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From: apuleius@poboxes.com (Apuleius of Madaura)
Subject: RP: The Final Mission by Spook (MF cons)
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Reposter's note: I am not the author of this story.

- Apuleius

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

The Final Mission
By Spook

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.


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