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


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


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

Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lt. Tracy Parker," the petty officer began.  Tracy didn't realize the
photographer was required to record a description as well.  She was
slightly surprised.  The petty officer continued, "Female, brown hair,
aged 25.  Height: 5 feet, 8 inches, weight: 123 pounds."  Tracy was a
very
tight 121 pounds, actually.  Tanned because of her training routine,
she
didn't have any tan lines.  "Practice" was with and without clothes --
day
or night, rain or shine, in the tropics and in the snow.  A very nice
long-legged 34-23-33 with graceful arms and long-fingered hands, her
breasts were round, firm, and lifted , like small domes capped by
perfect
half inch, pinkish nipples surrounded by small pinkish areoles.  (Her
nipples were standing up because the room was chilly, and she was
naked.)
Although not overtly muscular (it didn't run in her family), her body
was
well-defined -- the muscles easily distinguishable, ribs slightly
visible
as regular shadows on either side of her torso and flat, rippled abs.
"Small mole above right nipple, light brown in color.  2 very small
pink
moles on left side of navel, 10 o'clock, and small dark mole above
right
side crotch  11 o'clock."  Above her crotch was a soft, small
triangular
pillow of reddish brown pubic hairs.  Tracy was a soft brunette with
reddish highlights.  Her hair was regulation cut, in her case a longish
page boy, 2 inches below her ears with eyebrow level bangs, slightly
parted in the middle.  Her face was angular with a pointed nose with a
straight bridge and perfect nostrils.  She had middling lips: not thin,
not full; but they were dark pink even without any make-up -- and Tracy
wasn't wearing make-up.  When she smiled, a dimple appeared just to the
right of her mouth.  Her cheek bones were not too high or too obvious.
Her chin was small but well-defined and square.  Her dark green eyes
were
flecked with gold -- large and almond shaped, set nicely, full with
dark,
long lashes.  Her neck was long, but not Audrey Hepburn long; just long
enough.  Every midshipman for 4 years had tried to get her in bed. 
Only
Tom had succeeded.  Now, he was gone.  "No abrasions or lacerations
seen,
no evidence of contusions.  Please turn around, lieutenant."

The camera continued its flash-pops and the photographer continued her
photographic monologue.  Each flash highlighted the small goose-bumps
raised on Tracy's skin and the soft downy hairs on her arms and at the
base of her neck.  On Tracy's naked skin was further identification. 
In
blue ink (not indelible, but long-lasting for the mission), on her
right
breast, above her right nipple was written in small, legible
characters,
her name, rank and serial number; on her left breast was "US Navy." 
High
on her left and right buttocks, the same was written, very small and
discrete, but legible.             In addition, very close to her
crotch,
where the
right leg met her pelvis, her id number was written in small but
legible
characters.  Worst case scenario, again, she was told. Naked and facing
the wall, she just blanked out her mind and let herself drift.   This
was
going to be a dangerous and high probability mission.  "If a person has
it
in their mind," her DI was fond of saying, "that they gunna die,
they'll
usually find a way of doing jus' that.  So, you never goin' to die,
right?"  Tracy remembered the "sisters" yelling "No  fuckin' way,
Gunny!"
at the top of there lungs and grinning at each other.  32 young women,
and
they were going to live forever.  Only now, there were 30.  "Turn
around
again, ma'am?"  Tracy  turned back for her final full length photo,
sucked
it up a bit, posed and smiled; "Just like Penthouse," she thought
provocatively to herself -- naked, beautiful, and confident.


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


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


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

Part 2

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

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

In Capt. Clement's office, Tracy was struck by the overt masculinity of
the setting.  Everything was regulation; battleship gray metal and
green
vinyl chairs, Korean War issue officer's desk, 2 bookcases filled with
non-descript black binders labeled "SOU 0101," etc.  On the wall were 3
large round plaques: the DOD, the Navy Department, and the SOU.  SOU
had
a
stylized Calypso similar to the Cousteau Society's; just more American
and
Deco looking.  But, Cousteau's Calypso didn't kill for a living.  Tracy
let her eyes scan the room.  Surprised, she suddenly noticed a small
photo
of a man, Navy captain, and a boy about 2 years old on the captain's
desk
in a definitely non-regulation Edwardian silver frame. "So, Suzy-Q has
a
kid," thought Tracy as she overtly glanced at the photo twice.  All the
"sisters" referred to Capt. Clement as "Suzy-Q because she wasn't
anything
like the song.                     "My Joshua," Capt. Clement broke the
silence noticing
Tracy's interest in the photo.  "My husband Steven was SEAL team before
we
met 5 years ago.  Got married 2 years ago and had Joshua right away."
Tracy was slightly embarrassed at the personal content of the words she
was hearing.  "Thought we wouldn't or couldn't later with everything.
But, Steve's with the CNO at the JCS now, and I'm strictly a desk
jockey."
 As Capt. Clement laughed, for the first time as far as Tracy could
remember, she placed her hands on the desk.  Her left hand was badly
scarred.  Suddenly, Capt. Clement's face went cold.  "Parker, let's
hear
it from the top, " she asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


-----The Final Mission Part 3

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

The fan-jets' loud whine in the cabin necessitated the use of intercoms
and earphones.                     Conversation was all but impossible.

So, with at least 8
hours of flying and 2 seemingly disinterested crew, Tracy decided to
relax
for a bit.  As she balanced between sleep and drowsy awareness, her
mind
was on Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Part 4

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

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

Cmdr. Darnell Davies met her as she climbed out of the plane.  The
deafening roar of turbines, the rattle of arresting gear and hiss of
steam
catapults at the same time lent an almost hellish atmosphere to the
image
of hundreds of orange-clad men and women scurrying across the pitching
flight deck.  At eye level, Tracy could barely make out either end of
the
carrier.  Even in her flight suit and helmet, she felt the wet cold of
the
spray and the unreal sensation of slick and
unstable asphalt under her boot-clad feet.  Cmdr. Davies was 1st
Officer.
He greeted her, and she gave him a quick salute, "Permission to come
aboard, sir," Tracy gave the mandatory delivery.  Returning her salute,
Davies said, "Permission granted, Lieutenant.  We have a bunk, some
chow,
and a few messages from CINCPAC for your eyes only.  If you'll follow
me.
After a
bit, Admiral Thomas would like to see you."  Davies led Tracy from the
howl and roar of the flight deck and to the lift where as they
descended,
he added, "I'm afraid we've been instructed to keep you in cognito to
an
extent.  So, there will be some restrictions for the next 6 hours.
Sorry."  Tracy knew this was routine for SOU.  But, it was probably the
first time a carrier had been used to ferry a SOU to a jump.  "He's
probably full of questions," thought Tracy as they finally entered
the hallway to her cabin.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Listen, Trace," the Admiral grew serious.  "Your terrorist buddy has
most
of the navies in the Pacific on alert -- ours, theirs, and some others,
too.  SOU has got to get rid of that man and remove that bomb.   I'm
waiting for orders to vaporize the friggin island of his.  But, I know
he
owns the government over there.  I also realize that they're real
chummy
with the PRC these days.  Ever since Deng died, the Cinese commies have
had it in their heads that if they distract
the proles by clobbering small countries, no one will bother about
throwing them bastards out of power.  The trouble is, we're the only
country left to clobber.  Your pal Aziz could take us into World War
3."
The Admiral looked at Tracy's face; it was pale and tired.  She smiled
into his eyes like a small girl.  Thomas felt his official demeanor
melt.
"Sorry, about the tirade, girl.  How about some eats?  Looks like they
aren't feeding you enough stateside."

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

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

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

Now, fully dressed for the next leg of her trip, indistinguishable from
a
man or woman with helmet on and visor down, Lt. Parker emerged onto the
frenzied flightdeck and ran towards a helicopter with increasingly
faster
rotating rotor blades.             Along side was Cmdr. Davies. 
"You'll
be over your
rendezvous point within 3 hours.  The copter will stay in position for
15
minutes.  Then,
they'll have to come back with you.  Understand?" He was screaming at
the
top of his lungs assured of the absolute privacy of the conversation
aided
by the helicopter's engine.  Tracy nodded and gave him a low thumbs up.
With a quick salute, she barked, "Permission to leave the ship, sir!" 
He
saluted an aye-aye.  She looked up at the flag snapping in the near
gale
force wind, saluted it and climbed in; chocks were released; and the
helo
lifted off the carrier's deck
and swung low over the water, due west towards what should have been a
sunset but was just a light patch of gray against the steely ocean.



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


"The Final Mission," first posted late last year, is the story of Lt.
Tracy Parker, a member of the US Navy's Special Operations Unit, the
"Sweet SOUs."  Beautiful, intelligent, deadly, her mission is to stop a
madman with a nuclear bomb.  2 others have tried before her.  Both have
failed. I have reformatted into 17 chapters.
----------
Subject: The Final Mission Part 5

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

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

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

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

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

"Stupid bitches," he grumbled as he fingered the 2 sets of differently
dented metal identity tags.  "Monroe and ah, yes, McKeeson, Patricia,"
he
read aloud.  She was the one that didn't leave the grotto.  5 of his
men
behind the rocks surprised the pretty red-head as she climbed out of
the
hot pool.  Jamal remembered how he and Justine waited as she climbed
out
of breath from the water, her thin naked body glistening, giving her
the
time to stand up, remove her equipment and brush back her dripping, red
hair when he stood up from behind one of the rocks and greeted her. 
"She
looked like a wet, naked virgin in the boys' room," he chuckled to
himself.  With her big blue eyes and her mouth wide open as she
reflexively filled her lungs, he and his men began to fire.  He
relished
the way she screamed and grimaced in exquisite pain as he and his men
delivered "delicate" spray after spray of bullets that tattooed her
lovely
freckled body -- first with spots, then with gashes, and then,
ultimately,
bloody, spurting knots of torn flesh.  The first seconds of rapid
gunfire
raked her torso, back and her small, exposed breasts -- multiple slugs
cleanly drilled into and through her.  She didn't fall, but, because of
the pattern of fire around her, stayed upright, jerking and twitching 
--
almost suspended puppet-like by the hot strings of bullets that tore at
her body.  When he and his men finally stopped firing, he was amazed
that
she was still standing and able to turn her head, staring with a
shocked
expression and spitting up blood towards him.  He left strict
instructions
that no one was to shoot her in the head or face; and no one had.  This
was good.  She had a beautiful, freckled face with upturned nose and
pointed chin.  In seeming slow motion, McKeeson fell backwards over a
large boulder and sprawled over it face-up, exposing her bloody,
twitching
body to the audience in the grotto.  Arms straight out at her sides,
her
long, pretty legs spread far apart exposing a dripping bloody orifice,
her
thin torso arched over the alter-like boulder, her perfect small but
bullet-pocked breasts and long nipples oozing blood and milk, her
tearful
long-lashed blue eyes were still wide open and her blood-filled mouth
moved incomprehensibly.  Was she trying to plead, or was this a reflex
only?  Then he recalled the way the girl stiffened, gurgled a plop of
blood from her mouth and a spurt of fluid from her vulva, a convulsive
jerk, a shiver, and she was dead.  Very amusing.  He smiled as he
fingered
McKeeson's dog tag.  "Yes, more satisfying than the other," Aziz noted
to
the now waking Justine, flashing the tags in his hand. Justine nodded
her
head sleepily, tossed her long hair back and lay back down on her other
side.  She smiled and dozed again.

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

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

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

"We'll be in place in 6 hours, Lieutenant," the skipper, Cmdr. Luis
Diego,
informed Tracy.  If you want to get some chow and some rest, I'll get
us
there, okay?" he grinned a reassuring grin.  Around her, the sub
groaned
as the wieght of the sea above and around her pushed against the
bulkheads.  At the diving control, 2 sailors manned the helm, staring
at
the gauges that replaced the windows of any other vehicle.  "Down by
the
nose, 20 degrees," the Chief of the boat announced.  "Make your depth
80,
Chief," the skipper said almost off-handly.  "80 feet, aye."   The men
and
women in the bridge were intent on their stations; no one bothered to
look
at the damp lieutenant as she took in the scene around her: a female
sailor sat towards the far end of the bridge lientening through
headphones, 2 sailors monitored the ballast tanks and pressure gauges,
the
other 6 sailors were at various stations monitoring the batteries,
engines, air quality, and tactical displays.  "Thanks," Tracy
acknowledged
the encouraging word and started forward towards the SOU area.   Cmdr.
Diego nodded absently in her direction.  "Pretty girl," Diego noted to
himself.  Tracy was aware of the claustrophobic atmosphere on this
fleet-class submarine.             On Los Angeles-class subs, Tracy
remembered, a
person could actually take a jog.  "I'll be lucky if I can bend over
for
a
bar of soap in this coffin," Tracy complained to herself.  Trying to
shake
the shadows of panic, she got into her cabin and sat cross-legged on
her
bunk and tried to clear her mind.  Then, she lay back and took a nap.
She'd be awakened 2 hours prior to their arrival and until then, there
was
nothing left to do.


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


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

The Final Mission- Part 6

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

Suddenly, Tracy sat up.  She was sweaty.  The underarms of her
coveralls
were moist; there was line of perspiration moistening her back and
across
her chest.  She looked at a cheap thermometer hanging from the cabin
bulkhead; it read 91 degrees."Whew!" Tracy puffed a complaint.  "I
think
something's wrong with the air exchanger on this tub," Tracy thought as
she got up and opened her cabin door.  Surprised, she found herself
face
to face with an older woman with gray-streaked dark brown hair and an
equally distinguished-looking older man. They seemed as surprised to
find
her up and about.  It was 3 and a half hours before the jump.  As they
sized each other up, the young female officer and the 2 older question
marks, Cmdr. Luis Diego appeared as if on cue to answer the obvious
questions everyone had.  "Lieutenant, this is Dr. Lunt," he motioned
towards the woman, "and Dr.Selig," motioning towards the man.   "They
are with the NSA.  We're supposed to help them with an experiment
during
this trip."  Cmdr. Diego was trying to keep it light, but obviously saw
Tracy's spine stiffen. "I'm sorry doctors.  I don't know anything about
an
'experiment.'  But, I'm going to be too busy to provide lab notes and
observations for the folks back home."  Tracy was trying to be civil as
she got more and more angry.  "What kind of shit was SOU trying to pull
on
her this close to a jump?" Tracy fumed
to herself.  Didn't they know that it was going to be difficult enough
after losing 2 others?             Even more importantly, didn't Capt.
Clement care
enough about her emotional state to have protected her from this crap?
"Was Capt.Clement aware this would be part of the mission?" Tracy
asked,
hoping that the answer was no.     "Your CO was fully briefed and
actually
encouraged our participation," Dr. Selig volunteered.  Tracy felt
betrayed.  "Actually," Dr. Lunt interjected, "we're
going to test a device that may provide you with an edge as you go
in.It
will monitor your bodily functions; heart rate, blood pressure, etc.
and
will provide you with limited one way communications to this submarine
during your mission.  It will be undetectable and may provide us and
the
SOU with additional insights upon your return."  Tracy looked the woman
in
the eyes. She remembered Clement's frustration about not knowing what
happened to Munroe and
McKeeson.  So,Tracy concluded quickly that she was going to be loaded
with
a "black box" to record vital information in case she didn't get back.
After all, Aziz always returned the remains. The doctor probably knew
that, too.  Tracy saw the confirming look in Dr. Lunt's eyes.  "Well,
okay," Tracy softly submitted.  "How much time do you need to set me
up?"

Tracy sat in the middle of the long surgical table in the forward
torpedo
room of the Wahoo.  She was wearing a hospital smock.  As she shifted
her
weight from buttock to buttock, she felt small puddles of sweat
underneath
her skin.  The temperature was at least 95 degrees in the sub. "Doctor,
does it seem too hot in here?" Tracy asked Dr. Lunt.  She was wearing
surgical gloves. No assistants; the torpedo room hatch was closed. 
"Dr.
Selig asked the captain about the heat.
He said it was due to the volcanic nature of the surrounding ocean
floor,"
she stated kindly but clinically.  As Tracy watched, 2 small devices no
larger than watch batteries were removed from sterile packing.   Tracy
noticed the concentration Dr. Lunt showed in her face as she checked
each
device by eye and then electronically by some testing device.  She was
in
her fifties; she
looked a bit like Olympia Dukakis but was much prettier.  Her eyes
weren't
exactly  brown but almost amber in their clarity.  She didn't hesitate
as
she connected a very long, thin wire to one of the devices; her brow
peppered by rolling droplets of sweat.  "There," Dr. Lunt turned and
smiled.  "Lieutenant, this is one of Dr. Selig's toys.  It is an
anterior
monitor that will allow us to hear you as you go about your duties." 
She
showed Tracy a small wafer about the size and
thickness of a penny with a long, very thin wire hanging from it.  "It
will be worn within your body. This will  provide the most protection
and
also increase its effectiveness when you are broadcasting.  Do not
worry
about being discovered,"  Dr. Lunt anticipated Tracy's concern about
detection.  "The signal is very low frequency; very similar to the ELF
used by this submarine for emergency broadcasts."  The doctor's face
became clinical and distant.   "Unfortunately, you will have to be
purged
before introduction of this device."  Tracy looked at her quizzically.
"You mean," Tracy half laughed.  "You'll have to have an enema and
empty
your bladder completely. No water or food before your start," Dr. Lunt
explained dispassionately.  "It is a lot to ask," suddenly the doctor's
tone was warm and understanding, "but it will protect the device and
increase your chances of getting home."  Tracy was surprised.  That
comment made it clear that
she knew the nature of the mission.  There weren't just 3 people who
knew;
now, there were at least 5 -- Dr. Selig had to be in on it, too.  Tracy
stewed.  "A lot of people are beginning to know about this.  And that's
bad," Tracy's brow furrowed.

The enema was effective.  But, Tracy wasn't eating much prior so the
process went quickly. There was some additional flushing and cleansing;
Tracy thought her insides must be as clean as ever in her young life.
Through the process, which took 45 minutes, Dr. Lunt was kind and
gentle,
supportive and discreet.  When everything had been done to prepare,
Tracy
got back on the surgical table now fitted with stirrups used in
deliveries.  "If you'll please place your feet here," Dr. Lunt
motioned.
Tracy absently placed each foot in a stirrup and the doctor lifted the
hem
of Tracy's gown.  A cold touch in a very sensitive spot made Tracy
start.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Lunt said flatly.  "I'll be inserting the device into
your vagina and attaching it to the wall against the uterus."  Tracy
could
feel an icy probe slowly enter her body.  "The attachment will be made
by
a surgical staple; the device produces a low voltage pulse that acts as
a
local anesthetic.  You
won't know it's there," the doctor offered.  Tracy wasn't taking. 
"Attach
a small radio inside my vagina, and I won't notice?" Tracy humorlessly
thought.  At once, she felt her pelvis spasm.  The thought of the
procedure making her react in this way caused her to blush slightly.
"Perfectly normal," Dr. Lunt reassured her.  Of course, she was right.
Regular examinations by the SOU doctors told Tracy that.  But this was
different.  Only, Tracy didn't know why.  The second device was a
backup
unit.  As soon as Dr. Lunt was done inserting and attaching the device,
she slowly and carefully uncoiled the thin wire.  One end was attached
to
the device inside Tracy's vagina.  It lead out through her vulva and
was
glued into place running along her left pelvis, up her left side,
around
her left breast and ending attached by a small pad to the left of her
sternum.  Tracy, fully unclothed in front of the doctor, made mental
notes
about its placement and position along
her body.  It was practically invisible -- the wire was so thin and
attached so well.  "The wire is attached in several places so that it
will
not come off in physical activity.  The end is capped with a special
microphone.  In a sense, your body becomes a transmitter, and your
bones
the antenna for the device," Dr.Lunt was obviously proud of the
combination of electronic and biological wizardry Tracy had become.
"There's no chance of this wire slipping and snagging, is there?"
Tracy regarded herself in a full length mirror on one of the bulkheads.
"Not a chance," Dr. Lunt was certain.  "Please say anything, and
whisper.
It's a test," Dr. Lunt smiled.  "I feel like the bionic woman," Tracy
muttered.  Suddenly, with a crackle of the intercom, Dr.Selig's voice
responded, "You are much prettier than her."  Dr. Lunt face was a proud
grin.

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

The underwater departure from the sub was made through the special
airlock
in the forward torpedo room.  Up until this time, the rest of the crew
had
been barred from entering the area; obviously because of the various
procedures being performed by the doctors; but, also because of the
real
disruption that could be caused by a bunch of sailors seeing a
bikini-clad
SOU operative prior to a jump.     At this, point, however, the members
of
the crew required for the preparation for departure entered; there were
3
men and one woman.  The men whistled with
spotaneous appreciation.  Tracy was sweaty and beautiful.  The interior
temperature of the sub was now over 100 degrees.  Her suit was damp and
perspiration highlighted every muscle of her form; her nipples were
extended from the excitement; her breasts round and firm.  The
tightness
of her body was amazing.  Dr. Selig was even stirred by the sight. 
But,
containing himself, he
made sure that Tracy understood how the device worked. "Remember, you
don't have to shout. We'll be monitoring your body functions during
your
mission; we'll know everything about your physical condition.  In
addition, please make comments.  We'll hear them.  If you need
confirmation, we can send a feedback to the device that will result in
a
mild tickle," Dr. Selig became slightly embarrassed.  Tracy nodded,
"Thank
you doctor.  I'll remember that."  She
looked at Cmdr. Diego who was trying not to laugh.  "Lieutenant, I've
got
us within 4 miles.  It's real rough.  Want a look?"  The skipper
offered.
Tracy responded, "Sure."  They walked back to the con.  The 8 male crew
members in the control room audibly whistled as one when Tracy came
through the hatch.  She was gorgeous; and they'd been at sea for 3
months
straight. Diego hrumphed with disapproval, and the crew tried to go
back
to business as usual; but, it
would be difficult.  Motioning to the periscope, Diego ordered the sub
to
40 feet.
Slowly, Tracy felt the boat lurch upwards and begin to sway slightly. 
The
periscope was extended and after the skipper had a look,Tracy stared
into
the eyepiece.  Outside and above the surface, the seas were gray and
wind-swept with 6 ft. swells, the sky was a darker gray and the island
a
still darker lump
in the horizon.  It was 1200 hours and it ought to have been light; it
looked like dusk.  Visibility must have been zero on the island; it was
a
miracle to have glimpsed it that far out to sea.  Tracy looked at Diego
and smiled.  "My kind of weather," she remarked as she walked, maybe
slightly sashayed, past the crew in the control room towards the
forward
torpedo room.

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

She cleared her head and waited.  Her breaths were regular now even
though
she could hear her heart pounding in the echoey little chamber. 
Suddenly,
with a woosh, water began to flow in around her feet, now over her
ankles,
towards her shoulders, and over her head.  Sound had changed from
echoes
to muffled, heavy rumbling and humming from the submarine and her head
as
her body attempted to equalize with the water pressure around her.  Her
breasts were now buoyant and suspended.  She rose to the top of the
chamber and released the outer door.  A dull clank as it lifted free
and
swung out and against the deck, and Tracy swam up, turned around and
closed and resealed the hatch.      She saw the dark form of the sub
beneath
her; in her ears, she could hear the thrum, thrum, thrum of the screws.
She quickly swam towards the surface -- effortlessly and efficiently
like
some sleek and deadly mermaid.     Suddenly, Tracy realized how warm
the
water was and the sudden blurring of her vision.  The heat was causing
her goggles to fog.  Worse, she was having difficulty drawing air on
the
rebreather.  The heat must be affecting it too.  Her training
suppressed
any hint of panic as she hastened her rise to the surface.  Above her,
the
film of the surface water was grayish green; not bright but an
undulating
blanket that seemed to shadow everything beneath.  As she reached the
surface safely, she gasped, quickly sealed the rebreather and pulled
down
her foggy goggles around her neck.  She was being carried up and down
by
the large swells.  The wind flew stinging, hot spray into her face and
eyes; and water came into her mouth every time she tried to take a
breath
of the humid salty air.  "Suck it up and get it done," Tracy told
herself
and started swimming strongly towards the island.



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


"The Final Mission," first posted late last year, is the story of Lt.
Tracy Parker, a member of the US Navy's Special Operations Unit, the
"Sweet SOUs."  Beautiful, intelligent, deadly, her mission is to stop a
madman with a nuclear bomb.  2 others have tried before her.  Both have
failed. I have reformatted into 17 chapters.
----------
Subject: The Final Mission Part 7

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

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

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

Tracy was having a difficult time.  The storm was much more than she
expected.  The warmth of the water and the difficulty in getting a
clear
breath in the heavy seas was causing her to become more fatigued and
more
quickly than she was prepared for.  Unconsciously, her body began to
relax
in an attempt to allow the wave action to assist her swim; the swells
carrying her for a while -- up, down, up, forward, and down; again and
again.                             Tracy stroked with less energy; her
arms were definitely beginning
to get tired, and her legs were feeling rubbery.  She didn't even think
about the implant and the audience her audible efforts were attracting
on
the unseen submarine.  Training and discipline had replaced thought and
judgment; Tracy was simply a programmed device in the water; armed and
guided by remote control; trying to make her objective within an
allotted
time.

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

Wahoo sat suspended under the waves and wind, exposing only her long
antenna to the air as she monitored Tracy's progress.  Inside the
control
room, the crew watched the skipper and the 2 civilians anxiously as
they,
in turn, monitored Tracy's progress.  Dr. Lunt had turned on a monitor
attached to a small computer and was watching with rapt interest the
virtual image of a naked woman as it moved and twisted in simulated
swimming motion.  The image looked vaguely like the woman the crew had
seen nearly 2 hours before; but, the image lacked the definition or
physical beauty of the real thing.  Dr. Lunt's "virtual" Tracy was
based
on the telemetry being sent from her implant; the figure was shapely
but
smooth and inhuman.  The image had no
face but an impression of a face with indications of eyes, eyebrows, a
nose and mouth.  The hair was stiff and unmoving.  Where perfect,
lovely
breasts with well defined nipples should have been, the computer
generated
2 round forms protruding from the upper torso of the figure; where the
small soft mass of Tracy's pubic hairs should have been, the virtual
image
displayed
only a smooth surface.             Yet, the ability to generate a
real-time virtual
image of a subject with the implanted device was a breakthrough in
technology.  Dr. Selig occasionally turned to watch "his" image as it
moved and twisted; he felt proud about his achievement, but felt a
tinge
of modesty
as he turned away each time to concentrate on the digital indicators
instead.  "Besides," he told himself, "the unit will record everything
anyway."  Dr. Lunt, on the other hand, watched everything and monitored
Tracy's vital functions as they were displayed around the virtual image
of
young woman.  In all of this, Cmdr. Diego was dumb-struck by the
advanced
technology and ran his hand back and forth along a well worn brass rail
--
feeling less important than the technology that was making all of this
possible.  Meanwhile members of the crew alternately gazed at the
various
dials and lights of their stations and glanced over to the computer
image
flickering in the humid submarine control room.

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

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

On the Wahoo, Dr. Lunt observed with greater concern the level of
physical
fatigue she was seeing indicated on her monitors.  She'd observed the
virtual image as it climbed over the shoal and noted the registration
of
physical discomfort bordering on pain as Tracy's image scraped its
knees
and calves.  "I'm watching blood toxicity levels," she commented aloud.
In the water, Tracy finally made it into the deep water surrounding the
shear walls of the island's south face.  The waves were crashing
against
the volcanic rock wall.  In an instant, a large swell carried Tracy up
and
shoved her very hard against the rock.  She felt the breath leave her
lungs and became dizzy.  Instinctively, she reached around and grabbed
at
the rock face.                     Her hands groped along as wave after
wave pushed her
chest-first against the rock wall; the volcanic rock scraped her
fingers
and knuckles as she clinged like a bat to the rough face.  For the
first
time in the approach to the island, Tracy was beginning to feel panic;
she
was too tired to fight the surging waves and knew there would be
trouble
if she let go.                     As she struggled to get her bearings
and catch her breath,
Tracy realized that very near her the wind was howling through a large
opening.  Moving towards the opening, her eyes focused on a large
volcanic
rock cave with a gray sand beach inside.  As she moved inside, she
could
feel the rain stop and the hot, humid wind whistle past her towards the
opened back roof of the cavern.  The sand was hot, but it was stable
and
unmoving.  Tracy dragged herself onto the strip of sand on her hands
and
knees, coughing up salt-water as the waves broke over her bruised body.
She crawled farther up and away from the water; her bikini bottom was
pushed far down her buttocks; her top was askew exposing her scratched
right breast.  Finally far enough from the waves, Tracy closed her eyes
and rolled heavily onto her back and lost consciousness.


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


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

Part 8

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

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

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

Suddenly, Tracy opened her eyes and looked up and around; it was dark;
the
seas boomed less forcefully; the wind howled less fiercely.  The very
warm
water at the entrance of the beach cavern was near her ankles.   And
inside
her body, an odd electrical tickle periodically stirred her feminine
reflexes.  "It's the Wahoo trying to wake me up," she thought
desperately.
Tracy fumbled about in the near pitch darkness, and as she did, the
tickling stopped.  "Sorry," she whispered.  Finally getting her
bearings,
Tracy looked at her watched and activated its lluminated dial.   It was
after 1900!  She'd been unconscious for almost 6 hours.  Tracy gathered
her thoughts:  it had taken an hour and a half to cross the final 1
mile
of ocean to this spot.             "Only, I don't know what this spot
is," Tracy
rebuked herself.  The she came up with an idea.  "If the sub can hear
me
and track me, maybe they can help me get back to the right position."
Tracy breathed in and whispered, "Wahoo, can you help me out?  Buzz me
once if you can."  Tracy immediately felt a tingle in her loins.  She
smiled.  "Do I need to move east?" 2 tickles indicated a negative. 
"West,
how many clicks?"  She felt 4 distinct twinges.  "4 clicks to the west.
OK, and thanks," Tracy whispered very quietly to herself and her
audience.

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

Diego looked at Dr.  Lunt.  It seemed to him that the grays in her hair
weren't there before she accompanied the last 2 Sweet SOUs to this
island.
"Cool lady," he noted to himself.  Dr.  Lunt's face didn't move from
the
monitor in front of her.  Amidst the back slapping relief, she forced
herself to feel nothing.  There was no room for that right now.  As far
as
she was concerned, the subject was operational again and the experiment
could continue.

Tracy crouched on her haunches as she tried to straighten herself out.
"This little cave was lucky," she thought.  If she had been washed up
on
an exposed beach, she could have been discovered; maybe she'd never
have
had a chance to wake up.  She deftly turned her top back around and
stuffed her aching breast into the cup.  Then, she pulled up her
swimsuit
bottom and made sure the Velcro straps were tight; they felt a little
soft; but, she figured that was due to the moisture.  Untangling her id
from the sling of the rebreather, she slipped it off from around her
neck
and rinsed it off in the warm water.  Tracy was having difficulty
breathing from the humidity of the air.  It was dark, but the heat
index
in the cavern was well over 100 degrees.  Sweat poured from her body as
she prepared for her dive; as streams of sweat rolled down her face,
all
she could do was lick them from her face as they flowed past her lips;
she
blinked spastically trying to keep the perspiration from stinging her
eyes.  Then, Tracy realized her goggles were gone.  They weren't around
her neck.  She fumbled in her utility pouch and produced a small red
light torch.  Turning it on, she carefully examined the area around her
--
mindful that even the low light might be seen by Aziz's goons.  The
sand
was indented where she lay, but here was no sign of them; they must
have
been ripped off during the struggle to get to the beach.  Tracy cursed
to
herself.  Nothing to do but do without.

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

Opening her eyes, Tracy realized the saltiness and dissolved minerals
around the hot island aided in her ability to see underwater.  The
sensation was a bit like saline solution in the eyes; only this saline
was
nearly at body temperature already.  Her vision was only mildly cloudy
and
better than when the goggles steamed up on her departure from the
Wahoo.
She dove down and headed west along the submerged rock face.  Her body
was
softened underwater; her breasts undulated and slowly jiggled with
every
movement she made.  Her muscles seemed longer, too; her legs moved up
and
down as she dove deeper along the wall; her pony tail streamed behind
--
no longer matted, but soft and free.  With the temperature of the
water,
she seemed less to be diving than sinking into a sensory deprivation
tank
-- without sensations into a deep void.  Tracy turned on her red torch
and
dimly illuminated the way.  Looking at her chronometer, she noted the
depth:                             12 ft., 21, ft. 33 ft.; she
continued
to dive.                           As Tracy went
deeper, the water became warmer.  She saw the shadows of fish flicker
by
-- some small, a couple much larger.  "I hope I don't look like a
meal,"
she quipped to herself.  At 47 ft. down, and almost 4 clicks to the
west
of her original beach position, Tracy started to search for the
entrance
to the underwater cave.  When she found it, she almost bubbled the
rebreather.  It was barely 3 ft around!

On board the sub, Dr.  Lunt and Dr.  Selig were beginning to become
concerned with more and more frequent interruptions in the telemetry
from
Tracy.                             They had adjusted various signal
strengths in order to compensate.
But, the virtual Tracy continued to cut in and out on screen while the
audio transmissions became weaker and more distorted.  "I can only
think
that the volcanic activity around the island is interfering with the
signal," Dr.  Selig threw up his hands in disgust.  "I don't know what
else to do!"  Dr.  Lunt frowned.  She wasn't prepared to lose
significant
information because of a technical glitch.  "Is there anyway we can
boost
the signal from the device itself?"  Dr.  Lunt asked, almost demanded
an
answer from the disheartened Selig.  "Yes, we could do that, but it
would
result in a constant sensation for the woman; it might be, er,
distracting," Dr.  Selig reluctantly looked for the least provocative
words.                             "Do it," Dr.  Lunt snapped.  "I'm
reluctant, Lunt.  At that
strength, I don't know what the implant will do.  Everything is
calibrated
against the anesthetic effects of the electrical signal."  Dr.  Selig
looked to Cmdr.  Diego for guidance.  "She's the doctor," Diego replied
quietly.  "If she needs to monitor the SOU, do it.  But, make sure it
doesn't endanger her!" he interjected.  Diego figured he was still the
highest ranking officer of the bunch.  And he'd was fed up with these 2
and their technical gadgets.  Dr.  Lunt looked at Selig and gave him a
grave look.  Dr.  Selig quickly punched a few buttons into the keypad
in
front of his station.  Looking at the monitor, he found the display of
the
corresponding set of numbers, looked back at Dr.  Lunt and doubled
them.

Tracy shined the dim red lamp into the opening.  There was nothing but
craggy overhang and darkness in the passage.  Stiffening a bit, she
swam
head-first into the opening -- her red light illuminating the immediate
area around her.  It was instantly too narrow to swim; Tracy
practically
had to begin crawling.             Her buoyant body softly banged up
and
down and
from side to side in the passage as she began this 1 and a half mile
passage.  It seemed to Tracy that it was moving deeper.  She was making
mental notes of the stability of the tunnel's rocks when her pelvis
contracted and she felt herself twitch, sexually stimulated. 
Immediately
after that, she felt the much stronger vibrations of the device
implanted
in her vagina.                     The sensation was overwhelming and
unexpected.                        Her eyes
opened wide as her whole body became numb and her mind went blank. 
Worse,
deep inside her vagina, it was starting to hurt.

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

Tracy was dizzy.  The heat of the water coupled with the unbelievable
sensations produced by the device inside her body had left her
momentarily
disoriented.  Then, just as suddenly as the spasms started, they
stopped;
the only reminder being a subtle stinging deep inside her vagina. 
Tracy's
eyes cleared, and she gathered up her dropped lamp and adjusted the
rebreather between her lips.  Recovering, she surveyed her
surroundings.
The passage was narrow and rocky.  Fully underwater, not even small
bubbles of air had collected against the top.  Along the sides, there
was
no vegetation; but a healthy crowd of small shrimps and crabs scurried
away from her comparatively gigantic form as it slowly made its way
north.
Tracy couldn't reach behind herself or even at her sides; she had to
keep
her arms extended forward using her hands to pull and her flippered
feet
to push.  Only, it became increasingly clear that the flippers were
hindering her movement forward.  Deciding it was better to move without
them, Tracy kicked each flipper off her feet.  Now her toes could help
grasp the rough surface as she pushed and pulled herself along.  About
1
mile down the passage and almost 45 minutes later, after several very
tight squeezes that scraped Tracy's buttocks and drew a small amount of
blood from some of the deeper scratches, she began to notice the
passage
getting wide; perhaps only a few inches, but definitely wider as she
felt
her body move more easily through the confining passage.  Facing
forward,
arms extended, Tracy moved faster and upwards.    Suddenly she winced
and
looked down at her left breast.  I small crab had attached itself to
her
apparently appetizing nipple as she had brushed by.  Carefully, she
pulled
the crustacean's claw off her breast when she realized that her top was
gone.  Tracy tried to move her arms down to feel along her body. 
Perhaps
it had slipped down as she moved through a tight portion in the
passage.
Her view was blocked; but she managed to get her right arm down by her
side and felt along her body.  Tracy swallowed and a few bubbles
released
through her nose; her swimsuit bottom was gone, too.  She was naked in
the
water -- no clothing.  Tracy struggled in her mind to get moving again;
she was very close to the grotto.  She forced herself to ignore the
issue
of modesty; she'd trained in the nude during survival comps; she knew
what
to do when she had to make do.     This was one of those times.  Tracy
swam
faster as the passage bent upwards.  A loud sudden splash and echoing
slaps of water against rock and Tracy was in the middle of a small pool
in
an equally small underground grotto.

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

Absolutely naked, dripping with perspiration, her skin slippery with
sweat, her hands and feet red and aching from the underwater passage
and
now the climb to the surface, Tracy continued to exert herself.  Her
rebreather quietly clinked against the rocks as she breathed heavily
through her mouth in her efforts to climb this part as quickly as
possible.  To be caught in the narrow tunnel would give her no chance
at
all -- her submachine gun was still strapped to her back, holster on
her
right thigh, knife sheathed around her left.  She wasn't thinking about
what happened to her swimsuit, she was thinking about maximum
survivability; Tracy didn't realize that the Velcro had softened in the
hot water of the underwater tunnel and adhesive used in their
manufacture
disintegrated.                     Her suit simply fell apart.  Unaware
of any of this, a
nude Lt.  Tracy Parker climbed to the top of the tunnel opening,
breathed
in the sulphury, hot, humid air, pulled herself over the lip of the
edge,
through the plants surrounding it, crawled on her belly over to a
depression in the ground filled with muck and mud and slipped in.  Next
leg:  2 miles in the open to the hot spring.  The time was 1005 hours.



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


"The Final Mission," first posted late last year, is the story of Lt.
Tracy Parker, a member of the US Navy's Special Operations Unit, the
"Sweet SOUs."  Beautiful, intelligent, deadly, her mission is to stop a
madman with a nuclear bomb.  2 others have tried before her.  Both have
failed. I have reformatted into 17 chapters.
----------
Subject: The Final Mission Part 9

Crawling into the hot mud and muck of the steamy depression momentarily
took Lt. Tracy Parker's breath away.  Before she continued, she decided
she would take stock of what she had accomplished and what was left to
do
before she had to meet up with her sub at 0415 the next morning.  Even
in
the pitch blackness of the stormy, moonless night, Tracy could see that
all around she was surrounded by a fog of heated mists and steam. 
There
was no relief from the heat; it was dark and 95 humid degrees.   Mired
in
this mud pit, she was covered in 110 degree muck.  The constant heat
sapped her strength and kept her light-headed.    On her feet, this
could
make Tracy less effective; in the water, it could make her critically
more
clumsy.  She had no idea that this ended up being fatal to the first
SOU
to attempt entry into the island fortress, Lt. Patty Monroe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Justine stood up and smiled at the beautiful, suffering blond.  
Dressed
in
a halter top that tightly held her large, round bosom, Justine wore
denim
shorts, was bare legged, and sported leather sandals.  In her hands was
an
AK-47 -- the most popular terrorist automatic weapon.  In the clip were
50
rounds of Swiss clad bullets.  "My dear," Justine cooed to Patty,
"you'll
wish you'd never seen this island.  You'll wish you had never been
born."
With that she released a spray of a dozen rounds that caught Patty in a
line from her left pelvis, diagonally across her abdomen, and across
the
right breast.  Patty's body recoiled, shaking from taking the multiple
rounds and
fell backwards.  As she did, she somehow swung her body around and
landed
fully on her chest.  The spear heads clacked on the hard, bloody
concrete
floor.                             The impact caused Patty to grunt
loudly; the pain of the weight of
her body against the spear heads caused her to convulse.  Blood was
gurgling up through Patty's throat and dribbling out of her mouth. 
Each
of the bullets exit and entry wounds oozed slowly with dark, almost
black
blood.                             Somehow, as her blue eyes dilated,
and
her mind stopped fully
functioning on a conscious level, Patty locked on the image of the
storage
room threshold ahead.  Agonizingly, she started to crawl; dragging her
bleeding body towards the opening.  Her breaths were gurgling and
wheezy;
blood trickled out of each nostril.  As she began to slowly pull
herself,
blood started to collect under her body.

Justine watched Patty's attempt to crawl back to the store room.  She
fired another spray of bullets that criss-crossed Patty's back.  The
damage to her spinal cord, exposed by the multiple slugs, only added to
the suffocating pain that was drowning the beautiful lieutenant.  Each
time she was struck, Patty would raise her chest up, her hands grabbing
under each opposite arm pit as if to trying to keep her chest from
splitting.  She moaned hoarsely as she groped forward now unable to
move.
The rounds from Justine's weapon passed through Patty's back, hips, and
buttocks, passed out from her broken pelvis, abdomen, breasts, and
shattered rib cage, ricocheted against the concrete floor and reentered
her body.  Some came to rest in her chest.  Patty's large breasts were
now
riddled with separate entry and exit wounds.  Pressed against the
floor,
puddles formed around them -- blood mixing with milky fluid underneath.
Patty's tongue was now hanging out of her opened and gasping mouth. 
What
little bit of humanity left in her mind was almost completely gone.
Physical reactions had now replaced any conscious actiactiahe body
convulsed and spasmed.             Arms stretching ahead, Patty's body
reached for
some imaginary relief.

Justine walked up to the naked shaking body of the blond.  Blood
spurted
from some of the wounds in her sides; she was alternately spitting up
blood and gurgling as she tried to breathe -- her head still held up by
convulsive pain and some remaining force of will.  Justine pushed her
foot
under Patty's right side and forced her over onto her back.  Blood
covered
Justine's foot.
On her back, Patty's arms extended over her head; her overflowing
breasts
full of holes bled freely, mixing with milk that oozed from what was
left
of her nipples.  The numerous bullets striking her body had stripped
Patty's minimal swinsuit from her; her utility belt lay shredded
underneath her.  The id markings on her body written in ink were all
but
obscured.  Only her
dented id tags remained around her neck.  All over Patty's body, the
female torturer noted the numerous bleeding holes and gashes that had
been
caused by her bullets.              Lt. Monroe started to convulse; her
lovely, deep
blue and heavily lashed eyes were wide open and fully dilated; tears
rolled out.  The look on her face was of hurt and sadness; her eyebrows
furrowed.  Blood ran
from her nostrils, bubbled from her mouth; her tongue lolled to one
side.
Justine felt the electric thrill of Patty's approaching death from deep
in
her loins, up her spine and to the top of her head.  Her own breasts
filled and became firm and sensitive, her own lips became dry and cold.
As Justine closed her eyes, she could feel herself near sexual climax.
The body that had been Lt. Patty Monroe started to shake; gurgling and
grunting sounds came from its throat.  Another spasm of jerking and
shaking, and the young woman, once so graceful and physically exciting,
was dead.  It had taken less than 5 minutes.

Justine Loudon slowly opened her eyes.  She looked down at the still
body
of the American blond.             "No trespassing, dear.  I trust
you'll
make sure
your superiors understand, won't you," she purred to the corpse on the
floor.                             Clap, clap, clap.  Jamal Aziz moved
up
from behind her applauding
the performance and put his arm around her waist.  "I saw the end.  Did
you think she suffered enough?" he asked with mock concern.  "She was
disappointing," Justine looked at Jamal with a pout.  "Next time, I'll
make sure it lasts longer."  Aziz kissed his mistress on the cheek and
motioned to some of the men who had gathered around Patty's body.  2
men
grabbed Patty's ankles and roughly dragged the body down the hall back
towards the storage room.

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


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


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

Part 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


From rdragon@ix.netcom.com Wed May 07 18:26:28 1997
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From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE FINAL MISSION 11/17
Date: 7 May 1997 22:26:28 GMT
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"The Final Mission," first posted late last year, is the story of Lt.
Tracy Parker, a member of the US Navy's Special Operations Unit, the
"Sweet SOUs."  Beautiful, intelligent, deadly, her mission is to stop a
madman with a nuclear bomb.  2 others have tried before her.  Both have
failed. I have reformatted into 17 chapters.


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

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

"Maybe, I didn't make myself clear the last time, Kate," Clement
mouthed
the words through clenched teeth.  "I want to know what Aziz knows. 
What
he knows and when he got it."  Kate looked away and smiled.  "Minton,
Katherine, Lieutenant, USN3400121," she quietly recited half mockingly.
Suddenly, she was jerked to her feet and her shirt was ripped open
revealing her large, round breasts through a thin laced bra.  Clement
shoved the surprised Kate roughly back into the chair. Quietly Clement
warned Kate, "I don't think we have the time for your jokes right now.
Marines, leave the room."  she huffed to the 2 large jar heads.  They
immediately tu