Basic Load

The High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, “Humvee” for short, rode over the hardtop towards the emir’s palace. On the back sat the United States Ambassador, H. Johnson, and seated to his left sat General Riley. In front rode Sergeant Ros, the driver. Next to him, in the vehicle’s technical commander’s seat rode Colonel Fiona Brown, U.S. Army Nurse Corps. There had been a change of government in the emirate, resulting in the disappearance of some of the members of the ruling family. As they sped towards the palace, Fiona could see to her left the birds congregating around the crosses erected along the shoreline. That area was strictly off limits to All–American personnel. Fiona was a shapely, five–foot eight–inch high woman, in her early fifties, with short, dark hair that complemented a smooth skin bronzed by almost a lifetime in the outdoors. Her measurements of 38C at the breasts, 36 inches at the waist and 40 inches at the hips could attract many an appreciative glance. She’d enlisted as a volunteer in the army as an athletic young woman of eighteen, in the now defunct women’s Army Corps, and had gone as a WAC to Vietnam on administrative duties. This was at a time when men were being drafted and those who didn’t want to go were leaving the country with one excuse or another, or hiring lawyers to keep them out of the military. Fiona, whose father served in the Second World War and Korea, and whose grandfather served in the First “Big One,” couldn’t have thought of why a person would do such a thing. Fiona deployed to Vietnam and had been working at a field hospital when she experienced her first mortar attack. She had realized she could take the risks of this profession and had found her place in life. She had helped bandage the wounded and no one had questioned whether she was a nurse, which she wasn’t at the time, or not. After talking at length with the nurses on the station, the lowest of which was ranked as a lieutenant, Fiona decided, “I want to do that!” So it was that after Vietnam, Fiona volunteered for nurse training, was approved, and upon completion of four years at a civilian nursing school, she was commissioned as an Army Nurse Corps, or ANC, officer. She’d done another thing that was unexpected. She’d followed a career course that led her to become an expert in the care of Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical, or NBC, casualties. This happened to be the form many threats could take in the new Millennium, and Fiona got a chance to prove her expertise as an ANC Major during the conflicts that took place in the last decade of the Twentieth Century. As most of the U.S. forces stopped short of invading enemy territory, Fiona was one of the select few to go beyond. And she witnessed the terrors of chemical warfare. She also suspected that biological agents had been used against defenseless people, even if the official line was that U.S. troops had been spared from such horrors. Fiona’s recurring nightmare was a child in a village some distance north of the delta of a river, who presented a classical case of drowning. Ten miles from the ocean and three from the river The Humvee stopped in front of the emir’s, that is, the new emir’s, palace. The Ambassador, the General, and Fiona were ushered in by nomad soldiers exhibiting the best respectful courtesy and deference. The two U.S. service persons, however, could not help but notice that the local soldier’s weapons were kept aimed at them across the guard’s waists, and that the weapons were cocked and the safeties were off. If the ambassador noticed, he didn’t show it. As soon as they were headed inside the palace, Sergeant Ros, U.S. Special Forces parked the Humvee close to the gate. He pulled out a pack of Turkish cigarettes, lighted one with a wind–proof lighter, gave one to the grateful nomad soldier who came to stand watch at his side, then lighted it, and seemed to immerse himself in a month–old magazine dealing with fishing and hunting back in the states. All this while keeping a hand wrapped around his carbine. The Ambassador, General Riley, and Fiona made their way to a hall exquisitely appointed in Oriental decor. The hall opened to a gallery that itself led to an inner courtyard and garden. Thence, in a bed of cushions, sat the Divinely appointed ruler of this oil rich country, the young –he was in his late twenties– Emir, recently successful in the power struggle that engulfed the land. The Ambassador wore civilian clothes, a tan lightweight business suit. The General and Fiona wore their desert camouflage Battle Dress Uniforms, known as BDUs. These were not the four–color versions with black edged white splotches made famous during the 1990–1991 Conflict. Both Fiona and the General had worn those until they were literally falling apart on their backs, back then. Over ten years later, they had on the same pattern uniforms, but in the three–color sand, brown, and light green pattern colloquially known as “coffee stain.” Both Fiona and the general also wore the standard pistol belt and suspenders, with a pack at the back containing three ration packages. This was flanked on each side by a two–quart water canteen. As officers, General Riley and Fiona also carried each a holstered pistol and ammunition, and a combat knife. The same, but with a rifle or carbine with ammunition and bayonet, instead of the pistol and knife, also constituted the “basic load” of the U.S. enlisted soldiers. Fiona always thought that the water was the most important out in the desert. It was the only part of the basic load guaranteed to cost you your life if you lacked it. Fiona noticed that the four Palace Guards in the hall had on a version of the four–color pattern but incorporating the green tone, too. Quite bit more expensive than coffee stain. They also had the latest model European assault rifles, with entire, clean, functional equipment complements. Fiona suspected that at least one of the guards was a woman, although their kaffieh–covered faces made it impossible to be sure. They made their respectful introductions and were directed to take a seat on the ground by the royal podium. The emirate’s ruling clan prided itself in being an actual warrior dynasty dating itself to before the pagan Roman Empire. Whether it was true or not, the emirate’s population believed it, prided itself in it, and considered it a source of stability in the realm. They sat opposite the Emir. He had a perfect command of English, the Queen’s, that is. The Emir could be most agreeable and entertaining, making his interlocutor almost forget about the large caliber revolver and local curved knife at his waist. At the emir’s side, in a slightly lower podium, a woman sat in a bed of cushions. She was clad head to toe in the robes of a nomad woman. A detachable face mask covered the lower half of her face, revealing only the bridge of her nose and deep blue, long lashed, expressive eyes under light brown eyebrows framed by a net–like ornament made of solid gold coins. This, the three Americans surmised, was the emir’s mother. The “She–Falcon,” whose help had given her son the leadership in the Emirate. The Emir entertained his guests, and tactfully discussed politics, until one thing was clear. The Emirate, that is, the Emir, did not consider the U.S. presence necessary and was about to request its removal. Fiona was aware that this would be extremely popular among the young American men and women who garrisoned the emirate and who would rather have been any other place in the world. She was also aware that the removal of the U.S. presence would leave the entire population of the Emirate at the mercy of its aggressive neighbor’s Chemical and Biological weapons. These were not the vaunted “weapons of mass destruction” of American propaganda. But they could be delivered by conventional artillery fire, one village at a time, and have the same effect. The first chemical warfare attack in 1916, at Ypres, had been accomplished simply by opening the gas cylinders upwind of the enemy. Some suspected the same tactic had been used brilliantly in 1991, following the plumes of the burning oil wells. “Really,” the Emir stated jovially, bringing Fiona back from her thoughts, “we have a very capable and professional military, capable of defending the realm without needing to bother our gallant allies.” General Riley requested the emir’s permission to speak. “Sire,” he said, measuring his words, “the courage and dedication of your nomad troops is legendary.” Then he continued, “We are concerned about the possible advantage of the potential enemy. We believe he has available an arsenal of not only chemical, but also biological weapons that he can produce and deliver cheaply, bringing horrible death to your loyal subjects.” The Ambassador is the direct representative of the President of the United States abroad. As such he leads the country team including all military advisors. Mr. Johnson had served an honorable stint in Vietnam as a U.S. Marine, but now he found it wiser to let his two subordinate professional warriors state the case to their fellow–warrior host. General Riley used the pause brought about by the mention of death, to introduce into the discussion Fiona, who was the ranking NBC defense expert in the U.S. military. It was always a touchy subject to introduce a female officer in what was to all effects a staff discussion, in the Middle East. Many in this Islamic world had prejudices against women in any sort of role other than wives, mothers, and lovers. Although nowhere in the Koran, or in the Christian Bible, is a woman declared to be inferior to a man, but his mate and companion. In the case of the nomads, experience, and maybe God acting indirectly, had taught them better. A woman would grab a rifle and defend her tribe and family, if need be, the same as a man would. Fiona received permission to speak and addressed the Emir. “Sire,” she said, “I have spent most of my life in the military, and know of these horrible weapons.” She began, and explained in layman’s terms what ergotamine toxins, viruses such as Ebola and the Marburg variant, and Anthrax could do. The Emir and his mother listened to Fiona’s presentation with expressionless faces. When she was through, the mother exchanged several quick words in Arabic with her son. He smiled at her and then addressed the Americans. “Our country is quite grateful for your offer to help.” The Emir said, “But we’re sure we can handle the threat on our own, as we’ve been doing for centuries.” The Ambassador spoke, “Sire, maybe you have not received all the information, please reconsider.” The Emir smiled again, “Mr. Ambassador, I assure you that our military are quite capable on our own. We even have female soldiers in my own Palace Guard. But of course, they are from the lower servant class, who are expected to be available for all and any service. That is different from your country, where you let all your females participate as members of the military,” the Emir let that be absorbed by his guests, “like the Colonel here.” He referred to the Islamic tradition that the faithful were forbidden to make war against each other or anybody else, at least not unless it was a Jihad, a so–called holy war. Slaves, who had at first, centuries back, been animistic, or Christian, then took the social niche that a professional soldier had in Western society. Even if they converted to Islam, their social status remained that of slaves. This was a source of disgust to those Afro–American servicemen who fought in the last war in the area, as well as for people like Ambassador Johnson, whose ancestors, five generations removed, had been slaves. The Ambassador tensed but maintained his diplomatic demeanor. Fiona ground her teeth together and clenched her fists behind her back. She spoke loudly. “Sire, any of our female soldiers, as I’m sure is the case with yours, can be counted on to defend this realm. I’m the living proof of this, if you will.” And she smiled her most seductive, experienced woman’s smile at the young man. Again, the emir’s mother conferred with her son. He addressed the Americans. “This is my mother’s idea.” The Emir said. “We can carry out an experiment, and see just how good your soldiers are, as represented by the Colonel, here. No?” The Ambassador and the General were about to protest when Fiona spoke again. “Sire, I’m sure although they’re my superiors, both the Ambassador and the General will concur in that the decision is up to me, and I totally agree.” “We have no objection, Sire.” The Ambassador replied for himself and the General. The Emir directed Fiona to compete against the Commander of his Palace Guard. They were both required to engage five targets with Fiona’s pistol at 100 yards, out in the palace garden. The Commander got only one shot off center. Fiona got all on target. When they competed again using the American service rifle, they both got perfect scores. “That’s good.” Fiona said, in her very basic, U.S. Army Language Institute–issue Arabic, while retrieving their targets. “These are my service weapon, but you use the Austrian pistol and rifle instead. That’s an excellent score. Congratulations.” The Commander gave her a grateful nod and a smile. Fiona returned it. The Emir next ordered one of his soldiers to engage Fiona in hand–to–hand combat. Fiona noticed this was the same one she had assumed correctly to be a woman. But a rather well built woman who planted several good blows on Fiona before the Colonel could put her down with a Jiu Jitsu throw and a hold pulling her arm out with a booted foot against the woman’s armpit. Fiona suspected the girl would rather have lost that arm than give up in front of her sovereign, and as the girl maneuvered trying to grasp Fiona’s foot, the Emir saved faced for all by commanding “Stop.” Then, “Engage a male now, Colonel, my Guards Commander.” Fiona spun around in time to meet the Karate punching and kicking attack of the Commander. Fiona was a relatively powerful woman, but the man bested her in size and strength. In technique, too, she thought. She remembered her father used to say, “Wrestle a boxer and box a wrestler.” She advanced and almost jumped on the man, absorbing several blows on her forearms. The surprised Commander of the Guard and Fiona rolled on the floor, then they stood up, still grabbing each other. As the man lifted Fiona in a bear hug, trying to force her air out, Fiona struck several times with both palms at the man’s mental nerves. They have noting to do with the mind, but are the preferred knockout site in boxing, located on both sides of the chin. As the man tottered, Fiona hit him on the ears with both cupped palms, then followed through as he fell to the ground by lifting her right foot high in a pose that looked positively ridiculous. Then Fiona let her extended leg fall by gravity. The move landed her heel against the Guard Commander’s solar plexus, putting him out of commission. Something she’d learned from the Marines. “Stop the combat.” The Emir said. A few words to the Guard Commander and the female soldier, though not harsh words. They saluted and withdrew, after exchanging a martial artist’s waist bow with Fiona. Fiona was now feeling something that sometimes happened after combat, especially hand to hand. And especially when she had grappled with the solidly built Guard Commander. She was feeling a bit excited, and shifted her weight thinking the engorgement of her clitoris and nipples would be better masked that way. All in all, she was a shy farm girl at heart and was hoping she wasn’t sporting a red face, too. She was also feeling parched and thirsty. The recommended minimal water intake that compensated for what the body metabolized in this climate was one quart per hour. But Fiona, true to the tradition that health care personnel make the worst patients, often neglected to down her own dose of the precious liquid. That was the case today, with other and more important things on her mind. The exercise had poignantly reminded her of her thirst, but she did not dare drink from one of her canteens in front of the Emir. “Rommel used to go without water for almost a whole day.” She thought. And immediately, “Half the day’s gone by. This is drier than North Africa, and you, girl, are not Rommel.” The “She–Falcon” and the Emir had been conferring in a low voice. And Fiona saw the Emir’s mother point in her direction a couple of times during the exchange. The Emir spoke. “Congratulations, Colonel Brown. If a mere woman’s so good, I imagine the men.” Fiona chafed at the mere woman comment, but she did not show it. The Emir continued, almost as an afterthought. “Of course fighting skill is useless when you die of thirst.” “Sire,” the Ambassador asked, “what do you mean by that?” The Emir smiled, “Only that your soldiers have notoriously poor water discipline, and in an extended operation, regardless of their capability as warriors, they would drop like flies.” He paused, “My nomads are noted for keeping their water just like one of their camels of the Mounted Guard would.” The Emir said, “Could your soldiers do the same? Could you?” he asked, referring to Fiona. Fiona replied at once, “Yes–Sire–I–Would.” The Emir said, “The reason why my guardsmen, and guards–women, are nicknamed “camels,” is that they can tank up on water at the beginning of a border patrol, and not need any water until they’re back at their base.” Fiona remembered once, during an expected threat, when they’d set up their decontamination facilities close to the border. They had been bothered by the lack of local assistance. Only a convoy of indigenous infantry had made a brief stop and then driven away. But as the order came to pack up and move, four hours later, they learned better – especially Fiona. Out of the desert, the figures of the local soldiers, armed with anti–tank and air defense rockets, had risen from the sand, shaking it off and waiting until the local army’s trucks came to pick them up. The Emir said. “I would like,” he continued, “to carry out one last experiment with the Colonel, and if she convinces me of the worth of your troops, I’d feel better inclined towards a U.S. presence in my realm.” He paused, “Will you have her participate?” The Emir concluded, with a straight face that no longer had even the hint of a smile. The Ambassador thought of not risking U.S. prestige on this point. The General was half–worried about the Army’s image and half–worried about Fiona. But the Ambassador knew this was the trump card on which the Emir would base his decision, and he replied with an equally solemn demeanor, “That decision will be a personal one for the Colonel, Sire.” Fiona didn’t give a damn and said, “I can do as well as your gallant nomad soldiers, Sire. And as this old woman can, so can all the young persons in the U.S. Army.” The Mother then spoke to the Emir, using the Arabic tongue. Fiona couldn’t figure out what they had said. But she caught the translation, “Our nomads can down four quarts of water and live on that during the next four hours. Can the Nazarene (Christian) women warriors do the same? You would not have any relief during four hours after drinking your fill, to duplicate my soldier’s endurance.” Fiona’s answer, thinking of how dehydrated she felt, was again, “Yes, Sire.” She said this, remembering the soldiers who rose out of the desert, as if by magic, after four hours of waiting. “I have seen your soldiers do as you have said, and we can do likewise.” Both the Ambassador and the General nodded, and Fiona began to pull out one of her canteens. “Just one more thing.” the Emir said, and Fiona stopped. “It might have been apparent that my mother, although a warrior herself, does not totally approve of women in the organized military. She is also generally distrustful and especially of any possible American duplicity.” The General looked at the Ambassador as if he were going to explode. The Ambassador directed a soothing statement to the soldier and then addressed the Emir. “Sire, I would not think the words, “American” and “duplicitous”’ would ever be mentioned in the same sentence in your realm. However, Sire, what is it that Her Highness would find objectionable, and how can we allay her concerns?” The General and Fiona were on the same thought wavelength, thinking, “Oh, brother! We need George Orwell here to translate the diplomatic doublespeak!” The Emir then replied, “To make sure no trickery is involved, my mother has suggested that the Colonel take her clothes off for the experiment.” Fiona’s mouth dropped. The General was livid and the Ambassador shocked, although he did not show it under his professional diplomat’s demeanor. The Ambassador began to protest, “Sire, this is highly irregular and would be humiliating to an American military officer.” The General had his eyes down, his hands open close to his weapons and was muttering something in the line of, “…not going to let them humiliate Fiona like this…” Fiona was about to speak for herself, when the Emir graciously provided her way out of, or into the situation. “Gentlemen.” He said in his even voice that carried all the inflection of a command. “As you have said before, it is up to the Colonel’s decision.” Fiona gave a brief smile to the Emir and said, “Sire, I accept the challenge, for that is what it is. For the sake of your people and for myself.” It was expensive to sleep good at night, and Fiona could do without the visions of the child drowning in dry land. She bent down and undid the laces on her Swede leather boots. She stepped out of them. Next, she released and grounded her load bearing equipment, pulling out the two canteens with a two–quart capacity. The Emir made a sign with his hand and the guards left, securing the doors. Fiona stood there for a few seconds in her uniform blouse, trousers and hat, and her underwear. Then, Fiona unbuttoned and removed her blouse, then her trousers, first undoing the loops in the hems of the legs. She then took off her brown T–shirt, which she placed on the neat pile she had made with her clothes. She looked at the General and his statement seemed to say, “Don’t do it.” She replied with an statement that conveyed, “I must!” Fiona then undid the catch of her cotton brassiere and removed it, laying the garment on top of her pile of clothes. She then lowered her cotton panties –Hanes for Ladies, made for comfort, with a fake frilly waistband– halfway down her thighs, and she stepped out of them one well sculpted leg at a time. Fiona then removed her thick olive socks, and added the lot to the pile of her clothes. She placed her hat upside–down on top, placed her wristwatch, graduation ring and earrings in her hat, and placed the bundle next to the General. She managed a wink and a whispered, “I’ll be all right.” To the General, as she did so. The Emir now told Fiona, “It is Noon. Drink.” Fiona raised the first of her canteens to her lips and drank, thinking, “Thank you, Erwin Rommel.” By the time she’d finished it, her thirst had been satisfied and she’d had to force some of the water in, as she felt full. She still had to down the other canteen. She took a deep breath and began to suck as she might off a mother’s teat. Slowly and somehow knowing it was good for her. She paused several times, hoping the elapsed time would let her gut absorb some of the water before she put more into her body. She drank in small, painful gulps, until the Emir and his mother were satisfied. And she felt as if she carried a pregnancy about to burst her abdominal region. Fiona sat in a bed of cushions. Naked as the day she’d been born. She’d kept her “dog tags, identification tags,” on. Maybe because, in accordance with regulations, as long as her dog tags were on, although naked, she was technically in uniform. Other than her two regulation dog tags, stating name, rank, religion, and blood type, she had a third one. It carried an etched crucifix and the image of the resurrected Christ the King on the flip side. She’d forced this on the brass that wanted her to deploy to Arabia. The government frowned on any Christian symbols that might offend the local Muslims. Fiona made it clear that if required to forego her devotional symbols, illegal under the U.S. Constitution, she’d rather not go and be court–martialed. See how THAT agreed with the American people. She’d compromised with being allowed to wear that third dog tag, and she’d introduced many of her troops to its wear. She sat there with one leg in front shielding her sex and her left arm across her breasts. She tried to look at the other persons present in the eye, to avoid the realization that she was now nude. Fiona knew that her breasts were still muscular and youthful looking, and that her nipples would hang at less than two inches from where her bra had imprisoned them. Her muscles were also quite firm, with just a minimal sag in her stomach and buttocks. But it was best to keep her mind on her presentation and avoid making herself feel more ashamed than she now was. “Fiona,” the Emir explained, “we are not the savages many in your country think.” He went on. “I hold a Master’s Degree in Science from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I believe I can understand any technical explanation you care to give.” Fiona smiled and, stark naked like she was, she proceeded to explain, from scratch, the theory of genetic recombination and how it applied to bacteria and viruses. The Emir and his mother, along with the two Americans, listened attentively to the exposition for the next two hours. Oblivious to the fact that the lecture was delivered by a shapely naked woman, Fiona was feeling slightly nauseous from the extra pressure of the water in her stomach and which, as she spoke, was transferring via her kidneys to her bladder. Fiona figured that something over one hour had transpired. But it was better not to keep score. This would end when it ended. Still, the pressure inside her was bringing her pain and a strange sense of sexual excitement. She tried to shield her nipples, which she knew to be standing out, and her pubic region. This last because of two reasons– since she hadn’t expected to wear a bikini in the Emirate –one piece suits were ok for the foreign women, with a bathing cap, of course– she hadn’t bothered to shave her pubic hair in some months. Also, she was aware of her clitoris being sensitive and erect. She didn’t want to look down and see her swollen bladder blocking her sight and reminding her of the need to urinate. Likewise, she didn’t want to look down and realize her erect clitoris was showing through her pubic hair and giving an erotic spectacle to all present. Fiona was explaining Krebs’ Cycle, and the way a cholinesterase inhibitor could interfere with it in a most deadly way. And at this point, most embarrassingly, Fiona turned around to point at a particular place in the enzymatic cascade. Her free hanging breasts struck the easel she’d been using, and almost knocked it to the ground, before Fiona could grab it, although naked, with both hands. “That,” the Emir said, “is proof of the folly of using women in the military. The General was earning his pay by maintaining a completely neutral poise. “Sire,” he said, “I doubt our soldiers, any more than yours, will be fighting in the nude, whether male or female.” The Emir considered this and replied, “Touche. Good reasoning.” The Emir now continued, as if this had been a conversation at a garden party, “The new desalinization plants will provide the realm with a constant, uninterrupted source of potable water.” He paused, “This is what our people most need. No longer will we depend on those huge rubber bladders, brought in with water.” At the mention of the “blivit” bladders, Fiona felt her torment begin anew, as she was made very, very aware of her situation with the excess water and the fact that her flesh and blood bladder felt like it was bursting. The Emir continued, “But, do you have any plans as to how to protect these from contamination?” Fiona now explained all the necessary NBC defense measures, while obviously keeping her legs together and at times, crossed. Trying not to loose face by passing water in front of the Emir. The Emir surprised Fiona once more when he asked, commanded, “Tell us about yourself.” Fiona explained about her childhood in an Ohio farm, about her early experiences in Southeast Asia, and about how she’d gotten to her present position in the military. The Emir, and her mother, using him as translator, wanted to know about her experiences in the last regional war. What she thought of NBC weapons capabilities. Fiona explained. The Ambassador and the General were mesmerized by this scene, as much by the bizarre nature of what they witnessed as by the beauty of the woman exposed in front of them. One more hour elapsed and one and a half–hours to go. Then, the Emir asked about their current enemy’s NBC capabilities and his realms defense assets. Fiona, kneeling on the cushions, answered truthfully and at the end was going to give her assessment, when she felt she was going to let go of her water. She painfully stood up, oblivious to the fact that she gave a view of her erect nipples and her pubic area to all present. She stood fully erect, hoping to use every square inch of her insides to accommodate the water she’d had to ingest. Concentrating in keeping her sphincters tightly shut. She looked up with eyes closed, took a deep breath, and then looked at the She–Falcon and to the Emir directly. She concluded her explanation and added, “Sire, if you want the U.S. military presence out of your realm, we’ll be gone. But with us will go any capability for your realm to defend against these weapons. It will only be a matter of time before the enemy attacks and many of your subjects will die horrible deaths.” Fiona, when talking about her former war experiences, had left out the episode about the child drowning in dry land. Now she related that to the Emir in detail. Maybe it was the emotion of telling it, or it may have been the pain of holding her water against what she knew to be a physiologic imperative. But Fiona’s eyes were watering. The Emir asked, in a soft voice, “This is important for you, is it not?” Fiona nodded her affirmative response. Then he added, “And if I required you to walk out naked into the streets of the city?” Fiona knew what would happen. The locals would see her, then the word would be out that an infidel woman had the gall to exhibit herself naked among the faithful, who would gather stones and pelt her with them until she lay dying in the street. Then, maybe she’d be able to let go of her bladder’s contents, as she died. Fiona looked into the Emir’s eyes and said, “For your people, and for myself, I WOULD do it, Sire.” The Emir smiled and said, “Yes, I believe you would.” Then he stole a glance at his watch and said, “There’s still about twenty minutes to go. I’m curious as to whether a U.S. soldier in your position can still carry out physical activity. Would you care to show us, Colonel?” Fiona had been practicing Tai Chi forms for a while. The gentle martial art from which all the others arose. The forms are practiced slowly and deliberately, and tend to put the mind out of the body. Exactly what Fiona now needed so she wouldn’t let go of her water. For the next half–hour, oblivious to what part of her naked body was visible, Fiona engaged in the Tai Chi forms to the amazement and the delight of those present. A moment after Fiona pulled her fists upon herself, drew her bare feet together, and bowed at he waist –which reminded her of her full bladder– the Emir announced, “Four hours.” He then addressed the Ambassador and the General, “Gentlemen, please accompany my Mother, the Colonel, and myself into the garden” A lightly clad, attractive nomad woman was indeed standing behind the two men and gently beckoning towards an open passageway. The General had a suspicious statement on his face, but the Ambassador also beckoned him to follow. As the General turned towards Fiona’s clothes, he noticed they were gone! So did Fiona, in a surge of anxiety. No matter how much technology the Americans put in the region, the one and most stealthy weapon were still the bare feet of a nomad woman. Now the Emir, the She–Falcon, their guests, and a naked and full Fiona stood in the hall. The Emir assisted his mother to stand and they all joined Fiona. “You really would have shed your blood by walking naked outside the palace?” The Emir asked. Fiona, again with her right arm across her breasts and the left hand between her legs, replied, “Yes, Sire.” Again he asked, “Why?” And her reply was, “I’ve grown to love your people, and they’re worth the risk for the sake of keeping any evil from happening to them.” The young Emir smiled and said, “You are right.” Then, he let his hand down to feel Fiona’s distended bladder while he said, “Held like a nomad woman.” Fiona wished she could acknowledge the compliment, but all she could force out was, “Sire…Please…don’t do that or you’ll cause me a … most shameful accident.” The Emir retired his hand, but said, ignoring her last comment, “Let us show you our garden.” They walked into the garden, under the direct sunlight. Fiona felt the change in temperature only increased her desire to void. The garden, be it told, was beautiful. Hung with vines, green grass –in a desert climate–Fiona guessed they had an irrigation system– and different fruit trees. And in the middle, there was a patch of desert sand – as if it were the actual soul of the Emir’s nation. Fiona stood in front of this sand. The Emir asked, or commanded, “Stand in the sand.” Fiona did so. The Emir then said, “Give your water out, warrior woman.” Fiona did not need to be told twice. Her hands went behind her head and she arched her spine as she spread her legs and pushed her pelvis forward. She closed her eyes, raised her face to the sky, and relaxed completely, letting nature take it’s course. At first she had a burning sensation in her pelvis. Then, she began to feel the wetness and then a stab of burning pain as a stream came, and kept flowing for almost two minutes. And what Fiona felt was pure pleasure, verging on the sexual. She stood there with knees bent, back arched, hands behind her head, with a stream of her water going back into God’s desert almost half a foot from where it issued out from between her labia. And naked like this she was feeling all warrior and all woman. General Patrick Riley watched her and felt his loins explode. He kept his clipboard with its irrelevant data in front of his crotch, wishing they’d been anywhere but where they were now. The Ambassador, classic diplomat that he was, kept himself decently detached, thinking of what he’d be doing with his beautiful, black wife, back in the USA. When Fiona was through, she wondered about her clothes and if she’d have to return to their base of operations in the nude. The Emir pointed at a stealthy servant woman and only said, “Follow her.” Then the Emir and his mother walked away, leading on the Ambassador and the General. “She’ll join us as soon as she’s dressed and decent.” Fiona heard the Emir say. She felt more than a bit of apprehension, but followed the woman to another chamber. There, a pool of clear, slightly scented water waited. The servant woman and another standing by the pool completely disrobed and led Fiona into the water, where they proceeded to bathe her. Fiona enjoyed the experience, but kept a notion in the back of her mind to stay alert just in case these people thought they were bathing a sacrificial lamb. The women then led Fiona out of the bath, dried her with two Turkish towels, and anointed her head to toes with what seemed like perfumed coconut oil. Fiona went through this experience with all her pores open and her eyes closed. When she opened her eyes, the servant women were gone. There were her clothes and the She–Falcon. The She–Falcon surprised Fiona by speaking in perfect American English, “ There’s your uniform, Fiona. I had it washed and ironed. And, yes, you may check your weapons.” With her host’s permission, Fiona verified her knife and pistol had not been tampered with. The Princess opened her veil. Fiona thought she looked like a fiftyish Ava Gardner, with a kinder smile. “I believe my son will now allow your military to assist in defending his realm.” She said with a wink. “I think your willingness to risk your life for his subjects is what decided him.” The She–Falcon continued. “It’s been a pure uphill battle to make these people adopt the most basic notions of equality between men and women. I believe my son needs a like–minded staff.” The She–Falcon paused, then she said, “You might be the kind of wise woman he’d need as an advisor at his side.” Fiona smiled at this and measured her words. Fiona realized that this “advisor” or “grand vizier” post, for a woman, might require also being emir’s lover, and his instructor in love with an older woman. Although she felt quite up to it, she had other plans for her life. So, Fiona replied, “The Emir needs a wise advisor, but also one with new ideas. As a man, he will also want a young woman who will gladden his nights and give him heirs.” Fiona said, “An older woman like me might not prove entirely appropriate.” She continued, “Besides, he already has the wisest woman in the world to advise him. You.” The She–Falcon smiled and said, “Let me embrace you, Fiona. As sisters.” And Fiona, nude like she was, let the other woman hold her in her arms. The princess said, “Burbank, California.” And Fiona smiled as she said, “Lorain County, Ohio.” Less than half an hour after they’d left the Emir’s hall, the Ambassador and the General were joined by his Royal Highness the Princess and Fiona. The Emir announced his decision to maintain the U.S. presence in his realm. The General, standing next to Fiona said, “You smell real nice, Fiona. And you look like you’re out to a parade, too.” Fiona batted her long eyelashes and replied, “Your parade.” Sergeant Ros drove the Ambassador back. The Ambassador said “I‘m sorry about what happened there, if you in any way…” Fiona answered, “Sir, when getting a sovereign to do what one desires, a bit of humiliation is to be expected.” The Ambassador smiled slightly, “Churchill?” Fiona smiled back, “Charlton Heston in “Khartoum”, playing Gordon Pasha.” Sergeant Ros then drove the General and Fiona to the officer’s quarters. But before that, they had to make a stop. After her ordeal, Fiona couldn’t really hold her water for much of half an hour at a time. So, the urge struck her while they were on their way. As they sped upon the desert highway, Fiona said, “Please…Sergeant, could we make a quick stop?” Ros replied, “Your wish and my command, Ma’am.” He stopped the vehicle in the middle of the desert sand, and got off to stand guard. General Riley was obviously uncomfortable with the situation. Fiona said, “You have already seen all there was to be seen of me, and, I’ll say, Sergeant Ros is a medical specialist, who participated in the last physical I had over here. So, there’s nothing of me all of you haven’t seen before.” With that Fiona walked out into the sand, while the males in the party averted their eyes. She squatted in the sand, undid her BDU trousers and pulled them and her cotton panties out of the way, and let out a stream which at first burned, but then provided all the pleasure of a sexual experience. Eyes closed, face to the sky, forming a puddle in the desert sand, almost a foot from where she squatted. Sergeant Ros drove them to the officer’s quarters. He helped Fiona down and said, “The guards told me.” Then, “Damn, Ma’am, wish I’d been there. Ma’am, Sir.” He saluted, and after the General and Fiona returned his salute, he was gone. This late, no one saw them. Fiona leaned on the General and asked, “Anything left to do for the rest of the evening, Patrick?” At the palace, the Emir got off his bed and sat, naked as he was, at his computer. On the bed, his favorite servant girl, also naked, slept sprawled face down after a night of lovemaking. He kept the computer on mute mode so as not to wake her up. The Emir zeroed on the frames from the garden video surveillance camera where Fiona appeared. He instructed black and white mode. On the screen, in black and white, Fiona appeared as a brass statue, squirting forth water into the sand. The Emir wished he could have had a statue made for the garden in her image. A pity the local sensibilities went against all sort of imagery. Of course, computer images were not “graven,” so they were all right. Two hours later, Fiona leaned on the General, both naked in bed, after a good bout of lovemaking. Her hand caressed his manhood, as his hand explored between her legs, keeping that fire up. She was nuzzling his face with the tip of her nose, using their largest sex organ, their skins. “You know,” she said, “you get too tense. I’ll have to teach you some Tai Chi. And the use of this neat, scented coconut oil.” He stirred and caressed her short haircut, with the other hand gently rubbing her clitoris and labia, “If we can try a little experiment of our own.” He continued. “I left my two canteens in the fridge. Two quarts for me and two for you.” Fiona smiled, “I’ll love it, Hydrology in action. But you know what, Patrick?” She teased. “You got a good show from me back there. Now it’s your turn to hold it till you just have to irrigate that garden.” He smiled at her, “For you, anything.”
Basic Load, Copyright© 2001 by EJ