The Seawolf battery swung to meet the incoming flight and with a roar a missile launched itself against the target that was still hidden below the horizon.

"Inbound sighted on heading 243." The radar operator intoned passionlessly.

"Report progress on intercept." Captain Rogers, tall, manly and deadly cool under fire.

"Locked on target Sir. The computer has sighted two other missiles Sir permission to activate remaining weapons systems?"


Midshipman Lucy Anstruther tried her best to keep out of the way, her heart pounding as she watched the action unfold around her. Ever since the shooting down of the British Airways flight to Malta by a Libyan MIG, the ship on which she served, HMS Leopard a Leander class Destroyer had been in the thick of the fighting. Now she was scouting far ahead of the main task force which was destined for landfall close to Benghazi in the gulf of Sirte.

Lucy was on bridge watch, standing on the wing of the bridge scanning the horizon with her weighty binoculars, the glare from the sea giving her a headache. The remaining missiles on the battery roared away into the sun, making her jump with the unexpected burst of noise.

She gulped trying to hide her terror. When she had signed up for a short service commission she was fulfilling the fantasy of her father and grandfather. Both Sailors, both decorated. And her the only child. A Girl! Fortunately women had recently been allowed to go to sea and so Lucy had signed up with alacrity. After her training, bobbing around in Dinghies in the Dart estuary, she had joined Leopard in Gibraltar as it embarked on a goodwill tour of the Med. She remembered being so excited, but trying to act so nonchalant in front of Captain Anstruthers and Rear Admiral Anstruthers (retired) as she joined her first ship. It was to have been a dull, but pleasant, Mediterranean cruise. Then the 737 had slammed into the sea close to Filfla, with the remains of a Libyan AA missile buried in one Engine. Survivors were few. The fury of the British, slow to start but at boiling point now, demanded the head of the man responsible. Mohammar Gadhaffi, North African Despot and first class fruitcake was about to meet his Armageddon. The British were coming. Her American allies were calling publicly for a political solution and simultaneously supplying arms and valuable satellite time. They too wanted to see justice done and Lockerbie avenged.

A flash on the very edge of the horizon announced that the Seawolf had contacted the anti-ship missile.

"Visual sighting of Missile destruction Sir." She announced in her quavering voice.

"Very good midshipman." The Captain took time out to beam a congratulatory smile at her, which made her blush.

She pushed the stray hair out of her eyes and leaned against the rail, trying to focus on the horizon. One of the bridge watch glanced at her as she leaned over.

'She really did have a magnificent butt,' he thought.

In fact most of Lucy was in the magnificent class. Long blond hair, tied in a tight bun, over a roundish face. Milky blue eyes, retrousse nose, generously lipped mouth. Her body was small but packed with an animal sexuality which her uniform did nothing to hide, rather it accentuated her charms. She was the collective lust dream of every man on the ship, except Rupert and Tarquin who only had eyes for each other. The tradition of rum, bum and baccy still lived on in some parts of the Queen's navy.

She strained against the glare and then thought she saw something. It was like a tiny splash maybe five miles distant. It could have been a fish disturbing the millpond tranquility of the turquoise sea. But then again.

There! There it was again. Now she could see a dot, growing progressively bigger, below the radar net.

"Inbound on port side Sir." She cried, trying to sound casual as death approached at close to the speed of sound.

"Whereaway...." It was the last thing Captain Rogers said as the missile slammed into the midsection of the ship. It exploded instantly on contact breaking the ship in two. Within minutes she was gone.


"A signal has come in from the Task Force Prime Minister."


"It says that HMS Leopard was hit by a missile at 1430 Hours Zulu and was lost, presumably with all hands. A Sea King Helicopter is searching the area but only some floating wreckage has been found and a few bodies. The search is still continuing."


"None have been found yet Sir."



"Sorry please get me the Admiralty I must talk to Admiral Johnstone."

"Yes Prime Minister."


A fishing boat found her. A wooden boat with the eye of Osiris painted on the bow. For luck. Which she, and others of her ilk, were going to need fishing for Lampuki in the middle of a war zone.

War or no war, families still had to be fed.

The two men on board had seen the explosion on the horizon and, notwithstanding the state of war which existed between their nation and another, they had obeyed the law of the sea and made their puttering way towards the last sighting.

They circled the large slick, with its bobbing detritus, for nearly ten minutes before they found her. She was hauled on board, miraculously alive and virtually unscathed. As is the magical way of explosions her clothes had been virtually torn from her body leaving her unconscious charms open to the fervent gaze of the illiterate fishermen. Otherwise she was unharmed. Quickly they pulled her aboard and hoisted their lateen sail. The onshore breeze pushing them briskly towards their homeport as their prize lay unknowing athwart the bottom of their boat.

It was over an hour later that the first Helicopter came. By that time they were long gone.


Sergeant Ali Mukbar leaned against the side of the troop carrier. The evening cool was starting to settle across the burning wastes of the little port. He watched as one of his men listlessly paced between the two palm trees that overhung the dock. It was obvious that the Soldier was trying to stay in the shade and wasn't interested in putting in a proper sentry patrol.

Ali Mukbar couldn't give a shit. That was Lieutenant Adouli's problem. He was the fine officer, he could deal with it. He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Marchovkas again, favourite of Stalin they said, well he was welcome to them he'd rather have a Marlboro. Maybe when the little Satan was destroyed then they could take on the great Satan herself and then he could have as many Marlboros as he wanted.

Over on the other side of the dock Lieutenant Adouli watched the sergeant through his binoculars. He sighed and put them down and picked up his small glass of mint tea. How, by Allah, had he come down to this? Commanding the most slovenly bunch of dogs that had ever been assembled, even in a country more noted for its posturing and bluster than for its military prowess. To add to that he had been commanded to take over the military presence in this flyblown pesthole of a fishing village. Even though it was a port, the high bluffs and treacherous reefs ensured that it would hardly be a military target. He was hoping that he would be recalled to join the main task force to help repel the invaders but, despite a blizzard of applications, the high command had not seen fit to call upon his services for the greater glory of the Libyan People's Jamaharriya. So he was stuck here with that lazy fool Mukbar and his bedraggled bunch of curs.

He snapped his fingers to order more tea then his eyes drifted out to sea. He noticed that a fishing boat was beating towards the port. He frowned. It was a little early for it to be back so either it had stumbled upon a shoal or it had seen something that had made it turn and run. Maybe it had something to do with the distant boom that he had heard earlier. The two men could be seen clearly now. He decided to talk to them after they'd docked.


Lucy came to, to find herself lying on the ground in the centre of a bunch of swarthy, unkempt men. Realising that she was half naked she tried to tug the remains of her uniform around her. She could sense both anger and lust amongst her observers and she shuddered in fear. A fat sweating man, with foul breath squatted down next to her and spoke something in a guttural tone. It was Arabic. She understood that much even if she couldn't understand what he'd said. Her brain whirled as she tried to work out what had happened. All she could remember was the flash as the missile punched home then....nothing. Until she awoke here.

Just then a, slightly better dressed, man pushed his way through the crowd. He stared down at her as she struggled to sit up. Her whole body felt like it had been beaten with a hammer.

"Who are you?" He inquired, in Arabic.

"Do you speak English?"

"A little. Now who are you?"

"I am E9071536 Midshipman Anstruther and who are you?"

"Midshipman? You don't look much like a man."

One of the troops evidently spoke English and he translated for the others who cackled with glee.

"It's a rank. It doesn't mean I'm a man. Look can you tell me where I am?"

"You are a guest in the Libya. Now where did you come from?"

'Libya! Oh Shit'. Thought Lucy.

"I am from a British Warship. So I suppose I'm a prisoner of war."

The lieutenant looked at her thoughtfully. This was a situation that the high command hadn't counted on. A prisoner of war. As far as he knew there were very few preparations being made for prisoners. They had just expected to blast them out of the sea, not to capture them. Maybe this was his chance to ingratiate himself with the high command. If he could worm some facts from this whore of Satan then maybe he could get to join the main force after all.

"What is a woman doing on a warship?" He asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Women serve the same as men now." She said tartly.

'What stupidity' he thought. Surely the British would have learned the lessons the accursed Israelis had when they sent women into battle only to have them captured and sent back filled with Arab seed. As a demoralising tactic it was brilliant and it served to compromise the whole army. Maybe the British really were stupid after all.

"Which Warship?"

"I am E9071536 Midshipman Anstruther L and that's all I can tell you."

She replied, aware of her responsibilities.

He shrugged. "Have it your own way." He ordered his men to bring her to his offices, which were in the main Police station in town. Once there he had her locked in a cell as he considered his options.


Lieutenant Adouli wiped up the last of his humus with the pita bread and popped it into his mouth before speaking.

"Yes! What do you want sergeant?"

"I was. That is the men were wondering if we could.....er have some entertainment with the girl." For the first time since they'd met the sergeant was trying his hardest to be obsequious. It amused his officer greatly.

"What do you mean by entertainment?"

By Allah! Was this man crazy? The sergeant had to bite his tongue as he patiently explained his intentions.

"What makes you think I would hand over a prisoner to be ill treated by your scum?"

"I just thought...." The sergeant trailed off.

"Well you thought wrong Sergeant. She is under my protection and will be until she answers my questions. Then of course...." The sentence hung heavy on the air.

"Yes sir." The Sergeant smiled conspiratorially, showing his dark stained teeth.

The officer looked at his nails. "I expect that the troop will start to become more disciplined. I mean we wouldn't want this agent to find out that the Libyan army is an undisciplined rabble now would we?"

The sergeant grinned. He had the low cunning of a rat and he understood perfectly what the quid pro quo was.

"Yes Sir. You will be amazed how disciplined they can be."

"Excellent." He patted his lips and threw down the napkin. "Now I must talk to her. The sooner she talks, the better eh?"

"Yes Sir."


It was amazing how effective a field telephone could be as an interrogation tool. Especially when its wires were clipped to the nipples of a helplessly tied and frightened young girl.

Lucy was naked and tied to a heavy chair in the middle of the Lieutenant's office. The wires draped across to the old fashioned telephone set.

"Now I ask you again. Which ship are you from?"

"I am E9071536 Midshipman Anstruther L. Aaaaaaaah." She cried as he tweaked the handle.

"Not talking will do you no good. You might as well answer the questions and save yourself a lot of pain."

"I am...ah...prisoner of war.....ah.....and I only have to give my....ooh....name rank and number." Lucy panted as the pain subsided.

He turned the handle a couple of times and her back arched off the seat.

"Save yourself the pain. I'm going to find out anyway so why hurt yourself?"

"You are not allowed to torture me. It is not allowed under the Geneva convention."

This prompted a full one minute of pain as he wound the handle furiously. Finally he stopped and leaned close to her.

"We did not sign the Geneva convention. So, as you English say, all bets are off. Now talk before I get really angry."

He wasn't sure whether they had signed or not. In any event a little thing like that was hardly going to keep him from having his modicum of pleasure. Fun was hard to find in a hole like this.

"My name is Lucy Anstruther, my number is E9071536 and my rank is Midshipman."

'A tough one.' He thought. 'So let's see how tough she really is."

He untied her ankles from the legs of the chair but left her wrists tightly tied to the arms. He then tied long two ropes to the far corners of his desk. Lucy watched in mute terror. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold out. Her heart still pounded from the pain of the last shock.

He pulled the ropes across the desk and picked up one of her ankles. Suddenly it occurred to Lucy what he was going to do and she started to squirm and scream. He called for the Sergeant and between them they pulled her legs out until they were parallel to the floor then tied them wide open. Lucy's body was held in mid air, her whole weight supported on her arms and ankles. She tried to keep still as every movement she made threatened to tear her limbs out of their sockets.

The Lieutenant dismissed the sergeant and unclipped the wires from her breasts. He proceeded to wrap a wire around the pocket clip on his stainless steel ball- point. Once it was secured to his satisfaction he proceeded to insert it into her anus. With a blinding clarity Lucy suddenly realised what he was going to do.

"No! No! Please no. Don't do this. Have mercy, please don't."

He ignored her as he pushed it deep inside, while she hung there in misery.

He then rubbed the folds of her vagina and eventually found what he sought. Her world exploded in pain as the clip snapped shut on her clitoris.

"Now maybe you will talk." And before she had a chance to reply he twisted the handle savagely.

Lucy thought the pain from her clit was bad but it was nothing compared to the searing agony coursing through the lower half of her body. She screamed and writhed for a full two minutes after he stopped. Finally her tumult died down and she hung limply. Her whole body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and her hair was plastered across her face in damp rat's tails.

"What is your ship." He said as he reached for the handle.

"NO! Please I'll tell you. Don't hurt me again. I couldn't stand it.

Please don't"

"Your ship?"

"Leopard. HMS Leopard."

"There now that was easy wasn't it?". He knew full well what her ship was called he had heard it on the BBC World Service. He'd also heard that they were expecting there to be no survivors, so this little girl was all his.

"Now what was your mission?"

It was over an hour later that she was dumped in her cell. The lieutenant smiled as he pocketed the key. She didn't know much, but what she had known she'd told him. Militarily she had fulfilled her purpose. Now he was looking to her to fulfill another purpose of an altogether more basic kind.

Tomorrow was not going to be a good day for her.


The Tornados streaked in just before dawn catching the defenses unprepared. It took a full three minutes before the first SAM radar lit up. By then it was too late as the Jets screamed out to sea, their mission accomplished.

The main battalion headquarters was still reeling in shock when the calls started to come in from the outposts along the coast.

They had far too much on their minds to do anything about the madman that reckoned he had captured a prisoner. So he was just being told to get what information they could out of him then to dispose of him quietly, when the Radars detected the Carrier launched Harriers inbound.

The line was peremptorily cleared as the sirens shrieked and the MIGs scrambled.


The cell door was flung open and crashed against the wall with a loud clang. Lucy huddled against the wall with her knees against her chest and with the thin, threadbare blanket covering her loins. She shivered in fear as the Lieutenant came into the small cell, followed by one of his men carrying a pitcher of water and some flat bread.

He waited until the soldier had left and had slam- locked the cell door before speaking.

"Good morning. I hope you slept well?"

"Please when do I get transferred to a Prisoner of War camp?"

He sat on the end of her bed and laid his hand on her knee.

"I'm sorry but our high command has issued the order to shoot you."

His tone was so matter of fact that Lucy could scarcely believe he'd said it.

"S..shoot me! Why?"

His reassuring smile was as false as a Politician's election promises.

"Because we have no facilities for prisoners of war. I'm sure you understand."

Lucy burst into inconsolable floods of tears.

"There, there my dear," He patted her on the knee. "I wouldn't want to see you die. You are too young, too pretty," He stroked her hair lightly. "I'm sure we can reach a compromise that would save your life."

"Compromise?" She gulped, chillingly aware of his hand teasing the back of her neck.

He tilted her chin with his hand so she was looking directly into her eyes. "Yes a compromise. You are a western...er...girl, I'm sure you understand." He had to bite his tongue to stop himself blurting out the word 'Whore'.

The tears started trickling down her soft cheeks as the import of what he had so casually told her filtered through her overworked mind. In order to survive she had to offer herself to him. She was alone and afraid. And very, very naked.

"Ah so you do understand," He smiled. "So? What is it to be?" His hand crept under the blanket as he spoke, trailing higher and higher up her downy, white thigh.

She closed her eyes and shuddered, then parted her legs allowing him to reach the apex of her existence. No words were needed to signify her consent.

He had to bite his lower lip to stop himself from laughing at her easy surrender. If the rest of her compatriots were as soft as this then the blessed Libyan forces will throw the infidels back into the sea with ease.

She expelled her breath in one long sigh as he touched her sex.

"Lie down," He ordered gutturally, his voice hoarse with lust.

Awkwardly and painfully aware of her vulnerability she shuffled around and lay down on the sagging bed. Once she had settled he pulled off the blanket with a Matador's flourish revealing the naked girl in all her glory. He'd seen her before, of course, but the sight of her innocently naked body made him catch his breath with its sheer beauty.

One hand ducked to her crotch and her arm crossed her breasts in the ageless protectionist pose, as she reflexively tried to shield her charms from his lascivious gaze.

"Take them away, " he ordered sternly.

She hesitated, then slowly pulled them to her sides. She lay there, stiff and terrified as he glanced down admiringly at her. Then he started to strip.

She watched like a snake in the thrall of a mongoose as he shed his clothes. He was lean and tanned and not that bad looking and under different circumstances she might have found him attractive. Although whether he was attractive enough to sleep with was another matter. But now she had no choice.

He pulled his pants down to reveal his penis which sprang free and bobbed, menacingly at her. Its single eye glaring balefully at her, promising all kinds of humiliation, shame and, above all, pain.

She must get away.

She coiled her body then leapt to her feet and tried to make it to the door. He was startled for a split second but then his soldier's reflexes kicked in and he grabbed her arm. He then backhanded her across her face which slammed her back onto the bed.

"Don't make me want to shoot you," He pointed menacingly.

Lucy fell back onto the bed in abject surrender as he climbed onto the narrow cot.

"Open your legs," Harsh, furious in lust.

She slowly spread her legs, tears pouring in a soft river across her face at the humiliation.

"Put your feet flat on the floor," The orders continued unabated.

Her feet rested on the floor which caused her cunt to twist upwards slightly as her knees bent.

He looked long and hard at the silky junction of her thighs as the small pink corrugations of her pussy lips beckoned subliminally at him.

"Reach up and hold on to the bedhead," His final order before he positioned himself with his cockhead at the entrance to her tunnel. He reached down and touched her, she was dry and unyielding. He spat on his hand repeatedly, each time smearing it over his cock until it sparkled with goo.

He manhandled his cock up and down her slit, pressing harder each time until at last he started to nibble into her sex.

"Please, please," She moaned as he started to force himself into her. She tried to push him off but he roughly forced her down hard onto the mattress.

"It's too late now," menacingly. "You must just lay back and endure it."

He then resumed his pushing. Finally his head popped in and she squirmed in agony.

"By Allah, she is tight," He muttered. "Surely she is not a virgin?"

He would very shortly find out.

He rammed in as hard as he could, while his hands clutched her breasts tightly. And her whole body went rigid with pain.

Lucy Anstruther, midshipman of her Majesty the Queen of England's Royal Navy, had just lost her carefully hoarded chastity.


He looked down at her sneeringly as he buttoned up his shirt. His contempt for her evident in his every movement.

She lay, still spread wide, with a small trickle on pink tinged sperm sliding from within her. Her face a mask of shock, horror and misery.

But at least it was over. She would live.

"ALI!" He shouted as he rapped his cane on the cell door.

A few seconds later the inspection hatch flew open and Ali's ugly visage peered through the small aperture.

"Let me out," He snapped.

Ali threw open the door with alacrity as he spied the naked young girl submissively posed. He couldn't take his eyes off her as the officer pushed past.

"Sir," He said as the officer went to leave the room.


"Can the men ....?" His voice trailed off lamely. The rest of the words need not be spoken, the meaning was already well established.

"Yes, yes," Said the officer waving his cane impatiently as if trying to ward off petty details. Then he stopped. "But tie her down first. We wouldn't want her to escape now would we?"

Sergeant Ali leapt to attention much to the surprise of the startled officer. "NO SIR!" He bellowed.

The officer laughed and strode away.

The word had gotten around and before long an eager press of men pushed against the back of the sergeant he gazed at her in awe. Allah was truly magnificent.

He ordered ropes to be brought and, before the stunned girl could react she found herself tied, spread-eagled to the bedframe.

The dazed girl started screaming as he took the money from the long line of waiting soldiers.


"What the fuck is this place?" Queried sergeant 'Chalky' white from his vantage point on the tank turret.

"It says Al-Jemenny, somefink like that sarge," said Private 'Cockney' Burroughs.

"I suppose we'd better take a look. You never know when we'll find a hotbed of them Gaddafi fanatics holding out and armed to the teeth," It was the joke of the campaign. Every time the soldiers came across a party of Libyan military they were throwing away their arms with alacrity. Tinged with an element of relief.

It was now nearly three months since the battle of Sirte, which was won decisively by the British. Three months of mind numbing patrols across the sand wastes searching for renegade units still holding out.

Then they'd stumbled on a flyspeck on the map and the sarge had had the hunch that it was worth a visit. Something that he was bitterly regretting as the tank graunched the sides of the steeply sided ravine as his driver carefully eased the monstrous beast forward.

Finally they were through and a small sleepy fishing village lay dozing below them.

"Hey Sarge its Blackpool," Laughed one of the crew and the sergeant couldn't help but smile at the incongruity of the statement.

He banged on the top of the turret.

"May as well check it out," He called and the tank rumbled forward.

Just as they reached the outer perimeter of the village they were startled to see a trickle, then a flood, of Libyan soldiers running towards them , throwing away their weapons and gibbering like monkeys.

Lieutenant Adouli surrendered his numerically superior forces to the bemused tank crew.

While the radioman called in for transport the sergeant strolled around the village. Machine pistol at the ready he made his way carefully through the foul smelling alleys.

He turned a corner to find a crowd of men jockeying to enter a small door.

He pushed his way through the crowd, which started to mutter angrily at him. Then they noticed his weapon and they grew silent.

He found his way blocked by a burly Arab in a flowing off-white burnoose. They stared at each other for a second, saying nothing, then the sergeant rammed his gun into the man's stomach and the man yielded, allowing the sergeant access to the room.

It took a little while to accustom his eyes to the gloom but, as his vision cleared he looked across into a further small, cell like room. Movement caught his eye and he recognised pounding buttocks between the widespread legs of a willing whore.

He'd stumbled into the local knocking shop it seemed.

He was about to turn away when a thought struck him. Those were white legs sticking out from under that goat-herder. What the fuck were they doing here?

He strode into the room and hauled the guy off only to be greeted by a pair of vacant blue eyes.


A tear glinted in the eye of Admiral Anstrunther as he watched his favourite grand-daughter lead the freedom of the city parade through the town. Sword held high she epitomised the courage and fighting spirit that symbolised England.

Nothing had been said about her war.

Fingers were tapped on the sides of noses when the question was asked.

"Need to know old boy." Was the stock answer.

As ever, in cases like this, a mystique grew up around her and a new Mata Hari legend was born.

The same but different.

You see this one had survived.


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