From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:19:06 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 1/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:19:06 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 289
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NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:19:06 PM PDT 1997


"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.


----------
The Final Mission

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 up -- 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.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:20:03 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 2/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:20:03 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 347
Message-ID: <5kqv6j$cva@sjx-ixn8.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:20:03 PM PDT 1997


"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.


----------
The Final Mission

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 Middel 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 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.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:20:37 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 3/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:20:37 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 245
Message-ID: <5kqv7l$no8@dfw-ixnews10.ix.netcom.com>
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X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  5:20:37 PM CDT 1997


"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.


-----The Final Mission 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.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:21:18 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 4/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:21:18 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 313
Message-ID: <5kqv8u$4cc@sjx-ixn6.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:21:18 PM PDT 1997


"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 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 Cinese 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.



From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:22:16 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 5/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:22:16 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 254
Message-ID: <5kqvao$cs7@sjx-ixn7.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:22:16 PM PDT 1997


"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.
----------
Subject: The Final Mission 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.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:22:51 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 6/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:22:51 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 371
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X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  5:22:51 PM CDT 1997


"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.

The Final Mission- 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 gettingslowly 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 hel 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 pssobility
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.



From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:23:39 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!howland.erols.net!ix.netcom.com!news
From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 7/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:23:39 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 237
Message-ID: <5kqvdb$4gm@sjx-ixn6.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:23:39 PM PDT 1997


"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.
----------
Subject: The Final Mission 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.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:24:23 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 8/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:24:23 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 415
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X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  5:24:23 PM CDT 1997


"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 8

Aboard the Wahoo, Drs.             Lunt and Selig were very concerned
about themotionless body they were monitoring electronically.  Vital
signs analyzedby 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 -- 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 lluminated 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.  The 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 a 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.  I 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 breezed 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.



From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:24:59 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!worldnet.att.net!ix.netcom.com!news
From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 9/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:24:59 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 277
Message-ID: <5kqvfr$aof@dfw-ixnews7.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  5:24:59 PM CDT 1997


"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.
----------
Subject: The Final Mission 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.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:26:06 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 10/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:26:06 GMT
Organization: Netcom
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NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  5:26:06 PM CDT 1997


"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 10

Capt.  Susan Clement was looking at the surface of her desk.  It was
cluttered with papers as though some mini-tornado had swept everything
up
into a spiral and then as quickly set it all down again; some was
strewn
about on the floor; some other things to the sides of the room.  Under
one
of the 2 chairs reserved for guests was a small picture with 2 images,
the
glass cracked and the antique silver frame dented at the corner from
striking the hard linoleum floor.

In Capt.  Clement's scarred left hand was a note.  On FBI letterhead,
in
simple, straightforward words, it calmly informed her she had a
problem;
it stated in 2 words the reason why 2 of her officers were dead; it
told
her that if something wasn't done immediately, a third death would be
inevitable.  Capt.  Clement was so angry that tears welled up in those
icy
blue eyes; she trembled, and her teeth locked to prevent some fearful,
primal scream of rage.             She just stared at her desk. 2
words. 
A name.

Mightily, Capt.  Clement regained her composure and slowly walked to
the
closed door of her office.  Opening it, she found the turned faces of
her
2 assistants, CWO Larry Springer and CPO Diane Potts looking at her
with
concern.  They had heard a terrible series of crashes in the office;
they
had not heard a sound for 5 minutes afterward.    They both knew better
than
to interrupt.  "I'll be out for the rest of the morning," Clement
explained tersely as she stepped through the ante-office and past the 2
chiefs.  As she walked past, she was putting on her hat.  The 2 non-
coms
stood up and saluted; they hadn't seen her this way before.  The icy
blue
eyes burned hellishly.

It had started to rain on Aziz's smoldering island.  The type of rain
that
sucks the life out of everything caught under its torrents was
revitalizing Lt.  Tracy Parker as she made her way through the dense
undergrowth beyond the hole out of which she had climbed.  The mud and
muck that had covered a lot of her still naked body was rinsed off
within
the first minutes of the rain beginning.  The drops were soft and
soothing
to the scratched and bruised body of the beautiful lieutenant.   With
deliberate and rapid strides she noiselessly made her way eastward
towards
the hot spring that would provide entry into Aziz's underground
compound.

Tracy was hefting the lightweight sub-machine gun in her right hand;
the
stock was folded up for minimal interference in her motions.  As she
moved, she ducked and shifted -- around the trunk of a tree, now
beneath
some low branches, now over a fallen trunk.  The vegetation was thick
and
lush.  If it weren't pitch black, she'd have seen the deep green of the
leaves and the stunning beauty of the blossoms; intense reds, violets,
yellow and whites.  It was, far enough away from the heat of
volcanically
heated springs, to be a virtual Garden of Eden; but under the soft
reddish
glow of Tracy's hand-held torch, the leaves were black; and anything
not
black was a deathly shade of red.  "We lost Paradise finding out about
life; and all we got was death in return," Tracy recalled her mother's
words shortly after her father's death.  Tracy had just graduated.

Graduation was held in May. She remembered the day because the sky was
so
blue it seemed to wrap around the objects set against it and drown them
in
its blueness -- the Chapel dome, the State House cupola.  The President
had just given his speech.  What followed was a flurry of white hats
that
obscured the sky for a moment and landed among the jumping and howling
graduates in crunching and thumping percussion.  As Tracy turned from
her
umpteenth hug, at the podium, she caught the eyes of her father,
Admiral
Zachary Parker.  He had just shaken hands with the Commander-in-Chief
and
was about to turn and leave when his eyes caught sight of his beautiful
daughter.  For the briefest of moments, their eyes met; she saw him
smile;
a tear rolled out and just caught the sun as it rolled down his cheek
as
he turned away.  The first and only time any person had seen a tear in
her
father's eyes.  She felt tears well up in her eyes with the love she
felt
at that moment for her father in the middle of 1,400 howling, cheering
new
officers on a trampled lawn in a little town by a bay.

A few more hugs had to be done with before she could turn around and
address her father, the Admiral.  As a brand new officer, she gave her
father her first "official" salute.  It smart and crisp and very Navy.
The Admiral snapped to attention letting her hold that salute for a
moment
while Tracy's mother snapped away with the disposable camera.  She
noticed
that her father was looking old in the sun, tired and thin.  But in his
dress whites, at attention, gold, ribbons, medals, and 4 stars glinting
in
the sunlight, every j.g. around them stopped and stood gape-mouthed and
snapped to attention and a salute as well.  Admiral Parker was tall and
square; if one had looked up Navy in the dictionary, his picture would
be
there and would be all that anyone would need to know about what the
word
meant.                             Tracy perceived that at least a
hundred j.g.s had now snapped to
attention in the midst of family reunions and back-slapping
congratulations; 100 new officers waiting for the first return of
salute
as officers by a real, honest to God, war hero, blue water Navy
admiral.

At attention, Admiral Parker quickly glanced about him.  All the men
and
women in their dress whites; his Navy.  At that moment, he was
indescribably proud of his daughter, of the service, of his country. 
They
were the best.                     And his daughter, she may have been
the best of the best.
She had graduated 5th overall; top woman.  She was beautiful and smart,
fit and ready.                     He snapped a salute in return; it
almost cracked from the
crispness.  He held it a bit longer for the effect and released it. 
The
100 or so j.g.s released their salutes and whooped again.  Tracy
stepped
up to her father.  "Permission to hug and kiss the Admiral?"  Tracy
asked
facetiously.  "Permission granted little lady," her father picked her
up
and tried to squeeze the little girl out of her, it seemed.  Tracy
noticed
that he seemed to stop the hug a little short and put her down a little
quickly.  But, her mother, Emily, came up and gave Tracy a quick peck
on
both cheeks and a bearish hug of her own.  Tracy's mother was still
very
beautiful; but the years had begun to show; the few gray hairs, a
little
more hip, a few more crow's feet.  "You look beautiful, dear," the
Admiral's wife gushed.  "I want a photo of the 2 of you together."  So,
Tracy and her father stepped up beside one another.  He smiled at her
and
she smiled at her mother.  Her mom snapped the picture.  And then, a
final
picture of the 3 of them together for the last time.

Dressed in black for the funeral, Tracy's mom didn't shed a tear. 
Tracy
was in dress clack; she was thankful for the visor of her hat; she
pulled
it low to try and hide the tears.  During the fly by, 3 F-18s swooped
low
over Arlington National Cemetery.  In the gray, cold skies of that
sleeting December day, as their roaring engines passed low and slow
overhead, it seemed that their passing yanked away the desire to live
in
her mother; and it seemed to puctuate and accelerate the deeping
depression that everyone had felt.  He had died quickly from lymphoma;
it
was diagnosed a week after graduation and by December he was dead. 
Tracy
watched it all happen.             People marveled at how quickly the
cancer had
taken Admiral Parker's life.

Anything but quickly, Tracy saw the whole thing in slow motion.  Her
gift,
she once noted to Tom, was the ability to see the most terrible moments
in
her life in slow motion.  When she had injured herself, or was in an
accident, those moments seemed to slow right down and happen frame by
frame.                             She witnessed it as almost a
bystander; in pain but oblivious in
the case of injury; panicked but detached in case of her one and only
car
accident.  And now with her father, she watched over the course of a
few
months as he seemed to shrink and die; every moment a frame to be
compared
against the last.  Tracy shut her eyes.

As the limousine pulled up to the house for the reception, Tracy's
mother
turned to her and said "We lost Paradise trying to find out about life;
and all we got in return was death."  She stepped out of the car and
very
deliberately walked into the house.  Tracy's mom never left that house
again.

Through the ordeal, Tom was with her.  He was assigned to the U.S.S.
Broadbent, a frigate stationed out of Norfolk and in port for 3 months
following a tour in the Persian Gulf.  He wasn't going to leave until
the
Spring.  Tracy, on special leave due to her father's illness and rank,
was
still awaiting word from the new Special Operations Unit program that
had
been created a month prior to graduation.  Tom was against it.   He
thought
a bunch of women SEALs couldn't work.  "It's stupid and not a great
career
move, too." he countered in one of their now frequent arguments on the
subject.  "I can't see anyone being very successful as an American
Gladiator with the U.S.  Navy.     Can't you get a ship or a posting
somewhere else?"  Tom didn't understand; he was from the "old school."
But, the 4th son in a family of 7 boys, Catholic, Italian-Americans
from
Youngstown, Ohio, how could he know better.  His mother didn't get it.
"She's an American and not good for you Tom," her mother had actually
warned in front of Tracy when both visited his parents right after
graduation.  Tom explained that she probably didn't intend Tracy to
hear
the remark; Tracy knew otherwise.  And that was just the start.

Slowly, it became clear to Tracy that Tom's commitment to the Navy was
career and advancement.  He was dedicated, of course.  But, it wasn't a
dedication brom of love of the service; it was more a deddication born
of
ambition.  He was handsome, athletic, intelligent and driven.  But, Tom
was also reckless, Tracy found out.  He played loose and fast when it
came
to regulations.  More than once, she had warned Tom:  "Tom, I think
this
is against the regs."  At first it was naughty and fun, later on, it
became silly and finally stupid.  Tracy was getting tired of reminding
Tom; she was getting tired of being the bad guy.  Of course, the rules
weren't important, if you weren't committed to the principles behind
them.
"Hey, you've got to break a few rules to get ahead in this man's Navy,"
he'd joke.  This "man's" Navy.

It was her Navy, too; mandated by Congress, guaranteed by the
Constitution.  Over and over again, she and he would butt heads over
regulations and women in combat, her career, his needs, her needs. 
Now,
amidst the grieving over her father, she wanted to run away.  "We
always
have this argument.  I love you.  You know that," Tracy found herself
talking without any restraint.     "You've cared for me during my
father's
illness; you've been there whenever I've needed you.

You make me laugh.  But you've made me cry and kick and get angry with
myself and with others I care about when I don't want to."  Tracy was
getting more emotional.  She began to cry, her breaths were jerky and
her
words seem to blurt out in-between the sobs, "And, and I can't be a
wife
or a desk jockey or a mother like you want me to be.  I-I've got a life
I
want; I want to share it with you.  But, you don't want to share it. 
You,
you want to control it.  You want it to be your life."  Tracy was
disconsolate by the realization that she couldn't love Tom enough to
sacrifice herself.

Tom didn't have an argument.  "You're right," was all he said as he
stood
up stepped in front of Tracy and grabbed her shoulders.  He looked at
her
with an intensity she'd never seen before.  He wasn't angry; he seemed
to
plead.                             Then he bowed his head, turned and
started to walk away.  He
paused, and then, as Tracy watched through slowly drying eyes, he was
gone.

Tom's ship struck the mine in the Gulf 3 months later while Tracy was
in
the SOU training program.  No one had notified her; but, she had caught
the news on CNN.  "The explosion and subsequent fire has taken,
according
to Pentagon spokesmen, the lives of 47 of the Broadbent's crew.  Here
now
a partial list of those killed in today's incident," the voice of the
anchorman intoned.  Tracy didn't want to see; but there it was, a
lieutenant, her Tom.  Later on, it was described that a young
lieutenant
on his first tour had heroically gone into a flaming hold to pull out
injured sailors; this lieutenant brought out 5, went back in to look
for
more just as a propane cylinder exploded.  "He didn't have to go back,
but
he did," Tracy would later remark.  But at this moment, Tracy felt a
nothing as she watched in slow motion the name slip from the bottom of
the
TV screen towards the top and away.  Slowly she turned and walked back
to
her room.  Her room-mate, Kate Minton, wasn't in.  So, Tracy closed and
locked the door, took a deep breath, and fell onto her bunk and sobbed
until she couldn't anymore.  When Kate returned from her workout 4
hours
later, she found the door locked, unlocked it and went in.

On her bunk was Tracy, sitting cross-legged, her eyes swollen, her nose
and face flushed and red.  In the deepening light of the late
afternoon,
she'd looked like she'd been beaten, she'd cried so hard and for so
long.
"What's happened?"  Kate knew it had to be bad.  "Tom.  The Broadbent,"
was Tracy's soft reply.  Kate knew about Tom.  She'd been in Tracy's
class
at the Academy.  "I'm sorry," was all she could muster.  Outside, it
sounded as though the rain was starting to fall.

Tracy shook her head as the warm rain soothingly soaked her, rinsing
off
the mire, the salt, and the misery of the previous hours' ordeal.  She
was
a nude and terrible goddess in this jungle.  Identified only by the
markings on her skin, armed and deadly, she moved like a predator in
the
dark.  The air didn't cool; but, the rain felt cooler and that helped
Tracy.                             Quickly she was losing the
light-headedness that had been plaguing
her.  The misty air was now cleansing her mind and body; the queer
frying
sound all around caused by millions of droplets hitting the green
foliage
was therapeutic.  In Tracy's mind, the next few hours played themselves
out; the return to the Wahoo; the trip home; Capt.  Clement's face as
she
accepted her request for reassignment.  "She'll shit when she reads
it,"
Tracy smiled at herself as she considered the moment.  "I've got to
much
to do to end up like Trish and Patty.  I'm finishing big and on top."

Lt.  Kate Minton was a very pretty strawberry blond -- 35-22-33, she
was
perfect in proportion and at 5' 8" a perfect height for most of the men
that met with her approval.  Tracy's room-mate at the SOU school, she
had
specialized in tactical planning.  In this mission, she was Tracy's
back-
up and coordinator for the jump.  She was also the unit's information
officer and archivist; she kept the files on all SOU operatives and
operations past, present and future.  She had just sent a fax and was
preparing to send another one when Capt.  Clement walked into the
office.
Kate turned and saluted.  "Welcome aboard, Captain.  We weren't
expecting
you here in Ft.  Myer."  Capt.  Clement looked around the room.
Everything was ship-shape -- in perfect order.    She looked into
Minton's
face; it was very attractive; but, the smile had a carnivorous air --
too
toothy, too broad.  Quietly, Clement opened her briefcase and dropped a
folder on to the desk in front of Kate; she said nothing.  But, Kate
didn't look at the folder.  Instead, she stared into the Captain's eyes
first with puzzlement, then with fear and finally with resentment.  In
that brief moment, Clement's blue eyes so hot when she entered the
office
became so icy as to freeze.  "Fuck you," was all that Kate Minton
muttered
as she tried to leave through the back door of the office.  As she got
to
the door, 2 large marines barred the way.  They were armed with M-16s
and
were ready to use them.  Clement walked up behind the stunned Kate. 
"They
were your friends; they were your sisters.  Fuck you," as Clement
hissed
the words she slapped Kate across the face with the back of her scarred
left hand as hard as she possibly could.  Kate fell backwards and
against
the wall.  Her mouth was bleeding.  "Let's have a talk, lieutenant."
Clement said coldly as she motioned to the marines who picked Kate up
by
either arm and dragged the dazed woman out of the SOU office, past the
shocked and disbelieving looks from her former SOU sisters and towards
an
empty room at the end of the hall.

It was 2415 when Tracy finally reached a rocky opening in the jungle
growth.  The air was hotter here.  The sounds of bubbling could be
heard.
Under her bare feet, the ground was very hard, very gritty and rough. 
She
looked about.  "This must be the place," Tracy said to herself and
sighed.
It was like a vision of Hell; a clear pool in the middle of a field of
strange shapes formed by the drying of minerals as they burbled out of
the
various hot puddles around it.     "No wonder the natives called it
'Hell's
Paradise,'" Tracy thought.  The rain was crackling all around; it
smoothed
over the twisted mineral shapes all around her, making them look almost
human:                             contorted, twisted and tortured. 
Tracy looked to the sky and
opened her mouth letting the rain spill in.  The warm water was fresh
and
welcome to Tracy's dry throat.  "Sorry doctor.  If it shorts, my
fault,"
Tracy joked to herself as she swallowed and prepared to dive down into
the
spring.  On the other end of the submerged passage:  Aziz and the bomb.
"I'm all yours," Tracy whispered as she climbed into the hot spring and
dove in.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:26:28 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 11/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:26:28 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 289
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X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:26:28 PM PDT 1997


"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.


----------
The Final Mission Part 11

Capt. Clement was pacing slowly in front of the quiet but wary Kate
Minton.  The strawberry blond who had graduated in the first Sweet SOU
class, been a trusted friend of Monroe and McKeeson, Tracy's roommate
through the long and grueling basic training course, was a murderer and
a
traitor.  Clement resisted the temptation to beat her on the spot; she
needed to know what Aziz knew.

"Maybe, I didn't make myself clear the last time, Kate," Clement
mouthed
the words through clenched teeth.  "I want to know what Aziz knows. 
What
he knows and when he got it."  Kate looked away and smiled.  "Minton,
Katherine, Lieutenant, USN3400121," she quietly recited half mockingly.
Suddenly, she was jerked to her feet and her shirt was ripped open
revealing her large, round breasts through a thin laced bra.  Clement
shoved the surprised Kate roughly back into the chair. Quietly Clement
warned Kate, "I don't think we have the time for your jokes right now.
Marines, leave the room."  she huffed to the 2 large jar heads.  They
immediately turned and left the room, closing the door behind them.  "I
think we need to communicate better," Clement turned to Kate and
emotionlessly remarked.  Kate suddenly felt cold and fearful.    She
quickly weighed her options based on her analysis of what she was
seeing.
Clement was stone cold; they were alone; and Kate knew that Suzy Q knew
how to inflict terrible pain if needed.  It was plain Clement thought
it
was one of those times.  On the other hand, she had accepted a lot of
money from Aziz and his terrorists.  Talk and she didn't stand a chance
in
hell.  Talk and she'd be up for life in Leavenworth; talk and one of
Aziz's men would end her life where ever she might be.  Either way, the
end would be slow and messy.  Not something she wanted.

"Okay, Captain, okay."  Kate bid for a few seconds.  "I'll tell you
what
you want to know."  She was lying.  Her hands were still free; she
shifted
in her chair.  Very quickly, she brought her right hand up to her mouth
and bit the jewel of her Academy graduation ring.  Kate loosened the
amethyst and swallowed it and what was behind it easily; even as she
did,
Clement was rushing towards her, only 3 or 4 steps away, reaching for
her
mouth; trying to force whatever it was Kate was trying to swallow out
before something happened.  Too late.

Kate looked up at Capt. Susan Clement with a queer smile; her hands
slipped limply down into her lap.  Her bare upper body, square
shoulders,
broad and well-shaped bosom held by her thin laced bra seemed to
soften.
Then, just as suddenly, Kate Minton seemed to seize-up.  Her body
stiffened as Clement grabbed her head and tried to force her mouth
open;
all the while Kate looked at her captain with that queer smile.  2
convulsions, and suddenly Kate's body relaxed.  A puddle formed
underneath
Kate Minton's body; it spread out over her khakis, spilled over the
seat
of the chair and dripped on to the floor.

Clement looked at the dead face of the traitor, the SOU girl gone bad.
The pretty face was still and peaceful; the dead eyes still stared at
Clement; the queer smile now tinged with bluing lips and blood
trickling
out of one corner of her mouth was still on her face.  Kate's exposed
upper body was already becoming pale, the breasts losing volume and
firmness.  In the fabric of the laced bra, small yellowish stains
appeared
over the nipples; the room filled with the smell of death.  Clement
opened
the door and stepped out.  The 2 marines rushed in, rushed out, and
then
were followed back in by a medic and 2 other SOU sisters.  "She told me
everything I need to know," Clement said softly.  She looked at the
senior
SOU officer in Ft. Myers, Cmdr. Ruth Chapman.  "Assemble your
contingency
team.  We'll need to go in after Tracy.  She's in trouble," Clement
said
flatly and in dead tones.  Inside, Clement wanted to cry; to be a
little
girl and bawl.

Tracy dived.  The rebreather was set and working.  She was swimming
free
and coming into a soft glow of light as she dove deeper and deeper. 
The
water was hot; it might have been 110 degrees.    Like a real hot bath,
it
made the skin burn, then itch, then numb, then soften  and relax. 
Tracy
couldn't know it, but she was quickly overheating; her skin was
becoming
flushed.  Still, she scissored her legs and pulled with her arms closer
and closer to the source of the soft light.  Her open and unprotected
eyes
were foggy from the fresh water and the heat; but she could tell there
was
a soft flow as she neared.  Her full breasts undulated with every
movement; her hair, still in a pony tail was soft and full and floating
fee; her body, free of gravity, stretched in breathtaking beauty.  It
made
her look more exciting, more deadly.

The light.  It had to be the outlet tunnel for Aziz's power room.  She
was
42 and a half feet down.  Below, the hot spring continued to sink into
a
black hole, but around her the water seemed to glow in a bluish light.
Over the access tunnel was a grate.  "Yank it off, Trace," Tracy
thought
to herself, "and you're in."  Suddenly, she couldn't breath.  Inhaling
had
brought the sensation of burning into her lungs and she spit the
rebreather out while bubbling violently.  "The rebreather," Tracy
thought
in near panic.                     "The heat's messed it up."  Tracy
quickly undid the device
and let it fall free towards the dark void beneath.  Her lungs burned.
Frantically, she pulled at the grate.  It loosened and slipped towards
the
bottom of the hole.  She entered in towards the light and swam with all
her might.  No air; no time to surface.  "Just make it to the other
side,"
Tracy ordered herself.             Her vision was becoming blurry; she
was losing her
sense of up and down.  The passage was getting brighter and ahead a
distorted image of an opening seemed to draw closer.

Tracy slipped into the light and air on the surface of the discharge
pool.
 Actually, dimly lit, it was nonetheless brighter than any light she'd
experienced for 12 hours.  As she surfaced, she tasted the oily scum
floating on the surface.  Only after her head popped out of the water
and
she gasped the humid, smoggy air did she realize the deafening sound of
the diesel engines generating power to Aziz's underground compound. 
Her
coughing and sputtering wouldn't be heard above the whir of turbines
and
the chug-chug-chug of the motors.  Beside her, hot water was being
emptied
into the pool by a large iron pipe.  Around her was a square concrete
basin.                             As her eyes cleared, she saw the
rungs
of a ladder embedded in the
dirty concrete wall.  It was rusty and grimy.  In fact the dimly lit
room
was dark and oily in appearance.  A single low watt bulb was the only
light.                             Tracy shut off her hand held torch
and
slipped the strap off her
wrist, placed it into a pocket on the side of her hip pouch and swam
carefully towards the ladder.  After making sure no one was around, she
slowly climbed, the oily water running off her body in rivers, up and
over
the rail that enclosed the basin and quickly found a covered spot and
fell
behind it.  "I'm in," she sniffed.

Jamal Aziz and Justine Loudon were at the entrance to the compound in
the
communications center.             A couple of PCs hooked up by modems
and a
satellite dish assisted them in their efforts to sow the seeds of
insurrection against the West.     3 fax machines burped their contents
out
in continuous sheets of shiny paper as 4 of Aziz's "troops" monitored.
"Jamal, come here," one excitedly got Jamal and Justine's attention.
"Here, a fax from Minton," he held the beginning of a long fax.  As the
machine received the transmission, Jamal looked at Justine.  She was
staring at the fax machine and a smile was developing on her lips.  In
the
bright light of the room, Jamal saw her dark lashes, so long and
beautiful
as they shaded her enormous brown eyes, occasionally blinking in
unhurried
and comfortable rhythms.  The incoming message was a photo; a photo of
a
naked woman -- the feet; the long legs; the thighs, one wrapped with a
sheathed knife; the pelvis and its soft pillow of dark pubic hairs and
the
hint of some writing close to the crotch; a belt with a holster hanging
jauntily over the hip; the navel and abdomen; the image of perfect
round
breasts -- this caught Jamal's and Justine's interest -- with the name
of
the person clearly written over one; the clavicle and shoulders, square
and rounded; and finally the face, angular and lovely, smiling with a
perfect dimple close to the corner of the mouth.  Jamal took the fax
and
ripped it from the machine.  He held it up for everyone in the room to
see.  "My brothers and sisters, look at the gift the Americans send,"
he
held the picture aloft.  Only when did the gift arrive?  The fax didn't
indicate.  "Tracy Parker, lieutenant, US Navy!  She will arrive soon,
I'm
sure.  After this miserable storm.  And when she does, we will greet
her
warmly and help her find her way home," Jamal smiled and laughed as he
tacked the smiling, nude image of Tracy up next to the nude death
images
of Monroe and McKeeson on the wall above the fax.  Tracy's image smiled
beguilingly from the paper.  Justine gazed at the picture and frowned.
She had noticed Jamal's interest in her breasts, had mentally noted his
approval of her face.  "This time, much slower indeed, my dear,"
Justine
whispered as she took a pen and put a hole in the right breast in
Tracy's
picture.  Justine pivoted on her heel and left the communications room
and
headed back out through the rain to Jamal's hooch.  On the clock: 0130.

Underground, surrounded by the heat and grime and noise of the power
room,
Tracy checked her watch, 0130.     She made a mental note of everything
in
the room.  This was her escape route and admittedly a lousy one at
that.
Still she couldn't afford to take a chance.  She noted the doors; there
were 2.  She recalled the far one led to the main access tunnel
connecting
all the chambers in the compound.  The near door lead to a utility
room.
Perhaps, she would find a vent system she could use.  "No need to take
the
express with everyone else," Tracy joked to herself.  She noted similar
grates in even this room.  Large air shafts to keep the areas
reasonably
ventilated.  She could crawl through them using her mental map as guide
towards Aziz's bomb and then Aziz himself.  "First the bomb and then
Aziz," Tracy reminded herself.  If she left the bomb intact, the next
one
to fill Aziz's shoes would still pose the same threat.  No, better to
take
the bomb out first.  Tracy sucked it up and quickly moved in a crouched
position to the near door.  Quickly, she opened it, entered, and shut
it
behind her.  Inside it was dimly lit, piled with junk: boxes, tools,
spare
parts, and oddly one item that didn't seem to match.  Tracy walked
slowly
over to investigate.  Her foot prints were visible as dully shiny, oily
marks in the low light.  As she bent over to pick it up she started
back.
It was an old rucksack.  On the side, a name: Minton, Kate, Lt. USN.
"Kate's bag?  She lost it in the airport at Jakarta last year on an
assignment."  Tracy struggled for understanding.  Then it came
together;
the other 2; how did they know?  Her room-mate; Tracy trusted her; they
were friends.  "I'm in deep shit," Tracy muttered out loud.  If Kate
was
a
traitor, then she was compromised.  "But, I'm here.  How?" Tracy
thought
to herself.  She knew that Clement had suspected.  Perhaps Kate was
already found out.  "Stupid," Tracy told herself.  She prepared to
leave;
to dive through the pool; back out to the spring; across land and to
the
rendezvous with the Wahoo.  She was compromised and this was hopeless.
Then, Tracy stopped.  She saw the large air vent in the wall above her.
"Just about my size," she concluded as she sized it up.  Tracy looked
at
the door and heard Clement's order in her head.  Tracy closed her eyes.
She breathed in and out, collecting herself.  "Sorry, Captain.  I've
always loved the challenge, " Tracy easily decided her course of
action.
She reached up the full length of her naked body and quietly pulled off
the vent cover to the shaft.  Silently placing it on the floor, she
again
extended herself and pulled herself into the metal box.  Rapidly and
noiselessly, her legs and then her feet disappeared into the shaft. 
She
was on her way.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:27:11 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 12/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:27:11 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 383
Message-ID: <5kqvjv$hum@sjx-ixn10.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:27:11 PM PDT 1997


"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 12

Lt.  Tracy Parker crawled through the air vent from the power room of
Aziz's compound.  The way was gritty and grimy.  As she crawled, her
stomach, breasts, legs and arms became black with the dirt and filth
that
had collected inside the vents over the many months since the
construction
of the underground hideout.  Enough light filtered through attached
duct-work to light Tracy's way as she made her way towards what she
knew
would be a room close to the area where the bomb was suspected to be
stored.

It was estimated that there were about 50 people in the compound.  All
were terrorists or related to the terrorists in some way.  Both men and
women were members of the Shining Light organization.  International in
composition, most were from the Middle East with others from Europe,
Asia
and Latin America.  All were educated or well-born, young and
disillusioned; the young and disillusioned were always easily won over
by
the charismatic Aziz.  He had a way of making a person feel as though
they
belonged, was noble, heroic, superior.

Justine Loudon, lounged in a small bean bag chair in Jamal's hooch.  A
rare luxury, she had found it a decadent but comfortable item.   She
wore
only a short red sarong; the rest of her shapely, thin body was bare. 
She
twirled her full, dark hair around her left index finger as she
semi-dozed
-- her very beautiful and large brown eyes shaded by long, dark lashes
half-opened, staring at nothing in particular.    She reclined in such
a
way
as to display the fullness of her large, round breasts, the thinness of
her torso, the fullness of her hips and the long, shapely legs.  She
had
inherited a delicate and aristocratic frame from her father; from her
Egyptian mother, Justine had received her dark beauty. Jamal came from
the back of the other room and saw Justine lying in perfect, sinful
boredom.

His penis grew hard as he looked at her.  They were always engaged in
some
sexual activity, many times in less-than-private locations at the whim
of
Justine whose sexual appetite was limitless.  He had never been in a
woman
that could climax more often or as completely as she.  He smiled as he
thought about her insatiable hunger for sex.  It was perfect for him. 
No
amateur himself, he was the only man Justine ever knew that could so
fulfill her as many times as she needed for so long.

Together, their sex was violent and bestial and humiliating and
completely
without bars; writhing, painful, wet, they climbed and crawled over
each
others' bodies; she, biting and sucking; he, chewing and rough.  At
times,
they had even had members of the Shining Light join them in impromptu
orgies -- prior to acts of terrorism or in celebration of successful
missions.  The promise of violence or the aftermath of violent acts
seemed
to add to both of their enjoyment.

Jamal quietly stepped up next to Justine.  "I've been neglectful,
'lamile,'" he said to her using the Arabic term for affection.  "And I
have much to do before our visitor arrives.  It will be the supreme
surprise to her and her American president when she is returned as a
lifeless piece of trash and, by that time, my bomb is placed in a more
'sensitive' location."  Jamal enjoyed speculating about the horror he
would elicit when his bomb exploded beneath New York's World Trade
Center.
"I will complete the clumsy work of that damned blind cleric."  Aziz
stretched and yawned.  "I need you very much, Justine," Jamal whispered
obscenely in Justine's ear.  She sniffed and looked at him with cool
eyes.
"I'm hot and sweaty and uncomfortable.  And I'm bored.  Your bomb won't
be
moved until the week-end.  And I must wait for a skinny whore for
amusement?"  Justine was still jealous of Jamal's leering interest in
Tracy's faxed image.  But, she wasn't angry; she was simply baiting
him.
She was bored, and he was an available object of her boredom.  Jamal
straightened up; he'd seen her this way before.  Even as fearsome as he
was, he obeyed the laws of nature that made men back away from
potentially
dangerous female moods.

"I'm only saying," and aroused Jamal gently began again, bending down
and
rubbing her bare right breast slowly with his left hand, "that we only
have to wait a little while and the reward will be most exciting and
worthwhile."  Jamal wanted to be a true player on the political scene. 
An
act of such monstrous consequences would make him a major part of
global
policy and of history forever.     "Both of us would be immortal," he
tried
to promise Justine.  But, Justine was bored.  She got up.  "I'm going
to
bathe inside," she dryly informed the frustrated Jamal.  And then she
stepped out into the rain -- naked except for the short, red sarong --
and
ran towards the compound entrance.

She was already thoroughly wet when she entered the complex's above
ground
entrance.  She walked through the large, well lit warehouse, past some
of
the men and women now used to seeing the painfully arousing image of
the
nearly naked Justine, and towards the concrete steps that lead
underneath.
All the sides of the above ground warehouse were punctured by large
airplane hanger doors, now fully opened for ventilation; to one side
and
outside was a dock and a cove that allowed small boats to come and
resupply the terrorists on a routine basis.  As Justine got to the
first
landing on the stairway with its long path downward, she opened the
metal
cage door and closed it with a clackity-clang behind her.  She was
breathtaking -- her hair wet and long and full, its dark strands
framing
her gorgeous face; her breasts, full and round bounced tightly as she
skipped down the remaining stairs, through a dark hall, to the 2nd
left,
another dark anteroom, around a corner and into a large brightly lit
cavern.  It was a natatorium, a swimming pool underground.  Fed by
smaller
channels than the one found in the grotto where Jamal had killed
McKeeson,
the swimming pool was an unequivocal luxury.  But, it was also a
natural
feature of the underground caverns that comprised most of the fortress.
Aziz forced the women and children of the island to lay the concrete
blocks around the sides of the pool while the males carried the loads
of
mortar and block down to them.     She thought about the young and old;
they
were a beautiful Polynesian-looking people.  Their skin was a uniform,
light nut brown and their faces possessed real beauty. The women,
especially the young were uniformly fit and thin.  All wore only
sarongs
like the one she was wearing; never a top.  Many of Aziz's men had
raped
them repeatedly.  As Justine stepped into the tepid waters for her bath
and swim, she slipped off her sarong to reveal the small bouquet of her
pubic hairs.  "It was a shame that they all had to die," she thought. 
She
looked around her thinking of the 200 or so males, women and children
buried within the concrete of this room.  Still, it would have been
impossible to keep them all confined; to keep them all silent any other
way.  "A lot of bullets," she said to herself as she started to swim
around on her back, exposing her breasts above the water.  Slowly, she
softly floated towards the middle of the clear and azure colored pool.

Tracy had arrived at the proper place.  The heat in the air shaft was
at
least 100 humid degrees.  This made her body perspire steadily;
combined
with the grime, her body had acquired a sticky, gooey patina.  Her face
dripped sweat, her hair limp.  The humidity and strain of her silent
entry
also caused her nose to run -- transparent mucous dripping from her
nostrils in long thin ropes.  She wiped her face, slowly undid the
cover
to the vent and silently lowered it to the floor, extending the upper
half
of her body out beyond the vent carefully to make sure it cleared any
obstacle.  Tracy's breasts were fully revealed, hanging down
perpendicularly to the floor, and still they did held their perfect
globe-like shape, the nipples dripping perspiration and her rib cage
fully
extended over the rim of the opening.  Then she pulled herself out and
turning, managed to withdraw one long leg and then the other, jumping
lightly to the floor.  She didn't make a sound.  Deftly, she unhitched
the
submachine gun and swung it around in front of her.

Tracy looked around, her grubby body still running freely with sweat. 
She
was in a small storage room.  It was dimly lit.  She crouched down and
stealthily made her way to a pile of rubbish behind which she could
hide.
Beyond the open threshold was a darkened corridor.  Some boxes had been
piled up at the far end.  It was also dimly lit.  Beyond that was a
more
well-lit room.                     Tracy recalled that a small pool
inside connecting to
other caverns in the complex had been noted.  This was the probable
location of the bomb.  From it, she heard the rattle and hiss of a
transistor radio playing some Indonesian pop music; it was occupied. 
She
lowered her head and organized her thoughts.  The room had an open exit
opposite to her and another door to her left.  The door to the left
lead
away from the corridor to the bomb and towards the dormitories and
common
area of the Shining Light terrorists.  From those common rooms, halls
lead
towards a large room near the stairs to the surface entrance and around
and back towards the other side of the lit room directly ahead of her
where the bomb would be.  As she prepared herself for the approach, she
studied the scene around her.

She was hiding behind a random stack of empty cardboard boxes
originally
containing canned goods, food stuffs and other basic grocery items. 
Some
were from Western Europe, others from Latin America.  On top of the
boxes
and all around were heaps of rags and discarded cans and trash. 
"Really
filthy," Tracy commented to herself when her eye caught a piece of
discolored cloth near her but on the open floor that looked like the
torn
cup of a bra slightly highlighted by the dim lights of the room and the
far end of the corridor.  It was ripped apart and appeared very
dirty.It
was just beyond the cover of the boxes.  Without knowing why, carefully
and quickly, Tracy reached for the scrap and snatched it up.  When she
examined it, she sucked in her breath sharply.    The fabric was stiff
from
dried and caked blood.             Barely legible from the tearing and
stains were a
few characters:  "AVY."  And on the opposite side numbers:  "USN30." 
It
was from Patty's top.  "She died here!"  Tracy wailed to herself.  From
the condition of the remnant, Tracy's mind flashed an image of ripping
bullets and anguish and pain.  She shook her head.  Peering from the
side
of her hiding place, her eyes made out the outlines of bloodstains on
the
floor and dirty footsteps in and through them.    Patty's body had lain
in
this room; it had been abused in or near it.  Had she gone down that
corridor?  Tracy tried to reevaluate her best next course.  She felt
her
heart pounding silently in her chest.

Jamal was back in the communications room above ground.  He stared
blankly
at the smiling face of the nude American beauty that had been sent to
damage his bomb, perhaps even assassinate him.    He shook his head in
amusement.  Even though Justine had demonstrated a real talent for
brutality, she could never be a man.  Only a man could kill well.
Americans had been so duped by the corrupt products of their damaged
minds
that they resorted to sending their vessels of life to kill like a man.
It was so perverted, he thought.  Suddenly, he was disturbed from his
musings by the appearance of the pretty teenage girl, Leta, in front of
him.

Leta Ahmad was a 16 year old orphan from the camps in Jordan.  Her
parents, educated and kind, were killed by right-wing Israeli settlers
on
a rampage after one of his bombs had killed 13 of their school-aged
children in Hebron.  As an act of kindness, he had taken her in and was
shaping her into a clone of Justine.  She was very pretty with
beautiful,
large dark brown eyes and long black lashes so common to many Arab
women.
She was thin and just developing into womanhood.  Like the other women
in
the compound, she wore only a halter top and denim shorts, her feet
clad
in leather sandals.  Underneath her top, Aziz note the soft round
impressions of breasts and the punctuation of firm, defined nipples. 
Her
legs were long and at the onset of shapeliness.  Her face was exotic
and
lovely in a childlike way.  But her expression seemed to denote a
smoldering anger beneath the overall coltish impression of her body. 
At
her hip was a holster with a loaded 7.62mm pistol.  Like everyone on
the
island, she used clad bullets.     She looked up into Jamal's face. 
"Jamal,
I've tried to contact the Minton about the location and schedule of the
next American," she said girlishly.  "But, we haven't received a reply.
And she hasn't followed up to our contact in Geneva, either."  Jamal
frowned.  "I understand," he replied.  "Let's see what we can do, shall
we?"  He took Leta by her bare shoulders, turned her and gently pushed
her
towards the computers.             Leta looked back at him with a
youthful smile and
walked back to her terminal and began typing instructions to another
team
of his terrorists somewhere else in the world.    "No," Aziz though to
himself, "women can not be killers."  Coughing, he put his mind to the
task of finding out about the irresponsible Minton.  After all, he had
paid her $500,000 in US dollars in Jakarta last year.  The exchange of
her
large military back for a smaller bag filled with the money was
amazingly
simple.  Now, she had the money, and for that he wanted all the
information she could provide. 2 had gone well.  This 3rd would have to
be
handled just as well, or he'd have to deal with Kate Minton severely.
"She'll have to learn to be more responsible," he joked to himself and
smiled.

The military coroner laid Kate Minton's body in the bag on the gurney
for
the trip to the morgue.  Capt.     Clement stopped the examiner from
zipping
it up for a second to look at Kate again.  "Lt.  Kate Minton," Clement
said to herself.  She gazed into the open, dilated dead eyes of the
traitorous lieutenant.             "You won't be able to spend the
other
$230,000
now, will you?" she quietly asked the corpse.  Motioning for the
examiner
to zip up the back, Clement walked out of the interrogation room and
into
a small crowd of the SOU officers gathered in the hall.  They were all
there; at least the best ones, the ones still alive:  Galloway, Benson,
Vridisky, Hogan, Jabar, Hurley, Swanson, and Gates.  "Why'd she do it?"
Gates asked, her voice trembling near tears.  Clement looked at her and
the others.  They'd been betrayed.  One of their own as much as pulled
out
a gun and killed 2, maybe 3 of their sisters.  "I don't know," was all
Clement could say.  "Maybe it was the money; maybe she was sick.  Maybe
she really believed in it.  I wish I knew.  I'm sorry."  Clement moved
through the group wishing she were someone else.  She felt responsible;
it
was her fault.                     And Aziz would pay.

Tracy had finally decided which way to go.  She looked at her watch:
0228.  She had less than 2 hours to the primary rendezvous.  "This is
crunch time," she told herself.  "If I go down the corridor, I might
end
up like Patty; if I go around the long way, I run the risk of being
discovered.  But, I'll have more room to move."  Tracy silently
reasoned
with herself.  Sucking it up, the naked woman crept from behind the
hiding
place, her wet, sweaty feet moving through the dried blood stains left
by
the first SOU.                     Tracy moved silently to the closed
door of the storeroom.
Quickly and quietly opening it, she went through and shut it again
without
a sound.  In a large passage, Tracy moved away and into the shadows; it
was silent and dimly lit.  "No one," she told herself.

On a console in the communications room, a small diode lit up,
blinking.
Leta looked down and saw the door of Storage Room 8 had been opened. 
Of
course, it had happened many times before; someone was always using
that
door after an unauthorized something to go back to the dorms.  Still,
she
thought she'd report it.  "Khalid?" she called to her supervisor, "The
door?"  Khalid came over to investigate.  "Number 8 again, eh?" he
asked
with a bored smile.  "Leta, would you like to go and see what it is?" 
The
teenager nodded quickly with a smile.  Leta was very happy to go.  It
would give her a chance to be alone; and it would give her a break from
the VDT.  She nodded quickly.  Khalid motioned with his hand to tell
her
to go quickly.                     He smiled as the pretty girl jumped
up
and quickly walked
towards the stairs down into the compound.  "It's probably nothing,"
Leta
told herself as she opened the cage door and started down the stairs.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:28:09 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 13/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:28:09 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 397
Message-ID: <5kqvlp$t81@sjx-ixn9.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:28:09 PM PDT 1997


"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.


----------
Subject: The Final Mission (Part 13)

Lt. Tracy Parker stayed close to the far wall of the darkened passage
and
moved carefully and silently towards the location of the dormitories in
Aziz's underground compound.  The heat was still stifling; almost 100
degrees, over 80 percent humidity.  Tracy's nude body glistened with
sweat
and grime in the occasional, dim patches of light in the passage as she
gracefully and stealthily moved onward.  On her back, she wore the
lightweight submachine gun, the safety off, a full 51 round clip in
place.
 In her hand, she held the 9 inch blade of her field knife.  Her moist
and dripping face was more beautiful in its dishabille; a lock of her
chestnut hair lay moistly across one cheek; her bangs were in spiky
disarray over her dark brows and alert, large green eyes.  Her breasts
were very full and tight from the adrenaline in her system; her nipples
were hard and fully extended, dark pink underneath the coating of dirt
from her crawl and ringed by small pink and goose-bumped areoles.  All
over her thin, taut body, the sweat continued to bead and run.

Tracy's plan was to avoid any confrontation.  If she met a terrorist,
she'd take him out quickly and quietly.  If she met more resistance,
she'd
have to distract them by causing a bigger disturbance somewhere else.
That's why she picked the route past the dormitories.  Most of Aziz's
terrorists were asleep at 0245.  Those that weren't were in the
communications room or outside in various positions on the island.  The
SD-5 had imaged all of this.  And where the SD-4 had missed the
presence
of Aziz on the island, the SD-5 had clearly caught the image of a
shapely,
darker-skinned woman swimming naked in the cove outside of Aziz's
warehouse 3 days prior to Tracy's arrival.  That's why Aziz was a
target.
And, that's why Tracy knew where the bulk of Aziz's men would be at
0245.

"All right," Tracy thought, "I'm 20 ft. from the first dorm entrance."
The first dorm was a 40' X 40' room with 2 doors.  One lead back to the
passage in which the beautiful, young, nude intruder lurked; the other
lead into a common area.  A dim light showed through the open door to
the
dorm.  Inside, 11 terrorists -- 3 women and 8 men -- lay in individual
cots, asleep.  Some snored; one had left a small lamp on.  A separate
air
system cooled the air inside to a more bearable 82 degrees.  Tracy felt
the cooler air brush past her dirty bare and sweaty feet as she got
closer.  And as she got closer, she sensed and then heard the deep
sleep
of the occupants inside.  Now, slipping quickly past the door and to
its
other side, she was clear of the first obstacle.  Behind her, her feet
left wet prints in the dark.  Ahead, 100 yds, the passage split -- to
the
left, the stairs up to the surface; to the right, a longer hall past a
large chamber with a pool, and around to the other entrance to the room
containing the bomb.  That was Tracy's destination.

On Tracy's right, ahead 20 ft., was the entrance to the common room. 
The
room was roughly 25' X 35'.  Serving as a dining hall and recreation
area
for Aziz's men, it was probably deserted at  this time of night, Tracy
thought.  Suddenly, a shadow filled the light softly glowing from the
opened door to the room.  Tracy stopped and quietly undid the cover
flap
of her pistol and readied her knife.  Ahead of her she heard the sounds
of
someone yawning and stretching.  It was a woman.  "Damn it," Tracy
thought
to herself.  "All I need now is one stupid insomniac."  Tracy's mind
prepared hoping the unseen woman would move away from the door and go
back
and lie down in one of the 2 dorms attached to the common room.
Unfortunately, the figure's shadow drew larger against the wall
opposite
the door.  Whoever it was, was coming out.  Silently, Tracy pulled
herself
up and pressed her bare, perspiration soaked back and buttocks hard
against the rough, rocky wall, trying to make herself as flat as
possible
by the door.  She waited, the knife in her hand at the ready.

Leta skipped lightly and quickly down the stairs towards the
underground
passage.  She was happy to be out of the stuffy communications room. 
And
even though warmer underground, it was empty and she was alone.  She
hummed as she reached the final steps at the bottom.

Tracy heard no one else above the quiet pounding of her heart and the
personal noises of the unseen body coming towards the door to the
common
room.  Suddenly, the full figure of a tall, muscular blond appeared
outside the doorway.  Tracy was close enough to see the woman was
dressed
in a halter and shorts.  She was barefoot and perspiration clung to the
back of her neck, torso, arms, and legs.  She was stretching again,
arms
high over her body; stretching and yawning as Tracy moved quickly
behind
her and sank the blade of her knife deeply into the blond terrorist's
right armpit.  The woman's yawn stopped short and became a strangled
cough
as the knife, buried to the hilt, sliced an artery and cut off blood to
the rest of her body; the shock was immediate.    The woman tried to
turn
her head back towards Tracy in a vain attempt to see the cause of her
sudden pain.  Tracy then forced her body up behind the woman's; her
breasts pressed against the hard back of the blond.  With a twist,
Tracy
withdrew the knife quickly; it made a slight sucking noise as it was
drawn
out of the body.   Then, she drew it along the    terrorist's throat. 
The
body of the woman immediately stiffened and then relaxed, falling
backwards against Tracy's naked body, gurgling sounds coming from her
throat -- dead weight that Tracy caught and quietly helped down to a
prone
position.  As she placed the now dead female terrorist's head on the
rough
floor of the passage.  The blond's eye's were open, the expression on
her
pretty Scandinavian face one of surprise and shock.  Tracy noted the
soft,
very blond hair -- cut short in a bob, the laugh-wrinkled gray-blue
eyes,
the small pointed nose and gaping mouth framed by full, dark lips. 
Tracy
looked up.  Surprised, she caught the sight of another smaller female
figure come around the corner from the passage ahead.  It appeared to
Tracy that that woman was humming.

Leta stopped short.  Ahead of her, in the dark, she could barely make
out
the figures of 2 bodies.  One was lying down, the other, definitely a
naked woman, was semi-standing and crouching over it.  Leta slowly
moved
forward, and as she did, she instinctively moved her hand towards the
pistol holstered on her right hip.  Maybe it was Justine Loudon,
Jamal's
Western girlfriend, Leta thought.  "Are you all right?" she asked
softly,
careful not to disturb the others sleeping in the dorms.  "Hello?
Hel-umph, ungph."  Leta's words were caught short as 2 bullets silently
struck her: one in the right breast and one in the abdomen, causing her
to
double over and fall on to her rear end.  Leta sat, legs spread apart,
and
looked down at down at her torso.  1 small hole had appeared above the
point where the halter stopped covering her right breast; the other
opened
in the middle of her stomach; each was distinct and trickled blood. 
"Am
I
shot?" she asked herself with a surprised, blank look as the shock gave
way to pain as she drew a wet and bubbly breath.  "Baba?" she whispered
weakly as her vision became dark.  She fell backwards, her head
thudding
against the hard floor.

Tracy held the firing position for a second longer; In her 2 hands, she
aimed the SOU small handgun, a modified Glock, 7.62 mm, 16 hollow-point
heads, with built-in silencer at the falling body.  A small tail of
smoke
rose from the barrel.  The figure at the end of the hall was prone; it
didn't move.  Satisfied, she took the first dead female by the arms and
dragged the body into the deep shadows of the opposite wall, trailing
thick, bloody skid marks in the rough concrete.  Tracy resumed her
position against the doorway wall.  She peered quickly around the
threshold; the room was empty.     Moving past, she noted the 2nd
dorm's
door
was closed.  Free to move up to the second prone body, Tracy approached
and looked.  On the floor was the body of a girl.  "She doesn't even
have
tits, yet." Tracy's mind exclaimed.  "Jeez, I didn't come here to kill
children."  Leta's pretty face clearly showed pain but was still, eyes
closed.  Her body was motionless; there was no sign of life, no
breathing.
  Tracy's head was light.  "Get a grip, Trace," she told herself.
Grabbing the girl by her ankles, Tracy repeated the operation of the
other
and dragged Leta's still form into the dark shadows against the
opposite
wall.                              Then, in a crouch, she approached
the
split in the hall.  Tracy
looked to the left.  A stairway upwards.  To the right a long darkened
passage.  Tracy was preparing to move when she heard the confused,
conversational sounds of several men inside opening the door to the 2nd
dorm behind her.

Tracy wheeled around, holstered her pistol and unclipped the strap of
the
submachine gun; it dropped neatly from her back and into her hands,
ready
for firing.  The door opened and a sheet of light illuminated the
opposite
wall clearly displaying the still and bloody body of the blond female
on
the floor.  The men stopped their talk as if their volume to their
voices
had been turned off and rushed out to the prone form, gathering around
it
in a group.  There were 4 young men; 2 had their backs to Tracy; the
other
2 were in profile.  All were in shorts, shirtless, well-built, and
carrying Kalishnikovs.             Tracy aimed and squeezed the
trigger. 
The
silencer on the
submachine gun flashed: "pump-pump-pump-pumpity-pumpity."  Empty
cartridges clattered on the floor as the men twisted and fell as they
tried to turn and face the source of the bullets exploding around and
inside their bodies.  As each fell, their rifles clattered to the floor
loudly like, what seemed to Tracy, the sound of dropping dishes.  She
stopped firing as the last man fell and moved around the corner of the
passage to the right.  As she did, she heard others rush out of the
other
dorm room and an alarm started to sound.  It was deafening; a bright
electric bell rang without stopping -- the sound amplified and
reverberated by the hard rock and concrete walls of the underground
trap.
Tracy was not thinking anymore.  she was now reacting; reactions based
on
her incredible conditioning and training.  Beautiful, deadly and
unstoppable, she moved quickly towards the entrance on the right; the
one
the lead into the large room with a pool.

The anteroom was dark as she passed through and around the wall that
separated it from the pool area.  Instantly, it seemed, Tracy found
herself by a brightly lit indoor swimming pool.  Tracy's eyes adjusted
to
the light; she squinted.  The room appeared empty.  In her haste and
partially due to the sudden adjustment from dark to light, Tracy didn't
notice the puddles around the floor, the foot prints around it, or the
small bolt of birght red fabric piled nearby.  Tracy stepped further
into
the chamber.  Suddenly, an arm clamped around her neck; the pressure on
Tracy's throat made her open her mouth in a strangled gasp.  It was
Justine who was waiting beside the entrance for this opportunity. 
Tracy's
submachine gun fell from her hands with a
clatter.  She reached up and grabbed the arms trying to restrain and
strangle her at the same time and with a deft move slipped from them
and
turned around while delivering at the same time a very strong blow to
her
unseen attacker's midriff.  Justine staggered backwards, winded.  She
stared at Tracy with contempt and surprise.  Justine countered with a
kick
of her left leg that missed its mark; she spun around and threw her
left
arm in a wide arc.  Tracy blocked the arm and countered with a quick
blow
to Justine's kidneys.  Justine staggered.  Tracy moved directly at
Justine
and placed 2 hard karate blows to the left side of Justine's head and
her
right tit.  Justine grunted and screwed up her face in pain as she fell
to
one knee.  The fight was already over.

Tracy pulled her pistol out and motioned with it to Justine.  "Over
there,
bitch," Tracy  commanded.  She didn't know who she was looking at.  The
photo in the file was Justine aged 23, English aristocrat.  In front of
Tracy, bent over from pain, was a naked animal -- dark and ferocious.
Justine was still naked having left the water immediately upon hearing
the
bells; they were still ringing outside.  Tracy detected that there
seemed
more sounds of movement outside the anteroom to the swimming pool;
people
running around, bells, yelling.  "You're the Yank," Justine realized
aloud.                             "You'll never live.  Probably better
to give up now.  At, least
you might not die as slowly as your other 2 friends."  Tracy's eyes
narrowed.  "So, this is Justine Loudon," Tracy's blood became very
cold.
She motioned Justine to just next of the entrance to the room.  
"You're
going to go through there," Tracy calmly explained.  "And I'll be right
behind.  And if you make one false move, I'll blow your insides out. 
I'm
not using clad bullets."  Tracy was hissing.  Justine just looked at
Tracy
and smiled an evil smile.  "I said move," Tracy ordered as she heard
the
sound of silent bodies positioning themselves of outside the entrance
to
the anteroom of the swimming pool.  Justine still refused to move. 
"Shoot
me, then," she dared Tracy.  "One of us is about to die, and it'll not
be
me, my dear."  Justine laughed lightly.  "I'm going to enjoy watching
you
as you twist and scream in pain while Jamal's men screw you with their
bullets.  It'll be even more painful than that fucking McKeeson bitch.
You'll wish you were her.  So, go ahead and shoot."  Tracy became more
enraged as she heard the loud-mouthed terrorist whore purr.  Tracy
stepped
back, fired 5 rounds into the anteroom and then paused and fired once
at
Justine, hitting her in the right shoulder.  The hollow-point blew a
large
hole out of the back of Justine's shoulder and cracked the block behind
her as she fell backwards from the concussion of the bullet's impact.
Justine's face displayed horror quickly accompanied by pain.  "You'll
please move out," Tracy quietly repeated.  Justine trembling eyes
looked
into Tracy's and found no evidence of humanity to exploit.  So, she
painfully turned holding her left hand to her torn right shoulder and
slowly into the anteroom fighting the nausea beginning to fill up her
mind.

As soon as Justine entered the anteroom, she began to frantically yell,
"Don't shoot!  Don't shoot!  It's me, Justine.  C'est moi, Just---
grargh!"  Justine had rounded the corner of the separating wall and had
the separating wall to her back as a mass of tracers lit up the dark
anteroom.  In the darkness, bullets passed through her, ricocheted off
the
walls, struck the hard floor and reentered her body.  Justine was
grimacing in blinding agony as her breasts were drilled neatly and
precisely by the clad ammo; the impact of so many rounds forcing them
to
shiver, shake and distort violently in all directions as they spurted
bloody-milky fluid from the small nipples.  35, 40, 55 rounds, and
still
Aziz's men kept mistakenly firing as she staggered backwards from round
after round until her back was against the wall.  She yelped and
shivered;
her body shook with each round of bullets as they drilled and burned
through her tissue.  Blood was splattering everywhere. Her mouth was
open
and spitting blood.  "No more, please, no more!" her mind tried to cry
out.  But, from her throat came only a gurgling, growling vomit of
blood
and fluid.  Her vulva was spurting blood as she continued to convulse
from
the multiple rounds hitting her  body.  And as the firing stopped,
almost
30 seconds later, Justine's beautiful eyes were fully dilated and
fixed,
overflowing with tears from the incredible torture.  As her once lovely
form slid clumsily down against the broken and bloody wall, Justine's
head
with its open, bleeding mouth, lolled to one side and toppled the rest
of
her onto her side.  Dark blood flowed everywhere, from dozens of holes
and
torn gashes in her body.  The air was smokey and suffocating from the
stench of death and spent ammo.  Aziz's men carefully approached the
torn
corpse carefully and crowded around.  They were in shock and feared for
their lives as they came to realize who it was they had just killed.

Before sending Justine to her death, Tracy had already decided that she
wasn't going to be able to exit through the anteroom entrance and
continue
down the hall.                     So, using Justine as a delay, she
collected herself,
strapped her submachine gun to her body, dove into the pool and
straight
through a narrow passage; a narrow passage near the bottom that would
lead
to the next room and the bomb.     "Thanks for the help, Justine.  Pip,
pip,
and all that shit," Tracy thought as she quickly hyperventilated to
saturate her blood oxygen, took a deep breath and dove towards the
bottom;
dove into the water at the moment Justine's first and last screaming
plea
for mercy wailed from the anteroom.  On the other side, in the bomb
room,
there would probably be  guards; guards even more attentive now that
her
cover had been blown.  Regardless, she'd have to get there in 4
minutes,
the limit of holding her breath while exerting herself.  No going back.
Once Aziz's men realized what had happened, they'd be there waiting. 
The
best course would be to make it to the bomb room.  Tracy swam towards
mission objective number 1.  The time: 0315.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:28:54 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!ix.netcom.com!news
From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 14/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:28:54 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 577
Message-ID: <5kqvn6$o58@dfw-ixnews10.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  5:28:54 PM CDT 1997



"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.

----------
Subject: The Final Mission (Part 14)

Jamal rushed to the anteroom outside the underground pool.  He had
heard
the alarm and the gunfire.  Inside the communications room, they told
him
that an intruder had entered the compound and was trapped in the
swimming
pool area.  It had to be the American woman, Tracy Parker.  He cursed
himself for not being present at the kill as he approached the crowd of
his followers gathered around the body of the stupid whore.  Lack of
information, an irresponsible informant, wretched weather, all this
plus
a
moody female companion had conspired to catch Aziz unaware.  The
result:
some dead followers, confusion, and embarrassment.  Luckily, the whore
had
been finished; his bomb, safe.     "Why didn't you wait for me and
Justine?"
he half-jokingly asked Khalid as he pushed past the silent terrorists
gathered in the anteroom.  Khalid looked at Jamal Aziz with fearful
eyes;
he said nothing.  Aziz sensed that there was something wrong as he
turned
his gazed down towards the body of the woman on the floor.

The floor was puddled with blood and bodily fluids.  "A true massacre,"
Aziz remarked to himself as he regarded the torn and battered body of
the
young woman on the floor.  All around on the walls, Aziz noticed even
in
the gloomy darkness that quantities of blood were splattered and
dripping.
 Aziz was impressed by the number of rounds required to kill the woman;
she must have been determined; her suffering extraordinary.  The body
itself was on its back; numerous wounds punctured the thighs, and her
legs
were full of bloody holes, the feet twisted in some strange contortion;
the pelvis and genitals of the dead woman were covered in large, oozing
wounds: some small holes, others ripped, bloody muscle and flesh; the
same
was true for the midsection, the navel indistinguishable from the entry
and exit wounds of the several dozen bullets that were fired in,
through
and at the unfortunate target.     "Ah, a loss," Jamal commented
sarcastically as he examined the once pretty breasts.  The body of the
woman on the floor was so badly disfigured by the ripping and tearing
of
his soldiers' bullets that the breasts were practically torn away,
their
location indicated by lumpy, bleeding masses of raw, exposed muscle and
fatty tissue, the blood mixing with the milky contents of what he had
seen
in the picture to be very lovely breasts.  Yet, despite the ugliness of
the carnage, the body of the woman was very attractive to him -- thin
but
shapely.  Aziz hoped that his followers had remembered to leave the
face
and head untouched.  Why weren't they saying anything?  Aziz crouched
down
close the fresh corpse; he reached forward with his left hand to move
the
mass of tangled, dark hair that covered the face; at once, she reminded
him of Justine.

"Aiyeeee!  Nooooooo!"  Jamal screamed with shock and then rage as he
pulled away the hair from the face of the woman only to discover
Justine's
dead, beautiful eyes staring emptily upwards unto his. So tortured was
her death that the expression on her face seemed frozen between a
scream
and laughing grimace, her teeth showing from behind curled lips, blood
still bubbling out of either corner of her mouth.  "Who did this!?!?"
Aziz was insane as he grabbed the man closest to him, looking for an
answer to his terrifying question; Jamal shook man after man by their
shoulders in turn; his burning, screaming eyes searched for the
telltale
sign of fear that would betray the destroyers of his woman.  "Who?!?!"
Khalid and 3 other men avoided his eyes.  Aziz knew.

"Khalid," Aziz composed himself queerly suppressing the rage exploding
within him as he motioned for his old comrade Khalid to draw near. 
"Who
did this to my beautiful woman?  Didn't anyone see it wasn't the
American
whore?"  Jamal seemed to ask almost matter-of-factly, his eyes
glittering
in insane emotion.  Khalid smiled feebly and started stammering about
something.  "It wasn't....  The light.....  It was impossible....  We
thought...."  Khalid stumbled for a plausible combination.  Aziz pushed
the idiot backwards very roughly, drew his own pistol and neatly fired
one
shot through the forehead of his old friend; 3 more shots similarly
aimed
at the other 3 men who had avoided his gaze and stayed silent found
their
mark, as well.                     "You have caused a great loss and a
great embarrassment to
me, you old fool."  Aziz icily remarked to Khalid's body as it slowly
slid
down against the wall, lifeless; the other 3 lay in widening puddles of
blood where they had stood a moment before -- witness to Aziz's
terrible
temper and perverse sense of justice.  He was now past the point of
insanity; his only desire was to torture the American, Tracy Parker, to
death very slowly; to inflict unholy pain; to make her pay not only for
the loss of Justine, but more importantly, the humiliation he now felt
in
front of his followers that was caused by this blunder.  A woman could
be
had anytime.  But, respect?  It was a limited commodity.

"Traceeeee Parker!" Jamal screamed at the top of his lungs his voice
seeming to echo into every dark, wet nook and cranny of the underground
complex.  He and a few of the terrorists ran into the swimming pool
area.
There was no sign of the sweet SOU.  "Traceeeee Parker!" Aziz screamed
again.                             "Come here!  I will kill you very
slowly now!  You will die!
Die!"  Aziz wanted Tracy now; his uncontrollable rage had made him very
hard; his desire to cause the young American great suffering was more
compelling than any moment of lust he had felt with Justine.  He pulled
off his shirt revealing the muscularity of his chest, sweaty and
glistening, grabbed an AK-47 from one of his terrorists and strode
quickly
out and away from the swimming pool.

Tracy didn't hear a word.  She was approaching the other side of the
narrow underwater passage -- a side that opened again in the room
containing the bomb -- Aziz's atomic bomb.  The passage went from light
to
dark and back to light indicating the nearing of the end, the pool in
the
bomb room.  Tracy's mind quickly computed lines of attack and the
probability and use of doors strong enough to hold off Aziz's
terrorists
long enough for her to get the 1st job done.  Quietly, her head rose
above
the surface of the water; in her ears, the volume of the electric bells
suddenly and painfully increased adding to the electric tension of the
situation.

The hot and humid room was not brightly lit, but was light enough in
which
to read.  The pool was on the far side of the 20' X 20' room and
shadowed
by a rocky overhang; from above, a constant rain of warm water cascaded
noisily into the pool, probably from run-off from the surface or one of
the many hot springs throughout the underground compound.  Any more
exposed, and Aziz's followers would have been able to detect Tracy's
exit
from the water and crouching approach.  Any sound she had made was
covered
by the clanging of the electric alarm bell and the spalshing water in
the
pool.  She was no longer pondering, thinking, or feeling.  Her training
had now overridden everything -- calling on the programming and
conditioning of the last 2 years of her life.  In its emotionless menu
of
probabilities and solutions, there was little room for failure.  Only
completing the mission mattered.  The American beauty could not and
would
not recognize the small, screaming human voice in her mind pleading
"Get
out!  Save yourself!  You're going to die!"   Her heart was pounding,
every nerve raw.  Events now seemed to come as in a series of sharply
focused still photos -- to be examined, noted, and then acted upon.

Tracy, rinsed clean by the water, hid in quietly dripping, naked beauty
in
a deep shadow.                     Slowly and silently, she pulled her
pistol out of the
holster and examined the entrances to the room    Metal bulkhead doors
were
open on one end of the room leading back towards the commotion in the
main
passage; another was closed.  That door lead to the utility corridor
and
back towards the power room from which Tracy had made her original
entry.
She considered the number of bodies that would have to be taken out
before
she could quickly close and bar both entrances.  5 stood at guard; 3
men,
all dark and wearing well-worn tank tops -- obviously Middle Eastern,
probably Palestinian, stood in front of a coffin sized crate; 2 women
stood with them.  One was a pale brunette, thin and flat chested but
pretty.  She wore a halter top, very short and tight demin cutoffs, and
was barefoot; the other, a dirty blond, was taller with large soft
breasts
barely contained by a similar halter top, Bermuda shorts, and dirty
sneakers.  Both looked European.  All were armed with AK-47s.  Tracy
drew
a breath and aimed.

"Punt-Punt," Tracy's pistol kicked quietly in her hands.  The thin
woman
and a male jerked as a bullet each hit the backs of their heads.
"Punt-Punt-Punt,"  3 more bullets left the chamber for her pistol the
moment the others' attention were drawn away from Tracy as the other 2
started to fall.  Tracy put one shot through the lower left breast of
the
dirty blond, a shot through the throat of another man, and a shot
through
back of the 3rd.  The 3rd man was able to turn and look at Tracy as she
fired 2 more rounds into his head; the top of his skull popping off as
the
pressure of her hollow-point bullets released inside.  He fell like a
marionette with cut strings.  Tracy moved quickly out of the shadows
and
to the open door to the passage.  Sliding it shut, she threw a large
lever
and secured it.  Running, now back to the utility entrance, Tracy did
the
same.  The room was now sealed from outside interference.  She looked
around.

Tracy's body was pouring with sweat.  Inside this room, the air was a
very
humid 100 degrees.  Tracy wiped her face and brushed back her wet hair.
Putting down her pistol on a chair, she noted the bodies lying in
various
positions around her.  The thin woman had fallen backwards, draping a
fallen chair; her broken skull bled from the ears, nostrils and open
mouth, eyes half-closed.  The other woman was about 10 ft. away.  As
the
bullet hit her in the heart, she must have had time left in her life to
drop her gun, rip open her halter, revealing the soft roundness of her
large breasts, the left one already bluing from the small hole in it
and
the massive internal damage caused after the bullet entered; the left
nipple appeared swollen and purple, the right was soft and small.  The
other 3 men were lying in various twisted positions.  Puddles of blood
formed around each of the bodies; in some cases, the blood mixed with
urine from suddenly relaxed bladders.  They were all dead.  Tracy noted
the sights without commentary and moved towards the crate they had once
protected.

Jamal stopped short.  "Why is this door closed?"  Aziz demanded.  The
unfortunate follower shrugged his shoulders and shook his head
panickedly.
 "Open it!"  Aziz ordered as several of the terrorists tried to push
and
then pull the heavy metal door open.  Instantly, Aziz knew that Tracy
Parker, now the object his malignant and fantastic sexual desire and
depraved masochistic pleasure, his living symbol of shame, was
barricaded
inside.

Tracy looked up at the door leading to the main passage way; fists
pounded
on it; it was being kicked and shoved.  "It'll hold for long enough,"
Tracy said to herself stifling any natural tendency towards fear as she
opened the crate.  Inside was a large metal box.  Painted in a military
olive drab, it was clearly some form of ordinance.  Tracy undid the
fasteners that sealed it and lifted the cover.    Inside was a medium
sized
bomb.  A marvel of late Soviet technological achievement, it was a
small
nuclear bomb meant to be dropped from unsophisticated aircraft pylons
in
regional conflict.  It was clearly marked as a nuclear device.   "So,
there
you are," Tracy said under her breath as she carefully hefted the
dangerous package and lifted it out of its cradle.

Placing it on a work table next to her, the naked SOU became an
engineer,
knowingly unscrewing the cap from the small 20 lb. warhead and
cautiously
placing it on the floor near the table.  Loud banging and thumping on
the
doors continued.  Time was flying by.  Returning, Tracy regarded the
collection of circuit boards that were packed into the body of the
atomic
device.  This step required concentration and patience; it also
required
time to follow the wiring and circuitry.  Perspiration was running into
her eyes.  She wiped her face and shook her head to try without success
to
remove extra moisture from her head.  Her hands were wet from the
perspiration and the swim.  A full 10 minutes passed before she was
able
to remove enough components safely to uncover the primary trigger
mechanism.  Blowing on her fingers, she reached in and tried to pull a
single 1" X 3" wafer covered by small memory chips.  Suddenly, from the
opposite door leading to the power room, Tracy realized there were hard
scratching and banging noises.     She was startled.  "I'm trapped," as
she
understood both doors were under attack from Aziz's men.  Her fingers
stopped moving as she looked around.  Inside the room there was little
cover: some chairs, a large table, a transistor radio, some tools, the
bomb and the pool.  Large vents were positioned on either side of the
room, high on the walls.  How to get out alive?  Tracy's mind was
beginning to race; her body began to grow hotter.  If not for her
powers
of concentration, she would now be falling into a state of debilitating
panic.

Tracy focused on the SIMM.  Her fingers slipped trying to pull at the
SIMM
in the bomb.  Tracy shook her head; her hands were shaking, sweaty and
slippery.  She looked around for something to dry them.  Running over
to
the dead thin woman, she pulled at her halter top and wiped her hands.
Tracy winced as she rubbed against the dead breasts and soft nipples of
the feamle terrorist.  But, her hands were now dry.  She clapped them
together to stop the shaking, took a breath and tried again.  This time
she was successful and carefully slipped the SIMM out of the seat
amidst
the multiple clusters of circuits and chips.  As she took a quick look
at
the piece, she heard sounds in the vent directly behind her; she
squeezed
the SIMM tightly in her left hand.  Tracy tried to wheel around to grab
her pistol.  A burst of bullets skipped across the floor in front and
to
her left, stinging her with tiny, sharp fragments of broken concrete
and
metal shard.  Tracy's now frantic mind started to perceive in slow
motion.

Tracy threw herself backwards and rolled across the floor and to her
right.                             As she did, she undid the strap to
her
submachine gun, releasing
it into her hands.  Without a pause, she rolled back up onto her feet
and
fired directly at the position she calculated would be the vent from
which
the bullets came.

Punta-Punta-Punt.  Tracy's gun quietly flashed and kicked.
Simultaneously, sparks flew from the metal grate of the vent as her
bullets struck precisely at the source of the attack; inside, there was
a
muffled scream.  Tracy's heart was now pounding rapidly; her lungs
drawing
breath like a runner on the last lap of a race.  Quickly, another
series
of tracers aimed at her from the first vent was joined by bullets from
the
opposite vent sizzling past her right side.  Tracy pitched forward and
found minimal cover behind a fallen chair and the draped body of the
dead
thin woman.  She lay prone behind the chair and body waiting for an
opportunity to fire back.  Bullets clattered all around her.  Some
struck
the dead body of the thin woman with a dull thudding sound and the body
twitched.  Tracy was drenched with sweat; the air seemed unbreathable,
the
heat almost suffocating.  Tracy tried to swallow, but her throat was
dry;
she squinted and tried to steady her shaking hands.  Suddenly, her
chance.

Tracy Parker reacted from instinct and training as she rolled out from
behind her cover and fired a sustained volley at the first grate. 
Firing
from it stopped almost immediately.  She them pivoted on her side and
fired an equally long volley at the opposite grate.  There, the firing
stopped as well.  She looked at the table and at her pistol on a chair
nearby; there was valuable ammo in the handgun.  But, almost instantly,
she decided to abandon the weapon and move quickly out of the cross
fire
of the vents and under the overhang that protected the room's small
pool.
She ran for its cover and was quickly followed by a series of tracers
hitting the floor at the point where her feet had just been.  She slid
headfirst behind the lip of a retaining wall around the small pool and
under the uncomfortable shower of grainy, hot water being discharged
from
above.                             Glancing rapidly around the room,
she
could see that teams of
terrorists were trying to remove the grates from the vents on the wall
in
order to enter; at one door, the latch was showing signs of fatigue as
others in Aziz's group were successfully forcing open the door to the
main
passage.  The pounding noises on the back door to Tracy's original
entry
point was out of the question; it was probably on the verge of being
forced open, as well.  Fear was rapidly entering her mind; she bit her
lip
and tried to compose herself.  Tracy felt wet tears starting to form in
her eyes.  Crawling farther along the retaining wall, deeper under the
overhang, she felt a sharp pull at her vulva.  The thin wire of the
seemingly dysfunctional implant Tracy wore had come loose from her
skin;
too much heat, sweat and abuse.  The thin wire now caught on
everything.
This last yank had really caused Tracy some pain; but, it also
refocused
Tracy on the life-threatening situation she was in now.  A little
rational
window in her mind opened briefly obscuring the panic in her thoughts.

Tracy was surrounded.  Dirty, hot water rained on her from above. 
Bursts
of automatic fire glanced off the walls over her head and behind her
and
to the right.  She was trapped and was running out of options and ammo.
The SIMM was still in her hand.  But, if she were caught or killed,
Aziz
would get it back.  Tracy considered destroying it.  A line of tracers
clipped the leading edge of the overhang throwing pieces of rock at her
face; Tracy ducked instinctively.  She could try to smash it; but, with
even bits of it Aziz might be able to construct another SIMM to replace
the one she'd removed.  She couldn't couldn't throw it into the pool;
it
would only be recovered again.       "What 'm I going to do?" Tracy
said
almost aloud.  And suddenly a stifled sob escaped from her lips, 2
large
tears finally rolling out of her eyes.  Breathing in sharply, Tracy
quickly caught herself, sucked it up and had an idea.

Tracy undid the soaked and soggy flap of her arm pouch and pulled out 2
small pills.  SOUs called them "suicide pills" -- not because they were
lethal, but because they were narcotics to be used only in the worst
cases
-- with little or no chance of escape, little or no chance of survival.
It was clear that this was one of those moments.  Tracy's mind became
incredibly clear and calm as she swallowed both pills and waited for
the
effects.  The pills were designed to increase strength, remove
inhibition
and almost all sensation of pain, and produce enough adrenaline to keep
a
body moving through terrible physical abuse.  They were terribly bitter
and Tracy fought back the urge to spit them back up.  This might give
me
an edge," Tracy said to herself.  She didn't know that neither Monroe
or
McKeeson had the benefit of using the pills before they died, even
though
the pills couldn't have helped.  Tracy crawled through the hot shower
of
water towards a small hollow in the wall far behind the pool's
retaining
wall.  Moving inside, she sat up, the water pouring over her and spread
her drawn up legs very wide apart.

The drugs were already having the effect of causing Tracy's wet, naked
body to tighten; her breasts seemed to fill to bursting with her
nipples
extending to full length; they became very tender and moist.  Her
muscles
burned; her skin became very hot; her sight became very clear.   Almost
as
if on cue, Tracy's mind began to replace the soft panic in her head
with
an insane resolve and almost irrational optimism.  Between crouching
for
cover and despite the pounding hot water shower from above, Tracy now
fired with deadly accuracy at the vents; Aziz's men continued to die as
they crouched inside.  Stopping her firing suddenly, she ripped the
small
pad attached to the thin wire from her sternum.  It left a reddish
patch.
She then pulled free the remaining connected places along the wire to
her
body.  Tracy looked intently between her legs in the wet dark.   She
pulled
out her knife.                     Winding the thin wire around her
left
hand, she pulled --
slowly increasing the force on the wire.  Tracy winced as she felt the
device inside pull at the inside of her body.  She tried to pull harder
to
dislodge it; but, it was too painful.  So, Tracy pulled as hard as she
could stand it and placing the blade of her knife as close to the labia
as
possible, cut the wire.  Tracy's pelvis jumped a bit.  A little fluid
dribbling from the reddening slit of her vulva was quickly washed away
by
the pouring water above her.

Covered by the hot water running freely over her body, feverishly,
Tracy
continued to work.  She took 2 fingers of her right hand and forced
them
into her vagina and through the tight but sweaty labia; she was making
sure that no sign of the wire was visible by forcing the end far into
her
body.  Then she looked at the SIMM.  "Hey, lover," she said to it as
she
spit on it to lubricate it and forced it roughly and quickly past the
lips
of her now-swollen vulva.  Tracy gasped despite the drugs.  "The docs
said
that the implant produced an electrical pulse," Tracy exhaled saying to
herself.  "It's supposed to numb?  Well, here goes."  Tracy pushed her
fingers against the SIMM and pushed it in as far as it would go. 
Inside
her vagina, Tracy felt nausea and the swelling of her raw tissue. 
Tracy
pushed even harder; the SIMM slid against and past the implant.  She
was
quietly frantic; but, her conscious mind was being influenced by the
drugs.                             Threads of irrational thought and
logic were being paired up with
reflexive discipline and training.  Somehow, Tracy had decided to
"hide"
the SIMM in hope it wouldn't be discovered by Aziz; that it would be
recovered in an autopsy.  The pain was unbearable despite the implant
and
the drug.  But an obsessed Tracy actually pushed the SIMM so far into
her
vagina that she forced it part way through the wall of her uterus.  A
sick, shivery feeling washed over her as she withdrew her bloody
fingers
from her raw, lacerated genitals.  "I wonder if you'll look," Tracy
asked
an imaginary Aziz as she tried to get her breath and recover from what
she
had just done to herself.  "Trish and Patty were recovered," Tracy
started
to rationalize.  "They both washed up on shore."  She knew that the
time
floating in the ocean had resulted in the loss of much of their
extremities; but the torsos were intact.  She saw the image of their
bloated but untouched heads covered in plastic bags; Aziz made an
effort
to preserve his "work;" and he intended his victims to get back to
their
superiors.  "I'll get it done," she smiled strangely to herself. 
Looking
at her watch, she noticed it was 0415.  "Fifteen minutes," she told
herself.  It wasn't going to be the primary.  She was going to have to
go
for the secondary rendezvous instead.  "I guess I'm fucked, Suzy-Q,"
Tracy
said almost out loud.  She felt a small twitch of pain inside her
vagina;
muted by the drugs.  Then, she saw the main door was ready to fail. 
Tracy
began to wonder how many seconds she had left to live. Aziz's men
started
a very concentrated fire on her position from both vents.  As Tracy
ducked
below the low lip of the wall in front of her hollow, bullets
disintegrated all around her against the rock and concrete; fragments
and
tiny shards flew past and around and against exposed parts of her skin,
stinging and cutting.  Tracy's body was pouring with perspiration and
salty water; her skin was freckled with little abrasions and dots of
blood.                             Her labia also had started to drip
--
a little fluid and blood
mixed together.  Her breasts, engorged by the effects of the drug,
leaked
a little yellowish milk from the exaggerated nipples, the shower of
water
from above making them look as though they were spurting clear liquid;
they were as hard as foam rubber, now.  Protected from the flying
debris,
Tracy's dripping face wore an impersonal, distant look.  Beautiful and
arousing, covered in a shower of hot water, sweaty and dirty, she saw
everything as a series of still frames, now; each one with a more
terrible
image.                             Tracy held the submachine gun close
to
her chest.  Poom!
Suddenly, the front door fell to the floor.


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:30:38 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!howland.erols.net!ix.netcom.com!news
From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 15/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:30:38 GMT
Organization: Netcom
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NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  5:30:38 PM CDT 1997


"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.

----------
Subject: The Final Mission (Part 15)

In the initial confusion and melee, it had taken Jamal Aziz and his
terrorists over 20 minutes to realize that the doors to the room
containing his bomb were locked.  It had taken an additional 20 minutes
before some of Aziz's men could crawl into the air vents on either side
of
the room to investigate what was going on inside.  Now, after a 10
minute
firefight with the unseen intruder, his followers had lost 7 more
companions.  Accurate automatic fire from underneath the  protective
overhang of the room's pool continued to prohibit more aggressive
efforts
to remove the grates over the room's vents and any attempt at entry
through them.

Aziz paced impatiently in front of the main door to the room. 
Alternating
between encouragement and ugly threats and curses, he was amazed at how
badly he had been surprised.  The incomplete information from the
Minton
woman not withstanding, Aziz had assigned 15 of his followers in
various
positions around the island; 2 more were posted in the grotto where
McKeeson had been ambushed.  There were no more entries into the
complex
of which he knew.  Of course, Aziz refused to accept his fallibility;
there was nothing wrong with his plans.  It was equally obvious to him
that his followers had somehow failed.  He was totally ignorant of the
way
the various pools in his complex were interconnected.  "She is
trapped,"
he notified his struggling terrorists as they tried for the last time
to
open the main door.  "Prepare a charge."  Aziz was taking a chance.  If
the explosives were too strong, he might damage the bomb in the middle
of
the room; too little and the effort would be wasted.  But, he needed to
get in; and there was no chance that the intruder could get out.  "I'll
see the American suffer," he gloated in his mind,fantasizing about the
tortures he'd inflict on Tracy.

Tracy was nearly delirious from the effects of the drug and the
intensity
of her life and death predicament.  Part of her wanted to bolt in
panic;
but there was no where to go.  In her mind, the pain caused by the
foreign
object thrust into her body, blending with the nervous excitement
caused
by the drug, inexplicably resulted in her remaining alert and able to
analyze the rapidly changing tactical situation.  It was obvious that
Aziz
didn't know how the pools in the complex were interconnected;
otherwise,
he would have ordered someone to try that entry, as well.  All told,
Tracy
figured that she'd taken out 16 of his followers.  That left 34 or so.
Some would remain in their positions around the island; they'd have to.
Tactically, there could be more SOUs on the way, Aziz had to figure. 
To
move them from their positions would leave him potentially exposed to
outside attack.  There were 15 terrorists imaged by the SD-5 manning
those
 positions.  The number against her had dwindled to 19.  Those 19
distributed against her on the front door, on the back door and in the
vents meant, maybe, 4 or 5 per position.  The other rooms were clear. 
As
long as they didn't rush her at once, this meant that she had a chance.
Tracy balanced the options against her drug-influenced abilities.  "Let
'em come up the middle," she said to herself.  "We'll get these odds
down
a little, then."  Just then, the front door blew off.   3 of Aziz's men
rushed in firing in fully automatic mode, spraying everything -- the
bodies of their fallen comrades, the crate, the metal case of the bomb,
the walls, and the table.  The little transistor radio disintegrated in
the volley of bullets.             Tracy crouched down low, the hot
water
pouring
freely over her tingling, naked body.  As the first rounds stopped, she
quickly peered over the lip of her cover to see 6 terrorists standing
in
various ready positions at the main entrance.  "Stupid," Tracy told
herself.  "They're all in the open."  Tracy swiftly lifted the barrel
of
her submachine gun over the lip and sprayed a silencer masked shower of
bullets over and around the stunned terrorists.  All 6 jerked and
jumped
as the bullets found their marks; including, unknown to Tracy, a very
surprised Jamal Aziz.

Aziz had followed in behind the first 3 men into the room.  Hearing the
rapid gunfire halt gave him his cue to step in and review the damage; 2
others followed him.  Jamal looked up at the grates.  Wide enough for
only
2 persons to crouch side by side, the covers over the vents had been
secured against entry.             It was taking time to remove them. 
Tracy's
returning fire against
their positions had taken a toll; there were only 3 terrorists left in
each of the vents.  As Aziz surveyed the jumble in the room -- the
bodies,
the debris, the blood -- he suddenly heard a muffled, rapid puffing
from
the vicinity of the pool.  Almost immediately, he felt the fiery
daggers
of 2 bullets hit him in the left arm and glance off his left rib cage;
reflexively, he spun away in the opposite direction of the force of the
impacting bullets.  His eyes clouded and he fell outside the door,
stunned
and dizzy.  As he fell he saw the other terrorists -- 4 men and 1 woman
--
jerking violently; the bullets from Tracy's gun injuring them far more
seriously.

The followers in the vents tried to return fire on Tracy's position. 
She
crouched down low again as their many bullets tore all around her.  At
the
first lull, she rose above the cover of the pool's edge and discharged
a
long and steady stream of  fire towards the vent to the right.   The
sparking and ricocheting bullets silenced the ones in front and injured
the one farther back and behind.  Tracy noted with satisfaction as the
now
silent vent on the right side started to drip with someone's blood.
Turning over on her back, she pulled out her clip to count the number
of
rounds left.  It was empty. She threw it away and inserted her 2nd and
final clip, pulled the bolt, and turned back over.  Bullets flew from
the
vent on the left.  Tracy peered over the pool's edge and noted the
flashes
from that position and made sure the bodies in the main entrance
weren't
moving.  From the other door, she could still hear concentrated efforts
to
open it.  "If it'll hold a few more minutes, I've got a chance," Tracy
told herself.  Suddenly, the odds were getting better for her.

Tracy ducked just in time as a volley of rounds from the left vent
struck
over her head.                     She waited for a pause and in a
split
second rose up and
fired a long burst at the vent on the left.  She heard an anguished
scream
as one of her bullets found its target.  The solitary gunner in that
position stopped firing; the sound of retreating scuffling in the vent
was
clearly heard.                     Tracy crawled quickly out from under
the overhang and
crouching low moved rapidly towards the main entrance of the room.
Pulling herself close and pressing her bare back against the warm wall,
she stopped long enough to get her bearings.  Tracy's body was
glistening
wet; every muscle was highlighted and defined.    Her breasts were full
and
magnificent; her face seemed to radiate beauty and determination.  The
adrenaline in her system blocked out any sensations at all; the SIMM,
so
violently inserted into her body wasn't noticed; unknown to her, the
implant still functioned.  Tracy's chest heaved from the violent
exertions; her throat was dry; her eyes burning with the insane desire
to
live.  She waited for a counter attack from the main passage.  Behind
her,
the door to the power room stubbornly refused to open.

In the wet dark of the shadows in the passage outside of the dorms and
hidden by the unceasing din of the electric alarm, a small moan went
unnoticed.  Leta regained painful consciousness; her body feverish and
her
breathing difficult and painful.  She thought she had seen her
father.He
was standing outside of his car as a group of bearded men rushed up and
enveloped him in a mass of raised fists and sticks.  She thought she
saw
his eyes again as they stared at her in pain and pleading only to
disappear again behind the angry crowd.  She was sure she had seen her
mother rush out from the passenger side of the car and into the
confused
mass of bodies.  She was beautiful, Arabic, with dark hair and eyes and
a
small, shapely body.  Leta imagined that she
saw all of this as her head pounded and waves of sickness and fever
swept
through her injured body.  Now, more awake, she tried to move.   The
punctured right lung burned inside of her; she was drawing breaths in
thin, hesitant gulps.  Her nose bled.  As her hands worked up her body,
Leta instinctively pressed her left hand over her abdomen; it felt
bruised
and sticky.  Very slowly, she got to her feet.

Tracy peered from around the other side of the doorway.  The alarms
still
rang; but the passage was empty.  She did not notice that only 5 bodies
were in the threshold; the 6th had vanished.  Tracy looked to her
right;
all clear.  Around the corner to the left, the dark passage curved out
of
sight and towards the stairs leading to the surface, the cove and
rescue.
"Maybe I was wrong after all, Suzy-Q,"  Tracy told herself.  She
slipped
out and to the left staying close to the wall.    Tracy did not notice
that
the path was already laid out ahead by a trail of freshly spilled
blood.

As Leta struggled to her knees, she noticed the figure of a staggering
but
quickly moving man reach the foot of the stairs.  She was having
trouble
getting to her feet.  The loss of blood plus the shock of having been
shot
twice was more than anyone, let alone a 16 year old girl, could bear.
Still, incredibly, she somehow managed to prop herself against the wet
wall in the
dark; her mind projecting the pleading look of her father's eyes ahead
of
her.  She coughed a bloody cough; her nose was still bleeding freely.
Over her right breast, a black and blue entry wound bled a small
trickle;
her halter top wet from perspiration and blood.  She looked up and saw
the
figure of an armed and naked woman reach the foot of the stairs.  Leta
staggered forward.

Tracy looked up at the flight of stairs.  She started up 2 steps at a
time.  Ahead, the electric lights of Aziz's warehouse grew brighter. 
She
reached the landing and crouched down behind the cage door separating
her
from the few remaining stairs and the surface.    Tracy was panting;
sweat
dripped in profusion from her body; her feet were slippery from blood
and
sweat; her joints ached and her heart pounded rapidly, painfully from
the
exertion and stress.  Preoccupied with the next step of going through
the
cage door, she didn't notice the small wheezing noise approaching her
from
below on the steps.

Leta pulled out her holstered pistol.  A Russian 7.62mm, it was small
and
light; perfect for a girl, Aziz had told her.  Now in her unsteady
right
hand, the safety off of the first time, Leta pictured the dead eyes of
her
father and mother -- beaten to death by the mob of angry men in front
of
her.  And from inside her young heart, compounded by the physical pain
caused by the naked woman above and in front of her, a burning hatred
burst into flame.  She quietly aimed at the crouched figure ahead of
her.
As she squeezed the trigger, she observed the way the fair-skinned and
naked woman panted, the  very beautiful shape of her back and buttocks,
the way the bones in her neck disappeared into a small valley down the
middle of her back.  She was wearing a belt with a holster; wrapped
around
the naked woman's waist was a thin strip of tape, and her hair was dark
and in a pony-tail.

"Just get to the surface, Trace," Tracy told herself as she prepared to
open the cage door and move to the warehouse.  "Aziz's men are still
downstairs; it'll be pretty clear until you get outside."  Tracy
reached
for the latch.

Blinding light filled Tracy's vision as she felt her breath leave her
body
at once.  "Ungh!"  Tracy was thrown forward against the metal grate of
the
cage door.  "Umph!"  A 2nd punch to her lower back near a kidney was
followed by a dull numbness; she reflexively rolled over and fired a
burst
from the submachine gun.  Tracy saw the fabric of Leta's bloody halter
rip
away as her bullets tattooed the girl across the chest; 12 rounds tore
at
the minimal breasts.  Tracy and Leta's eyes met; the pretty girl opened
her mouth as if to say something; but black fluid bubbled out
instead.As
Leta's eyes became dark and dead, the pistol slipped from her lifeless
fingers and fell on to
the steps with a clatter as the girl's body fell backwards and rolled
down
to the base of the stairs.  Sprawled with legs spread apart and on her
back, the dead Leta stared blankly upwards; her bare chest slowly
oozing
blood from Tracy's bullets; her nose, mouth and parted lips slowly
discharging bloody vomit.

On the landing, Tracy was dizzy and tried to regain her breath.  She
looked down and saw small puddles of blood forming; it was her blood.
She'd been shot twice by Leta; 2 rounds in the lower right side of her
back, exiting just below the last rib on her right side.  All of a
sudden,
the world
changed.  It seemed to Tracy that everything was now moving very slowly
and predictably.  "No pain," she noted to herself as she placed her
left
hand on the latch of the cage door and opened it.  Moving deliberately
up
the stairs, she felt a soft breeze catch her body as she rose to her
full
height at the top of the stairs.  The air was refreshing and
envigorating.
 To her left was an open wall; beyond it was a dock and a protected
cove;
beyond that the open ocean and her 2nd rendezvous.  Tracy started
walking
towards the dock; she didn't run; she walked erect and upright.  Her
body
sparkled in the electric lights of the warehouse; her breathtaking form
not diminished by the presence of 2 small entry holes in her back
slowly
bleeding, or the 2 small exit holes in her abdomen.  Tracy's eyes
locked
on the outside and the dock.  The muzzle of the submachine gun in her
right hand began to lower.  She didn't notice under the bright lights,
as
she walked towards the dock, that 7 men had stood up pointing their
weapons at her.  She did notice, however, that far off in front of her
Jamal Aziz stood smiling.

"Selig!" Dr. Lunt exclaimed.  "I've got partial transmissions from
Parker."  Dr. Lunt manipulated various dials and pressed various
buttons
to try to increase signal strength.  "She is hurt.  But, she's mov-. 
My
God,"  Dr. Lunt stared in horror as the screen began to fill with data.

"Unugph, umph, unump!"  Tracy felt multiple sharp blows across her
chest.
She looked down to see a number of small mouths open across the tops of
her breasts and spurt blood.  Tracy  looked up and saw the smiling face
of
Aziz.  Tracy's vision blurred as another series of very sharp blows
struck
across her back and shoulders, joined simultaneously by violent shocks
to
her buttocks and pelvis.   Tracy's mind seemed to detach itself from
her
physical body at that moment.  She seemed to be able to see everything
at
once; her eyes caught thin jets of blood reflect the light as they
arched
away from her; she felt her holster slip off of her hips as another
pattern of sharp blows struck her below the navel.  Tracy raised her
arms
uncontrollably away from her body, dropping her submachine gun.  She
saw
flashes of light around her from everywhere.  Tracy's body reacted to
the
bright streaks drawing towards her by twisting from side to side in
vain
attempts to avoid them as they approached; more often then not,
however,
a
bright line would reach her body and disappear, leaving her more
breathless and dizzy.  She shrugged and spun around, dancing a macabre
ballet in her attempts to avoid the bright streaks that appeared, shot
towards her, and connected momentarily to her body.  To her, this was
happening in seeming slow motion; she tried to catch a breath, but she
couldn't; felt the sharp blows of something hitting her all over her
body
-- her back, her hips, her abdomen, her upper arms, her thighs, chest,
breasts.  And as she began to involuntarily shake from the numerous
sharp
blows to her body, her spinning mind started to connect the lines of
light
reaching towards her to the suddenly searing shafts of pain running
through the inside of her body.  Tracy became panicked that she
couldn't
lower her outstretched arms; it was as though she were reaching far out
to
either side of her body for something to hold as pattern after pattern
of
stinging blows ran across her chest, her ribs, and her midsection.  She
was being killed by automatic gunfire.

"Unggg!  Noooooo....  Nugghh!"  Tracy gasped as her body convulsed and
twitched from the dozens of rounds being pumped into her at once.  In
her
mind, Tracy continued to imagine herself moving towards the outside and
waiting dock.  In reality, her body had staggered in the opposite
direction and towards the middle of the warehouse -- driven backwards
from
the force of the bullets entering her body.  Hard, clad rounds
continued
to pass through her.  Her breasts, already hardened and distended by
the
drug, bounced violently up and down with Tracy's racked body as they
were
punctured, leaving bleeding holes; the long nipples spurting
rhythmically
with bloody milk.  Tracy's face, untouched by the gunfire, was
contorted
in horror and a smothered scream.  Finally the pain had reached her
mind.
"Ohhhhh, nooooo, stoooopppp!  Pleeeease,  stooooppppp!"  Tracy pleaded
hoarsely as the endless rounds drilled through her.  In that instant,
her
right foot slipped out from under her in the bloody mess that
surrounded
the spot where she struggled; she fell backwards and landed heavily on
her
back, spread-eagle.  Tracy looked up; she couldn't breath; her chest
felt
as though it were filled with hot charcoal; her body was swept by wave
after wave of indescribable pain, causing her to involuntarily convulse
and shiver; she couldn't move her arms and legs; a heaviness settled on
top of her -- not soft or peaceful, but
terrifying and agonizing -- like a press of white-hot pokers squeezing
down on her -- her mind fully conscious -- with no relief.  Her wide
and
tearful eyes still saw everything clearly as if in a nightmare.  She
felt
her blood-filled mouth burble, and she vomitted the black fluid out and
over her lips.                     Tracy was alternately wheezing and
gurgling as she lay
there, the surroundings strangely silent.  A figure moved slowly
towards
the spot where she lay mortally wounded.

"Please... please... it... hurts... so... much...." Tracy tried to
whisper
through the blood and fluid in her throat.  The face drew closer.  It
was
Jamal Aziz,  just like in the shower on the carrier.  Tracy didn't see
that Aziz's left arm hung painfully limp at his side, wrapped in a
bloody
bandage; his side wrapped in similar fashion.  Tracy only saw the same
terrifying face as in the file.  Now, nearing her death, in gripping
agony, Aziz came close to her and softly said, "Lieutenant, I'm going
to
leave you like this until you die.  And then, I'm going to dispose of
your
filthy corpse where no one will ever find it.  You'll die alone, you'll
rot alone, and you'll never find peace!"  Aziz was hissing.  Tracy's
thoughts were random; her mind was shutting down.  Thinking about the
SIMM
deep inside her body, a reflex made her weakly move her head from side
to
side.  "Nuhh..."  Tracy tried to fight Aziz as her breaths became
shallower and dark began to fade her vision.  She was still convulsing
in
pain; each convulsion and wrenching spasm fully transmitted itself to
her
rapidly slipping mind.             Her mouth moved weakly as blood now
started to
fill her esophagus and throat; Tracy spit up more blackish blood.

Aziz stepped back and aimed his automatic rifle at Tracy.  He pulled
the
trigger and laid a line of bullets up her left thigh,  through the
pubic
hairs of her crotch, across her right side and into her right breast. 
As
the bullets struck, passed through and bounced back into Tracy's body,
she
jerked and twitched without control.  Inside her vagina, the SIMM
fragmented as a bullet struck it neatly in the middle; the implant bent
double from another bullet.  "Ohhhhhhhh.... Ungh....  Uffffffff!" 
Tracy
gurgled as her body tensed up, tortured again.    She was sobbing; her
chest
heaved from the effort to breath.  The hemorrhaging was extensive;
fluid
spilled from every opening in her body.  Aziz kicked apart Tracy's legs
exposing the relaxed and bloodily oozing labia.  Blood spurted from her
sides in weakening rhythms; it pulsed more and more slowly from the
holes
in and around her breasts and nipples mixing with an increasingly milky
discharge.  Amazingly, unlike Justine, Tracy's bullet-abused body still
retained a wholeness and arousing beauty; this time the bullets did not
tear and explode, resulting in minor loss of body tissue.  Aziz knelt
down
and closely looked at Tracy's face as in the gold-flecked green eyes
the
pupils slowly dilated and tears rolled out; her face became relaxed,
her
mouth softened and he saw the pulsing, bubbling blood from her throat
and
mouth settle down and start to drain out more consistently and slowly.

Aziz watched her death throes intensely and, strangely enough, with
deep
regret; she was so beautiful and formidable; even as a woman she
deserved
respect; but, defeated, she was now paying the price for her audacity.A
small group of terrorists also gathered around.  In bloody, horrifying
beauty, Lt. Tracy Parker twitched without consciousness in her fingers
and
toes, gulped and grunted, and spastically gasped and wheezed. Suddenly,
her body stiffened and it seemed that for an instant she paused.  In
those
last moments the pain did not abate; but through its haze, she saw a
blue
sky and a flurry of white hats as they drifted slowly towards her face.
Her head moved; her mouth formed words: "Dad..., dad..., uhhhhh...,
T-Tom.... Uhhhhhh.... Ufh."  A convulsion shook her body; her nipples
spurted a stream of milky discharge; blood drained from her lips and
extremities leaving them cold.     And then she died in a slow gurgle. 
Her
now black eyes were wide open, her softly parted lips oozing blood;
blood
slowly discharged out of her nostrils and her ears.  Aziz stared at the
face; it was still stunningly beautiful even in this state.  It
appeared
to him that he could see a slight smile; but he shook his head for
having
such a silly notion.  Reaching down, he grabbed Tracy's pony-tail and
lifted her head; as he did, it turned away from him, her tongue lolled
and
blood spilled out of her mouth and on to the already deeply
blood-puddled
floor.                             At the base of the neck, he noticed
Tracy's hair was still whispy
and soft.  Releasing his grip, her head fell heavily against the wet
floor.                             Ripping the dented and bloody id
tags
from her neck, Aziz turned
and walked away from the corpse.  2 of Aziz's men grabbed Tracy's body
by
the feet and dragged her roughly towards a corner of the warehouse
where
they would prepare her for disposal.  They had done the same for the
other
2 American women; it seemed only reasonable that they do it for her,
too.

Now lifeless, Tracy's body was dragged by the feet behind the 2
terrorists, arms extended back behind her head, her full breasts
jiggling
as her body slid across the floor, leaving a  bloody trail in its wake.
She could not know that it was 0500 and that Wahoo was about to
rendezvous
with Lt. Tracy Parker as planned.



From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:31:48 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!ix.netcom.com!news
From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 16/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:31:48 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 543
Message-ID: <5kqvsk$616@dfw-ixnews5.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  5:31:48 PM CDT 1997


"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.

----------
Subject: The FInal Mission (Part 16)

Aboard the Wahoo, Dr. Lunt's virtual image of Lt. Tracy Parker had
momentarily flashed on the monitor.  That was at 0445. Already, Cmdr.
Diego had moved the boat from the primary rendezvous point to the
secondary location, but only 3 mile offshore.  Diego didn't want to
live
with the consequences of being out of range of a tired and potentially
injured fellow officer in her time of need.  "I know we're close in,"
he
had snapped at his CPO, Louise Boyd.  "But, I want to giver her as much
of
a chance as possible."  He still keenly felt a sense of guilt about the
deaths of Monroe and McKeeson in the previous 2 missions; if only he'd
been closer.  Perhaps, there was something he didn't do.  He looked at
Dr.
Lunt and Dr. Selig intently, probingly.  "What are they seeing," he
thought to himself.

Dr. Lunt was upset.  The image of the virtual Tracy had been frozen for
15
minutes.  The last image was of Tracy with her arms outstretched; on
the
monitor, it looked like a perverted crucifix -- the smooth
computer-generated figure of a naked woman.  But, what was of great
concern to Dr. Lunt was the last indication of vital signs.  They were
impossible.  "It has to be an error," she nervously told an equally
concerned Dr. Selig.  They both knew there had been some malfunction of
the implant.  But, what was now displayed was a heart rate that had
jumped
to 3 times normal and irregular while the blood pressure had sunk to
40%
below normal.  Then there was the image; it couldn't be real.  Other
readings indicated extreme pain and injury.  Superimposed on the frozen
virtual image, the information on all vitals flashed in red.  "It's not
right," Dr. Selig concluded.  In his mind, he couldn't accept that
another
beautiful woman had died.  But, Dr. Lunt looked at the incomplete and
inconsistent information and presumed the worst.  Her eyes became hot
and
her vision blurry.  "Not again," she breathed to herself, closed her
eyes
and bowed her head.

The rest of the crew were concerned.  No one said anything.  The humid,
stale air made everyone feel that much more nervous and uncertain. 
Unlike
nuclear submarines, the Wahoo had to surface routinely; not only to
exchange air and recharge batteries, but also because the cramped
environment was so brutal to human minds.  Low ceilings, narrow
passageways, dark lights and minimal comforts and privacy could take
its
toll -- especially on a crew so wound up over concern for another
person.
In the Navy, Diego noted as he watched the hushed faces of his crew,
they
were all brothers and sisters; and this was beginning to be too much.

"Forget her and just dump her at sea!"  Aziz turned and ordered the 2
terrorists dragging Tracy's body towards the corner of the warehouse
and
a
hose.  They looked at each other.  "But, Jamal," inquired the fat one,
"don't you want the pictures?"  Aziz had had pictures taken of the
other
2
women before he had disposed of the remains.  The fat terrorist was
Soo,
a
Chinese mercenary; the other, younger and more handsome was the
Canadian,
Mike Kent.  He had fought all over the world and in many uniforms; but,
Aziz's outfit had paid the best and was the most secure -- until
tonight.
By the hand of the dead woman he now held by a left foot, he had lost 4
friends and 1 lover.  Omar, Tony, Pepe, and Les had all been in various
outfits with him over the years; they all died first in the hallway. 
The
thin brunette in the bomb room and he had been lovers for 2 months. 
She
knew a lot about sex and was a lot of fun; he even found her fun to be
with in regular moments.  So, Mike Kent had no problem with just
throwing
away the body.                     He didn't care much for washing dead
women anyway.
"Jamal?"  Soo asked again.  Aziz stopped to think.

"Okay, wash her and give me a picture.  But, nothing more.  After that
take her out on the North side and throw her to the sharks.  Go 3 or 4
miles.                             That way she'll never wash ashore. 
They don't deserve to get her
back."  Aziz angrily turned and walked down the stairs and stopped by
Leta's small, bloody corpse.  He shook his head.  "This was not your
fault, Leta," he said quietly.  "You did well; you shot her, we killed
her, and you are avenged."  He took the toe of his boot and nudged
Leta's
head.  It lolled to the other side.  Reaching down, he picked her body
up
under the shoulders.  As he did, blood oozed thickly from her mouth and
a
bubbling noise and murmur came from her dead throat.  Aziz dragged the
girl's body towards the anteroom.

Inside, Aziz found that Khalid and his 3 companions' bodies had been
removed -- probably to the far end of the underground complex and the
incinerators.  Only Justine's cold and stiffening body remained.  He
let
Leta down gently, making sure her head touched the sticky,
foul-smelling
floor softly.  Leta's dead eyes were still open, her mouth still slowly
discharging thick fluid.  Aziz looked at them lying dead, side-by-side.
Justine wasn't as good as the American; Leta was too young.  He nudged
Justine's head with his toe.  Stiffened in death, it resisted.  All
around, the blood dried very slowly; the heat making everything stink
more.  Aziz stepped on through to the indoor pool.  "I need to bathe,"
he
told himself as he stiffly moved his injured arm.

Soo looked at Kent and shrugged.  He came back, bent over and picked up
Tracy's right foot.  "Come on," he motioned to the corner.  "Let's get
the
pictures and get rid of her.  Kent frowned at the dead body of Tracy
and
started dragging, too.

In the corner, they looked back and saw the trail of blood.  Tracy had
only been dead 5 minutes, so her body was still very relaxed and soft.
Soo looked at her.  "Look at her tits," he smiled and pointed.  Tracy's
nipples were still fully extended.  No bullets had struck them although
many had come close; they still ran freely with reddish, milky fluid. 
Her
breasts were still very full and tight, too; a result of the pills. 
Kent
looked at the rest of Tracy's body as it lay in bloody repose on the
floor.                             Her chest was a Swiss-cheese of
bullet
holes; every wound oozed
blood.                             The same was true for almost every
square inch of her body to
mid-thigh.  "Did you notice how she didn't die straight away?"  Kent
noted.                             "She must of suffered, the bitch. 
Oh
well, Soo.  Help me get her
up on the hook.  Ready?"  Kent and Soo lifted Tracy from under her
shoulders and sat her up.  Her head fell forward.  The set, dead eyes
didn't move; the long lashes shaded them unblinkingly.  Only Tracy's
mouth
showed any signs of movement as the jaw relaxed allowing the tongue to
hang freely out of her bloody mouth.  Dark blood oozed out and over her
already bloody chest.  In a clumsy move, the 2 men lifted her totally
limp
body to its feet and lifted her up.  Blood splattered on the floor as
the
new position allowed more fluid to find its way out through the many
new
openings in her body.  Even though she weighed less than 120 lbs. now,
the
2 terrorists had trouble negotiating the dead weight high enough to
hook
on the meat hook suspended from the ceiling.  Tracy's head fell back
and
to the side as Soo and Kent struggled with the limp form.

Finally, with a sickening crunch, Soo and Kent were able to impale
Tracy's
body on the hook.  It sunk into the flesh just below the battered
shoulder
blades.  Slowly, Tracy's corpse twisted slowly suspended from the hook.
Soo lifted Tracy's head and propped it back slightly while partially
closing her mouth.  Kent grabbed the hose and turned the nozzle on. 
Water
sputtered and then poured from the hose.  Aiming a steady stream at
Tracy,
he started to hose off the blood.  Tracy spun around as the water
splashed
over her remains.  Water streamed off of her from the top of her head
and
past her relaxed toes and long, tapered fingers; her bangs smoothed
over
her forehead and her pony-tail hung limply.  Through the streams of
water,
the wounds still bled leaving diluted, bloody trails on her skin.  Kent
turned off the water and stepped back.  Soo joined him.  "She pretty,
no?"
 Soo asked jokingly.  "Yeah, she's pretty all right."  Kent agreed. 
Even
like this, Tracy caused the Canadian to harden.  He licked his lips. 
In
front of him was a perfect body even with all the bullet holes
scattered
all over her body -- equally in front, over the breasts which still sat
up
like half-globes on her battered chest, on her sides, arms, thighs,
back
and buttocks.  Kent and Soo had each expended a clip on her before she
finally fell over.  And then Aziz let her have it with 15 or so rounds
on
top of that.  She didn't seem to realize, it seemed to him, that she
had
walked into a trap of 7 of Aziz's followers.  Of course, she looked
like
she had already been hit.  But, they had all fired into her.  And
following orders, no one had hit her in the face or head.  "Pretty good
shooting, too."  Kent said out loud.  He walked over to Tracy and ran
his
hand up and down her thigh; he reached up and fondled one of her
breasts.
Looking directly at her, he read with difficulty the id marks: "Parker,
Tracy, Lieutenant.  US Navy, USN3-something-3.    Well now, lady.
Permission to feel you up?"  Kent reached his hand under Tracy's vulva
and
fingered the soft labia.  Inserting his fingers, he touched something
hard
and foreign.  He stopped.  "Hey, Soo.  I found something in this
bitch's
snatch.  What're you hiding in there now, lady?"  Fingering the object,
he
finally caught it in between his 2 fingers and slowly withdrew it.  It
turned out to be a bullet -- bent and flattened, but whole.  "Better
watch
what you fuck, ma'am," Kent laughed as he showed Soo what he found
inside
Tracy.                             Soo nodded as he snapped 2
Polaroid's
in a row of the rapidly
paling body.

After the photos, the 2 terrorists prepared to dump the body.  Getting
Tracy off the hook was more difficult than getting her on, it appeared
to
Soo.  Kent grabbed Tracy around her midsection, his face very close to
her
crotch.  He turned and smiled at Soo.  "Look at this, will ya.  I've
got
some dead pussy here!"  Soo giggled like a pig.  Lifting her straight
up,
Kent gave Soo the chance to jump up and pull the large hook out of
Tracy's
back; it made a sucking sound as it was withdrawn.  Kent then allowed
Tracy's body to fall over his left shoulder as he walked over to a
wheelbarrow.  Soo and Kent used the wheelbarrow to transport Tracy's
corpse to a fast motor boat tied at the end of the dock.  Tipping it,
Kent
allowed Tracy to slip into Soo's waiting arms and into the bottom of
the
boat.  Kent undid the lines as Soo started up the engines.  It was
0523.

On board the Wahoo, Dr. Selig was the first to notice that the location
transponder in Tracy's damaged implant was beginning to register more
strongly.  The moment after, the sonar officer reported, "Con, SONAR!
We've got a fast boat approaching, bearing 249 mark!"  Diego woke up
from
his painful half-doze.             Dr. Selig spoke up, "Commander, I
think it's Lt.
Parker.  The transponder in her implant is becoming clearer."  He
looked
at Dr. Lunt.  She watched her monitor intensely.  No change; no new
information.  Perhaps Dr. Selig was right.  Perhaps, it was a
malfunction.
 Dr. Lunt dared not hope.  "Con, SONAR.  It's a motor boat approaching
at
24 knots.  It'll be on our position in 10 minutes."  Diego was
considering
his options.  It could be Tracy; it could also be terrorists with a
couple
of depth charges.  "Any active pinging?" Diego asked.  "Negative,
skipper," was SONAR'S reply.  Diego decided to wait.  The time started
to
drag.

On board the bouncing motor boat, Kent let the wet, salty air blow into
his face.  At this speed, the wind was much cooler than anyplace on the
island.  "Whew, Soo!  This is a lot better," Kent noted the cooler air
to
an equally appreciative Soo.  "It's cooler," Soo mimicked.  On the
deck,
Tracy's body lay very still.  Only her head rolled from side to side
with
each bump and bounce of the boat as it headed farther and farther out
to
sea.  At about 2 and a half miles, Kent looked at Soo. Soo motioned
with
his head to the starboard side.  There was a pile of Tracy's equipment,
or
what was left.                     Her battered and torn utility belt
lay
in a dirty mound
with her bent and dented field knife and sheath.  Among the battered
effects were the remnants of mylar tape that had been wrpped around
Tracy's waist, dented spare ammunition magazines, her broken torch, her
watch and her submachine gun; it had been hit with several rounds and
was
useless.  Kent threw the belt overboard with the other junk.  Then he
looked at the knife.  "Nadia, this bitch killed you," Kent said to
himself.  With that, he took the knife and sheath in his right hand and
walked over to where Tracy's body lay.  Spreading her legs apart, he
looked at the pale genital area; the vuvla was relaxed and the labia
parted slightly allowing a small dribble of blood to continue to
escape.
Looking at that spot, he reached down and pushed the knife in as far as
he
could; it made a squishing sound as it was inserted.  The Canadian
pushed
hard as he shoved the knife into Tracy until it was fully in her body,
the
end of the hilt protruding from between the lips of the genitals.  Kent
looked at Tracy and smiled.  "Didn't I tell you to watch what you fuck,
lady?"

On board the Wahoo, Diego, Lunt and Selig listened for the boat
approaching.  All of a sudden, Dr. Selig noticed that the transponder
signal had distorted.  "I can't understand it," he remarked to Diego. 
Dr.
Lunt stared at her monitor.  The virtual image had disappeared; the
data
gone.

Soo throttled back and allowed to boat to drift at idle.  Kent and he
lifted Tracy out of the boat and draped her over the port side.  Her
buttocks were round and soft.  Soo pinched one battered cheek to see
how
soft it was; then, the Chinese terrorist rubbed his hand on the
cratered,
soft, cool, dead flesh.  "It's a shame," he looked at Mike Kent.  Her
anus
was bloody but clean.  "Cleanest corpse I've ever seen."  Kent
remarked.
"I've seen a lot in my day.  And she doesn't even smell like shit," he
noted as he brought his nose close to her skin and inhaled.  Rolling
her
over, he looked into Tracy's dead, beautiful eyes; he ran his fingers
over
her lips and through her hair, gently.  "You would have been fun.  Too
bad
Aziz doesn't like to keep you types around for long."  He squeezed one
of
Tracy's dead breasts forcing more reddish milk out of the still long
nipple.  "Waste of a good breast.  Well, no use crying over spilled
milk,"
he grinned a sick grin, amused by his own sense humor. Soo and Kent
pushed Tracy's body into the water.  It fell in with a soft splash.

"Con, SONAR!  Object in the water.  Wait.  The boat is departing."  Dr.
Selig looked at his indicators.  The transponder was still
broadcasting;
it was very close.  But, it wasn't moving.  "Torpedo Room?"  Diego
yelled
into the intercom.   A voice responded scratchily from the other end.
"Get someone into the water and recover whatever it was they dropped. 
And
prepare a SUBROC.  I want to blow that damn boat out of the water.
Charlie," Diego looked with dead eyes at his EXEC, "you can fire when
ready."  Diego already knew what was coming back.  He closed his eyes
and
wanted to feel sick.  Dr. Selig had removed his glasses and stared
blankly
at nothing.  Dr. Lunt was softly, imperceptibly crying.  It was 0540.

The diver, Seaman Tom Di Angelo, a submariner from Rhode Island, left
the
boat through the same airlock Tracy had used at the start.  He was told
to
swim NE and look for anyone or anything that might be in the water.
Above, the surface seemed a very dark purple.  Dawn was coming. 
Suddenly,
silhouetted against the dawn light on the surface, he noticed the
outlines
of someone in the water.  He started to rise towards the person. 
Closer
now, he could see it was clearly a woman.  She seemed to be slowly
moving
her feet and arms; but without rhythm or purpose.  Closer now, he could
see that the woman was suspended about 9 ft. below the surface.  He
drew
up and stopped in shock.  Ahead was the floating body of the beautiful
girl he had seen on the sub almost 18 hours before.  She was naked and
covered in bullet wounds.  Her eyes were open, long-lashed and
haunting;
her mouth was slightly open.  Her arms were outstretched and her legs
spread apart.  Her full, long nippled breasts lightly shimmied as she
was
gently moved by the currents -- up and down, and left and right.  He
swam
alongside Tracy's dead body and pushed gently to make sure what he saw
was
real; each nudge caused her body to undulate sexily.  Tom Di Angelo
remembered the sories about nymphs and mermaids and quickly stopped
himself from comparing this naked body to those myths; he blinked.
Grabbing the body around the waist, he drew it close.  In their relaxed
state, Tracy's dead arms swung slowly around and seemed to embrace the
young diver.  He stared through his mask at the beautiful face; the
dark
eyes staring blankly back and through him, the parted lips, the softly
flowing hair.  He felt tears well up in his eyes; she was so pretty. It
wasn't right that she was dead.  Gathering himself, Seaman Di Angelo
started to swim back towards the sub, amazed that he wasn't more
repulsed
by the soft, dead body pressing against his.

Dr. Selig and Dr. Lunt waited with Cmdr. Diego by the airlock as the
diver
came back on board.  3 other crewmen adjusted the valves and quickly
drained and recompressed the chamber; then, they quickly spun the lock
and
opened the door.  The ashen diver held the thin, pale body of Lt. Tracy
Parker around the middle.  She was still limp; her skin covered in meat
red holes and gashes was grayish.  Dr. Lunt gasped.  Dr. Selig looked
away
with a grimace.  Cmdr. Diego mouthed a curse angrily and turned his
back.
At the hatch to the torpedo room, there was a murmur from some of the
crew
who had gathered to witness the recovery.  A few of the women started
to
cry; a fist was heard striking a bulkhead.  Gently, the diver carried
Tracy's body out of the airlock and, assisted by 2 other sailors,
carefully lifted her body and placed it on the long surgical table. 
Dr.
Lunt looked at Tracy with shocked and stunned eyes.  Tracy's eyes were
still open and black; though pale and bloodless, her skin still looked
smooth and soft; her breasts were full and the nipples long; overall,
the
body pock-marked with dozens of bullet wounds was shockingly intact. 
Dr.
Lunt covered her mouth and rushed to the wastebin and threw up. 
"Somebody
get her into a bag!" Cmdr. Diego yelled.  "Damn, damn, damn!  Damn that
Aziz, and damn that island."

The camera flash-popped as the photographer made another series of
photos;
full length, side, front, back, details.  The photographer moved around
quietly and efficiently.  "A few more, and then, I'll be done."  The
photgrapher, a female CPO, seemed curiously affected by her work this
time
-- not embarrassed as many tended to be as much as upset.  Except for
the
sink, a few glass cabinets and a desk in the corner, the slightly
chilly
room was bare and sterile. "Would you mind?" the photographer motioned
with her head.                     2 lab technicians rolled Tracy over
onto her side so the
Chief could get a set of pictures of the wounds to her back; as they
did,
a soft moan escaped from Tracy's throat.  "I didn't think those lungs
could hold any air," the coroner, Cmdr. Nathan Bernbaum noted to his
assistant, Nurse Ann Payne.  The flash-pops of the camera continued.
Tracy's body was pale and oblivious to the quiet activity; no thoughts
disturbed her; no memories were left to stir her.  "Thank you," the
photographer quickly said and left the autopsy room.  The 2 technicians
positioned the naked body of Tracy back on to her back and adjusted her
head.  Her hair had been brushed back.  Her heavily lashed eyes were
still
partially open, now looking half-asleep.  4 days after her recovery and
quickly returned to Tampa, Tracy's body was still fresh without a hint
of
bloating; the refrigerator aboard the Wahoo keeping her from
decomposing
more quickly.  The coroner read from a chart into a tape recorder.
"Parker, Tracy, Lieutenant.  Height 5' 8", weight approximately 118
lbs."
The coroner noted the artificial fullness of the breasts and the
extension
of the nipples, the lack of lividity due to the number of wounds and
lack
of blood.  He winced as he began to comprehend the number of times the
body had taken rounds.             His gloved hands held Tracy's; he
looked at the
fingers.  They were lacerated, but otherwise whole.  The same thing for
her feet.  A careful observation of the surface marks on her skin were
important prior to using the knife.  He made a note of the rigor, and
the
extremities.  Carefully, he put his hands on her body, gently probing,
pressing and shifting.             Along the torso, arms, opening and
then closing
her mouth, Bernbaum noted and observed.  Slowly, he made his way down
the
length of Tracy's body; he pressed the abdomen, felt the damage to the
pelvis.  It was then that he noticed the hilt of Tracy's field knife
barely exposed between the lips of the labia.  He stared, shocked.

Capt. Clement was waiting in the outside room.    She had been inside
when
Tracy's body was taken from the body bag and placed on the table.  She
tried to remain dispassionate as the photographer snapped the flash
photos
of her body.  But, looking at the abuse she had undergone at Aziz's
hands,
Clement could only imagine her last moments and had to leave.    By the
time the second SOU team was ready to leave for rendezvous with the
carrier, Wahoo had already reported Tracy's recovery.  She didn't know
if
Tracy had completed either mission objective.  SD-4 and 5 failed to
show
any movement positive or negative from the island.  But, Aziz was
confirmed alive.  Clement sat in the bare room shivering and trying
mightily from breaking into sobs.  The minutes passed into hours.
Finally, Bernbaum entered the waiting room.  He looked at Capt. Clement
soberly.  Clement stood up stiffly.  "Your officer died slowly.  She
had
39 bullets in her body, clad bullets, and there were over 129 entry and
exit wounds.  She didn't die until 3 minutes after the last round hit
her.
 I was able to recover the damaged implant and replay most of the data;
it
was amazing.  She was fully conscious and in pain until she died."  The
coroner's eyes were moist.  "I mean, Captain, she knew what was
happening
until the end.                     After she died, someone took her
knife
and mutilated her!
The bastards!  They mutilated her and abused her after she died.  It
looks
as though they used a meat hook to hang her up shortly after death. 
I....
I.... I've never seen anything like it before.  She hung on for so
long.
Why didn't she die?  She suffered so much."   He'd seen death in the
field; he'd done the autopsies on the other 2 and on Minton.  But, this
was different.                     Tracy had a black box.   And he
wasn't
prepared for the
detail he'd just played back.  He turned to go back to the examination
room.  Then, he stopped.  "Here, I found this inside her body."  He
handed
Capt. Clement the still wet from rinsing fragments of the SIMM. 
Clement
looked at the bits of chips in her left hand and squeezed her hand into
a
fist.  "Where are her tags?" Clement asked shakily.  "Tags?  There were
no
tags, Captain."



From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:32:13 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 17/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:32:13 GMT
Organization: Netcom
Lines: 304
Message-ID: <5kqvtd$i30@sjx-ixn10.ix.netcom.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com
X-NETCOM-Date: Wed May 07  3:32:13 PM PDT 1997


"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.
----------
Subject: The FInal Mission (Part 17-end)

Jamal Aziz had recovered fully from his wounds.  Justine was missed but
nearly forgotten.  Leta never intruded on his thoughts.  But, Tracy
Parker; she was constantly in his mind.  He kept the fax picture of her
and her tags with him, as he did the dented tags of the other 2.  Her
death photos were with him as well.  She was beautiful.  Her deadliness
aroused him; and her painful death at his hands was very satisfying. 
But,
lying in the sun on the beach in Borneo, he tried to put her out of his
mind; he was now trying to get a tan.  The bomb was useless; the
American
had somehow managed to sabotage it.  He never found the missing piece.
And his movement was set back.     Of course, he did retaliate by
bombing
American interests in 3 continents on 1 day; that was a tour de force.
Only 300 or so people died, unfortunately.  But, he had a huge bank
account.  By rights, he was a very wealthy man.  As he lay tanning and
relaxed in his Speedo, he decided to not think about work and enjoy the
well-deserved holiday he had given himself.  As he stared to nap, the
soft
blue waves rolled on to the soft white sand.  The skies were deep blue.
"Beautiful," Aziz sighed.

He awoke to find a beautiful woman standing over him.  She had long,
dark
and straight hair, almost past her shoulder blades.  She was barely
covered in a minimal bikini; her small breasts were tight and round;
the
bikini top was essentially 2 small triangles covering the obviously
long,
hard nipples underneath.  Jamal smiled.  The woman's body was pale and
creamy despite the intense sun.  She was thin but very well shaped,
clearly defined and sexy.  She wore a thong which revealed her tight
and
small, round buttocks; the small triangle of fabric in the front of her
thong only covered the crotch and pubic hairs.    Her legs were long;
but
she was small; perhaps 5' 5" in height.  She smiled and licked her
lips.
Removing her sunglasses revealed the most beautiful pale blue eyes he'd
ever seen.

"Pardon, monsieur!"  she said breathlessly.  She was French.  "Je vous
en
prie," he responded graciously.  "You're French?" she answered in kind.
Jamal looked at the little woman.  She was definitely grown up, mature.
He positioned his very muscular and well-tanned body strategically to
bring out the best features; the scars left by Tracy's bullets added to
his machismo and his allure.  He moved his hips; looking at this woman
made him hard.                     "I'm so sorry for disturbing your
nap. 
I was running and
looking another way entirely when I fell into your lap!"  She had a
bright
and charming laugh; a laugh that only French women had mastered.  "No
disturbance at all, mademoiselle," Jamal was already making love to her
with his eyes.                     She laughed, again.  "My name is
Francois Benoit.  And
yours?"  Jamal had used one of his many pseudonyms.  "I do not think I
want to tell you," she answered provocatively.  "Enchante," Jamal
reached
and kissed her right hand.  The woman blushed.

From there, it was an easy progression from drinks and conversation, to
romantic dinner, to bed.  Jamal never doubted his ability to conquer
this
blossom of French femininity.  And it was obvious that this beautiful
woman was experienced in the art of love, as well.  In the evening,
after
dining, they stood close together on the terrazzo of the resort.  The
resort was exclusive and extremely expensive.  Jamal doubted if there
were
more than a 1000 people in the world who could afford to stay there for
more than 3 days.  Therefore, he was quite intrigued when shene had
told
him that she'd been staying there for 2 weeks and was planning to stay
3
weeks more "because it makes me feel so free," she whispered in soft
French tones.  Of course, he had quietly confirmed that she'd had
stayed
that long; he also found out her name: simply S. C.; she was a very
important person indeed to rate such discretion.  So, she must be very
rich.  They both looked over the bay toward the full moon.  Jamal
gently
grasped the small woman by the shoulders and turned her towards
himself.
He looked down at her.             She was looking to his feet.  He put
his finger
under her chin and softly encouraged her to look into his eyes, bent
down
and kissed her passionately.  She kissed back with an equal, almost
animal
lust.  Her blue eyes flashed and she looked at him in confirmation.

They rolled into bed together and managed to discard their clothing
quite
quickly.  He, his Armani tuxedo shirt, pants and underwear; she, her
minimal black dinner dress.  Her magnificent diamond and emerald
necklace
hung around her long neck as she lay on top of him, looking down on to
his
face.  She smiled subtly and slightly wickedly as she started to kiss
his
chest.                             Her tongue worked its way down
towards
his large and fully erected
penis.                             He pulsed from desire, and she
started
to touch the tip with her
tongue.  Jamal closed his eyes.  Justine used to do this the same way;
and
he enjoyed it very much.  He wondered if she'd appreciate rougher play
later on.  Suddenly, he felt his organ disappear in her mouth and the
incredible sensation of her tongue and the back of her throat against
it.
Slowly she withdrew it from her mouth and licked again and again.  As
she
moved her tongue from his scrotum, to the base of his penis, to its
tip,
in and out and back again, her found that he came easily in her mouth.
She
sucked and swallowed fully.  And as she finished, she slid her warm
body
up to his face and presented her soft, moist vulva to him for
reciprocation.                     He obliged.

The woman felt Jamal's tongue move softly around the lips of her
swelling
labia.                             She felt herself shiver as she he
wiggled his wet tongue around
the clitoris and in-between the lips of her genitals.  His lips touched
her labia fully, and he breathed lightly, sending small waves of
sensual
excitement through her body.  He licked and mouthed her genital area
provocatively and accurately.  His tongue moved exactly the way
necessary
to cause the most soft and delicious arousal.  As time progressed and
she
accepted his frequent and hot tongue into her vulva, she felt the
shivers
of passion increase more and more, until she felt a small spasm flash
through her body and her head become light from her first orgasm.  Now,
she slipped Jamal into herself and started to move rhythmically up and
down.  She moaned and sighed as his very hard penis massaged her deep
inside her vagina.  He was long and hard and as she slipped his organ
in
and out, he assisted by twitching in anticipation of an orgasm.  She
opened her mouth and made a soft cooing sound.

Jamal was impressed as she worked this way until he came.  She followed
almost immediately.  and as he drew her to his lips, she still held him
firmly.  He kissed her.  Her lips were hot and wet.  Not like Justine,
he
thought.  He reached for her hand and held it in his tightly.  He
definitely would have to try something more violent with her.  "She can
take it," he said to himself.  He looked at the hand he was holding.
Though the light was dim, he could still see that it was delicate and
long-fingered.                     But, he stopped suddenly.  It was
terribly scarred.  "What
happened to your beautiful hand, lamile," Jamal asked.  "It was injured
in
an accident," she answered breathlessly.  She stopped her rhythmical
contractions.  Jamal, tired from pleasure, was idly curious; he wanted
to
know what type of accident could cause such scarring.  "It was long
ago,"
her voice sounded cold and far away.  Jamal was surprised as the woman
started to purr in Arabic.  It was tinged with French. "She must be
Algerian," he mused.  "You think that women aren't the equal of men, my
love," the woman sounded mystical; her voice was hypnotic.  "A woman is
not a man," Jamal responded.  "But, a woman can conquer any man," the
voice continued.  "What do you mean, my little one?" Jamal asked
amusedly.
 "I can conquer you with my love; I can conquer you with a smile and my
softness as easily as you would a man with a gun or a bomb.  Just as
you
are now," the woman's voice now caressed and soothed him.  "I'm sure,
my
dear, you may do whatever you want."  Jamal laughed softly.  Now in
French, the woman spoke, "What shall we do, now?  Do you want to hurt
me?
Make me cry?  Make me moan in pain and pleasure?  Will that make you
feel
more like a man?"  The woman softly kissed Jamal.  " Tonight, you'll
feel
something you've never felt.  It will be fantastique.  I swear it, my
love."  The woman had now stopped her contractions; Jamal was less
rigid
inside of her.                     She had calmed him too much, he
thought, mildly annoyed.
Suddenly, he remembered his question about the hand.  "Chere, what did
happen to your hand?"  He felt his penis as it slid out of the woman's
vagina.  "None of your fucking business." was the quiet reply in
English
as a knife slid across Aziz's throat; not deep enought to kill; only
deep
enough to prevent his screams.     He tried to yell, but no sound
emerged
except the gurgling of his breath and blood; he reached out to grab the
neck of his naked attacker.  Susan Clement straddled him with a large
military blade in her scarred hand.  Her blue eyes, so beautiful, were
now
caught in the moonlight -- icy and cold.  Silently, as his hand touched
her neck, she drew the blade up his penis, splitting in half.  Blood
streamed over her and the sheets.  His hand froze just out of reach of
Clement's neck.  Aziz looked down in horror as the pain hit his mind
and
tried to scream; blood gushed from his neck and both of his hands
reflexively grabbed at his throat.  He screwed up his face in agony. 
"For
Patty!"  Clement silently hissed as she buried the knife into the space
above his left testicle.  "For Trish!"  The same blade sunk deeply into
the space above the right one.     "And this is for Tracy, you fucking
son of
a bitch!"  With that, Clement buried the knife deep into the spot above
the base of Jamal's penis and slowly pushed the razor sharp blade up
and
through Jamal's midsection.  "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"  she wailed as
she
felt inhuman rage seemingly spill out of her body and on to Aziz's
mutilated form.  A shower of hot blood covered her beautiful, naked
form.
She jumped off as Jamal Aziz's intestines spilled out of his abdomen
and
unraveled like some sick party favor over his body and sheets.  
Jamal's
eyes froze in a hideously contorted squint as the pure agony he felt
gave
way unabated to a slow and tortured death.  Susan Clement stepped back
and
coldly observed the end.  His naked body weakly kicked; his arms moved
up
and down.  Blood from the severed arteries and veins pulsed in little
geysers from his various wounds.  Bubbling and gurgling sounds were
mixed
with the stomach-turning stench of Aziz's bladder emptying and stomach
gasses exhausting from spots they weren't meant to.  But, too quickly
in
Susan Clement's estimation, Jamal Aziz convulsed and died.

Clement looked at the mangled corpse on the bed.  She was dripping in
his
blood; mixed in was her own sweat and the freely flowing tears from her
eyes.                              She looked around the room.  Her
bloody hands quickly and quietly
opened every drawer; bloody stains covered Aziz's shirts, pants,
underwear, as Clement searched.  Now, into the valises, the bloody,
naked
Clement opened each one and tore methodically away at the linings.
Finally, in the lining of a small briefcase, she found what she was
looking for: 3 sets of id tags, 4 photos and one fax.  She looked at
each
item carefully trying not to breakdown and start crying on the floor.
McKeeson, Monroe, Parker: each dead face stared up at her.  Clement
closed
her eyes and rocked herself back and forth as she sat cross-legged on
the
floor; she started to shake slowly and then more violently as she began
to
cry.  Tonight she had paid back a terrorist for the deaths of 3
sisters.
But, what had she done to herself?  So, Susan cried for herself, for
the
3
women dead by Aziz's hand, for her husband, and for her child.  In the
soft moonlight, a small naked body, drenched in Jamal Aziz's blood
bawled
like a baby.

After bathing and drying, Clement quickly dressed and got ready to
leave
the room.  Into her small clutch, she put away the tags, photos and
fax.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw the small face of a farm girl
from Pennsylvania, now a Captain in the US Navy: a leader, an officer,
and
the killer of men.  Once more, she turned to look at her victim; the
blood
was thoroughly soaked into the matress and sheets; Aziz's intestines
were
bluish-white in the low light of the room.  His face was frozen in a
horrible grimace; it was as though his very soul had been ripped out of
his body at the moment he died.  Susan shivered slightly as she viewed
her
"work."  The low light caught the sapphire blue of her eyes sparkling
in
cold remorse.  Clement pursed her lips and caught herself starting to
say
something flip; but, she stopped herself.  "Maybe I did it for myself,
too," she whispered.  Tuning back around, she opened the door, placed
the
Do Not Disturb sign on the door knob, and left.

THE END
I DO NOT KNOW WHO THE AUTHOR IS BUT HATS OFF TO HIM/HER FOR A GREAT
STORY