Chapter 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.