with a human being, a Navy officer,
and his charge.  "Selig!"  Diego barked.  "Shut that fucking thing off!"

Dr. Selig looked to Dr.  Lunt for confirmation.  Numbly she nodded.
Dr. Selig typed the commands to shut down the transmissions.  As he
completed the last string of commands, he sighed and wiped his brow with a
spotted handkerchief.  "I only hope she's all right," Dr.  Lunt whispered as a
prayer.

Tracy was dizzy.  The heat of the water coupled with the unbelievable
sensations produced by the device inside her body had left her momentarily
disoriented.  Then, just as suddenly as the spasms started, they stopped;
the only reminder being a subtle stinging deep inside her vagina.
Tracy's eyes cleared, and she gathered up her dropped lamp and adjusted the
rebreather between her lips.  Recovering, she surveyed her surroundings.
The passage was narrow and rocky.  Fully underwater, not even small
bubbles of air had collected against the top.  Along the sides, there
was no vegetation; but a healthy crowd of small shrimps and crabs scurried
away from her comparatively gigantic form as it slowly made its way
north. Tracy couldn't reach behind herself or even at her sides; she had to
keep her arms extended forward using her hands to pull and her flippered
feet to push.  Only, it became increasingly clear that the flippers were
hindering her movement forward.  Deciding it was better to move without
them, Tracy kicked each flipper off her feet.  Now her toes could help
grasp the rough surface as she pushed and pulled herself along.  About
1 mile down the passage and almost 45 minutes later, after several very
tight squeezes that scraped Tracy's buttocks and drew a small amount of
blood from some of the deeper scratches, she began to notice the
passage getting wide; perhaps only a few inches, but definitely wider as she
felt her body move more easily through the confining passage.  Facing
forward, arms extended, Tracy moved faster and upwards.

Suddenly she winced and looked down at her left breast. A small crab had
attached itself to her apparently appetizing nipple as she had brushed by.
Carefully, she pulled the crustacean's claw off her breast when she realized
that her top was gone.  Tracy tried to move her arms down to feel along her
body. Perhaps it had slipped down as she moved through a tight portion in the
passage. Her view was blocked; but she managed to get her right arm down by
her
side and felt along her body.  Tracy swallowed and a few bubbles released
through her nose; her swimsuit bottom was gone, too.  She was naked in
the water -- no clothing.  Tracy struggled in her mind to get moving again;
she was very close to the grotto.  She forced herself to ignore the
issue of modesty; she'd trained in the nude during survival comps; she knew
what to do when she had to make do.

This was one of those times. Tracy swam faster as the passage bent upwards.  A
loud sudden splash and echoing slaps of water against rock and Tracy was in
the
middle of a small pool in an equally small underground grotto.

The grotto was 6 feet high at the center.  There was no real place to
climb out and stand; the only choice was to roll out of the water prone
to the side of the grotto pool or reach up and grab of the many dripping
stalagmites and start to climb up the stovepipe passage to the surface
21 feet above.  Tracy decided to secure her rebreather, take a deep breath
and start to climb immediately.  A breeze coming down the passage was
humid and warm; it didn't take the moisture from Tracy's body as she
extended herself to reach handholds for the climb up and out.  Her wet
and dripping body was exquisite; her ribs stood out in perfect symmetry as
she fully extended her arms over her head to pull herself into the tunnel;
as she lifted herself, her breasts swelled and pressed together in full
and jiggling roundness; her hips tensed; her long legs followed -- first
the left and then the right -- into the stovepipe passage that lead to the
surface of the island and the most dangerous point yet in Tracy's
incursion.

Absolutely naked, dripping with perspiration, her skin slippery with
sweat, her hands and feet red and aching from the underwater passage
and now the climb to the surface, Tracy continued to exert herself.  Her
rebreather quietly clinked against the rocks as she breathed heavily
through her mouth in her efforts to climb this part as quickly as
possible.  To be caught in the narrow tunnel would give her no chance
at all -- her submachine gun was still strapped to her back, holster on
her right thigh, knife sheathed around her left.  She wasn't thinking about
what happened to her swimsuit, she was thinking about maximum
survivability; Tracy didn't realize that the Velcro had softened in the
hot water of the underwater tunnel and adhesive used in their
manufacture disintegrated.

Her suit simply fell apart.  Unaware of any of this, a nude Lt. Tracy Parker
climbed to the top of the tunnel opening, breathed in the sulphury, hot, humid
air, pulled herself over the lip of the edge, through the plants
surrounding it,
crawled on her belly over to a depression in the ground filled with muck and
mud and slipped in.  Next leg:  2 miles in the open to the hot spring.
The time was 1005 hours.


Part 9

Crawling into the hot mud and muck of the steamy depression momentarily
took Lt. Tracy Parker's breath away.  Before she continued, she decided
she would take stock of what she had accomplished and what was left to
do before she had to meet up with her sub at 0415 the next morning.  Even
in the pitch blackness of the stormy, moonless night, Tracy could see that
all around she was surrounded by a fog of heated mists and steam.
There was no relief from the heat; it was dark and 95 humid degrees.

Mired in this mud pit, she was covered in 110 degree muck.  The constant heat
sapped her strength and kept her light-headed. On her feet, this could
make Tracy less effective; in the water, it could make her critically
more clumsy.  She had no idea that this ended up being fatal to the first
SOU to attempt entry into the island fortress, Lt. Patty Monroe.

Patty Monroe was a pretty blond from Georgia; she had an oval face with
large blue eyes, long, light lashes, a pointed nose and full lips; and
when she smiled, everyone agreed that it lit up the room.  Physically
one of the most impressive women to have completed SOU training, she was
5'10" tall, with a solid 37D bust, 24" waist and 33" hips.  Tanned and
muscular, Monroe was the best swimmer and climber in Tracy's class; the
obstacle course, designed to stop lesser men and women, didn't pose a problem
for Patty. She still held the record for its fastest completion.  And she was
the logical first choice for the difficult approach to the island.

Patty's entry into the island was much easier than Tracy's.  Still, the
relentless heat and humidity, combined with the physical effort
required to get into the underground compound had left her exhausted and
slower
than usual.  But, she was on schedule and had already moved into a
storage room near the bomb's location when she walked into a trap set by
Jamal's mistress Justine Loudon.

Justine lay in waiting behind a stack of crates in the far end of a
darkened corridor leading from Patty's location to the room that held
Aziz's bomb.  Her large, lovely dark eyes gazed down the darkened hall
towards the dimly lit entrance at the other end.  She had left Jamal to
attend to an assassination in progress in the Left Bank; he controlled
the actions of his operatives around the world from a communications center
near the above-ground entrance to the terrorist stronghold.  "I promise
I'll join you later, my love," Aziz promised.  Justine would handle the
American intruder in her capacity as Jamal's second and because she
wanted to enjoy killing someone; it had been nearly 2 months since she had
taken part in a killing.  Justine found that she was stimulated by the
violence; it left her breathless and shivering in the end to personally take
part in ending a person's life.  The more violent and painful, the more she
seemed to relish it.  Jamal had been impressed by her talents.  And she
considered herself a craftsman in the art of inflicting pain.

Halfway down the darkened corridor, a booby trap, of sorts, waited for
the unsuspecting Patty.  2 spear guns were loaded and carefully aimed to
strike whomever crossed into their line of fire at midriff level -- one
sat to the right, the other on the left.  The resulting effect would be
to impale the target with crisscrossing spears intersecting somewhere
within the body of the unfortunate target.  This would not cause immediate
death, but immediate and debilitating pain; the victim  would be barely able
to move and act, each breath would be agonizing and the pain would allow
Justine the opportunity to selectively stage the death of her victim.

Jamal was convinced that any act of defiance against him should be met
with brutal retribution; he meant to convey a message to any person or
government that tried to stop him that said: "This is the way I deal
with your stupidity."  He was intent on humiliation and intimidation;
Justine loved it.

Patty crept into the entrance to the corridor. She knew that at the
other end was the probable site of the bomb.  She didn't know what type it
would be; but she knew it would have to be disabled. The corridor was hot
and she was slightly light-headed and dizzy; her still wet body dripped
with perspiration; her long blond hair was tied up on top of her head.
Sweat rolled from her chest and into the swimsuit top and along and around
her large, round breasts.  She held a pistol in her right hand.  As she
moved slowly forward, her hips, barely covered by the bottom half of her
bikini, moved smoothly from side to side; her footprints reflected in the dim
lights of the room behind her. Her heart pounded quietly.  Lt. Monroe
felt something wasn't quite right, too late.  As she reached the middle
of the corridor, she had just noticed in the hot haze that distracted her
mind a slight brushing of her left ankle on something when all hell
broke loose.

The air was forced out of Patty's lungs as 2 spears struck her on
either side of her lower rib cage, the razor sharp heads passing completely
through her and protruding in a sickly bloodiness from her sides; they
had intersected just as Justine had hoped directly below Patty's diaphragm
without causing immediate death.  Although, blood immediately began to
fill Patty's abdomen; only trickles were seen from the entry and exit
points.  The metal of the 2 spears inside of Patty clicked as she
straightened and tried to breath, reflexively grabbing at her sides in
complete shock as spasms of agony contorted her face.  Patty swayed on
her feet; she wanted to catch her breath, to run, to fight, but her insides
were on fire and pain completely obscured her vision and her mind.

Justine stood up and smiled at the beautiful, suffering blond. Dressed
in a halter top that tightly held her large, round bosom, Justine wore
denim shorts, was bare legged, and sported leather sandals.  In her hands was
an AK-47 -- the most popular terrorist automatic weapon.  In the clip were
50 rounds of Swiss clad bullets.  "My dear," Justine cooed to Patty,
"you'll wish you'd never seen this island.  You'll wish you had never been
born." With that she released a spray of a dozen rounds that caught Patty in a
line from her left pelvis, diagonally across her abdomen, and across
the right breast.  Patty's body recoiled, shaking from taking the multiple
rounds and fell backwards.  As she did, she somehow swung her body around and
landed fully on her chest.  The spear heads clacked on the hard, bloody
concrete floor. The impact caused Patty to grunt loudly; the pain of the
weight
of her body against the spear heads caused her to convulse.  Blood was
gurgling up through Patty's throat and dribbling out of her mouth.

Each of the bullets exit and entry wounds oozed slowly with dark, almost
black blood. Somehow, as her blue eyes dilated, and her mind stopped fully
functioning on a conscious level, Patty locked on the image of the
storage room threshold ahead.  Agonizingly, she started to crawl; dragging her
bleeding body towards the opening.  Her breaths were gurgling and
wheezy; blood trickled out of each nostril.  As she began to slowly pull
herself, blood started to collect under her body.

Justine watched Patty's attempt to crawl back to the store room.  She
fired another spray of bullets that criss-crossed Patty's back.  The
damage to her spinal cord, exposed by the multiple slugs, only added to
the suffocating pain that was drowning the beautiful lieutenant.  Each
time she was struck, Patty would raise her chest up, her hands grabbing
under each opposite arm pit as if to trying to keep her chest from
splitting.  She moaned hoarsely as she groped forward now unable to
move.

The rounds from Justine's weapon passed through Patty's back, hips, and
buttocks, passed out from her broken pelvis, abdomen, breasts, and
shattered rib cage, ricocheted against the concrete floor and reentered
her body.  Some came to rest in her chest.  Patty's large breasts were
now riddled with separate entry and exit wounds.  Pressed against the
floor, puddles formed around them -- blood mixing with milky fluid underneath.
Patty's tongue was now hanging out of her opened and gasping mouth.
What little bit of humanity left in her mind was almost completely gone.
Physical reactions had now replaced any conscious actiactiahe body
convulsed and spasmed. Arms stretching ahead, Patty's body reached for
some imaginary relief.

Justine walked up to the naked shaking body of the blond.  Blood
spurted from some of the wounds in her sides; she was alternately spitting up
blood and gurgling as she tried to breathe -- her head still held up by
convulsive pain and some remaining force of will.  Justine pushed her
foot under Patty's right side and forced her over onto her back.  Blood
covered Justine's foot. On her back, Patty's arms extended over her head; her
overflowing breasts full of holes bled freely, mixing with milk that oozed
from what was left of her nipples.  The numerous bullets striking her body had
stripped Patty's minimal swinsuit from her; her utility belt lay shredded
underneath her.  The id markings on her body written in ink were all
but obscured.  Only her dented id tags remained around her neck.  All over
Patty's body, the female torturer noted the numerous bleeding holes and gashes
that had been caused by her bullets.

Lt. Monroe started to convulse; her lovely, deep blue and heavily lashed eyes
were wide open and fully dilated; tears rolled out.  The look on her face was
of hurt and sadness; her eyebrows furrowed.  Blood ran from her nostrils,
bubbled from her mouth; her tongue lolled to one side. Justine felt the
electric thrill of Patty's approaching death from deep in her loins, up her
spine and to the top of her head.  Her own breasts filled and became firm and
sensitive, her own lips became dry and cold.

As Justine closed her eyes, she could feel herself near sexual climax.
The body that had been Lt. Patty Monroe started to shake; gurgling and
grunting sounds came from its throat.  Another spasm of jerking and
shaking, and the young woman, once so graceful and physically exciting,
was dead.  It had taken less than 5 minutes.

Justine Loudon slowly opened her eyes.  She looked down at the still
body of the American blond. "No trespassing, dear.  I trust you'll
make sure your superiors understand, won't you," she purred to the corpse on
the floor.

Clap, clap, clap.  Jamal Aziz moved up from behind her applauding
the performance and put his arm around her waist.  "I saw the end.  Did
you think she suffered enough?" he asked with mock concern.  "She was
disappointing," Justine looked at Jamal with a pout.  "Next time, I'll
make sure it lasts longer."  Aziz kissed his mistress on the cheek and
motioned to some of the men who had gathered around Patty's body.  2
men grabbed Patty's ankles and roughly dragged the body down the hall back
towards the storage room.

Tracy had stopped for 6 minutes gathering her thoughts and trying to
rest before moving across country.  It was 1011; the heat continued to
stifle her.  As she considered her surroundings, she realized that her
overland route would include moving through some fairly heavy undergrowth.
Then, she'd reach the hot spring and her entrance to the compound.  She had
less than 6 hours.  Covered in muck, Tracy carefully and warily climbed out
of the pit and began to move east.  The moonless night hid the gorgeous,
naked body of the Sweet SOU as she pressed onward towards her destiny.


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