Message-ID: <15076eli$9809080543@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Apuleius of Madaura Subject: RP: The Final Mission (complete) by Spook (MF violence) [1/2] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <3.0.5.32.19980908183606.007c8100@poboxes.com> Reposter's note: previously, I posted the first few chapters of this story. I have since become aware that there are many more chapters, and so here is the complete text. The only source is a *very* badly formatted post by Red Dragon from last year; I have gone through and corrected the line lengths and technical errors. This explains the rather uneven appearance after the initial chapters. Pleased be warned that this story contains graphic violence, particularly in the later chapters. I am not the author of this story, obviously. - Apuleius ---------------------------------------------- The Final Mission By Spook "The Final Mission," first posted late last year, is the story of Lt. Tracy Parker, a member of the US Navy's Special Operations Unit, the "Sweet SOUs." Beautiful, intelligent, deadly, her mission is to stop a madman with a nuclear bomb. 2 others have tried before her. Both have failed. I have reformatted into 17 chapters. Part 1 Alexi Garazimov looked at himself in the reflection of the dirty storefront window. Pouting he removed his hat and wiped the dull gold and spotted brim with his woolen sleeve. At 6' 2", he was a tall, handsome Russian. His dark brown eyes and nearly black hair belied his Tartar roots. In him, he remebered his father saying often, there was the blood of conquerors. Now, he was an officer in a once proud military of a once-upon-a-time world power; a Lt. Colonel in the armed forces of a shabby, empoverished and petty country; its currency worthless; the government overtly and clumsily ineffective and corrupt. Of course, the government was always corrupt; but, now the corruption was on the surface, like a stain that blemished the once polished image the Soviets presented to the world and to itself. Garazimov felt himself stained, too. 5 years ago, he lived very well-buying what he needed from the military post exchanges and hard currency stores, providing an almost luxurious life for himself and his wife and 2 children. A mistress on the side was satisfied by his lovemaking and the 2 cartons of Marlboro cigarettes per week and a supplement to her meat ration. Now, he could barely scrape enough together to pay for the on-base 2 room flat that satirized the idea of what was a home in post-Soviet Russia, potato soup 4 nights a week and the occasional drunken binge in the officer's club; even vodka cost money. So, he reasoned, if the system couldn't pay him what he deserved, he would do what he had to to get the hard currency he needed to survive. "Everyone else does it," he rationalized to himself. "So, why not me?" Garazimov heard the approaching car and smoothed out the wrinkles in his impressive uniform. The perfect place for a rendezvous, Factory City 452 had been abandoned soon after Yeltsin's 2nd term began and the economic situation worsened. Formerly one of many nameless towns across central Russia involved with the manufacture and storage of nuclear weapons, the residents moved away as soon as the government was unable to pay the workers and the military for their loyalty and patriotism. It was now a ghost town. Empty and far from any people, Garazimov found it appropriate that he should complete his business here. A late-model Mercedes pulled up near him and stopped. Garazimov watched as a tall, dark man with sunglasses stepped out from the back seat on one side; the man was Western, handsome, and obviously very rich. In the old days, Garazimov would have labelled him "decadent." As he considered the man, he noticed a 2nd occupant get out of the car from the other side. A dark, long-legged woman, she was stunning. "You have the item?" the rich man asked non-chalantly. "Did you bring the case," Garazimov answered. The rich man hefted a large briefcase; it was apparently heavy. "One million dollars." Garazimov felt his mouth go dry. He tried to swallow. He straightened himself out into near attention, turned and walked deliberately into the empty store. Momentarily, he emerged pushing a cart on which rested a dark olive drab crate, about the size of 2 coffins laid one on top of the other. He pushed it up towards the rich man and stopped. "It's yours, sir." Garazimov smiled nervously. The rich man undid the clasps on one side of the crate and lifted up the top. As he looked inside, he smiled. "The money is yours, my friend," the rich man handed the briefcase to the Russian. "Use the money in good health. And good luck." Garazimov stepped back and dropped to one knee. Opening the briefcase, he saw, neatly stacked and wrapped, the unique greenish gray print of the US dollar, 1 million dollars' worth. Garazimov was moved beyond words; so moved that he didn't notice as the long-legged companion of the rich man removed a small pistol from her handbag and pointed it at his head. Suddenly, a small lorry turned up the road and roared noisily towards them. This broke the Russian's attention long enough so that he looked right into the barrel of the pistol held by the beautiful, long-legged woman. "If you'll turn to your left now, please, lieutenant," the female petty officer asked. Her voice echoed slightly in the empty examination room. Lt. Tracy Parker turned nonchalantly to her left. These were her "graduation" photos after all, she thought. But, no graduation like she or anyone else ever had. All Special Operations Unit members were required to have these shots taken before missions. An additional way of identifying the bodies should the worst occur. Tracy left her mind wander as the flash-pop of another set of close-ups were taken of her head, each limb, torso, identifying marks -- now on her right side. She was thinking of Tom and graduation from the Academy 2 years ago, her application to the new Special Operations Unit, the "Sweet SOUs" because of the all-female composition of the units, the incredible physical and psychological training, and the satisfaction she felt about being 5th in a class of 32 women -- 32 women of an original 75 entrants. She and her 31 "sisters" survived basic training while witnessing the other 43 disappear one by one-some because they couldn't handle the stress and abuse, some because of fatal carelessness during basic. "Better now than in the field," she remembered their Marine DI growl after each accidental death. Those words had always left her with a chill. They echoed in her mind when tracers were crackling past her in her last mission, and now, they came back to her again. "Pretty cold," she whispered under her breath. She closed her eyes and sighed slightly. "S'cuse me lieutenant?" the photographer asked. "Oh, nothing!" Tracy quickly responded. She didn't realize she had spoken aloud. "I know, ma'am. Couple sets left, that's all." The petty officer was chirpy and that seemed to annoy her slightly. Tracy refused to suspect she was more nervous about the mission than she let herself feel. She was number 3. The first 2 SOUs didn't complete the mission and came back in bags. The photos were important in identifying the remains, she remembered being told. Of course the petty officer didn't know that. She just thought Tracy was cold in her SOU outfit. Actually, Tracy's outfit was a basic bikini-an old-fashioned bikini for the particular location where she was going. "Leave it to the DOD and the Navy to design a khaki string bikini," she thought sarcastically. Name over the left breast, "US Navy" over the right. On the bottoms, the same was repeated on either side of the pelvis with an id number underneath the name. The same id was on the left cup of the top under the name. Amazingly, the suit was a thin polyester-cotton blend with no padding and held together with Velcro strips. Supposedly, research indicated Velcro had the most endurance and survivability in water and land action; aided in removal during triage, as well. All Tracy knew was that anyone could see what they wanted to see when she wore this outfit. "If you'll undress now, please," the photographer quietly asked. Even though the photographer was female and a petty officer, it was obvious to Tracy that she wasn't 100% about this part. Front and back shots without clothes; same series: full length, head, limbs, torso, identifying marks. Tracy undid the Velcro fasteners and was quickly naked in the empty white room. She had her field knife sheathed and strapped tightly midway up her left thigh. The light-weight ammo belt and holster - basically a covered nylon cord with her .45 and holster, 2 ammo clips and a small utility pouch draped loosely over her right hip. Around her waist was an 1 inch wide mylar strip repeating "Navy" all the way around that drooped slightly below her small navel. Her tags were around her neck; a pair, the edges wrapped in black rubber, they lay very neatly between her breasts. Strapped around her left bicep was her 2nd, small utility pouch. In it were 2 "suicide" capsules-just in case. "Lt. Tracy Parker," the petty officer began. Tracy didn't realize the photographer was required to record a description as well. She was slightly surprised. The petty officer continued, "Female, brown hair, aged 25. Height: 5 feet, 8 inches, weight: 123 pounds." Tracy was a very tight 121 pounds, actually. Tanned because of her training routine, she didn't have any tan lines. "Practice" was with and without clothes-day or night, rain or shine, in the tropics and in the snow. A very nice long-legged 34-23-33 with graceful arms and long-fingered hands, her breasts were round, firm, and lifted , like small domes capped by perfect half inch, pinkish nipples surrounded by small pinkish areoles. (Her nipples were standing up because the room was chilly, and she was naked.) Although not overtly muscular (it didn't run in her family), her body was well-defined-the muscles easily distinguishable, ribs slightly visible as regular shadows on either side of her torso and flat, rippled abs. "Small mole above right nipple, light brown in color. 2 very small pink moles on left side of navel, 10 o'clock, and small dark mole above right side crotch 11 o'clock." Above her crotch was a soft, small triangular pillow of reddish brown pubic hairs. Tracy was a soft brunette with reddish highlights. Her hair was regulation cut, in her case a longish page boy, 2 inches below her ears with eyebrow level bangs, slightly parted in the middle. Her face was angular with a pointed nose with a straight bridge and perfect nostrils. She had middling lips: not thin, not full; but they were dark pink even without any make-up-and Tracy wasn't wearing make-up. When she smiled, a dimple appeared just to the right of her mouth. Her cheek bones were not too high or too obvious. Her chin was small but well-defined and square. Her dark green eyes were flecked with gold-large and almond shaped, set nicely, full with dark, long lashes. Her neck was long, but not Audrey Hepburn long; just long enough. Every midshipman for 4 years had tried to get her in bed. Only Tom had succeeded. Now, he was gone. "No abrasions or lacerations seen, no evidence of contusions. Please turn around, lieutenant." The camera continued its flash-pops and the photographer continued her photographic monologue. Each flash highlighted the small goose-bumps raised on Tracy's skin and the soft downy hairs on her arms and at the base of her neck. On Tracy's naked skin was further identification. In blue ink (not indelible, but long-lasting for the mission), on her right breast, above her right nipple was written in small, legible characters, her name, rank and serial number; on her left breast was "US Navy." High on her left and right buttocks, the same was written, very small and discrete, but legible. In addition, very close to her crotch, where the right leg met her pelvis, her id number was written in small but legible characters. Worst case scenario, again, she was told. Naked and facing the wall, she just blanked out her mind and let herself drift. This was going to be a dangerous and high probability mission. "If a person has it in their mind," her DI was fond of saying, "that they gunna die, they'll usually find a way of doing jus' that. So, you never goin' to die, right?" Tracy remembered the "sisters" yelling "No fuckin' way, Gunny!" at the top of there lungs and grinning at each other. 32 young women, and they were going to live forever. Only now, there were 30. "Turn around again, ma'am?" Tracy turned back for her final full length photo, sucked it up a bit, posed and smiled; "Just like Penthouse," she thought provocatively to herself-naked, beautiful, and confident. Part 2 Lt. Tracy Parker had just finished the photo session. She was in the adjoining room and had removed her SOU swimsuit. After glancing at her attractive nakedness in the full length mirror on the back of the door for a few minutes, she thought, "Not bad. Too bad I can't get copies for boyfriends." She looked at the pile of clothes on the chair and smiled to herself. Crisply, she slipped the cups of her bra over each breast and fastened the front closure with a quick twist. After some minor adjustment-a tuck on the left and a lift on the right-she slipped on her bikini bottom, sat down and pulled her panty hose over her legs; first her right leg-running her hands up from the feet to make sure the lines were all straight-then her left. Her long legs were shapely with thin ankles. Her feet were size 9 but thin and pointed-the 2nd toe slightly longer than the rest. Even with the training regime and periodic comprehensive re-examinations, she had managed to maintain an almost delicate femininity in her look and the soft, silky feel of her skin. In an instant, she had on her regulation khaki shirt with insignia, a couple of ribbons and the SOU badge; slipped on her slacks and cinched the belt. The gold bars of a lieutenant glinted in the fluorescent lights. Tracy was standing in front of the mirror in her stocking feet, making sure everything was ship-shape, when Capt. Susan Clement knocked on the door and poked her head around into the room. "You decent?" she asked. Most people would have been joking. But, for Capt. Clement, there was no such thing as a joke. She stepped into the room. "Looks are deceiving," thought Tracy as she gave the captain a quick once over. 35 years old, Naval Intelligence, some covert operations work, Capt. Clement was 5' 5", 115 lbs. max, with straight blond hair pulled back to a very Navy ponytail. She was thin, flat chested and very pretty-belying her Pennsylvania farm girl roots. And she had incredibly cold blue eyes. That, matched with her ability to deliver every line without an expression of emotion, plus the fact that she successfully fought the male military leadership to create the SOU, made her an intimidating CO. She was also a legend among the covert operations community having completed 11 successful solo missions over her 10 year career and was known for delivering maximum damage to her targets. "I know you're due at Andrews in 2 hours and you probably haven't slept since your arrival from Tampa. But, we need to go over a couple of changes to the routine," Capt. Clement delivered the lines like a laser printer: crisply and effortlessly. Tracy furrowed her brow. "Changes?" Tracy asked. "Yeah, something's turned up on the SD-5 we re-tasked yesterday. My office 5 minutes." And then Capt. Clement was gone from the room. No salutes; no time for an aye-aye, nothing. Short, sweet and to the point. As Tracy put on her shoes, she began to get an unsettled feeling. Change was a bad word this close to an SOU "jump"-launching of a mission. Despite careful planning, 2 were dead. She wasn't going to be number 3 in a rush. In Capt. Clement's office, Tracy was struck by the overt masculinity of the setting. Everything was regulation; battleship gray metal and green vinyl chairs, Korean War issue officer's desk, 2 bookcases filled with non-descript black binders labeled "SOU 0101," etc. On the wall were 3 large round plaques: the DOD, the Navy Department, and the SOU. SOU had a stylized Calypso similar to the Cousteau Society's; just more American and Deco looking. But, Cousteau's Calypso didn't kill for a living. Tracy let her eyes scan the room. Surprised, she suddenly noticed a small photo of a man, Navy captain, and a boy about 2 years old on the captain's desk in a definitely non-regulation Edwardian silver frame. "So, Suzy-Q has a kid," thought Tracy as she overtly glanced at the photo twice. All the "sisters" referred to Capt. Clement as "Suzy-Q because she wasn't anything like the song. "My Joshua," Capt. Clement broke the silence noticing Tracy's interest in the photo. "My husband Steven was SEAL team before we met 5 years ago. Got married 2 years ago and had Joshua right away." Tracy was slightly embarrassed at the personal content of the words she was hearing. "Thought we wouldn't or couldn't later with everything. But, Steve's with the CNO at the JCS now, and I'm strictly a desk jockey." As Capt. Clement laughed, for the first time as far as Tracy could remember, she placed her hands on the desk. Her left hand was badly scarred. Suddenly, Capt. Clement's face went cold. "Parker, let's hear it from the top, " she asked softly. So, Tracy went over the jump plan verbally with one of the only 3 people allowed to know the details of the mission. "0100 hours, I transfer from transport and swim 4 miles to designated start point. Allowing for heavy seas, I will be at start at 0215. Dive to coordinates Alpha Hotel 015 designated Entry Point Baker as scouted by Recon 2 and 3 by 1000 on night of jump. Without their O.K., the jump's cancelled. If it's a go, they can't assist and won't be available during the duration of mission. Entry at Point Baker is 33 feet below surface, a narrow cave running northeast approximately 1 mile underneath the island. At 0250, I surface in a cavern designated Jump 1, set-up and climb 20 feet to designated entrance to facility. Make my way to storage area and disable the bomb. Afterwards, I will disrupt operations in facility to greatest extent possible given time and resistance, make my way back to Jump 1, through to Point Baker and rendezvous with transport at 0415 hours. If Jump 1's not available, there's only one entrance to ground level and the pier. And I know, if I have to use it, I'm fucked," Tracy smiled slightly. Capt. Clement's face didn't even twitch. Tracy concentrated, "Evac at ground level will be made from the pier on the island's north side and a point 6 miles offshore. Transport will be there at 0500 and wait only 15 minutes." Tracy had computed the distances and times over and over. Plans detailed through the use of the SD-4 satellite indicated a medium sized underground complex of bunkers and storage used by the Shining Light terrorists. She knew every corridor and exit in the site. The SD-4 satellite had the ability to trace structures underground through ultra-sensitive ground penetrating radar and low level radiation scans. The terrorists thought that by burying their facility in the relatively hot ground of a volcanic island, they'd be safe from overhead detection. They were wrong. But, they had the Bomb. And she was the 3rd attempt at knocking it out without irradiating Micronesia. The Shining Light was a loosely Muslim extremist organization headed by a Jamal Aziz, aged 35 years, Lebanese Christian by birth. Now he was leading a jihad against the enemies of the Muslim world and, specifically, against Western capitalists. A real throw-back to more political Marxist terrorists of the 70's and 80's, Aziz was known as the Liberator of Souls-probably due to his work in Morocco and Algeria in the mid '90's killing priests and nuns and the massacre at the synagogue in Haifa when he and his terrorists executed 247 worshippers in 1996. He had followers in the Middle East, Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia, and among many powerful and rich Muslims. In return for their assistance, he was promising the usual rewards: control of oil reserves, Western submission, the return of Palestine. "Please don't take this lightly, Parker," Capt. Clement commented without emotion. "I've lost Monroe and McKeeson in the last 2 go arounds. I don't want to lose you. Uncle Sam has invested lots of taxpayer money to ensure your survivability in this type of action." Tracy knew the reasons for sending the SOU instead of Special Forces, Delta, SEALS or CIA. They were just better; better than the men in those units and better than any special unit in the world. They'd demonstrated their stuff in the Straits of Hormuz in late '95, again in Baghdad in early '96. And against the drug lords in China, Malaysia, Myanmar, and Latin America, SOU was the source of continuing nightmares and paranoia for the drug business beyond anything felt in the early 1990's. SOU actives worked alone for maximum mobility and were trained hard to be very lethal. "Parker, you did well on Rosario Island last year. The Navy Cross is clear indication of that. Our Mexican friends haven't even figured out it was us. But, Aziz's a loose cannon and unpredictable. According to forensics, his men use clad bullets. 12 rounds were found in Monroe and 8 rounds in McKeeson; there were 58 entry and exit wounds in what was left of her. Monroe had 49 of the same type of wounds in her torso and upper body. Strangely enough, their faces hardly had a scratch," the captain clinically noted from a file. "But, I thought only the Swiss military uses clad bullets, and they aren't available outside the country. More important, they don't stop as well. I don't get it," Tracy puzzled aloud. Clad bullets left clean entry and exit points, did minimal internal damage as opposed to the hollow, blunt, and filled heads in US ammo. If Patty and Trish were killed with this ammo, Aziz's men had to use more of it or be very accurate. According to the pathologist who examined their remains, both women took dozens of rounds and died only towards the end of their ordeals. Aziz's men, apparently, weren't that good shots. "Well, he might use the ammo out of some sort of prestige thing. You know: it's Swiss; he has it and nobody else does," Tracy volunteered, "In any case that increases my survivability, doesn't it?" "The point is," Capt. Clement calmly spoke, "that 2 didn't make it. They should've, and they didn't. We don't know what happened inside; their last moments; how far they got; what tripped them up. Furthermore, the pathologist who examined McKeeson thinks that the pattern of fire in what was left of her remains indicates that she was meant to suffer-entry and exit wounds indicated that they were meant to cause suffering but not immediate death. We all know he's a sadist. But, he's seems to be well-informed, too. He knew we were coming and when. For that reason, you, Kate and I are the only ones who know about the operational aspects of this jump. Not even the skipper of the sub knows what's up. Don't take this lightly." "He might be that good after all," was Tracy's only thought. And she felt a slight shiver run up her spine when she thought of Trish and Patty. "Now, about those changes," Clement went on emotionlessly. "First, the first 2 used Point Baker and Jump 1. I'm not confident about their viability anymore. So, I've redesignated jump to Point Delta. It's longer, narrower and deeper; approximately 47 feet below and 1.5 miles running dead North. Same type of cavern structure is indicated at the end. Only, it's smaller. Accordingly, I've bumped the jump to daylight 1200 the following day. Meteorology indicates a system moving in so the seas will be heavy, visibility bad, and after sundown, there'll be no moonlight. Accordingly," Clement started reading from her notes, "you'll jump at 1200, rendezvous will be at 0430 and secondary will be in place at 0515. That puts it half and hour before light. Again the seas will be heavy. But, I think you'll need the time. From Point Delta, you'll have to climb to the surface. Facility entry point will require you to go cross-country east for 2 miles to a hot spring at coordinates Hotel. You'll ingress the facility through a water discharge grate in their power room. It's tricky, I know. You'll have to dive to 42 feet just to access the discharge tube. It's appears to be only 4 feet wide, and I don't have an indication of barriers. But, I don't know where I lost the first 2. It might have been at Baker for all that I know. And I've got to assume he knows about it. Delta was unknown until we saw the photos from the retasked SD-5. It's a more sensitive satellite. So, there will be no Recon confirmation. This is critical. You're on your own. But, there's a plus. Langley thinks Aziz's in residence. SD-5 got photo confirmation that his aide, Justine Loudon is on the island. And as you know, where he goes, she goes. So, second," Clement took a breath. But, Tracy already knew what was next. An opportunity like this might not come up again for a long while. "So, why not take the opportunity," Tracy came to the obvious conclusion. "Second, attempt to take Aziz out. Do whatever is necessary. I know the reason we don't bomb the hell out of this little piece of crap island is political. But, he owns the government. Then, there is a high probability that the bomb is wired to go off in an attack. And that would make us look pretty lame. You might have to create some fireworks and not be as discrete as a usual SOU operation. But, we have to try." Capt. Clement stopped and rubbed her eyes for a moment. Tracy thought, "She's feeling the pressure; some nutcase has an atom bomb, willing to set it off anywhere. Besides, losing 2 SOUs to the same bastard hurt. And she wants the SOB." Suddenly, Tracy felt closer to her CO; Clement was no longer just her commanding officer, but a sister and someone who cared. "Finally, I just wanted to add something. I didn't say it to the other 2; I should've. And I know how dedicated td to it you are. I know you'll suck it up when it comes to it. But, this is not a suicide mission. If you feel even slightly compromised, I want you to abort and return to rendezvous. That's an order, is that clear?" Capt. Clement was standing now. Somehow, in giving that order, she had raised herself to well above her 5' 5" frame and seemed to stare down on Tracy from on high. Tracy stood up and saluted. "Aye-Aye, sir!" Tracy smiled, her dimple showing deeply. At attention, with her square shoulders, her chest out and rod straight, it was clear to see that the Lieutenant knew she was one of the best of the best; lovely and confident. "That'll be all," Capt. Clement responded, returning the salute. "And good luck." As Tracy turned and left, Capt. Clement watched the beautiful and graceful young woman-a killing machine she had just unloosed. Next stop a C-135 at Andrews to Honolulu, on-board the USS United States in the Pacific in 12 hours, and rendezvous with Wahoo. "She'll be in position in 36 hours, and she won't obey those final orders," Clement concluded, sat heavily back in her chair and stared at the photo on her desk. Part 3 Lt. Tracy Parker was the only passenger on board the special MAC flight from Andrews to Hickam. From there, after an hour's rest, she boarded an A-2 sent from the U.S.S. United States to pick her up. It was obvious she was an important passenger. The pilot, Lt. Bobby Gates from Kerrville, Texas, was a "nugget" or Navy aviator on his first tour aboard an aircraft carrier. So was his co-pilot and flight school partner, Shelly Schlumburger, a sarcastic brunette from Amsterdam Avenue in Brooklyn. Both knew better than to pry into the affairs of the young, attractive female officer. All they knew was that she rated a special pick-up and a tanker rendezvous en route; radio silence until 350 miles from the carrier, land in one piece, and Schlumburger and Gates knew they'd be finished with their job. They both decided it would be better if they didn't know hers. The fan-jets' loud whine in the cabin necessitated the use of intercoms and earphones. Conversation was all but impossible. So, with at least 8 hours of flying and 2 seemingly disinterested crew, Tracy decided to relax for a bit. As she balanced between sleep and drowsy awareness, her mind was on Tom. Tomaso Anthony de Guarda was a midshipman majoring in nuclear physics when they plowed into each other on the quad final Spring session. She had just finished her class in the Napoleonic Wars and was headed back to the dorm to change for a quick run. She must have been looking at the Chapel dome when someone yelled "Look out!." A heavy thud and 2 heads banging dully, and Tracy was flat on her back in the grass. Next to her was a tanned, dark and very good-looking midshipman with his face next to hers and his right hand on her left breast, butt in the air and legs splayed. There was numb, blank consciousness in his brown eyes, and she was too dazed to realize he had his hand resting flat on her breast. But, in the instant before her mind cleared and she understood what had happened, his red-faced grin was above her and helping her back to her feet. "I'm really sorry," he explained. "I was going back for the ball, and I didn't look behind to see you in time." He was sweaty with navy blue shorts, bare feet and cut-off T-shirt. Tracy noticed the bit of hair underneath his navel, above the elastic of his shorts and the size of the shape under the shorts as she stared at the ground in front of him. "I-I'm okay, really," Tracy stammered. She was still a little woozy from the crack on the head. She looked back up and saw that he wasn't really tall, about 5' 10". But, he was built like Van Damme; very angular with square head and broad square shoulders, a thin waist, lots of muscles, and thick weightlifter's legs. I'm Tom de Guarda," he introduced himself. He was thinking that he'd had his hand on the very nice breast of a very pretty midshipman. Tom knew like every other midshipman who Tracy Parker was. Daughter of Admiral Parker, Navy brat, she'd been in the top 5 of her class every year at the Academy. Her talents were in history and tactics (that was good for the War College), languages (for overseas postings), and she was athletically inclined: field hockey, basketball, track, swimming. Like Tom, every midshipman knew that in their junior year, while on the summer tour, she'd saved 3 crewmen's lives when the cutter she was assigned to overturned in Alaskan waters. She'd kept them on the overturned hull for 2 and a half hours until help arrived; this, while pbattling the effects of hypothermia and exposure herself. Most intriguing of all: no boyfriend. She didn't seem to be lesbian, Tom thought as he regarded the pretty package standing before him. Tracy turned around and bent over to pick up her things. Tom admired her outstanding butt. Tracy knew he was giving her a once over; and she didn't mind too much. "Just to let you see what the real thing is like," she thought to herself. Upright again, she turned to sarcastically thank him. But, he had gone back to his friends and the softball he was chasing. Tracy was slightly miffed. Not even a pass. Tom turned and shouted "See 'ya!" and went back to his game. "Yeah, like right," was all Tracy could think as she headed back to her room. By graduation, they were old lovers. A couple of weeks after their first encounter, they were dating; on the 3rd date there was heavy petting; on the 4th they made love. Tom remembered that water was pouring through a gutter outside their motel room; outside, it was stormy and dark. They'd been soaked through the skin when they checked in; a small place outside of Annapolis. In the dark and stuffy room, dripping wet and laughing, Tracy suddenly realized she was shivering. She was looking at Tom-his wet shirt skin-like, emphasizing every muscular curve of his chest and ripple of his torso, his head dripping wet and his smile less amusing than sexually arousing. And she started to shiver. "I'll be right back," is all she said as she headed to the bathroom and closed the door. Tom sat down on the arm chair in the corner of the room. He had barely asked "What you doing in there," and hadn't even turned on a light when he saw her silhouetted against the light in the bathroom doorway. She was naked and smiling. For the first time, he saw the thin and graceful lines under the midshipman's uniform, saw Tracy's breasts without a bra restraining them. They were already full, the nipples hard and elongated. As she passed from shadow to light and again into shadow, he noticed that her breasts were traced with light blue veins. Her abdomen was flat, her hips were tight and round. As she came very close to him, facing him as she crouched down and undid his fly, he reached out and felt without the interference of any panty the softness of her pubic hairs and warm, moist fleshiness of her vulva. She undressed him; and as she did, they kissed; first furtively, then more passionately, then hungrily-as though each kiss was meant to fulfill a lifetime of starvation and thirst. Gently, Tracy stopped kissing and moved quickly down Tom's chest with her lips and tongue. He was out of breath as she licked his penis and made the already swollen erection even harder and more rigid. She put her mouth over the end and started to pass it in and out of her soft, warm, wet mouth; up and down, very carefully. With each movement his penis would involuntarily twitch; more semen being prepared for an ejaculation unlike any he'd ever experienced. Tracy slowly extracted Tom's enlarged and rigid organ from deep within her mouth and at the very tip started her tongue back down towards his scrotum. He was desperate not to come; he grimaced and felt wildly pleasurable spasms as she neared the based of his organ. At the last moment, Tracy moved back up his penis with her tongue and at the very moment she forced it deeply into her mouth, Tom came; more powerfully and satisfyingly then ever in his young life. Tracy just swallowed, licked, sucked and swallowed. Then as she removed her mouth from his penis, she looked up at him and smiled a dirty smile, a bit of saliva and semen dripping slightly from her lower lip and put her hand on his organ. Tom lifted her up, picking her up from under the arms in one powerful and gentle motion. Even with the mighty ejaculation he'd just been encouraged to experience, he was still very hard and with an easy movement slipped his penis into Tracy's very soft and wet vagina. Tom was amazed at how little resistance past the labia there was. She fit perfectly. As she wrapped her long legs around his back, he stood up straight and arched his back slightly backwards. Tracy crossed her ankles behind him and pushed back from his chest until only her hands were locked behind his neck. Tom felt her hips squeeze; and his organ felt a rhythmic pressure begin. One hand behind her back, one hand squeezing her breast, he supported her weight, with her help, on his penis and slightly thrusted with his hips upward; again, Tracy shuddered, her body quivering from a series of mini-orgasms; again, she moaned and pulled back her head, again, her face came close to his, her eyes were half closed, she was biting her lower lip; her brown hair was over her face. In the deepening dark of the room and the day, Tracy's body was hot and both of them seem to glow from their desire. Again, Tom thrust his hips upward, and Tracy shuddered; again, and her pelvis began a soft shudder; again and she let out a gasp, eyes closed tightly in ecstasy. On his final push, she came, twisting and moaning, shivering, breathless; he kissed her, and her lips were ice cold, the blood drained from her lips, her fingers, her feet. Tom moved slowly to the bed, his firm but now less rigid penis still firmly held deep within Tracy's still pulsing vagina. As he finally let Tracy down on the bed, she let him go and came again as he withdrew from her. Moving carefully next to her in the bed, Tom lay down, turned his face towards hers and whispered "Thank you." Her mind bleary from pleasure, she looked into his eyes and felt her body released, floating above their little world in the motel and beyond life itself. The whine from the fan-jets were very distant at that moment. Tracy's eyes were closed. And for the first time, in a very long time, she felt herself wanting to cry. She was going to do the impossible in the next 12 hours; her life was very much in question. And the one thing she wished she could have at that very moment was Tom for that instant in that motel all over again. Suddenly, Gates' voice crackled over the intercom. "Sorry to disturb you Ma'am. We're less than 40 minutes from the United States." "Too late, Tom," thought Tracy. She sniffed and began to prepare herself all over for the mission. Part 4 The approach to the United States was rough. The weather was rainy and the seas were running high -- whitecaps disintegrating at the tops of 7 ft. swells. At 1,500 feet, the carrier's flight deck was one of the longest in the world. Approaching at 250 knots from 2,500 ft., the ship looked like a toy bouncing up and down in a swimming pool. On the glide path, the A-2 made a full throttle landing on the rolling deck; the arresting cables stopped the 35,000 lb., 150 mph airplane in less than 2 seconds. Inside, Lt. Parker grimaced as her mass came down on the hard surface of the flight deck with the plane and again when forward momentum came to an abrupt halt, slamming her against her restraining harness. Gates was whistling; not that Tracy could tell -- the whine of the fan-jets was so loud. Schlumburger had pulled out her intercom cable and was running the checkout list as the A-2 was rolled into its parking position on deck. Cmdr. Darnell Davies met her as she climbed out of the plane. The deafening roar of turbines, the rattle of arresting gear and hiss of steam catapults at the same time lent an almost hellish atmosphere to the image of hundreds of orange-clad men and women scurrying across the pitching flight deck. At eye level, Tracy could barely make out either end of the carrier. Even in her flight suit and helmet, she felt the wet cold of the spray and the unreal sensation of slick and unstable asphalt under her boot-clad feet. Cmdr. Davies was 1st Officer. He greeted her, and she gave him a quick salute, "Permission to come aboard, sir," Tracy gave the mandatory delivery. Returning her salute, Davies said, "Permission granted, Lieutenant. We have a bunk, some chow, and a few messages from CINCPAC for your eyes only. If you'll follow me. After a bit, Admiral Thomas would like to see you." Davies led Tracy from the howl and roar of the flight deck and to the lift where as they descended, he added, "I'm afraid we've been instructed to keep you in cognito to an extent. So, there will be some restrictions for the next 6 hours. Sorry." Tracy knew this was routine for SOU. But, it was probably the first time a carrier had been used to ferry a SOU to a jump. "He's probably full of questions," thought Tracy as they finally entered the hallway to her cabin. Inside, door locked, Tracy looked around. On the bed was a small pile of envelopes -- including her sealed orders transmitted by courier and electronically. A pair of coveralls without rank or id in pilots' dark green was spread out next to the envelopes; some wrapped sandwiches, an electric pot of coffee and the ship's commemorative mug were on the nightstand next to the bunk. Tracy wearily lifted the visor on her helmet, pulled it off, and gave her head a toss to release the tangles in her hair. Removing her boots and flight suit took a bit of time. But, once out of their confinement, stretching her arms towards the low ceiling of the cabin, she began to relax. She had 6 hours before leaving for rendezvous with her transport: the Wahoo, an old fleet-type diesel submarine used by covert operations crews for silent penetration and shallow depth approaches. In the fluorescent light of the cabin, Tracy's skin looked grayish. Bare-legged and barefoot, she was dressed in only her bra and panties. Some of the id markings in blue ink peeked out beyond the straps and cups of her pale undergarments. With her hair tousled and skin goose-bumped from the transition from cold flight deck to the undress of the cabin, although she didn't know it, she looked very much like the afternoon she first made love to Tom. Pondering her next action, she decided that she was going to relax and had no intention of putting on any more clothes for a few minutes more. Sitting on the bunk, it was time to review the messages left for her. Capt. Clement passed on the most important news. According to sources, the bomb was a Russian type: 15 kilotons, very dirty. Designed during the disintegration of the Soviet Union, it incorporated various microprocessors and memory chips in its trigger. This was good news. "The more high-tech they make these things, the more low-tech the solution," Tracy noted to herself. A TZ-425, Mark 3 device, she knew that the removal of SIMM 1 from bank 2 on the trigger board would leave the bomb a radioactive nuisance -- useless as a weapon unless Aziz planned to throw it at someone. "Getting to it," thought Tracy, "Now, that's the trick." The second envelope was confirming orders for the captain of the sub. She'd keep them unopened: for his eyes only. It probably contained tactical information, coordinates and navigation codes. The 3rd note was from SOU -- generic, providing updates and directions on the use of 2 new pieces of field equipment; first, a new lightweight pistol: 7.62 mm, 21 round clip, short bore with silencer, gas propelled, high-velocity; the second, the new automatic based on the Uzi: 7.62 mm, 51 round clip, flash guard and silencer. "Don't get them dirty," Tracy mocked as she read the text to herself. The final note was hilarious. It was from the Navy Department confirming her enrollment to the MIP for another year. Included was a booklet describing compensation for various forms of dismemberment and death. Tracy started to laugh aloud; shaking so hard her breasts bounced up and down from the convulsions. Squeezing herself very hard, she looked around; her face became very serious. "Snap out of it, Trace, " she told herself. "You've never felt this uneasy about a mission. Why are you getting so mushy about everything as though it was your last time?" She thought about her DI's admonishment on dying. At that instant, she suddenly noticed that the cabin had a shower. "Nice," she whispered to herself, slipping off her bra and her panties. A quick stretch, rubbing her legs, scratching her ribs, her buttocks and breasts and she walked over to the shower curtain in the private head. Pulling it back, she turned on the water and adjusted it to warm. She stepped in. After the shower and lying in damp, naked bliss on the bunk for an hour, Tracy pulled on her underclothes and slipped on the coveralls. She combed her hair out. Having no hair dryer, she toweled it as thoroughly as possible. She looked into the mirror: "You look like a 12 year old boy," she remarked to the image in the glass. "Some way to look in front of the Admiral." She quickly turned and opened the cabin door. A marine corporal was standing guard. He looked down at Tracy from 6' 6" up and immediately stared straight forward and snapped to attention. "At ease, Marine," Tracy tried to relax the young man. "Would you mind showing me to the CON?" "The Admiral is waiting in his stateroom, ma'am," the Marine snapped back. "I'm supposed to escort you there at your convenience." "Well, then," Tracy remarked lightly, "lead on." And the Marine giant and Tracy, looking very small, went down the corridor together. The Admiral's stateroom was basically a living room with an adjoining dining room, office and bedroom suite. The privilege of flag rank was being able to escape the constant noise of flight and ship operations once in a while. Standing inside, facing Vice-Admiral David Beauregard Thomas, Tracy suddenly found the sound deprivation making her slightly light-headed. Thomas was a big man. From Tennessee, his family was American Revolution, Civil War, Remember the Maine, Pearl Harbor, Tokyo Bay Navy all the way. Balding, gray haired, gray-eyed, sun-wrinkled, 6' 4" of Navy defensive lineman, he'd commanded destroyers, planned the naval bombardment of islands off Kuwait in '90, lead the battleship Wisconsin back into active service in '95 and now commanded a battle group capable of destroying by itself most of Asia. He was also Tracy's mom's first love. "Lieutenant, it's good to see you!" Tracy saluted and was caught up in a big bear hug. "At ease, Tracy, at ease. Good golly, it's been awhile. You look just like your mother did when she was your age." Admiral Thomas looked at her like her "Uncle Beau," which is who he was when she was growing up. He may have been her mother's first love. But, he was her father's best friend after that and never dwelled on her mother's and his relationship or its mutually fond end. Even after her father's death from cancer and her mother's shortly after that from a "broken heart," Thomas was there for her. "Tell Suzy-Q when you get back that I've got a gift for her son's 2nd birthday. I'm sorry I was away for that." Thomas also was a strong supporter of the SOU. "Listen, Trace," the Admiral grew serious. "Your terrorist buddy has most of the navies in the Pacific on alert -- ours, theirs, and some others, too. SOU has got to get rid of that man and remove that bomb. I'm waiting for orders to vaporize the friggin island of his. But, I know he owns the government over there. I also realize that they're real chummy with the PRC these days. Ever since Deng died, the Chinese commies have had it in their heads that if they distract the proles by clobbering small countries, no one will bother about throwing them bastards out of power. The trouble is, we're the only country left to clobber. Your pal Aziz could take us into World War 3." The Admiral looked at Tracy's face; it was pale and tired. She smiled into his eyes like a small girl. Thomas felt his official demeanor melt. "Sorry, about the tirade, girl. How about some eats? Looks like they aren't feeding you enough stateside." After a light meal (Tracy wasn't hungry), she said her good-byes. "Remember to be safe, girl," Thomas softly hugged her. "You're like my daughter, you hear?" Tracy's eyes welled; so did the Admiral's. A couple of clumsy sniffles later, a salute, a return of salute, and she was back in her cabin. 2 hours left before she boarded the helicopter that would drop her into the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a meeting with an old submarine. She stripped again, made sure all of her id markings were still clear, lay back on the bed naked and closed her eyes. Even on her back, Tracy's bosom was firm enough to stand up like 2 domes capped by her perfect, pink nipples. Her flat abdomen was relaxed and soft. She started to go over the operational plan in her head. But, her thoughts were clouded by images of Tom, Clement, autopsy photos, the sudden booms of the fighters catapulting off the deck of the carrier, and a strong desire to play with herself. "This is stupid." Tracy sat up. She climbed off the bunk and onto the floor. Still naked, she began with a series of push-ups, followed by sit-ups and leg-lifts. As she exerted herself more, her already taut body grew tighter and harder. Sweat broke out all over her and beads rolled down her chest, over her face, along her thighs, over and around her rapidly filling breasts. As she concentrated on exercising, she became more aroused, more desiring of sexual stimulation. "This isn't helping," Tracy breathlessly concluded. Dripping with perspiration, she went back to the shower where while soaping herself, she decided to go with her desire. Slowly, she began to massage her breasts while the soap and water helped make them slippery and soft. Her breasts swelled. With one hand working across her chest, Tracy took the other and started fingering the lips of her vulva and clitoris. Soapy and wet, she added her own lubrication as she slowly caressed the edges of her opening and inserted her fingers into the gap between her legs. Tracy bit her lower lip. She tried to picture Tom or anything or anyone that might help her fulfill her need for pleasure just once. As her pelvis slowly moved and thrusted and her hands became more animated, Jamal Aziz suddenly glared at Tracy face to face; smiling, he stood silently in front of her. Tracy started. Opening her eyes, she realized it was the face she had seen from the file photo, and she had just imagined it. "Thanks for ruining the mood, jerk," Tracy muttered to herself as she rinsed off the soap and dried herself off. Now, fully dressed for the next leg of her trip, indistinguishable from a man or woman with helmet on and visor down, Lt. Parker emerged onto the frenzied flightdeck and ran towards a helicopter with increasingly faster rotating rotor blades. Along side was Cmdr. Davies. "You'll be over your rendezvous point within 3 hours. The copter will stay in position for 15 minutes. Then, they'll have to come back with you. Understand?" He was screaming at the top of his lungs assured of the absolute privacy of the conversation aided by the helicopter's engine. Tracy nodded and gave him a low thumbs up. With a quick salute, she barked, "Permission to leave the ship, sir!" He saluted an aye-aye. She looked up at the flag snapping in the near gale force wind, saluted it and climbed in; chocks were released; and the helo lifted off the carrier's deck and swung low over the water, due west towards what should have been a sunset but was just a light patch of gray against the steely ocean. Part 5 The UH-45 bucked up and down as it headed for its rendezvous with the Wahoo.Inside, Lt. Tracy Parker grasped the handholds tightly even though she was strapped into the jump seat behind the helo's pilot, Ensign Betty Knight. Choppers rarely flew in these types of storms; approaching dusk, this flight was nearly insane. Occasionally, the co-pilot, CWO Ted Griggs would glance back at the passenger. He was trying to figure out what all the fuss was about. Even buried in flight suit, boots, helmet, survival gear, and Mae West, he could see that Tracy was a very attractive woman. "So," Griggs wondered. "What's she doin' meeting up with a submarine 2000 miles from nowhere?" The seaman in the jumpseat next to Tracy was thinking the same thing. Jamal Aziz looked at the rain pouring off the metal awning of his private hooch above ground. The storm had eased and then gained strength during the day. According to CNN, this weather would continue for the next 3 days. Even with the rain, the island was unbearably hot. The volcanic action underneath the complex was calm but constant -- like a sauna, heating the air all around and the water. Even the breezes were hot and wet. "Well, at least I have a fan and cable," he mused as he studied the still form of his aide and mistress Justine Loudon on his comfortable mosquito-netted bed. Justine Loudon was an aristocrat by birth. Born to an English lord and Egyptian mother, she was an only child -- spoiled and pampered. Willful from birth, she developed latent tendencies towards cruelty and carelessness as she got older. The culmination of 22 years of reckless living, her relationship with Jamal had begun at the Puerto Bahnus during an alcoholic party and sex binge at the height of the season. With supreme self-pity and self-love, she concluded that her life was at a dead-end and that her parents and a corrupt system were to blame. Jamal, already known in some circles for his flamboyant acts of political daring, in other circles as a ruthless murderer, met Justine at a party and was immediately obsessed by the beautiful aristocrat's blatant hatred of her class and her culture. With her wealth, she could be very handy. "And amusing, too," he recalled remarking to himself. Now, 3 years later, Justine had become more deadly and more beautiful. Lying uncovered in his bed, Jamal inspected the 5' 7", tanned body of his companion. She looked like a Nefrateti or Cleopatra; darker than the average Caucasian, with dark brown hair streaked with henna. Her round bottom was balanced by her full and shapely breasts, capped by large dark areoles centered with small dark nipples. Her long legs occasionally twitched from some unconscious dream; her toes curled and then relaxed. Jamal considered himself very lucky. She was an insatiable lover. Lazily, he stood up and walked over to a mirror on the wall and a pan of water. He splashed idly at his face knowing that the water could not cool because the humidity would not allow evaporation. His face was strong and dark -- typically Lebanese. But, it had a European look to it, too. Because he was a child of Western corrupted Arabs, he almost saw his handsome Western features as a flaw -- an ugly disfigurement. Yet, combined with his 6'3" frame, he somehow passed unmolested through customs -- another wealthy and tanned Euro-Playboy on his way to another pleasure dome. He contemplated the stupidity of the customs officers he'd met. Hanging from the mirror, he regarded 2 sets of chains with bent and broken metal tags attached. He remembered how proud he was on the occasion of his 500th execution and the part Justine had played in it. He also contemplated the pleasure he and Justine experienced as they "punished" the 2 American whores stupid enough to try and intrude on his island and attempt to sabotage his bomb, his Atomic bomb. "Stupid bitches," he grumbled as he fingered the 2 sets of differently dented metal identity tags. "Monroe and ah, yes, McKeeson, Patricia," he read aloud. She was the one that didn't leave the grotto. 5 of his men behind the rocks surprised the pretty red-head as she climbed out of the hot pool. Jamal remembered how he and Justine waited as she climbed out of breath from the water, her thin naked body glistening, giving her the time to stand up, remove her equipment and brush back her dripping, red hair when he stood up from behind one of the rocks and greeted her. "She looked like a wet, naked virgin in the boys' room," he chuckled to himself. With her big blue eyes and her mouth wide open as she reflexively filled her lungs, he and his men began to fire. He relished the way she screamed and grimaced in exquisite pain as he and his men delivered "delicate" spray after spray of bullets that tattooed her lovely freckled body -- first with spots, then with gashes, and then, ultimately, bloody, spurting knots of torn flesh. The first seconds of rapid gunfire raked her torso, back and her small, exposed breasts -- multiple slugs cleanly drilled into and through her. She didn't fall, but, because of the pattern of fire around her, stayed upright, jerking and twitching -- almost suspended puppet-like by the hot strings of bullets that tore at her body. When he and his men finally stopped firing, he was amazed that she was still standing and able to turn her head, staring with a shocked expression and spitting up blood towards him. He left strict instructions that no one was to shoot her in the head or face; and no one had. This was good. She had a beautiful, freckled face with upturned nose and pointed chin. In seeming slow motion, McKeeson fell backwards over a large boulder and sprawled over it face-up, exposing her bloody, twitching body to the audience in the grotto. Arms straight out at her sides, her long, pretty legs spread far apart exposing a dripping bloody orifice, her thin torso arched over the alter-like boulder, her perfect small but bullet-pocked breasts and long nipples oozing blood and milk, her tearful long-lashed blue eyes were still wide open and her blood-filled mouth moved incomprehensibly. Was she trying to plead, or was this a reflex only? Then he recalled the way the girl stiffened, gurgled a plop of blood from her mouth and a spurt of fluid from her vulva, a convulsive jerk, a shiver, and she was dead. Very amusing. He smiled as he fingered McKeeson's dog tag. "Yes, more satisfying than the other," Aziz noted to the now waking Justine, flashing the tags in his hand. Justine nodded her head sleepily, tossed her long hair back and lay back down on her other side. She smiled and dozed again. Now, over the rendezvous point, Tracy saw the telltale sign of the sub's conning tower as it surfaced directly underneath them. As swells rolled over the little submarine, one of the hatches popped open and men in slickers scurried on to the deck. Quickly attaching the cable from the winch to her harness, Tracy gave the crew a quick thumbs up, climbed out over the side of the chopper and began to descend towards the pitching boat below. The rough air tossed the chopper about, making it hard for the pilot to keep Tracy's body over the deck of the sub. The rolling chaos of the seas below made the recovery operation for the submarine team equally difficult. At 5 feet over the water, Tracy decided to unhitch the harness and fall into the surprisingly warm sea. Recovered quickly with help from a frogman from the Wahoo, Tracy waved to the chopper as it began its difficult journey back to the carrier. Tracy and the rest of the crew climbed down into the sub. The sub dived into the calm of the depths of the ocean. On the surface of the ocean, Nature boiled angrily, laboring to confound everyone and everything. Below, the surface it was as though Nature slept. In the small cabin supplied to her for changing and preparation, Tracy quickly removed her wet clothes, dried off her body and hair, and put on another coverall. Only this time, she omitted her underwear. "This close to jump, who cares?" she decided as she put aside the Navy bra and panties supplied. She slipped her feet into the rubber thongs provided. Straightening herself, she stepped back out into the companion way and moved into the control room. Wahoo carried a small crew compared to the same class of submarines during wartime. Since Wahoo's mission was covert operations, there were no torpedoes; more room devoted to electronics and SOU prep; no need for weapons specialists. In the former torpedo room, for instance, SOU had a small but well-supplied surgery; an airlock provided underwater ingress and egress; a larger cabin allowed SOU actives privacy prior to jumps. In addition, the only decent head was located forward. "We'll be in place in 6 hours, Lieutenant," the skipper, Cmdr. Luis Diego, informed Tracy. If you want to get some chow and some rest, I'll get us there, okay?" he grinned a reassuring grin. Around her, the sub groaned as the wieght of the sea above and around her pushed against the bulkheads. At the diving control, 2 sailors manned the helm, staring at the gauges that replaced the windows of any other vehicle. "Down by the nose, 20 degrees," the Chief of the boat announced. "Make your depth 80, Chief," the skipper said almost off-handly. "80 feet, aye." The men and women in the bridge were intent on their stations; no one bothered to look at the damp lieutenant as she took in the scene around her: a female sailor sat towards the far end of the bridge lientening through headphones, 2 sailors monitored the ballast tanks and pressure gauges, the other 6 sailors were at various stations monitoring the batteries, engines, air quality, and tactical displays. "Thanks," Tracy acknowledged the encouraging word and started forward towards the SOU area. Cmdr. Diego nodded absently in her direction. "Pretty girl," Diego noted to himself. Tracy was aware of the claustrophobic atmosphere on this fleet-class submarine. On Los Angeles-class subs, Tracy remembered, a person could actually take a jog. "I'll be lucky if I can bend over for a bar of soap in this coffin," Tracy complained to herself. Trying to shake the shadows of panic, she got into her cabin and sat cross-legged on her bunk and tried to clear her mind. Then, she lay back and took a nap. She'd be awakened 2 hours prior to their arrival and until then, there was nothing left to do. Part 6 Lt. Parker was lying on her back in the cramped cabin of the Wahoo. She wasn't exactly sleeping but seemed to be suspended between the state of sleep and being awake. In this state, she perceived the batteries hissing as they discharged the energy they held into the electric motors of the submarine. She could feel the vibrations as the screws rotated and kept the sub at its snail's pace 17 knots; 17 knots that brought her hour by hour closer to a little pile of volcanic rock and vegetation in the middle of the South Pacific. Tracy also perceived that the interior of the sub was getting slowly warmer as time went on. Even though there was a fan that periodically blew the stale air over her as its head cycled back and forth, she seemed to be able to tell that this poor breeze was getting less and less refreshing. Suddenly, Tracy sat up. She was sweaty. The underarms of her coveralls were moist; there was line of perspiration moistening her back and across her chest. She looked at a cheap thermometer hanging from the cabin bulkhead; it read 91 degrees. "Whew!" Tracy puffed a complaint. "I think something's wrong with the air exchanger on this tub," Tracy thought as she got up and opened her cabin door. Surprised, she found herself face to face with an older woman with gray-streaked dark brown hair and an equally distinguished-looking older man. They seemed as surprised to find her up and about. It was 3 and a half hours before the jump. As they sized each other up, the young female officer and the 2 older question marks, Cmdr. Luis Diego appeared as if on cue to answer the obvious questions everyone had. "Lieutenant, this is Dr. Lunt," he motioned towards the woman, "and Dr.Selig," motioning towards the man. "They are with the NSA. We're supposed to help them with an experiment during this trip." Cmdr. Diego was trying to keep it light, but obviously saw Tracy's spine stiffen. "I'm sorry doctors. I don't know anything about an 'experiment.' But, I'm going to be too busy to provide lab notes and observations for the folks back home." Tracy was trying to be civil as she got more and more angry. "What kind of shit was SOU trying to pull on her this close to a jump?" Tracy fumed to herself. Didn't they know that it was going to be difficult enough after losing 2 others? Even more importantly, didn't Capt. Clement care enough about her emotional state to have protected her from this crap? "Was Capt. Clement aware this would be part of the mission?" Tracy asked, hoping that the answer was no. "Your CO was fully briefed and actually encouraged our participation," Dr. Selig volunteered. Tracy felt betrayed. "Actually," Dr. Lunt interjected, "we're going to test a device that may provide you with an edge as you go in. It will monitor your bodily functions; heart rate, blood pressure, etc. and will provide you with limited one way communications to this submarine during your mission. It will be undetectable and may provide us and the SOU with additional insights upon your return." Tracy looked the woman in the eyes. She remembered Clement's frustration about not knowing what happened to Munroe and McKeeson. So, Tracy concluded quickly that she was going to be loaded with a "black box" to record vital information in case she didn't get back. After all, Aziz always returned the remains. The doctor probably knew that, too. Tracy saw the confirming look in Dr. Lunt's eyes. "Well, okay," Tracy softly submitted. "How much time do you need to set me up?" Tracy sat in the middle of the long surgical table in the forward torpedo room of the Wahoo. She was wearing a hospital smock. As she shifted her weight from buttock to buttock, she felt small puddles of sweat underneath her skin. The temperature was at least 95 degrees in the sub. "Doctor, does it seem too hot in here?" Tracy asked Dr. Lunt. She was wearing surgical gloves. No assistants; the torpedo room hatch was closed. "Dr. Selig asked the captain about the heat. He said it was due to the volcanic nature of the surrounding ocean floor," she stated kindly but clinically. As Tracy watched, 2 small devices no larger than watch batteries were removed from sterile packing. Tracy noticed the concentration Dr. Lunt showed in her face as she checked each device by eye and then electronically by some testing device. She was in her fifties; she looked a bit like Olympia Dukakis but was much prettier. Her eyes weren't exactly brown but almost amber in their clarity. She didn't hesitate as she connected a very long, thin wire to one of the devices; her brow peppered by rolling droplets of sweat. "There," Dr. Lunt turned and smiled. "Lieutenant, this is one of Dr. Selig's toys. It is an anterior monitor that will allow us to hear you as you go about your duties." She showed Tracy a small wafer about the size and thickness of a penny with a long, very thin wire hanging from it. "It will be worn within your body. This will provide the most protection and also increase its effectiveness when you are broadcasting. Do not worry about being discovered," Dr. Lunt anticipated Tracy's concern about detection. "The signal is very low frequency; very similar to the ELF used by this submarine for emergency broadcasts." The doctor's face became clinical and distant. "Unfortunately, you will have to be purged before introduction of this device." Tracy looked at her quizzically. "You mean," Tracy half laughed. "You'll have to have an enema and empty your bladder completely. No water or food before your start," Dr. Lunt explained dispassionately. "It is a lot to ask," suddenly the doctor's tone was warm and understanding, "but it will protect the device and increase your chances of getting home." Tracy was surprised. That comment made it clear that she knew the nature of the mission. There weren't just 3 people who knew; now, there were at least 5 -- Dr. Selig had to be in on it, too. Tracy stewed. "A lot of people are beginning to know about this. And that's bad," Tracy's brow furrowed. The enema was effective. But, Tracy wasn't eating much prior so the process went quickly. There was some additional flushing and cleansing; Tracy thought her insides must be as clean as ever in her young life. Through the process, which took 45 minutes, Dr. Lunt was kind and gentle, supportive and discreet. When everything had been done to prepare, Tracy got back on the surgical table now fitted with stirrups used in deliveries. "If you'll please place your feet here," Dr. Lunt motioned. Tracy absently placed each foot in a stirrup and the doctor lifted the hem of Tracy's gown. A cold touch in a very sensitive spot made Tracy start. "I'm sorry," Dr. Lunt said flatly. "I'll be inserting the device into your vagina and attaching it to the wall against the uterus." Tracy could feel an icy probe slowly enter her body. "The attachment will be made by a surgical staple; the device produces a low voltage pulse that acts as a local anesthetic. You won't know it's there," the doctor offered. Tracy wasn't taking. "Attach a small radio inside my vagina, and I won't notice?" Tracy humorlessly thought. At once, she felt her pelvis spasm. The thought of the procedure making her react in this way caused her to blush slightly. "Perfectly normal," Dr. Lunt reassured her. Of course, she was right. Regular examinations by the SOU doctors told Tracy that. But this was different. Only, Tracy didn't know why. The second device was a backup unit. As soon as Dr. Lunt was done inserting and attaching the device, she slowly and carefully uncoiled the thin wire. One end was attached to the device inside Tracy's vagina. It lead out through her vulva and was glued into place running along her left pelvis, up her left side, around her left breast and ending attached by a small pad to the left of her sternum. Tracy, fully unclothed in front of the doctor, made mental notes about its placement and position along her body. It was practically invisible -- the wire was so thin and attached so well. "The wire is attached in several places so that it will not come off in physical activity. The end is capped with a special microphone. In a sense, your body becomes a transmitter, and your bones the antenna for the device," Dr.Lunt was obviously proud of the combination of electronic and biological wizardry Tracy had become. "There's no chance of this wire slipping and snagging, is there?" Tracy regarded herself in a full length mirror on one of the bulkheads. "Not a chance," Dr. Lunt was certain. "Please say anything, and whisper. It's a test," Dr. Lunt smiled. "I feel like the bionic woman," Tracy muttered. Suddenly, with a crackle of the intercom, Dr.Selig's voice responded, "You are much prettier than her." Dr. Lunt face was a proud grin. With less than an hour to go before the jump, Tracy prepared herself. First, she put on her SOU swimwear -- the khaki bikini held together with Velcro; the small utility pouch on her left arm with pills, a small tube of antibiotic salve, tape and a lighter. Her holster and ammo belt with larger utility pouch hung over her right hip; she secured the holster firmly around her right thigh. Her field knife attached to her left thigh finished the basic dress. Tracy made sure the pistol in the holster was loaded and ready. She then put on her watch; it was a combination chronometer and light source if needed. Over her left shoulder she slung the new ultralight submachine gun SOU was sending into the field. A second strap allowed her to cinch it so that it was held on her back firmly without bouncing around. Finally, the mylar strip around her waist was wrapped and ends fused together. Looking at herself in the mirror, Tracy thought she looked less like Penthouse this time and more like Rambo with tits. She smiled. "Never mess around with a heavily armed woman," she reminded herself. The underwater departure from the sub was made through the special airlock in the forward torpedo room. Up until this time, the rest of the crew had been barred from entering the area; obviously because of the various procedures being performed by the doctors; but, also because of the real disruption that could be caused by a bunch of sailors seeing a bikini-clad SOU operative prior to a jump. At this, point, however, the members of the crew required for the preparation for departure entered; there were 3 men and one woman. The men whistled with spotaneous appreciation. Tracy was sweaty and beautiful. The interior temperature of the sub was now over 100 degrees. Her suit was damp and perspiration highlighted every muscle of her form; her nipples were extended from the excitement; her breasts round and firm. The tightness of her body was amazing. Dr. Selig was even stirred by the sight. But, containing himself, he made sure that Tracy understood how the device worked. "Remember, you don't have to shout. We'll be monitoring your body functions during your mission; we'll know everything about your physical condition. In addition, please make comments. We'll hear them. If you need confirmation, we can send a feedback to the device that will result in a mild tickle," Dr. Selig became slightly embarrassed. Tracy nodded, "Thank you doctor. I'll remember that." She looked at Cmdr. Diego who was trying not to laugh. "Lieutenant, I've got us within 4 miles. It's real rough. Want a look?" The skipper offered. Tracy responded, "Sure." They walked back to the con. The 8 male crew members in the control room audibly whistled as one when Tracy came through the hatch. She was gorgeous; and they'd been at sea for 3 months straight. Diego hrumphed with disapproval, and the crew tried to go back to business as usual; but, it would be difficult. Motioning to the periscope, Diego ordered the sub to 40 feet. Slowly, Tracy felt the boat lurch upwards and begin to sway slightly. The periscope was extended and after the skipper had a look, Tracy stared into the eyepiece. Outside and above the surface, the seas were gray and wind-swept with 6 ft. swells, the sky was a darker gray and the island a still darker lump in the horizon. It was 1200 hours and it ought to have been light; it looked like dusk. Visibility must have been zero on the island; it was a miracle to have glimpsed it that far out to sea. Tracy looked at Diego and smiled. "My kind of weather," she remarked as she walked, maybe slightly sashayed, past the crew in the control room towards the forward torpedo room. Tracy tied her hair back into a pony tail with a plain rubber band. An underwater exit was prescribed because the boat would nearly flounder exposed to the rough seas if it surfaced, not to mention the possibility of detection. So, she got ready for the airlock. It took 3 crewmen to control the flooding of the special airlock Tracy was going to use. Too fast, and she might burst her lungs. She was using a special rebreather used for jumps. Having a fixed volume of air it could hold and process, it was necessary to control breathing during use. The benefits of it were that it was small, silent and very portable. The negative was that it had a short life-span. Tracy would have to get to the surface, seal the unit from salt-water contamination, and swim until she got to the cavern entrance. Then she'd have to dive again, preferably without the use of the rebreather. It would have to be saved for the underwater cave and passages to the entry point later on. Tracy fitted her swimming goggles over her eyes and checked her vision. Underwater, she'd have to be alert to any booby-traps that might have been left. A popular technique was to leave a spear gun aimed over an underwater entrance; one wrong move and a swimmer could be shishkabob. But, Tracy wasn't thinking about these aspects; her training had moved those concerns to the point of reflex. Tracy concentrated on the mission objectives, now. Aziz, the bomb. That was her universe. Both doctors watched her as she slipped on the special low profile flippers on her feet and as she stepped into the watertight compartment. As the door was sealed shut by Cmdr. Diego, he gave Tracy a quick salute. "Goodluck." Tracy smiled at him. He looked kind and caring. She cleared her head and waited. Her breaths were regular now even though she could hear her heart pounding in the echoey little chamber. Suddenly, with a woosh, water began to flow in around her feet, now over her ankles, towards her shoulders, and over her head. Sound had changed from echoes to muffled, heavy rumbling and humming from the submarine and her head as her body attempted to equalize with the water pressure around her. Her breasts were now buoyant and suspended. She rose to the top of the chamber and released the outer door. A dull clank as it lifted free and swung out and against the deck, and Tracy swam up, turned around and closed and resealed the hatch. She saw the dark form of the sub beneath her; in her ears, she could hear the thrum, thrum, thrum of the screws. She quickly swam towards the surface -- effortlessly and efficiently like some sleek and deadly mermaid. Suddenly, Tracy realized how warm the water was and the sudden blurring of her vision. The heat was causing her goggles to fog. Worse, she was having difficulty drawing air on the rebreather. The heat must be affecting it too. Her training suppressed any hint of panic as she hastened her rise to the surface. Above her, the film of the surface water was grayish green; not bright but an undulating blanket that seemed to shadow everything beneath. As she reached the surface safely, she gasped, quickly sealed the rebreather and pulled down her foggy goggles around her neck. She was being carried up and down by the large swells. The wind flew stinging, hot spray into her face and eyes; and water came into her mouth every time she tried to take a breath of the humid salty air. "Suck it up and get it done," Tracy told herself and started swimming strongly towards the island. Part 7 The seas around Aziz's island seemed to boil in the storm. From shore, looking all around, it would be impossible to see anyone or anything approaching on the surface of the water. Still, Aziz had made sure that lookouts were posted at every approach; everyone was linked by radio. There were even sentries posted in the grotto that had been the sight of Lt. Trish McKeeson's gruesome death in the event that the Americans were stupid enough to send another intruder through that entry. But, no one knew about the second grotto; no one except 2 military planners in Washington, D.C. and a single female swimmer laboring to reach the fortified island in the midst of a storm. Tracy swam the crawl; her body being swept up and down one swell after another and down into deeper and deeper troughs. If anyone had been able to see the young woman, they would have seen the strong and supple body of a swimmer rhythmically struggling forward; first one arm outstretched and then the other; the nearly naked form of a woman making her way towards the southern end of Jamal Aziz's rocky base. On board the Wahoo, Drs. Lunt and Selig monitored the physiological data being transmitted from Tracy's implant. Dr. Lunt, especially, was impressed by the sustained exertion the young Navy Lieutenant was able to endure. "Her vitals are looking very good," she commented almost to herself. Dr. Selig was an electrical engineer; she didn't know what if anything Cmdr. Diego knew about physiology. Meanwhile, Dr. Selig monitored through a pair of headphones, the labored sounds of breathing, water, rushing blood, and pumping heart that was being broadcast real-time from Tracy's extraordinary body. "I can hear her struggling in the water," Dr. Selig said as he looked up at Lunt and Diego with concern. The other members of the crew were now caught up in the adventure, as well. They'd seen the beautiful body and heavenly face of the young woman less than an hour before; many of the male members of the crew had instantly fantasized about her. Now, she was one of the good guys, trying to make her objective. They rooted for her quietly; some even prayed. Tracy was having a difficult time. The storm was much more than she expected. The warmth of the water and the difficulty in getting a clear breath in the heavy seas was causing her to become more fatigued and more quickly than she was prepared for. Unconsciously, her body began to relax in an attempt to allow the wave action to assist her swim; the swells carrying her for a while -- up, down, up, forward, and down; again and again. Tracy stroked with less energy; her arms were definitely beginning to get tired, and her legs were feeling rubbery. She didn't even think about the implant and the audience her audible efforts were attracting on the unseen submarine. Training and discipline had replaced thought and judgment; Tracy was simply a programmed device in the water; armed and guided by remote control; trying to make her objective within an allotted time. Somewhere in the middle of her efforts, Tracy realized that the storm was blowing her towards the island. Stopping, she struggled treading water as she looked at her watch. As far as she could judge, she had already gone almost 1 and a half miles in one hour -- despite the waves and the wind of the storm. She was now about 2 miles from the rocky shoals that were the entrance to her objective. Tracy began to feel better. She was ahead of schedule; making landfall, she'd have several hours to rest and collect herself before she dived to the access tunnel and into Aziz's compound. Of course, she also reminded herself, she'd have to get through the underwater tunnel to the grotto that would give her access to the island itself. Wahoo sat suspended under the waves and wind, exposing only her long antenna to the air as she monitored Tracy's progress. Inside the control room, the crew watched the skipper and the 2 civilians anxiously as they, in turn, monitored Tracy's progress. Dr. Lunt had turned on a monitor attached to a small computer and was watching with rapt interest the virtual image of a naked woman as it moved and twisted in simulated swimming motion. The image looked vaguely like the woman the crew had seen nearly 2 hours before; but, the image lacked the definition or physical beauty of the real thing. Dr. Lunt's "virtual" Tracy was based on the telemetry being sent from her implant; the figure was shapely but smooth and inhuman. The image had no face but an impression of a face with indications of eyes, eyebrows, a nose and mouth. The hair was stiff and unmoving. Where perfect, lovely breasts with well defined nipples should have been, the computer generated 2 round forms protruding from the upper torso of the figure; where the small soft mass of Tracy's pubic hairs should have been, the virtual image displayed only a smooth surface. Yet, the ability to generate a real-time virtual image of a subject with the implanted device was a breakthrough in technology. Dr. Selig occasionally turned to watch "his" image as it moved and twisted; he felt proud about his achievement, but felt a tinge of modesty as he turned away each time to concentrate on the digital indicators instead. "Besides," he told himself, "the unit will record everything anyway." Dr. Lunt, on the other hand, watched everything and monitored Tracy's vital functions as they were displayed around the virtual image of young woman. In all of this, Cmdr. Diego was dumb-struck by the advanced technology and ran his hand back and forth along a well worn brass rail -- feeling less important than the technology that was making all of this possible. Meanwhile members of the crew alternately gazed at the various dials and lights of their stations and glanced over to the computer image flickering in the humid submarine control room. Tracy had finally made it to the shoals off shore from the island. More like a low wall, she'd have to climb over them and swim an additional 800 yards in shallow water before reaching deep water and the rocky face of the island itself. Climbing over the barrier was a concern; she might expose herself to any watchers Aziz had patrolling the approaches to the island. Stopping, practically lying on the rough ledge protruding from the shoals, Tracy felt the sting of abrasions on her stomach and chest as the crashing waves shoved her across and over the rough volcanic rock of the ledge. She winced and looked around; rain and salt water poured from her head and over her face, making her own sight difficult. It was dark for afternoon; the rain obscured everything. Anyone on shore looking to this point, Tracy figured, wouldn't see anything. Besides, she was going to be ripped to shreds if she rested any longer on this one spot. With that, she crouched cat-like on the balls of her feet on the rocky shoal ledge, raised herself up and over the 3 ft. wall of volcanic rock, scraping her knees and calves in the process. On the other side, Tracy was concerned to find the wave action noticeably lessened. "Probably shielded from the brunt of the wave action by the shoal," thought Tracy as she quickly swam towards the deep water just before the rough walls of the island. Her objective was to get into the deep water before she was spotted. A daylight approach was the most stupid way, some people would argue, of getting to an objective. To the contrary, SOU actions had suggested that, if properly timed as during a storm or other periods of decreased visibility, an SOU operative could reach an objective undetected and thus gain the maximum element of surprise. In this case, the storm still raged, the wind and rain still made visual sighting nearly impossible, and there was enough rough seas to obscure Tracy. Still, she didn't want to take any chances. She was exhausted and needed to rest; and that rest would only be found on the island. On the Wahoo, Dr. Lunt observed with greater concern the level of physical fatigue she was seeing indicated on her monitors. She'd observed the virtual image as it climbed over the shoal and noted the registration of physical discomfort bordering on pain as Tracy's image scraped its knees and calves. "I'm watching blood toxicity levels," she commented aloud. In the water, Tracy finally made it into the deep water surrounding the shear walls of the island's south face. The waves were crashing against the volcanic rock wall. In an instant, a large swell carried Tracy up and shoved her very hard against the rock. She felt the breath leave her lungs and became dizzy. Instinctively, she reached around and grabbed at the rock face. Her hands groped along as wave after wave pushed her chest-first against the rock wall; the volcanic rock scraped her fingers and knuckles as she clinged like a bat to the rough face. For the first time in the approach to the island, Tracy was beginning to feel panic; she was too tired to fight the surging waves and knew there would be trouble if she let go. As she struggled to get her bearings and catch her breath, Tracy realized that very near her the wind was howling through a large opening. Moving towards the opening, her eyes focused on a large volcanic rock cave with a gray sand beach inside. As she moved inside, she could feel the rain stop and the hot, humid wind whistle past her towards the opened back roof of the cavern. The sand was hot, but it was stable and unmoving. Tracy dragged herself onto the strip of sand on her hands and knees, coughing up salt-water as the waves broke over her bruised body. She crawled farther up and away from the water; her bikini bottom was pushed far down her buttocks; her top was askew exposing her scratched right breast. Finally far enough from the waves, Tracy closed her eyes and rolled heavily onto her back and lost consciousness. Part 8 Aboard the Wahoo, Drs. Lunt and Selig were very concerned about the motionless body they were monitoring electronically. Vital signs analyzed by Dr.Lunt indicated that Lt. Parker had fallen asleep; her heartrate was returning to normal, her blood pressure and the toxicity level in her blood were lowering quickly. Dr. Selig motioned to the monitor that showed that Tracy was lying prone on her back; one arm crossed over her midriff, the other extended at 5 o'clock from her left side. Cmdr. Diego conferred with the radio man, a slightly plump female sailor; he and she were exchanging printouts of flash traffic from CINCPAC and other Navy operations centers. The crisis surrounding Jamal Aziz's nuclear bomb was growing, and a NY Times article had leaked its existence and even hinted at the possibility that covert operations were being considered. Publicly, the US was starting to feel the political pressure from Aziz's friends in China in the UN Security and APEC councils. All the while, their SOU operative was lying unconscious on Aziz's hostile beach. The rest of the crew watched and waited. Beginning, at first, with the 8 crewmen in the control room, the unfolding drama had now captured the interest of all 29 men and women aboard the little submarine. With nothing to do but wait, the hot, sweaty sailors whispered any bits of news relayed from the con down the line and moved around quietly and expectantly. Tracy was breathing regularly, now. Her top was twisted down and towards the left fully exposing her right breast. It was scratched; the abrasions left dozens of thin vertical stripes in her skin, across her nipple and ending near her clavicle; the letters "P-A-R-K-E-R," her rank and serial number were still clearly readable. The left breast was covered, but probably just as scratched. In fact, from mid-calf to the tops of her shoulders and under the left side of her jaw, Tracy's body was scraped and cut. None of the cuts were deep; most were very mild surface lacerations. But, the more serious injuries were welting up from exposure to the air and the salt water. Tracy's bikini bottom was half way down her thighs, twisted around and partially inside-out. Her pale and tight labia was visible below the matted and sandy pillow of her pubic hairs from between her slightly spread legs. Her body was bruised; she was covered with grit and small pieces of debris that had washed up on the covered beach with her. Her hair, still tied back in a pony tail was now matted and gritty from the fine volcanic sand; the bangs were tangled in front of her eyes. All of her equipment was still with her, though. Tracy's rebreather was still slung around her neck; her id tags were tangled around it. She still had her weapons, and her pouches were still attached and sealed. As she breathed, her chest moved up and down in a regular fashishisracy was exhausted [sic] -- beyond sleep and dreamless. She lay in the sand on her back for a long time. Suddenly, Tracy opened her eyes and looked up and around; it was dark; the seas boomed less forcefully; the wind howled less fiercely. The very warm water at the entrance of the beach cavern was near her ankles. And inside her body, an odd electrical tickle periodically stirred her feminine reflexes. "It's the Wahoo trying to wake me up," she thought desperately. Tracy fumbled about in the near pitch darkness, and as she did, the tickling stopped. "Sorry," she whispered. Finally getting her bearings, Tracy looked at her watched and activated its illuminated dial. It was after 1900! She'd been unconscious for almost 6 hours. Tracy gathered her thoughts: it had taken an hour and a half to cross the final 1 mile of ocean to this spot. "Only, I don't know what this spot is," Tracy rebuked herself. Then she came up with an idea. "If the sub can hear me and track me, maybe they can help me get back to the right position." Tracy breathed in and whispered, "Wahoo, can you help me out? Buzz me once if you can." Tracy immediately felt a tingle in her loins. She smiled. "Do I need to move east?" 2 tickles indicated a negative. "West, how many clicks?" She felt 4 distinct twinges. "4 clicks to the west. OK, and thanks," Tracy whispered very quietly to herself and her audience. On board the Wahoo, the scene was all cheers and hugs. Dr. Selig was clearly pleased as he paced back and forth in the cramped area of the CON. The device worked. And it had potentially saved the entire mission. The good guys were on shore and now ready to move in. Selig was smiling when he recalled the first 2 girls he had seen off. If only the devices were ready for them. "So young. The blond girl was the same age as my daughter," he noted as he revisited each woman with discomfort. At the end of this train of thought, Dr. Eugene Selig found himself and a frown. Cmdr. Diego also recalled the last 2 drops; he recalled the anger he felt in himself as he was forced to abandon the primary and then back-up recovery sites and return to the rendezvous point minus one passenger. They were both young and pretty, Monroe and McKeeson; the flower of womanhood: brave, beautiful, dedicated. Diego looked at Dr. Lunt. It seemed to him that the grays in her hair weren't there before she accompanied the last 2 Sweet SOUs to this island. "Cool lady," he noted to himself. Dr. Lunt's face didn't move from the monitor in front of her. Amidst the back slapping relief, she forced herself to feel nothing. There was no room for that right now. As far as she was concerned, the subject was operational again and the experiment could continue. Tracy crouched on her haunches as she tried to straighten herself out. "This little cave was lucky," she thought. If she had been washed up on an exposed beach, she could have been discovered; maybe she'd never have had a chance to wake up. She deftly turned her top back around and stuffed her aching breast into the cup. Then, she pulled up her swimsuit bottom and made sure the Velcro straps were tight; they felt a little soft; but, she figured that was due to the moisture. Untangling her id from the sling of the rebreather, she slipped it off from around her neck and rinsed it off in the warm water. Tracy was having difficulty breathing from the humidity of the air. It was dark, but the heat index in the cavern was well over 100 degrees. Sweat poured from her body as she prepared for her dive; as streams of sweat rolled down her face, all she could do was lick them from her face as they flowed past her lips; she blinked spastically trying to keep the perspiration from stinging her eyes. Then, Tracy realized her goggles were gone. They weren't around her neck. She fumbled in her utility pouch and produced a small red light torch. Turning it on, she carefully examined the area around her -- mindful that even the low light might be seen by Aziz's goons. The sand was indented where she lay, but here was no sign of them; they must have been ripped off during the struggle to get to the beach. Tracy cursed to herself. Nothing to do but do without. Entering the much calmer waves, the salt water stung all over her body. Without the benefit of a mirror, Tracy couldn't have known about how much abuse she'd received in the effort to get to this point. She ignored the burning and glanced at her watch. It was 1915; she had until 0430 the next morning to get it done and meet up with Wahoo. If she missed that, 0515 was not going to happen. She put her lips over the open rebreather, exhaled to fill it and submerged. Opening her eyes, Tracy realized the saltiness and dissolved minerals around the hot island aided in her ability to see underwater. The sensation was a bit like saline solution in the eyes; only this saline was nearly at body temperature already. Her vision was only mildly cloudy and better than when the goggles steamed up on her departure from the Wahoo. She dove down and headed west along the submerged rock face. Her body was softened underwater; her breasts undulated and slowly jiggled with every movement she made. Her muscles seemed longer, too; her legs moved up and down as she dove deeper along the wall; her pony tail streamed behind -- no longer matted, but soft and free. With the temperature of the water, she seemed less to be diving than sinking into a sensory deprivation tank -- without sensations into a deep void. Tracy turned on her red torch and dimly illuminated the way. Looking at her chronometer, she noted the depth: 12 ft., 21, ft. 33 ft.; she continued to dive. As Tracy went deeper, the water became warmer. She saw the shadows of fish flicker by -- some small, a couple much larger. "I hope I don't look like a meal," she quipped to herself. At 47 ft. down, and almost 4 clicks to the west of her original beach position, Tracy started to search for the entrance to the underwater cave. When she found it, she almost bubbled the rebreather. It was barely 3 ft around! On board the sub, Dr. Lunt and Dr. Selig were beginning to become concerned with more and more frequent interruptions in the telemetry from Tracy. They had adjusted various signal strengths in order to compensate. But, the virtual Tracy continued to cut in and out on screen while the audio transmissions became weaker and more distorted. "I can only think that the volcanic activity around the island is interfering with the signal," Dr. Selig threw up his hands in disgust. "I don't know what else to do!" Dr. Lunt frowned. She wasn't prepared to lose significant information because of a technical glitch. "Is there anyway we can boost the signal from the device itself?" Dr. Lunt asked, almost demanded an answer from the disheartened Selig. "Yes, we could do that, but it would result in a constant sensation for the woman; it might be, er, distracting," Dr. Selig reluctantly looked for the least provocative words. "Do it," Dr. Lunt snapped. "I'm reluctant, Lunt. At that strength, I don't know what the implant will do. Everything is calibrated against the anesthetic effects of the electrical signal." Dr. Selig looked to Cmdr. Diego for guidance. "She's the doctor," Diego replied quietly. "If she needs to monitor the SOU, do it. But, make sure it doesn't endanger her!" he interjected. Diego figured he was still the highest ranking officer of the bunch. And he'd was fed up with these 2 and their technical gadgets. Dr. Lunt looked at Selig and gave him a grave look. Dr. Selig quickly punched a few buttons into the keypad in front of his station. Looking at the monitor, he found the display of the corresponding set of numbers, looked back at Dr. Lunt and doubled them. Tracy shined the dim red lamp into the opening. There was nothing but craggy overhang and darkness in the passage. Stiffening a bit, she swam head-first into the opening -- her red light illuminating the immediate area around her. It was instantly too narrow to swim; Tracy practically had to begin crawling. Her buoyant body softly banged up and down and from side to side in the passage as she began this 1 and a half mile passage. It seemed to Tracy that it was moving deeper. She was making mental notes of the stability of the tunnel's rocks when her pelvis contracted and she felt herself twitch, sexually stimulated. Immediately after that, she felt the much stronger vibrations of the device implanted in her vagina. The sensation was overwhelming and unexpected. Her eyes opened wide as her whole body became numb and her mind went blank. Worse, deep inside her vagina, it was starting to hurt. Dr. Lunt noted the physiological changes that received from Tracy as the spasms began. Dr. Selig was frantic, "Do you see? We must shut it down! It will burn out, and we'll have nothing. At least turn it back down and we can review the recordings." Dr. Lunt's mind was blank. She weighed the information being displayed with Selig's emotional words. On screen the virtual image seemed to become suspended; vital signs indicated shallow breaths and increased and rapid heart rate. "Well, Lunt? Do you want to hurt the girl? She is obviously experiencing discomfort!" Diego looked at both of them. He felt like an idiot assuming that the 2 egg-heads knew what they were doing with a human being, a Navy officer, and his charge. "Selig!" Diego barked. "Shut that fucking thing off!" Dr. Selig looked to Dr. Lunt for confirmation. Numbly she nodded. Dr. Selig typed the commands to shut down the transmissions. As he completed the last string of commands, he sighed and wiped his brow with a spotted handkerchief. "I only hope she's all right," Dr. Lunt whispered as a prayer. Tracy was dizzy. The heat of the water coupled with the unbelievable sensations produced by the device inside her body had left her momentarily disoriented. Then, just as suddenly as the spasms started, they stopped; the only reminder being a subtle stinging deep inside her vagina. Tracy's eyes cleared, and she gathered up her dropped lamp and adjusted the rebreather between her lips. Recovering, she surveyed her surroundings. The passage was narrow and rocky. Fully underwater, not even small bubbles of air had collected against the top. Along the sides, there was no vegetation; but a healthy crowd of small shrimps and crabs scurried away from her comparatively gigantic form as it slowly made its way north. Tracy couldn't reach behind herself or even at her sides; she had to keep her arms extended forward using her hands to pull and her flippered feet to push. Only, it became increasingly clear that the flippers were hindering her movement forward. Deciding it was better to move without them, Tracy kicked each flipper off her feet. Now her toes could help grasp the rough surface as she pushed and pulled herself along. About 1 mile down the passage and almost 45 minutes later, after several very tight squeezes that scraped Tracy's buttocks and drew a small amount of blood from some of the deeper scratches, she began to notice the passage getting wide; perhaps only a few inches, but definitely wider as she felt her body move more easily through the confining passage. Facing forward, arms extended, Tracy moved faster and upwards. Suddenly she winced and looked down at her left breast. A small crab had attached itself to her apparently appetizing nipple as she had brushed by. Carefully, she pulled the crustacean's claw off her breast when she realized that her top was gone. Tracy tried to move her arms down to feel along her body. Perhaps it had slipped down as she moved through a tight portion in the passage. Her view was blocked; but she managed to get her right arm down by her side and felt along her body. Tracy swallowed and a few bubbles released through her nose; her swimsuit bottom was gone, too. She was naked in the water -- no clothing. Tracy struggled in her mind to get moving again; she was very close to the grotto. She forced herself to ignore the issue of modesty; she'd trained in the nude during survival comps; she knew what to do when she had to make do. This was one of those times. Tracy swam faster as the passage bent upwards. A loud sudden splash and echoing slaps of water against rock and Tracy was in the middle of a small pool in an equally small underground grotto. The grotto was 6 feet high at the center. There was no real place to climb out and stand; the only choice was to roll out of the water prone to the side of the grotto pool or reach up and grab of the many dripping stalagmites and start to climb up the stovepipe passage to the surface 21 feet above. Tracy decided to secure her rebreather, take a deep breath and start to climb immediately. A breeze coming down the passage was humid and warm; it didn't take the moisture from Tracy's body as she extended herself to reach handholds for the climb up and out. Her wet and dripping body was exquisite; her ribs stood out in perfect symmetry as she fully extended her arms over her head to pull herself into the tunnel; as she lifted herself, her breasts swelled and pressed together in full and jiggling roundness; her hips tensed; her long legs followed -- first the left and then the right -- into the stovepipe passage that lead to the surface of the island and the most dangerous point yet in Tracy's incursion. Absolutely naked, dripping with perspiration, her skin slippery with sweat, her hands and feet red and aching from the underwater passage and now the climb to the surface, Tracy continued to exert herself. Her rebreather quietly clinked against the rocks as she breathed heavily through her mouth in her efforts to climb this part as quickly as possible. To be caught in the narrow tunnel would give her no chance at all -- her submachine gun was still strapped to her back, holster on her right thigh, knife sheathed around her left. She wasn't thinking about what happened to her swimsuit, she was thinking about maximum survivability; Tracy didn't realize that the Velcro had softened in the hot water of the underwater tunnel and adhesive used in their manufacture disintegrated. Her suit simply fell apart. Unaware of any of this, a nude Lt. Tracy Parker climbed to the top of the tunnel opening, breathed in the sulphury, hot, humid air, pulled herself over the lip of the edge, through the plants surrounding it, crawled on her belly over to a depression in the ground filled with muck and mud and slipped in. Next leg: 2 miles in the open to the hot spring. The time was 1005 hours. Part 9 Crawling into the hot mud and muck of the steamy depression momentarily took Lt. Tracy Parker's breath away. Before she continued, she decided she would take stock of what she had accomplished and what was left to do before she had to meet up with her sub at 0415 the next morning. Even in the pitch blackness of the stormy, moonless night, Tracy could see that all around she was surrounded by a fog of heated mists and steam. There was no relief from the heat; it was dark and 95 humid degrees. Mired in this mud pit, she was covered in 110 degree muck. The constant heat sapped her strength and kept her light-headed. On her feet, this could make Tracy less effective; in the water, it could make her critically more clumsy. She had no idea that this ended up being fatal to the first SOU to attempt entry into the island fortress, Lt. Patty Monroe. Patty Monroe was a pretty blond from Georgia; she had an oval face with large blue eyes, long, light lashes, a pointed nose and full lips; and when she smiled, everyone agreed that it lit up the room. Physically one of the most impressive women to have completed SOU training, she was 5'10" tall, with a solid 37D bust, 24" waist and 33" hips. Tanned and muscular, Monroe was the best swimmer and climber in Tracy's class; the obstacle course, designed to stop lesser men and women, didn't pose a problem for Patty. She still held the record for its fastest completion. And she was the logical first choice for the difficult approach to the island. Patty's entry into the island was much easier than Tracy's. Still, the relentless heat and humidity, combined with the physical effort required to get into the underground compound had left her exhausted and slower than usual. But, she was on schedule and had already moved into a storage room near the bomb's location when she walked into a trap set by Jamal's mistress Justine Loudon. Justine lay in waiting behind a stack of crates in the far end of a darkened corridor leading from Patty's location to the room that held Aziz's bomb. Her large, lovely dark eyes gazed down the darkened hall towards the dimly lit entrance at the other end. She had left Jamal to attend to an assassination in progress in the Left Bank; he controlled the actions of his operatives around the world from a communications center near the above-ground entrance to the terrorist stronghold. "I promise I'll join you later, my love," Aziz promised. Justine would handle the American intruder in her capacity as Jamal's second and because she wanted to enjoy killing someone; it had been nearly 2 months since she had taken part in a killing. Justine found that she was stimulated by the violence; it left her breathless and shivering in the end to personally take part in ending a person's life. The more violent and painful, the more she seemed to relish it. Jamal had been impressed by her talents. And she considered herself a craftsman in the art of inflicting pain. Halfway down the darkened corridor, a booby trap, of sorts, waited for the unsuspecting Patty. 2 spear guns were loaded and carefully aimed to strike whomever crossed into their line of fire at midriff level -- one sat to the right, the other on the left. The resulting effect would be to impale the target with crisscrossing spears intersecting somewhere within the body of the unfortunate target. This would not cause immediate death, but immediate and debilitating pain; the victim would be barely able to move and act, each breath would be agonizing and the pain would allow Justine the opportunity to selectively stage the death of her victim. Jamal was convinced that any act of defiance against him should be met with brutal retribution; he meant to convey a message to any person or government that tried to stop him that said: "This is the way I deal with your stupidity." He was intent on humiliation and intimidation; Justine loved it. Patty crept into the entrance to the corridor. She knew that at the other end was the probable site of the bomb. She didn't know what type it would be; but she knew it would have to be disabled. The corridor was hot and she was slightly light-headed and dizzy; her still wet body dripped with perspiration; her long blond hair was tied up on top of her head. Sweat rolled from her chest and into the swimsuit top and along and around her large, round breasts. She held a pistol in her right hand. As she moved slowly forward, her hips, barely covered by the bottom half of her bikini, moved smoothly from side to side; her footprints reflected in the dim lights of the room behind her. Her heart pounded quietly. Lt. Monroe felt something wasn't quite right, too late. As she reached the middle of the corridor, she had just noticed in the hot haze that distracted her mind a slight brushing of her left ankle on something when all hell broke loose. The air was forced out of Patty's lungs as 2 spears struck her on either side of her lower rib cage, the razor sharp heads passing completely through her and protruding in a sickly bloodiness from her sides; they had intersected just as Justine had hoped directly below Patty's diaphragm without causing immediate death. Although, blood immediately began to fill Patty's abdomen; only trickles were seen from the entry and exit points. The metal of the 2 spears inside of Patty clicked as she straightened and tried to breath, reflexively grabbing at her sides in complete shock as spasms of agony contorted her face. Patty swayed on her feet; she wanted to catch her breath, to run, to fight, but her insides were on fire and pain completely obscured her vision and her mind. Justine stood up and smiled at the beautiful, suffering blond. Dressed in a halter top that tightly held her large, round bosom, Justine wore denim shorts, was bare legged, and sported leather sandals. In her hands was an AK-47 -- the most popular terrorist automatic weapon. In the clip were 50 rounds of Swiss clad bullets. "My dear," Justine cooed to Patty, "you'll wish you'd never seen this island. You'll wish you had never been born." With that she released a spray of a dozen rounds that caught Patty in a line from her left pelvis, diagonally across her abdomen, and across the right breast. Patty's body recoiled, shaking from taking the multiple rounds and fell backwards. As she did, she somehow swung her body around and landed fully on her chest. The spear heads clacked on the hard, bloody concrete floor. The impact caused Patty to grunt loudly; the pain of the weight of her body against the spear heads caused her to convulse. Blood was gurgling up through Patty's throat and dribbling out of her mouth. Each of the bullets exit and entry wounds oozed slowly with dark, almost black blood. Somehow, as her blue eyes dilated, and her mind stopped fully functioning on a conscious level, Patty locked on the image of the storage room threshold ahead. Agonizingly, she started to crawl; dragging her bleeding body towards the opening. Her breaths were gurgling and wheezy; blood trickled out of each nostril. As she began to slowly pull herself, blood started to collect under her body. Justine watched Patty's attempt to crawl back to the store room. She fired another spray of bullets that criss-crossed Patty's back. The damage to her spinal cord, exposed by the multiple slugs, only added to the suffocating pain that was drowning the beautiful lieutenant. Each time she was struck, Patty would raise her chest up, her hands grabbing under each opposite arm pit as if to trying to keep her chest from splitting. She moaned hoarsely as she groped forward now unable to move. The rounds from Justine's weapon passed through Patty's back, hips, and buttocks, passed out from her broken pelvis, abdomen, breasts, and shattered rib cage, ricocheted against the concrete floor and reentered her body. Some came to rest in her chest. Patty's large breasts were now riddled with separate entry and exit wounds. Pressed against the floor, puddles formed around them -- blood mixing with milky fluid underneath. Patty's tongue was now hanging out of her opened and gasping mouth. What little bit of humanity left in her mind was almost completely gone. Physical reactions had now replaced any conscious actiactiahe body convulsed and spasmed. Arms stretching ahead, Patty's body reached for some imaginary relief. Justine walked up to the naked shaking body of the blond. Blood spurted from some of the wounds in her sides; she was alternately spitting up blood and gurgling as she tried to breathe -- her head still held up by convulsive pain and some remaining force of will. Justine pushed her foot under Patty's right side and forced her over onto her back. Blood covered Justine's foot. On her back, Patty's arms extended over her head; her overflowing breasts full of holes bled freely, mixing with milk that oozed from what was left of her nipples. The numerous bullets striking her body had stripped Patty's minimal swinsuit from her; her utility belt lay shredded underneath her. The id markings on her body written in ink were all but obscured. Only her dented id tags remained around her neck. All over Patty's body, the female torturer noted the numerous bleeding holes and gashes that had been caused by her bullets. Lt. Monroe started to convulse; her lovely, deep blue and heavily lashed eyes were wide open and fully dilated; tears rolled out. The look on her face was of hurt and sadness; her eyebrows furrowed. Blood ran from her nostrils, bubbled from her mouth; her tongue lolled to one side. Justine felt the electric thrill of Patty's approaching death from deep in her loins, up her spine and to the top of her head. Her own breasts filled and became firm and sensitive, her own lips became dry and cold. As Justine closed her eyes, she could feel herself near sexual climax. The body that had been Lt. Patty Monroe started to shake; gurgling and grunting sounds came from its throat. Another spasm of jerking and shaking, and the young woman, once so graceful and physically exciting, was dead. It had taken less than 5 minutes. Justine Loudon slowly opened her eyes. She looked down at the still body of the American blond. "No trespassing, dear. I trust you'll make sure your superiors understand, won't you," she purred to the corpse on the floor. Clap, clap, clap. Jamal Aziz moved up from behind her applauding the performance and put his arm around her waist. "I saw the end. Did you think she suffered enough?" he asked with mock concern. "She was disappointing," Justine looked at Jamal with a pout. "Next time, I'll make sure it lasts longer." Aziz kissed his mistress on the cheek and motioned to some of the men who had gathered around Patty's body. 2 men grabbed Patty's ankles and roughly dragged the body down the hall back towards the storage room. Tracy had stopped for 6 minutes gathering her thoughts and trying to rest before moving across country. It was 1011; the heat continued to stifle her. As she considered her surroundings, she realized that her overland route would include moving through some fairly heavy undergrowth. Then, she'd reach the hot spring and her entrance to the compound. She had less than 6 hours. Covered in muck, Tracy carefully and warily climbed out of the pit and began to move east. The moonless night hid the gorgeous, naked body of the Sweet SOU as she pressed onward towards her destiny. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----