From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:19:06 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!news-peer.gsl.net!ix.netcom.com!news 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 Message-ID: <5kqv4q$cug@sjx-ixn8.ix.netcom.com> 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 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 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 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!feed1.news.erols.com!howland.erols.net!ix.netcom.com!news 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> NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com 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 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 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 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 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 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 6/17 Date: 7 May 1997 22:22:51 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 371 Message-ID: <5kqvbr$5sf@dfw-ixnews5.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com 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 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 8/17 Date: 7 May 1997 22:24:23 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 415 Message-ID: <5kqven$bj3@dfw-ixnews4.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com 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 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 10/17 Date: 7 May 1997 22:26:06 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 428 Message-ID: <5kqvhu$22k@dfw-ixnews11.ix.netcom.com> 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 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 11/17 Date: 7 May 1997 22:26:28 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 289 Message-ID: <5kqvik$e57@sjx-ixn3.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: vie-va11-12.ix.netcom.com 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 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!feed1.news.erols.com!howland.erols.net!ix.netcom.com!news 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 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 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 Lines: 553 Message-ID: <5kqvqe$aqu@dfw-ixnews7.ix.netcom.com> 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 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 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