Chapter 8

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

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

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

Suddenly, Tracy opened her eyes and looked up and around; it was dark; the seas boomed less forcefully; the wind howled less fiercely. The very warm water at the entrance of the beach cavern was near her ankles. And inside her body, an odd electrical tickle periodically stirred her feminine reflexes. "It's the Wahoo trying to wake me up," she thought desperately. Tracy fumbled about in the near pitch darkness, and as she did, the tickling stopped. "Sorry," she whispered. Finally getting her bearings, Tracy looked at her watched and activated its illuminated dial. It was after 1900! She'd been unconscious for almost 6 hours. Tracy gathered her thoughts: it had taken an hour and a half to cross the final 1 mile of ocean to this spot.

"Only, I don't know what this spot is," Tracy rebuked herself. Then she came up with an idea. "If the sub can hear me and track me, maybe they can help me get back to the right position." Tracy breathed in and whispered, "Wahoo, can you help me out? Buzz me once if you can." Tracy immediately felt a tingle in her loins. She smiled. "Do I need to move east?" 2 tickles indicated a negative. "West, how many clicks?" She felt 4 distinct twinges. "4 clicks to the west. OK, and thanks," Tracy whispered very quietly to herself and her audience.

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

Diego looked at Dr. Lunt. It seemed to him that the grays in her hair weren't there before she accompanied the last 2 Sweet SOUs to this island. "Cool lady," he noted to himself. Dr. Lunt's face didn't move from the monitor in front of her. Amidst the back slapping relief, she forced herself to feel nothing. There was no room for that right now. As far as she was concerned, the subject was operational again and the experiment could continue. Tracy crouched on her haunches as she tried to straighten herself out. "This little cave was lucky," she thought. If she had been washed up on an exposed beach, she could have been discovered; maybe she'd never have had a chance to wake up. She deftly turned her top back around and stuffed her aching breast into the cup. Then, she pulled up her swimsuit bottom and made sure the Velcro straps were tight; they felt a little soft; but, she figured that was due to the moisture. Untangling her id from the sling of the rebreather, she slipped it off from around her neck and rinsed it off in the warm water. Tracy was having difficulty breathing from the humidity of the air. It was dark, but the heat index in the cavern was well over 100 degrees. Sweat poured from her body as she prepared for her dive; as streams of sweat rolled down her face, all she could do was lick them from her face as they flowed past her lips; she blinked spastically trying to keep the perspiration from stinging her eyes. Then, Tracy realized her goggles were gone. They weren't around her neck. She fumbled in her utility pouch and produced a small red light torch. Turning it on, she carefully examined the area around her -- mindful that even the low light might be seen by Aziz's goons. The sand was indented where she lay, but here was no sign of them; they must have been ripped off during the struggle to get to the beach. Tracy cursed to herself. Nothing to do but do without.

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

Opening her eyes, Tracy realized the saltiness and dissolved minerals around the hot island aided in her ability to see underwater. The sensation was a bit like saline solution in the eyes; only this saline was nearly at body temperature already. Her vision was only mildly cloudy and better than when the goggles steamed up on her departure from the Wahoo. She dove down and headed west along the submerged rock face. Her body was softened underwater; her breasts undulated and slowly jiggled with every movement she made. Her muscles seemed longer, too; her legs moved up and down as she dove deeper along the wall; her pony tail streamed behind -- no longer matted, but soft and free. With the temperature of the water, she seemed less to be diving than sinking into a sensory deprivation tank -- without sensations into a deep void. Tracy turned on her red torch and dimly illuminated the way. Looking at her chronometer, she noted the depth: 12 ft., 21, ft. 33 ft.; she continued to dive.

As Tracy went deeper, the water became warmer. She saw the shadows of fish flicker by -- some small, a couple much larger. "I hope I don't look like a meal," she quipped to herself. At 47 ft. down, and almost 4 clicks to the west of her original beach position, Tracy started to search for the entrance to the underwater cave. When she found it, she almost bubbled the rebreather. It was barely 3 ft around!