Aurora Tapestry

Disclaimer and caveat:

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. People, places and incidents portrayed are the product of an overactive, dirty old man's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Aurora Tapestry is copyrighted by the author. Any duplication or replication, except for personal use, is forbidden by law. If you want to download it and read it later on, that's fine. I enjoy a good story and like to read the better ones over and over. I have quite a little library of the better Nifty postings, although many are called but few are chosen to join the "Immortals".

I was recently asked if I thought that there was/is an international ring of paedophiles buying and selling young boys. What I have written is fiction, and I hope and pray not true. As to the validity of the assertion? I can only reply that it was announced in the local newspapers this morning that an official investigation is being launched into allegations that a ring of such men operated for years in the border town of Cornwall, Ontario, Canada, alleging that public officials, police officers, judges, priests (both Anglican and Catholic), and others were involved. I leave it to the reader to draw his or her own conclusion.

The US election is over. Now is the time to unite and move ahead. If all else fails, Canada is a very nice country. Gays serve in the military and gay marriage is legal in three provinces (including the one I live in). Of course, you'd have to put up with politicians stealing everything that isn't nailed down or painted red.

What follows is a work of fiction. It is set in 1976 Canada when times were different, with different customs, traditions and mores. Safe sex was not thought of and condoms were used only to prevent pregnancy (when they were used at all). Always practice safe sex.

If you are not of "legal" age, or if the rights guaranteed you under the United States Constitution, Bill of Rights, or the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedom have been arbitrarily suspended by local state, provincial, or municipal ordinances, please move to a tamer site.

I was pleased to note that my first novel in hard copy, "The Phantom of Aurora" is now also available in the UK! A pleasant surprise, indeed. I would also urge any of you who bought the book to send in a review. The publisher, Publish America, and Amazon invite them so feel free to critique.

My thanks as always to Peter, who edits and makes better what I write. I know that I plague him often, but the end result is worth it! I do wish that some Nifty writers would take the time to read what they write, and find a good editor. Sloppy writing and even worse editing so often ruin a good story. And please, stop personalizing and using a lower case "i". Drives me nuts when I see that!

My health is continuing to improve. I am now more rotund that I ever was!

Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 24

Chapter 24

The skies above Heron Spit began to darken as the late summer storm that had been building far out in Pacific began to roll slowly across Vancouver Island. As the black clouds, heavy with rain, began to dull the overhead sky; those who had listened to it discussed Cory's history lesson. Some were filled with scepticism while most did not know what to believe.

In Barracks 5, once home to the Sea Puppies, Nathan and Fred were sprawled across one of the mattresses they were supposed to be piling. Nathan groaned loudly as he thrust his hips slowly forward, driving his spasming penis deeper into Fred's body. Fred could feel the throbbing maleness of Nathan as it pulsed and the first of his semen squirted deep into Fred's body. Excited beyond endurance, Fred's own organ twitched and he orgasmed, spewing semen across his chest and stomach. His face a mask of seeming pain, he moaned through clenched teeth, "Oooh Fuck!" as yet another stream of warm semen splattered against his chest.

Nathan, his orgasm reduced to a few dribbles, collapsed on top of his lover and began to slowly lick Fred's neck. "Fuck, man, you are the best," he whispered.

Chuckling, Fred ran his hands down Nathan's back and cupped the perfect mounds of the American cadet's ass. "Is that what you tell all your fucks?" he asked dryly.

Nathan, hurt, and not a little angry, pulled away. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded. He looked around for his underpants, found the white boxers he had all but ripped from his body when Fred had started making love to him, cleaned his soiled penis and glared at the English boy. "I happen to care for you," Nathan snapped hotly.

"Do you?" asked Fred calmly. "Do you really care for me?"

"Yeah, I do!" Nathan glared at Fred and shook his head. "I admit that there have been other guys. They were just fucks!"

"And Cory?" Fred was no fool. He cocked his head and asked, "Well?"

Nathan started and then blushed. "I won't lie. I wanted Cory. I love Cory." He shrugged phlegmatically. "Cory does not love me and never will. He wants something I can't give him."

"Or me," returned Fred flatly. He saw the questioning look on Nathan's face and smiled wanly. "Nathan, you're a damned good lay. I've not had better, to tell the truth."

"Then what the fuck is this conversation leading up to?" snarled Nathan, his temper getting the better of him. "Look Fred, I've had my share of guys, including my dipshit brother. I like sex, okay?"

"As do I," returned Fred. He smiled wistfully and then regarded the angry young American. He rolled away from the soiled mattress, sat up and looked seriously at Nathan. "I am not so foolish as to think that you would be, shall we say, faithful, to me. To be honest, Nathan, I don't even expect loyalty."

Nathan's face demonstrated his anger. His eyes widened and his smooth cheeks turned a deep, furious red. "How . . . how dare you!" he snarled. He raised a fist and drew his arm back.

Fred's light blue eyes never wavered, never left his American lover's face. He watched impassively as Nathan's arm fell slowly to his side and then said, simply, "I'm in love with you."

Nathan drew back, startled. "What? What did you say?"

"I'm in love with you," repeated Fred quietly. "You are not, at least so far as I am concerned, just some guy I picked up to fuck."

"And you think . . .?"

Fred rose slowly from his seat and began to dress. He ignored his boxers and pulled on his bell-bottoms and gunshirt. "Nathan, being in love with you does not mean that I am blind to your faults." Abruptly his thrust his thumb over his shoulder. "Back there, in the Gunroom, you admitted that you were a cock hound."

"At least I admitted it," retorted Nathan. "I am a cock hound!" He reached out and his arms slowly encircled Fred's waist. Feelings that he had never before experienced were coursing through his slim, firm body. None of the other boys he had been with, not his brother, not Tony's brother, Bob Herzog, not Jeremy Cohen, nor any of them, had ever expressed love. All they had ever wanted was to take advantage of the fact that Nathan was an easy lay, willing to suck their cocks, and slide their firm erections deep into Nathan's more than willing body. Of them all, only Bob Herzog had consented to Nathan's fucking him, and only because the young engineering petty officer had wanted to feel what being fucked was like. They had never repeated their one experience.

But now there was Fred, and Nathan did not know what to do! He cared for Fred, he really did. He wanted to be with Fred, but he knew he could not be loyal or faithful. There were too many cocks in the world. Sadly, Fred knew this.

"Nathan, I'm, not asking you to love me," Fred said as Nathan's arms tightened around his waist. "I just need to know that you at least care for me, if only a little. I don't want to leave here knowing that all I was to you was just another fuck!"

"You weren't, and you're not!" declaimed Nathan with all the passion he felt. "The other guys used me, and I admit that I used them. I'm not using you, Fred." He drew back and slowly turned Fred around. He stared into Fred's eyes and asked, "You're going with Phantom, aren't you?"

"Yes. I must," replied Fred with a sad smile. "I know what it's like, Nathan. If only half of what Phantom and Cory have told us is true, then I must go. I must stop the horror."

"But Fred, you don't . . ." Nathan protested, but Fred's fingers against his lips silenced the young American.

"I know, Nathan, I've been there." Fred withdrew and sat at the mess table. "I wasn't bought or sold. But I was used, forced to have sex whether I wanted it or not." His eyes brimmed with tears. "Oh, Lord God, do I know."

Quickly, Nathan sat beside Fred. "What happened?" he asked softly. He hesitated, and then drew Fred to him. "Please, Fred, I care for you. In a lot of ways I'm in love with you. Please tell me what happened!"

Weeping softly, Fred asked, "Do you know what a 'fag' is?"

Nathan drew back and stared at Fred. "Of course, it's a slang word, a dirty word that so-called straights use to . . ."

Fred chuckled through his tears. "In England a 'fag' is a cigarette. It is also a term used in a public school for junior boys who 'do' for the seniors. The boys are glorified servants. They run errands, keep the senior boys' chambers neat, and so on. I was fag, in more ways than one."

Nathan did not quite understand what Fred was getting at, and shook his head. "But what has that got to do with these boys that Phantom wants to save? How can you . . .?"

"Nathan, I was found in bed with another boy at my first school. We were lovers, in every sense of the word. My parents were shocked and disgusted and I was sent down by the school authorities. My parents did not want me around. I was an embarrassment to them. Word got out, as it always does and I was a pariah. My mother was very social, if you know what I mean, and her bitch friends never missed an opportunity to commiserate about her 'poor son'. My father is a career diplomat. Do you know that there are countries - including the United States - where homosexuality is not only illegal but also where gays can be denied entry? Imagine the impact on dear father's career if he were posted to a country like that!"

"I never knew," whispered Nathan in reply. "The United States? Home?"

"Yes," said Fred harshly. "No 'fags' allowed." He shrugged. "Anyway, I couldn't be allowed to stay in London so a new school was found for me. It had a reputation as being very 'liberal'. The boys didn't wear funny uniforms and there weren't too many silly traditions to observe." He laughed bitterly. "Little did they know!"

"What happened?"

"The school charged very high fees, which under the circumstances could be understood. The boys were all the yobbos and riff raff that the other schools refused to have. The masters were more gaolers than teachers. One of them walked the corridors with a cricket bat! The head boy was from one of the first families of England, with connections at Court! He was blond, and handsome, and a sadist! He'd heard about me, thanks to his mother, or stepmother, I forget which and of course I had hardly been in the school an hour when I was called into the Seniors' Common Room. He was there with his cronies."

Shuddering at the memory, Fred continued. "He was standing there, with his trousers down and his dick sticking out of his Y-fronts. I remember thinking, wondering how a boy who was so handsome could have such an ugly dick! It was long, and thick, and like most English boys the head was covered in skin. He just stood there, fondling himself, pulling that ugly piece of skin back and pushing it forward, with his mates egging him on and this evil smile on his face. Before I knew it I was forced to my knees and he . . . well, he was a pig. He hadn't bothered to clean himself and it was . . ." Fred stifled a gag.

"Jesus," exclaimed Nathan. "He made you suck him off?"

Nodding, Fred continued. "And worse. He stood there and made me suck on his loathsome, foul, cock, with his mates - there were six of them, the terrors of the school, which they ruled - fumbling at the flies of their trousers." He looked steadily at Nathan and asked, "Do you know what a 'facial' is?"

"A what?"

Fred saw the puzzled look on his lover's face and explained. "You suck a chap to the point of ejaculation. He pulls out and finishes himself off, making sure to squirt all over your face."

"Dear God," Nathan gasped. "That's horrible!"

"And humiliating," added Fred. "Which of course was what it was all about. I was a poof, a fag, to be used and abused, as and when they wanted me. That first day four of the seven squirted on my face. The other three shot their loads in my mouth. From that day onward I was their toy, their 'boy'. The masters didn't care. They were paid to warehouse us, to make sure that we didn't murder each other, and kept their eyes closed."

"Oh Fred, I never knew."

"Of course not," replied Fred briskly. "You're the only one I've told!"

"Couldn't you have told your parents?" asked Nathan.

Snorting his disdain, Fred shook his head. "They would have said that I was only getting what I asked for, what I deserved! I was out of their lives, you see, and whatever happened to me was of no concern to them! I was a sub-human, a creature. The head boy and his loutish friends thought so too."

"How so?"

"From sucking their dicks I progressed to being fucked by them. I had no choice in the matter. If one of them was horny, I was to make myself available to him. The first time it happened they were all coming off of the playing fields. The head boy saw me walking by and told me to go into the changing shed. Inside he told me to drop my trousers and bend over. He never took off his sports clothes. He hiked up the leg of his soccer shorts, pulled his dick out of his jock, and fucked me. When he was finished he pulled out and another of his friends took his place."

"And that went on for how long?" demanded Nathan, his anger rising. "And why didn't you tell someone? Surely someone could have helped you?"

"No. Who could I tell? Not the masters. They couldn't have cared less. Not any of the other boys, who were terrified that they might have to visit the senior boys' rooms at night. As long as I was keeping the lads happy they weren't bothering any of the other boys. I kept my mouth shut and allowed myself to be used for almost six months."

Fred's admission of silence caused Nathan to start. His eyes grew wide and his mouth worked, but nothing came out. He was, not for the first time, speechless. Fred, his friend and lover, Fred, who had brought him such delight and euphoria that Nathan basked in the afterglow for hours, Fred . . . "Six months?" he whispered, more a statement than a question.

Nodding, Fred caressed Nathan's cheek gently. "Yes, six months. What else could I do? If I had complained what would the masters have done? Beaten the other boys? Perhaps, although I doubt it." He shrugged expressively. "What you in America do not understand is that rank and station still count for a great deal in England. The bluer the blood, the more eyes are blinded, the more excuses are made." He reached out to take Nathan's hands in his.

"I kept silent because of fear, and loathing," Fred continued. "I had already been labelled a queer, a little faggot who liked dick. The masters knew it, the other boys knew it, and therein lay the rub." He cocked his head and looked inquiringly at Nathan. "Who would have been believed?" he asked quietly. "The son of a Belted Earl, who had connections at Court, a former Equerry to the Queen, friends in Whitehall, or the homosexual son of a colonial diplomat who had nothing going for him but his bank balance?"

Thinking carefully, Nathan conceded, "I see what you mean. They had, your folks, I mean, they had already written you off."

"Exactly," confirmed Fred. "I was of no further interest to dear old Mater and Pater. Excess baggage, not wanted on voyage, damaged goods and all that." He smiled thinly. "The whole school knew of my past, and why I was there. I really had no choice. If I had been sent down, expelled, which was a very real possibly, where would I go? Not home, certainly."

"Another school?" ventured Nathan.

"Another school," replied Fred with a grimace. "There is always another school. The fees are higher, the masters less caring, and the boys more venal and cruel. Such places exist." Nathan's heart went out to his friend. "Jesus, talk about Hobson's Choice!" "Quite," returned Fred, who continued in clipped tones. "I endured, because I had no choice. I could stand the sex, and I was allowed a certain measure of freedom. No one beat me. I was quite resigned to my fate, and quite determined to stick it out for the duration. Thankfully it was not too long of a duration." "When your uncle found out and took you away?" Nathan asked.

"Yes. He'd been away on a sea posting and blew a gasket when he found my dear parents had done."

"You could have told him," said Nathan. "He's an important man!"

"Yes, he is." Fred looked at Nathan and smiled kindly. "But Nathan, how can you tell a man who loves you beyond caring what had happened to you? He loves me and he cares for me. I am his life! How could I tell him that I had been a sex slave? Can you imagine the hurt I would have caused him if I had told him? I simply couldn't."

Nathan thought a moment. "There's more, isn't there?" he asked quietly.

Fred took a breath of air and nodded. "I was ashamed! I . . . Nathan, I wanted them to stop because every time they did me I felt so dirty! If I had told someone I would have had to relive all the sordid, filthy details! I allowed myself to become something so horrible that silence was all I had left! Can you understand that? Can you understand now why I couldn't tell anyone?"

The gentleness of Nathan's smile and the soft caress of his hand on Fred's face gave the English boy a feeling of deep contentment. "I do understand, Fred," Nathan murmured. "Just as Phantom will understand when you tell him."

"I've told you because I want you to know why I am going to follow Phantom," Fred remonstrated. "I don't know if I can tell Phantom my story."

"You will," said Nathan calmly, "because you want his total friendship. You might not tell him today, or tomorrow, or next week, but in the end, you will tell him."

"Perhaps," Fred admitted grudgingly.

"There is one more thing." Nathan ran his hand down Fred's arm and looked directly at him. "Do not ask Phantom for revenge."

"Revenge?" yelled Fred, upset. "Is that what you think I want?"

"What do you want?"

"I do not want revenge!" snapped Fred, his blue eyes icy. "I want justice! I want to see . . . I know who the boys who used me are. I know that they are the black sheep sons of some very important people." Fred looked at Nathan. "In every society, no matter what the country, there are special privileges for special people. In England the class system is still very much in evidence. The higher the rank, the more heads are turned aside, eyes closed and mouths shut. One of the boys is the son of an Earl, who is very close to the Royal Family. Another has ties to half the peerage and still another's father is very high up in the Conservative Party. They all think that they are above the law, that they can do whatever they want and no one will call them to account for it!"

Nathan reached out and brushed his hand against Fred's arm. "Fred, Phantom will not help you seek revenge. This is not what he's about. He's an idealist. He won't want you with him if all you're interested in is revenge!"

Fred gave Nathan an exasperated look. "I do not want revenge! How many times must I say it? There's another reason, a reason you cannot understand," replied Fred. He turned and looked at Nathan, his face soft. "I want those who made me suffer to know that they cannot use others for their own pleasure and get away with it. They must know that no matter what their fathers are, what they are, or who their friends are, that there is a day of reckoning. I might, deep down, want revenge, venal creature that I am, but I also want justice! No one, not a man, or a boy, has the right to use others against their will. I sleep with you because I want to. I have sex with you because I want to. I do what I do with you because it is my choice to do those things."

"I understand the difference, Fred," said Nathan softly. "Phantom is willing to do something, to fight for those boys like you, boys who are forced to pleasure others."

"And I understand that Phantom will fight for me, and will help me obtain justice. I also understand that he will demand that I help myself. He is not Saint Michael the Avenging Angel. I know what Phantom is like. He is a honourable man, with principles. Phantom will help, yes, but I must also help. In his dream Phantom saw us on a battlefield. We were tattered and torn, but it was obvious that we had fought a battle." Fred leaned forward until his face was barely an inch from Nathan's. "We had fought a battle!" he repeated with heavy emphasis. "Do you understand what that means? It was not Phantom alone. It was us . . . we . . . the whole of us!"

"Who stood with him," said Nathan. He stood up and brushed his hand against Fred's flushed cheek. "So you will go to Quebec."

"Yes. This is not your fight, Nathan. I love you, I care for you, but this is not your fight." Fred pulled away. "I want you to know that whatever happens, no matter how far distant we are, or become, I shall always love you, Nathan. You will always be in my heart. I know that sounds trite, and foolish, but it's how I feel. And because I love you I do not want you to do something you might not feel comfortable doing, or doing something simply because of me, or the feelings you might have for me."

Much to Fred's surprise, Nathan rose and gathered the English boy in his arms. "You know, you are one dumb fuck of a Kipper!" exclaimed Nathan, laughing softly.

Fred bristled. "Nathan, just because I let you get into my pants does not mean that I enjoy being insulted!" he growled, trying to pull away.

"Fred, if you think that this is 'not my fight', or that I don't care for you, or the other boys, then you are a dumb fuck!" returned Nathan placidly. He held Fred as closely as he could and began to nuzzle his neck.

"Stop that!" ordered Fred. "You'll get slobber all over my gunshirt!"

Laughing, Nathan continued his nuzzling. "I'm a cock hound, Fred. Everybody says it. But I am not a shallow cock hound. At least not where you're concerned." His hand traced the outline of Fred's body and came to rest over the English boy's ample bulge. "I won't lie and say that there won't be other guys." He felt Fred's body stiffen and hurriedly continued on. "But they can never give me what you give me, what I need you to give me."

"Which is?" asked Fred sarcastically. "Surely all I ever give you is a brilliantly good fuck!"

"Oh, you do," confirmed Nathan easily as his fingers began to pull down Fred's zipper. "But you also give me something the others never have." He pulled out Fred's rising organ and sighed happily. "You give me . . . peace? Serenity? Just being with you, feeling you in me, feeling myself in you, well, Fred, call me a hopeless romantic, call me a fool, but as far as I am concerned you are the sum of all things. I need you, Fred. I need you!"

Turning slowly, Fred smiled a smile that made Nathan's heart skip a beat. "You mean that?" Fred asked as he gently kissed Nathan's warm lips.

"Every word," replied Nathan as he returned Fred's kiss. He then pulled away and levelled his gaze at Fred. "I want to be with you, to be at your side. I won't be Sancho Panza to your Don Quixote, Fred. I will be your companion and lover."

"You better not be coming the fool on me, Nathan!" warned Fred as he all but melted into his lover's arms.

"I would never do that," replied Nathan as he shook his head. "It's something we must do. I'm a shallow dickhead, but even I see the need to do something. Call it an American thing, but nobody should be forced to do something as appalling as what you went through, as those boys Phantom talked about are going through. It's not right, and it's unacceptable. Those men who are involved in this monstrosity must be punished."

"They must be brought to justice," corrected Fred. "And you are not a shallow dickhead." His eyes were warm and trusting. "If you were, I would not have told you about me. "And I am glad you see why I must do what I am going to do. You have called it an American thing. It is, but it is also a freedom thing. Phantom sees the abomination, I see the abomination, and we both want to destroy it. A wrong must be made right. The concept that simply because a man has position, power, and money makes him above the law is wrong! There can be no special privileges, no special allowances made for them. These people must be made to know that somewhere, somehow, there will be a reckoning and I want to be there when that happens."

"And by the doing of it you gain a measure of justice?" asked Nathan.

"A measure," replied Fred. "I do not flatter myself by thinking that Phantom, or the Order can do much about the louts in my old school. But yes, a measure of justice for those boys held against their will. I will know that somewhere there are people who will say, 'Hold, enough!' and I will have my justice."

"Then we had better go and chat with Phantom." Nathan's face was firm as held Fred close. "There is something else. I understand your reasons, and I'm going to be with you, and Phantom. But, and Fred, I mean this, as strange as this might sound, I feel something . . . I don't know, special? When I'm with you I feel complete." He could feel Fred's penis growing larger and ran his thumb over and around the circumcised head. "You do things to me that no one else has ever done!" Nathan snickered softly. "You tickle me fancy, Fred!"

"I thought it was your prostate!" returned Fred. He was breathing heavily, with his eyes closed, as his hips thrust gently into Nathan's warm encompassing hand. "Oh, God, Yank!" he groaned. "You keep that up and I'll have more than slobber to worry about!"

Nathan did not reply. He leaned forward and his lips met Fred's. He continued his slow manipulation of Fred's penis as they exchanged a long, deep, passionate kiss.

"It's hokum and bunkum!" snarled Two Strokes, refusing to lend credence to Phantom's dream. He glared at Thumper, who was sprawled in the ancient wooden chair opposite the Master-At-Arms' desk. "And you! You believe it, don't you?" he demanded angrily.

"I don't disbelieve it," returned Thumper diffidently. "But then, I'm not some tight-assed Prod from Orangeville, am I?"

Two Strokes' thin, saturnine features darkened. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You're a dickhead," replied Thumper. "A very nice dickhead, but a dickhead still." He stretched, adjusted his package, and smiled. "Come on, Roger, nobody is asking you to do anything you don't want to do, or to believe something you don't want to believe, and I don't recall anyone asking you to be a part of what Phantom plans on doing."

"And I don't recall Phantom telling us just how he plans on going about this crusade of his!" returned Two Strokes sharply. "And I am not about to go rushing off to some butt fuck town in Quebec looking for ghosts or shadows! We don't speak the language for starters, we have no evidence that Sylvain saw, heard or did anything. We have nothing but Phantom's fuckin' dream!"

Shrugging, Thumper stood up and regarded his lover. "Good enough for me," he said as he turned and left the Regulating Office.

"They'll say we're too young," said Joey as he sat huddled with Randy and Calvin in the galley lounge. "You know they will."

"Too bad," countered Randy, his normal pink, clean face flushed with excitement. "We were a part of Phantom's dream. They can't stop us!"

"I got a dick, I got balls, and I got just as much hair around 'em as the other guys. I'm going!" insisted Calvin. His eyes were level and clear as he looked at the two young cooks. "I was a part of Phantom's dream. I'm going!"

"Yes, you were, and no, you don't," replied Joey with a calmness he did not really feel. He was just as excited as the other two boys, and just as anxious to find a way to participate in the adventure promised by a dream.

"What?" Calvin's eyes lowered.

"You were a part of the dream. You don't have as much hair around your fittings as the older guys," returned Joey as he grinned and reached out to tweak Calvin's nose. "But yeah, we're going." He looked at Randy. "You're the sneaky one. How do we do it?"

Grinning, Randy scratched his butt, wiggled and then said, "Well, first we have to convince Ray." He looked thoughtful. "And Kevin, 'cause they're lovers and if Kevin is with us, Ray will go along with him."

"There's still Chef," warned Calvin. "He might not go along with us."

"Oh, I think he will," replied Randy. "We're his lambs, after all, and he'd never forgive himself if he left us behind." He leaned forward and put his hands on Calvin's shoulders. "And Chef is just as big a softy as Phantom. We're Phantom's little brothers and Chef's bratty nephews."

"Which means?" asked Calvin as he gazed into Randy's light blue eyes.

"Which means we go and find Kevin," replied Randy.

"What do you mean, 'Fine, when do we leave?'" demanded Nicholas. "You don't even know what this is all about!"

Matt made a note in the Weapons Inventory Book - he'd been busy recording the serial numbers of the rebored .303s the cadets used when Nicholas came barging into the armoury - and regarded Nicholas. "I don't need to." He slowly closed the tattered book and pushed it to one side. "Phantom needs me. That's all that interests me. That's all I need to know. Where he goes, I go."

Jeremy Cher pressed his ear against the thin wooden bulkhead and listened to the low, muted tones as Cory related Phantom's dream to Sean Anders. Jeremy could not make out every word - the two chiefs were obviously sitting on the bunk opposite the plywood bulkhead - but he had heard enough. Somehow he would be at the upcoming meeting in the Gunroom. Somehow he would find a way to be a part of what Phantom was doing. He didn't know if he'd been in Phantom's dream, but somehow thought that he had been. He would go.

Rolling from his bunk, where he had been enjoying a lie in Guard and Steerage, Jeremy Cher pulled up his tighty-whiteys, which he had pushed down in preparation for a good morning wank, which Cory had interrupted, and padded toward the showers. He would go with Phantom. All he had to figure out was how in the hell he was going to manage it!

"We're supposed to be the level-headed young adults, here," Tyler said to Mark. "We're supposed to be the leaders!"

The four senior chiefs, two Canadian, two American, sat in the Chiefs Mess, Mark and Tony on Tyler's bunk, Tyler and Val on Val's bunk. They had left the parade square immediately Divisions were over and now they were engaged in a war of words.

"Tyler, you are the leader," said Tony carefully. "You want to believe, but your common sense tells you to hold back, to consider every option and angle."

"Thanks," returned Tyler sourly. Then he continued, "It's just that I can't get my head around a dream! Come on, guys, Phantom dreams that Sylvain came to him in a dream, to tell him something, and dies before he can tell Phantom anything! We have nothing to go on, no proof of anything! What if we do help Phantom, if we go to Ste Anne, and find nothing? Have you considered the consequences?" He looked sternly at Tony. "You have an appointment to Annapolis, Tony," he pointed out forcefully. "Have you . . ."

The dark-skinned Italian youth held up his hand. "And you have an appointment to Royal Roads," he observed quietly. "But you're going, aren't you?" His remarks were more a statement than a question.

"Yes," admitted Tyler. "I don't know why, I don't care how, but yes, I am going. Somehow I feel, I know, that I have to."

"You are both risking a lot," Val offered. "Both of you both have a career ahead of you, careers that you have worked very hard for." He looked at Tony. "You're an American. This isn't your concern . . . unless you want it to be."

Mark, who had remained silent throughout much of the discussion, shook his head. "Val, that has nothing to do with this!" His voice grew cold and harsh. "This whole business hinges on young kids being bought and sold for sex! Are you willing to bet the farm that the biggest market is not south of the 49th Parallel?"

"Still . . ." hesitated Val.

"Val, I might not be totally convinced that I should run 'Old Glory' up the flagpole based on a dream. I am convinced that this whole business goes much deeper and farther than Phantom, or we, realize. I am also convinced that Americans are involved, involved big time, and that, my friend, makes it my concern!" He stood up and abruptly pushed down his uniform trousers and white boxers. "What do you see, Val?" he demanded as he presented his genitals.

"Your balls?" Val asked, too surprised to be shocked.

"Yes, big ones!" averred Mark. He gestured for Tony to rise.

Tony rose slowly and dropped his pants, exposing his darkly haired crotch.

"What do you see, Val?" demanded Mark again.

"Tony's balls?" replied Val, wondering what the strip show was all about.

"Stand up, Tyler," commanded Mark.

Tyler did as he was told and while he secretly felt it quite unnecessary because Val, of all people, had certainly seen his balls, he slid his bell-bottoms and tighty-whiteys down.

"Is there a point to this show and tell routine or are we going to have an orgy?" snarled Val sarcastically.

"Look!" growled Mark. "What do you see?"

"Balls and dicks," returned Val. "And very handsome balls and dicks," he added mentally.

"Notice any difference? And no cracks!" snapped Mark.

"Well, there are subtle differences," returned Val with a smile. "Tony's dick is darker skinned than yours or Tyler's, and Tyler is definitively bigger."

"Val!" barked Mark.

"Well, if you put it that way," began Val, "you're all brothers, at least in the dick department."

"Yes, we are! We have balls and we have dicks! We've slept together, eaten together, played together and worked together!" said Mark passionately. "We are brothers, damn it! We may not look alike, hell we can't even speak the language alike, but we are brothers, and that, you dumb Canuck, is what I am getting at! There are no Americans, or Canadians, or fucking nationalities! We are brothers of the sea remember? Where you go, we go!" He pulled up his clothing and glared at Val. "Now do you understand?"

"Actually, I do," replied Val calmly. "There is still a small . . ." He held out his right hand with his thumb and forefinger barely separated, and grinned . . . "problem."

"What small problem?" Tony asked as he zipped up.

"Well, we . . ." Val indicated Tyler and then himself, "can travel more or less as we please. We have travel orders that at least get us close to home. You and Tony aren't Canadian Sea Cadets. You're uniforms are different. You don't have a whole lot of cash, which means even if we go to Quebec, how are you going pay for it?"

"My daddy's credit card," muttered Tyler.

"Huh?"

"My daddy's credit card, Val," repeated Tyler. "As for uniforms, Rob has a warehouse full of them."

"And orders?" asked Val sceptically. "How are we going to explain - if we have to - what two, possibly three American cadets are doing travelling across Canada wearing Canadian uniforms?"

"I think you're looking for problems," sniffed Tony. "This isn't some spy novel, for Christ's sake!"

"No, it isn't," agreed Val easily. "However, spy novels have a unique way of always pointing out the pucker factor."

"The what?" asked Mark, who was no a fan of spy novels.

"The unknown entity, the unexpected turn of events," explained Val patiently. "It is also known as Murphy's Law." He grinned at Mark. "Surely you have heard of Murphy's Law?"

"Of course I have!" declared Mark. "I do read, you know. I'm not some dumb football jock!"

"Really? If that's the case how come you spend most of your time sitting on the bench with your hand in your jock?" Tony asked with pretended innocence.

"To keep your hand out of it!" returned Mark with a wink and a grin.

Tyler coughed delicately. "If we could return to the main topic?"

Mark and Tony exchanged the typical teenage male punches on each other's shoulders. "Gotchas!" had been exchanged and now they could return to something more important. "Go ahead," said Tony airily.

Feigning exasperation, Tyler glared at each of the American cadets in turn and then said. "Look, we are maybe going to have about 20 cadets flying across the country, without escorting officers! We can arrange uniforms, we can arrange travel orders, but, and here is the rub. There are cadets flying all over the place, army cadets, air cadets, the whole nine yards. Courses are ending and the troops are going home."

"So?" asked Mark quizzically. "All the better, if you ask me. Who is going to look twice at yet another herd of unruly little cadets, all happy and giggly because they're going home?"

"Which would guarantee that somebody would notice them," observed Val.

"So we'll look like sad, unhappy little boys going to a funeral!" replied Mark. "Hell, I'll even spring for wreath if it helps."

Growling, Tyler shook his head. "Mark, as cadets we can't make a move without adult supervision. Supervision in the form of an officer! Tony and I had to delay our departure because we couldn't get on the frigging bus, let alone the airplane, until there was an officer available to 'escort' us."

Scratching his chin, Mark agreed. "Well, it does seem that we can't take a dump without some officer sniffing around, making sure we wipe ourselves afterward."

"Or the end of our dicks when we have a pee," agreed Tony. He looked thoughtful and nodded his head. "Not having an officer with us could be a big problem," he finished seriously.

"I can see us getting on a plane, no problem," opined Tyler. "We can dig up the money for the airfares. But, and here is where the Pucker Factor comes in. With all the cadets travelling there is always an officer with them, who just might question why we don't have one with us. There is also the fact that every plane is met, either by a Sea Cadet officer, or a parent, or a representative of the local Area Cadet Officer. If we're stopped, and questioned, we could blow the whole exercise."

Mark cocked his head and then said, "Well, if worse comes to the worst, Tony, Nathan and I could just be American tourists. We don't have to masquerade as part of your group at all."

"Nathan? How does he figure in this?" asked Val, surprised. "He's only interested in where his next piece of ass is coming from!"

Sighing, Tony shook his head. "Actually, Nathan is infatuated with Fred. He's also still in love with Cory, but that's another story. Nathan is also a guy. He'd never sit back, playing with the head of his dick while Fred goes off to war. Let's face it, Nathan's balls would not allow him to stay behind!" He then looked at Mark and continued on. "And yes, we could pretend to be tourists, but quite frankly I want to be a part of your, what shall I call it, your crusade? We're your brothers and like you Tyler, I would prefer not to sail under false colours."

Tyler nodded his understanding, stood up, and gazed out the window. He turned, smiling. "Well, there is a way," he said quietly. Then he frowned. "Unfortunately it involves Greg."

"Greg!" the other three cadets exclaimed as one.

"Greg," repeated Tyler. He saw the questioning looks on the faces of the others and continued. "When we wanted Phantom to go with us on the sailing trip Greg forged the necessary paperwork. He established a Sea Cadet Corps, RCSCC Aurora, and enrolled Phantom."

"He also forged Nigel Farnsworth's signature," Val pointed out. "That might have worked a month ago, but not now." He turned to address Mark and Tony. "Farnsworth was jerk and was sent home for abuse of power. But that was a month ago!"

"We heard the story," replied Mark. "So, that route is out then?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," said Tyler. "We really need to talk to Greg." He frowned. "However, after his little display this morning, I wonder if he'll even consider helping us."

"He might," offered Val. "He's had time to think and maybe he's rueing the fact that he burned all his bridges. He might just regret what he did and . . ."

"We'll ask him, then," said Tyler with a firmness he did not feel. "We have to be very careful when we ask him, and God knows what he'll want in return, but I think we should ask him to help us."

"And if he won't?" asked Val, doubting that Greg would agree to anything. "Greg was pretty adamant when he left the Gunroom this morning. He might just tell us to go and fuck ourselves."

"He might," agreed Tyler. "Still, we ask. And if he refuses, then we listen to what Phantom has come up with. If I know him, and I think I do, right now he's working everything out in his own mind. He'll have a plan, I think."

Tony stood up and looked evenly at Tyler. "Plan or no plan, I'm going if Phantom goes."

"I know," replied Tyler. "We don't have a choice, really." He sniggered. "We're like Nathan, I think. Our balls won't let us stay behind."

"So we find our noble leader and find out just what the hell he's thinking!" Mark grinned and reached out to rub the back of Tony's neck. "I have to go, if only to keep this thing out of trouble." Then he laughed. "Besides, I'm curious to know what was on my coat of arms."

"Balls," said Tony sourly.

Mark misunderstood Tony's curt remark. "I am curious," he said with a scowl. "There's no need to take that tone!"

"As usual you didn't hear what I said," returned Tony without rancour. "If you want my opinion somewhere on your coat of arms will be a set of balls!" He glanced briefly at Mark's crotch. "Small ones, but balls nevertheless!"

The slight breeze from the west as it cascaded over the slopes of Mount Washington set the tops of the Lombardy poplars that separated the buildings from the beach to stirring. The Phantom looked up at the scudding, dark clouds. "Rain," he thought indifferently. "But then," he thought again, "if it rains, the guys will have an excuse to stay indoors." Which would make a meeting with them easer.

Lighting another cigarette, The Phantom scowled and regarded the small scattering of cigarette ends littering the ground beneath his feet. He smiled slightly for the ground still bore the imprint of Chef's heavy body. The Phantom was sitting at the far end of the loading dock, exposed to the elements, but out of the way. He looked down and smiled again, remembering the day an unfortunate sergeant from the Supply Section had tried to palm off some long dead and freezer burned chickens on Chef.

Drawing on his cigarette, The Phantom considered what he was going to say to the old cook, who was a lot smarter than he let on and deliberately cultivated a veneer of buffoonery. Chef was no man's fool. Far from it. He was insightful, and very, very wise to the ways of his lambs. Chef might appear to be staggering about, half in the bag most of the time, but The Phantom had learned that it was a very clever, and very convincing act. Chef knew exactly what he was doing and woe betide the man - or boy - who underestimated him!

Chef also had influence. He stood high in the counsels of the Order, and would use his position and influence as he saw fit, but only if he was convinced of the rightness of what The Phantom wanted to do.

Thinking, The Phantom realized that Chef was already deep into his machinations. Chef was on board. It was his friends, his messmates, in some cases, his lovers, that were not. At least not fully. Oh, they were talking and whispering. He had seen them at breakfast, heads bent close together, their whispered low, their conversations stopping abruptly as he came near their tables. The mice were chittering somewhere, The Phantom was sure of that. Joey, Randy and Calvin were as thick as thieves, and had snooped and overheard much of what he and Chef had discussed. He had also noticed that the cadets had disappeared almost with the speed of light from the parade square once Divisions had ended. He had seen Cory hotfooting it toward the Dockyard, no doubt to inform Sean of what was going on. Earlier, no one had lingered over breakfast. Most of the boys had left, darting glances at The Phantom, and each other. They were talking, and no danger.

When the dining hall emptied, The Phantom had retreated to the loading dock to think. Chef had said, and rightly so, The Phantom felt, that he would not help until The Phantom came up with a workable plan of action. In retrospect, The Phantom could not blame the old man. Chef would not place any of the cadets in danger, and would not allow them to wander off into the sunrise unprepared, and with a backup plan in place. Safety first, The Phantom thought idly. Chef was right and he had to come up with a plausible, workable course of action that would take him, and any of his friends to Ste Anne de Beaupré, and beyond.

The more he thought of it, the more The Phantom realized that while it would be better to have the Order's support and assistance, he should not count on it. The men who ruled the Order were not fools - according to Cory and Todd the new Grand Master was a man who did not suffer fools gladly - a man who would act, harshly, but carefully.

As the morning slowly passed, The Phantom sat alone - the other boys deliberately avoided disturbing him - and a plan formed in his mind. The more he thought of it, the more he was convinced that it would work.

He would need, first of all, money. He had money, not in abundance, but enough to get himself and the others to Quebec City. On Thursday the cadets would be leaving, boarding a white-painted Boeing at CFB Comox for the flight east, and home. The plane would stop in Vancouver, then Edmonton, then Winnipeg, and then Trenton. From Trenton it would carry on to Montreal, Quebec City and finally, CFB Halifax. Except for Trenton, the military air section was a part of a civilian airport. Cadets would either be bussed to their homes, or put on another aircraft to complete their journeys. And this worked to The Phantom's advantage.

Assuming that the Order would not be a part of his scheme, The Phantom knew what to do. He at first thought that he would go into town and purchase through the local travel agency, air tickets, to be picked up at airline counters at the other end. He would enlist the Twins' help, as he wanted to avoid attention as much as possible. Which caused him to reject the plan. A cadet, or a young man, showing up and purchasing 20 or thirty, or whatever number of airline tickets, in one go, would arouse suspicion. He might get away with it once, but he doubted that even the most avaricious of travel agents might not raise an eyebrow or two if he came back two or three times. There was also the fact that cadet travel was booked through the Movements Office at CFB Comox. Once again eyebrows would go up and The Phantom knew that he would be hard-pressed to explain why he needed tickets and why he had no Movement Orders.

No, the best thing to do would be to visit the bank, and withdraw his savings. He had a ready-made excuse for that. He was buying a used car and the owner wanted cash. This was understandable to any adult. A boy always bought a used car as soon as he got his license. He could also stop off at the travel agency and pick up the travel brochures that the agency handed out in reams and bunches. The brochures from the airlines listing their services and their airfares.

Ste Anne de Beaupré was a shrine, and a huge attraction to the faithful. There would be buses from Quebec City to the small town. Food and accommodation were no problem. There were dozens of motels catering to tourists and cash was never refused. The boys could bunk four to a room - they'd done it before - and there wasn't a teenage boy in North America who would turn up his nose at a hamburger smothered in everything, with a Coke! Well, maybe a few, but they were the ones who claimed they never beat their meat!

Timing was important. He had to talk to Nicholas, who would talk to André, who would, hopefully, supply the hour and day of Sylvain's funeral. Once in place he could then do what he did best, snoop, watch, and listen. If he found out anything, what he would do with the information, well, he would keep in touch with Chef. Chef might not agree with what The Phantom planned to do, but he would help.

Proper documentation would also help, but the only person that The Phantom knew who could help in that department was Greg, and Greg was lost to them. Still, he would appeal to the Writer. He would make one last effort at reconciliation.

The Phantom cursed inwardly. His plan was cumbersome, and amateurish, but it would work. There were imponderables, and The Phantom was intelligent enough to realize that everything could blow up in his face. He recalled The Gunner telling him about the "Mrs. Reillys" out there, the unknown factors that plagued any operation.

Lighting another cigarette The Phantom frowned. He had thought of everything, so far as he was able. If he, and the boys who accompanied him were careful, it would work! It had to!

In a fit of pique and frustration, The Phantom flung his cigarette onto the hard-packed earth of the pathway that ran behind the Mess Hall and then just as quickly lit another cigarette.

Hell and sheeit! It would be so much better if The Gunner were around. He had connections. He had friends and while The Phantom sensed that while Steve Winslow might not approve, he would help, albeit grudgingly.

As he weighed the pros and cons of his scheme, The Phantom's mind kept drifting back to his relationship with The Gunner - and Colin Arnott. Had Cory been correct in his assessment? Had he merely been infatuated with Steve Winslow? In many ways, The Phantom was confused. Steve Winslow had proclaimed his love many times over, yet always refused to publicly proclaim that love, which Colin Arnott had had no hesitation in doing. The thought of The Gunner willingly allowing Cory to inspect him in a public loo caused The Phantom to chuckle softly. Colin had thought it a hoot and had put on quite a show, which The Phantom would have paid good money to see! The look on Cory's face as he emerged from the public lavatory had been priceless!

Frowning, The Phantom mashed his cigarette into pulp on the stained concrete of the loading dock and almost immediately lit another one. The differences between The Gunner and Colin were startling. The Gunner would not allow a hint of his relationship with a boy to become public. Colin saw nothing wrong in walking down a street with his newfound lover. The Gunner had a hidden side to him that he took great pains not to reveal. Colin was as open as his pink cheeks and blues eyes. The Gunner was a man who found it difficult, if not impossible, to compromise, to in any way go against his principles. Colin, on the other hand, might grumble, but he was willing to see both sides of every coin. And when it came to that damned word, duty, The Gunner had no peer. The Phantom now realized that the man was obsessed with doing his duty. He would brook no arguments, make no compromises, and always, always do his duty as he saw it!

Before he could even think about it, The Phantom pounded the uncompromising cement of the loading dock in frustration. Damn the man! Why must The Gunner subjugate his feelings to duty? Was that to be his future, his life? Was he trading his Navy career for the position of Avenging Angel of the Order? Again The Phantom slammed his hand against the loading dock floor. Was The Gunner to be a man who rushed from crisis to crisis, never knowing what love was, never knowing the true depth of affection except in little dribs and drabs, contenting himself with the arms of man for a week, a month, a year, and then rushing off to do . . . what? Is that the life that Steve Winslow truly wanted?

Clenching his fist, The Phantom raised his arm. As his hand travelled downward a voice stopped him.

"You break something important hitting stone floor like that."

The Phantom turned. Sandro had come quietly onto the loading dock.

"I sit with you, yes?" asked Sandro. He did not wait for an answer and settled himself beside his friend. "You think deep thoughts, I think," the Russian boy said presently.

"I was just thinking about . . ." The Phantom was not aware that Sandro knew about The Gunner and him, and thought it best to keep things that way. "Just thinking," he finished weakly.

Sandro grinned knowingly. "I keep your secret," he whispered as he put his arm around The Phantom's shoulder.

"What secret?" asked The Phantom in return, playing dumb.

Poking his thumb against his own chest several times, Sandro snickered. "I am Russian, I see things. I know what is what." He smiled winningly. "Sandro is like Phantom. He sees much, hears much, says nothing." Impulsively, he leaned forward and kissed The Phantom's cheek.

"What was that for?" asked The Phantom, smiling.

"For what you say to Chef. I am appreciating it." Sandro frowned. "I am sorry we listen. It was wrong."

"You would have heard about it later on in any event," said The Phantom with a grin. "You guys are just lucky that Chef didn't have his spoon with him!"

"Chef is big softy," exclaimed Sandro. "Makes much noise, like walrus in love. He threaten us, waves spoon but . . ." He winked at The Phantom. "Never has he laid spoon to little pink cadet bum!" Sandro laughed uproariously. "Chef is like old lion with young cubs. Growl and roar, raises paw, but never shows claws."

"Come to think of it, you're right," agreed The Phantom. Chef had never actually smacked anyone, although he threatened constantly. "The old fool," he snickered.

"No, Chef is no fool," observed Sandro. "Just as you are no fool."

"There are some who would disagree with you there," replied The Phantom dryly.

Sandro shrugged expressively. "The others, they talk. Randy, Joey, Calvin, they hide in lounge and whisper together. Ray and Kevin, they sneak away to cooks' barracks, snuggle together and talk. Always it is talk." He glowered into the distance. "Two Strokes, he complains and doubts. Thumper, he is like my father. Step back, look, listen, before acting."

"And you?" asked The Phantom.

Sandro turned his head slightly, his eyes looking directly into The Phantom's emerald orbs. "Ask question, yes?"

"Sure."

"Your dream. You see all of us?"

The Phantom nodded slowly. "Well, just about all of us. Greg, no."

"Greg is not one of us," replied Sandro firmly and without emphasis. "Greg is for Greg. Does not understand, will not understand because does not want to understand. He sucks on Jimmy Collyer because it feels nice. Lets Jimmy do same to him because it feels better. They fuck because it also feels good."

"Just sex?"

"Yes. Sex makes Little Greg very happy."

"I think there is more to Greg than that," The Phantom protested mildly. "He fell in love with Harry."

"No," Sandro replied. "He fall in love with sex with Harry. There is big difference. Harry is not in love with Greg. Only wants to take Pride of Fleet to sea, shoot three, four times, and return to Dockyard. Greg does not see this. Sandro does. Greg lies to self. Sandro does not. He likes sex with boys." Sandro grinned salaciously. "Make love to Nathan, make love to Chad."

The Phantom recalled the morning after the Chiefs Mess Dinner when Sandro and Chad had been sitting in the dining hall. He tried to stifle a giggle, but failed miserably.

Sandro did not take offence. "Sandro makes love to Chad. Is not the same with Nathan."

"You're not in love with Chad, then?" asked The Phantom, surprised. Perhaps he had read the signs wrong.

"Little bit, yes," admitted Sandro. "Chad is very nice, make me very happy. But Sandro is no fool. Chad is boy he could live with, make love to all the time. But Chad is like Nathan. Likes other boys too much. Chad was not in your dream?" he finished abruptly.

"No. He was not in my dream."

"Says something, then. No Greg, no Chad." Sandro looked thoughtful and then continued. "In dream, many boys. All friends, all brothers. They are true friends. Greg is not. Chad is not. Listen to what dream tells you."

The Phantom drew back, his eyes wide. "You . . . you mean that?"

Sandro's face was calm. "In Russia many people believe in dreams and omens. Believe in starets. You are like starets, I think."

"A what?"

"Is holy man," explained Sandro. "In Russia, before Bolsheviks come, there are many starets. They wander around, being holy, having dreams; sometimes they claim they speak to God. There are good starets, there are bad starets."

"I'm far from being holy," opined The Phantom. He grinned. "If you know so much about what goes on around here, you'd know that."

"Sandro knows. Did not say Phantom was starets. Said Phantom was like starets. You wish to do good. Sandro will help."

"Sandro . . ."

"Please listen. Sandro was in dream, yes?"

"Yes."

"You will ask Order to help, but not ask or join if Sandro is not with you?"

Once again The Phantom's face expressed his surprise. Obviously Sandro had hear a lot more than the young Russian let on. He smiled softly. "You are my brother. How could I go and leave my brother behind?"

"You tell Order, no Sandro, no Phantom?"

"Yes."

"Then Sandro goes. He stands beside Phantom, and Colin, and others." He regarded The Phantom seriously. "You are very lucky. Colin is good man, I think. Loves you very much. Brave, too. Will never leave you."

The Phantom's shoulders sagged. "I know," he whispered. "I feel so . . . wonderful with him. But . . ."

"Gunner is no longer in life of Phantom. Gunner is like Alexander Nevsky. Always duty. Always on watch for good of Rodina." He shrugged. "God has given special tasks to him. He will know many men, but never love them."

"Wow!" The Phantom exclaimed. Then he cocked his head inquiringly. "Who's Alexander Nevsky?"

Sandro sighed. He had long ago learned that many North Americans had no interest in the culture or history of what was increasingly being call the "New Canadians". "Alexander Nevsky was man. He is sometimes called a saint. Very famous in Russia. Save Rodina from Prussians."

"Prussians, Germans?"

"Yes. Teutonic Knights, they come to take Russia away from Russian people. They think Russian people are weak because they are heretics and barbarians. Laugh, wave swords, kill people. They bring priests and monks to convert heathen Russians!" Sandro all but spat contemptuously at that statement. "Alexander Nevsky, he rallies people, they fight Prussians. Rodina is saved." He thumped his chest. "I see film many times, on television, at cinema. Sandro cries, but Sandro is Russian and feels very proud."

The Phantom had no idea what film Sandro was talking about. Russian films - of any genre - would put warm bums in the frayed seats of the Bonita Theatre!

Sandro saw the look on The Phantom's face and grinned. "In Russia government controls everything, films, television, newspapers, all for glory of Party." He sighed theatrically. "Is very boring." Then he grinned. "Unless Phantom enjoys see big women with many muscles building dams across the Volga?"

Returning Sandro's grin, The Phantom laughed. "Hardly."

Nodding, Sandro continued, "In Russia, all is propaganda. Make work; give all to Party, all to Rodina. Many times hear great music by Russian composers, see films. All waving flags and giving life for Russia! 'Alexander Nevsky' is large film. Much fighting, waving of flags, special music. Is very . . ." he looked inquiringly at The Phantom. " . . . Stirring?"

"Patriotic and stirring," supplied The Phantom, who was a veteran of many a Saturday afternoon matinee, spent eating mountains of buttered popcorn and watching John Wayne win the war.

"Yes, make people want to rise up and defend Rodina." Sandro recalled the films he had seen and continued. "Prussians come to Russia, bring many knights, armed men, priests, monks, with big organ and . . ."

The Phantom did a double take. Big organ? What the hell kind of films were they showing in Russia. He hoped that Sandro was referring to a musical instrument!

Seeing the startled look on The Phantom's face, Sandro made playing motions with his hands, as if at a keyboard. "Phantom has dirty mind!" he opined with feigned indignation.

"Sorry," apologised The Phantom with embarrassed smile.

"In film, Prussians come to Kiev. Kill many people. Rape women; throw little boy babies into great fire. Laugh and shave beards from Orthodox priests. All Prussians sneer at crying of people. Much blood and screaming." Sandro waved his arms around as if encompassing the city of Kiev. "Music grows loud, drums pound and trumpets sound. Is very stirring in the blood, Phantom."

"Sounds like it," replied The Phantom. "Just the thing if you want to stir up the juices." He thought a moment. "Was there sound in this thing? I mean, people screaming and . . ."

"Oh, no. Is silence film. Only music in background and what you call them, sub-words?"

"Sub-titles," supplied The Phantom. "The film makers put them in so the audience can understand what the actors are supposed to be saying."

"Probably not what is on screen," said Sandro insightfully. "Anyway, Alexander Nevsky he is outside city. Rides around, raises troops, fights Prussians. Winter comes and he and army force Prussians onto ice. There is big battle scene and then ice breaks and Prussians fall into water and drown. Is very nice to see!"

"And at the end the music rises and Alexander rides off into the sunset with the girl," said The Phantom a trifle smugly. Hollywood was so predictable.

Sandro shook his head vigorously. "No! In city there is big party, much drinking, much eating, laughing, dancing, wenching. Friends get girls, peasants get girls, Alexander Nevsky does not. He is on ramparts, on wall, looking west, watching, waiting for Germans to return. God has said that he is to watch, so he does. Never will he have girl. He is knight, saviour of Rodina. It is his destiny."

"Now I understand," offered The Phantom quietly. "The Gunner has been chosen by God to watch, to stand ready to do battle against the enemies of the Order, of his brothers."

"Yes. It is his duty. He sees it, maybe. Does not understand it, maybe, but it is his duty," replied Sandro. "He will have lovers, yes, because he is what he is, but he will never be in love. It is the price he pays for his destiny." He regarded The Phantom. "You are leader. Boys will follow you always. Unlike Gunner, you will have peace with one man."

Embarrassed, The Phantom proffered, "Maybe you're the starets!"

Laughing, Sandro again embraced his friend. "No. Just horny Russian!"

"Sandro!"

"Do not worry, am not horny now!" replied Sandro, pretending to be offended that The Phantom would think such a thing. Then his face softened. "We go, yes?"

"We go," confirmed The Phantom quietly. "You will be at my side?"

"Was in dream. God ordains it, so I go. When?"

"Thursday, I think," replied The Phantom. "I have to plan and I have some more thinking to do, but yes, Thursday."

"Good. There is time."

"Time for what?" asked The Phantom, wondering what Sandro was up to.

"In Jewish tradition, it is necessary to mourn dead, to pray for them, to pray for mother, father, brother," said Sandro. "It is necessary to say Kaddish for Sylvain, our brother. I wish to say Kaddish."

The Phantom saw the brightness of Sandro's eye darken with sadness. "Can I help?"

"Minyan is necessary," observed Sandro, "ten men. Should be Jews."

"Sandro, you're the only Jew we have, and so far as I know there aren't that many Jewish men in Comox! You'll have to go to Courtenay, to the synagogue there. I'll drive you. I'm sure Chef will give us the time off."

Sighing, Sandro shook his head. "God understands how Sandro feels. Phantom understands how Sandro feels. Rabbi in Courtenay does not. Sylvain was not Jewish, did not have mark of the Covenant. Rabbi is very conservative and will not let Sandro say Kaddish in synagogue."

"So we find a nice place," replied The Phantom. The matter was settled as far as he was concerned. If Sandro would gain a measure of peace by saying prayers for Sylvain, then a way would be found. He had a thought, stood up and gestured for Sandro to follow him.

"Where are we going?" asked Sandro as he rose to follow his friend.

"Well, we have to get Chef's permission to go ashore, don't we?" replied The Phantom as he pushed open the double doors leading to the interior of the Mess Hall. "Why we go ashore?"

The Phantom turned and embraced Sandro. "We can find a Minyan, but don't you think it would be nice to have a few Jews among the heathens?" he asked with a grin.

"But you say there are no Jews around, except for Sandro."

"Ah, but there are. I know one, and I'm sure he'll help us." He walked through the doors and called over his shoulder. "Come along, my brother." He stopped and frowned. "I hope Chef is in a good mood."

"No matter," replied Sandro. "Hid spoon!"

Chef listened to The Phantom and Sandro, and then nodded. "After lunch," he said simply. "Now, off with you. There is much work to be done."

When the two youths left his office Chef reached for the telephone. There was indeed much work to be done.

In the Gold and Silver vault, Michael opened a locked door at the far end with a special key, revealing a large, walk-in closet stacked ceiling high with shelving, on which rested a series of rosewood boxes.

"The boxes contain the treasure and history of the Order," explained Michael as he pulled one of the masterpieces of wood carving from the shelf. He carefully placed the box on a table littered with gold and sterling table pieces. "At one time the only display the Order allowed was a special Mass on St. John's Feast Day - the 26th of December - and all the great officers wore their collars." He opened the box carefully to reveal a jewelled collar nestled in cream satin. "Each priory had collars for their officers," he continued, ignoring the strident ringing of a telephone outside the room. "This is Austria," he said, pointing to the black enamel double eagles and massive rubies adorning the gold chain and settings.

"It's very beautiful," agreed Joe. He frowned as the telephone continued to ring. He cast an annoyed glance through the open door of the vault. "Why doesn't the guard answer that damned thing?"

"Perhaps he is doing his rounds," replied Michael. Then he remembered that the corridor guard was never to leave his desk without a relief. The telephone switchboard was there, and all calls came through him. Michael turned abruptly. "Something is wrong!"

In the small office behind the main security desk Kuang Hsu bounced happily, growling as he met thrust for thrust of the man in whose lap he sat astride. Beneath him, ex-SEAL Franklin "Frank the Horse" Campbell, grunted as his turgid organ thrust deeply into the willing rectum of the Chinese man. Both men were naked from the waist down.

Hsu had taken advantage of the absence of the Major and Laurence, whom no one had seen for days, to wander the lower halls of the mansion. Captain K'ang Hsi, a ramrod straight Taiwanese martinet who ruled the Chinese staff with an iron hand, had sent him to the main house to deliver the weekly report to the Major's office. He had walked about carefully, admiring the lithe, strong bodies of the Internal Security Force.

Hsu needed servicing. He was intrigued by the men of the ISF, all white, all strong, and hopefully all willing to enjoy some quiet time with a handsome, young Chinese. After Patrick Tsang had been called to higher service to the Serenity, Hsu could have found solace with any one of the other Chinese men who patrolled the grounds. Like him, they were young, strong, and handsome. They were also too willing to take him to their beds and their performance gave proof to the saying the prostitutes of his native Kowloon giggled amongst themselves after servicing a Chinese client: "Small dick, comes quick!"

As a young boy, before he was sent to a mission school, Hsu had listened to the girls who filled the rooms in his mother's house as they chattered and gossiped amongst themselves about their customers. Chinese men were good business. In and out, wipe up and gone. They were also lousy tippers, rarely paying more than the agreed price, no matter how the girl moaned and shrieked and paid lying compliment to the size and heft of their organs. Foreigners, the Americans particularly, were much more generous. They knew how to treat a lady, never questioned the price and, if the girl pleased them, left generous gratuities on the bed table. They also had staying power, most of them, and possessed organs of great dimension, most of them.

From time to time one of the Americans, many of them soldiers on leave from the battlefields of Vietnam, asked for a boy. Being pretty, and young, Hsu's mother had seen an opportunity and Hsu quickly became very popular. He enjoyed what he did with the American boys and men and added greatly to the family wealth. His popularity had caused some tension in the house. The girls grew increasingly angry at having a client snatched away by a snip of a boy. It was also unnatural, condemned by the gods, and the authorities across the bay in Hong Kong. To keep tranquility, Hsu was despatched to the mission school.

In school, Hsu kept his mates happy, but still missed his American and British "friends". Being in a school run by rock-ribbed, uncompromising, Bible-quoting Ferengi missionaries did not help matters. The missionaries watched the boys like hawks and impropriety and improper conduct were punished with a bamboo cane. Hsu was resigned to making do with the diminutive organs of his classmates when a representative of the Soongs, a very important family, came looking for young men to enter their service. Hsu, much to his delight, had been chosen and even more pleased when he had been dispatched to Canada, ostensibly to act as guard and servant to the very powerful Michael Chan, in reality to see everything and report everything he saw back to the Soongs.

Hsu really cared nothing at all about the intrigues of the Soongs or the importance of the Chans. He was much more interested in the men of the outside security force, and the men who staffed the Chan mansion. Unfortunately his duties very seldom brought him into proximity with the men he lusted after. Captain K'ang had made it very clear that none of the Chinese staff was to interact with the white men. It was not allowed, period.

Usually the captain liaised directly with the big house. However, with the Major in Hong Kong, and Laurence away somewhere, his duties had been increased and he had become lax. He saw no reason why he should interrupt his routine to deliver bits and pieces of papers, meaningless reports, to the Major's office. One of the others would do it just as well.

Hsu had walked the corridors and while he had smiled and nodded at the passing men, none had returned his smiles. Until he happened across Francis "The Horse" Campbell.

Francis, who preferred Frank, had been sitting behind his desk, monitoring the switchboard, and bored out of his mind, when Hsu sauntered by. The Chinese man had smiled, glanced at the long, tubular-shaped bulge in Frank's black trousers, and smiled wider.

In Vietnam, Frank had seen too many of his fellow SEALs shuffling off to Sick Bay with dripping dicks, the result of a visit to the local cat house, to want to follow their example. Having his ass pumped full of penicillin was not very high on his list of things to do. Besides, he was allergic to the shit. And while the Vietnamese girls were very pretty, Frank had no desire to spend good money when there was more than an eighty percent chance of getting the clap.

Still, Frank had needs. He was a normal, sexually exited male. He had never thought about boys at all. He had hoped to catch the eye of one of the "good" Vietnamese girls. Sadly, Vietnamese culture being what it was, any girl, no matter how good, was automatically assumed to be sleeping with her American boyfriend, and was thus little better than one of the girls who plied their trade outside of every bar and bistro in Saigon. Frank was driven to masturbation and desperation. That is until their houseboy, Trang, always smiling, always willing to help out his American employers, came into Frank's room when the American was in the throes of jerking off, liked what he saw, and thereafter kept Frank very happy.

For his part, Frank figured that a hole was a hole, and what the hell, Trang was clean, and certainly wouldn't pass on the gift that keeps on giving. Trang also made it very clear that he would love being fucked by a big American dick. Frank, like many males, flattered himself, and made Trang happy.

When he thought about his time in Vietnam, which he did very seldom, Frank wondered what had happened to the boy. He hoped that Trang had made it out after Saigon fell. Or at least found a Commissar to keep happy.

At the moment, Frank was not thinking of anything but getting his rocks off again. He had barely returned Hsu's smile and nodded toward the door leading to the guardroom, when he found himself seated on the old, stained sofa, with his gun belt and trousers jumbled around his ankles and the Chinese man on his knees, cooing in admiration at Frank's long, thick organ and pendulous testicles. Frank was very surprised when the stranger stood up, dropped his pants and quickly straddled him.

"You fuck me now, yes?" asked Hsu as he plunged downward on Frank's up thrusting penis.

Although surprised at Hsu's lunge, Frank was not inclined to argue the point. "Hard or slow?" he asked with a grin.

Now they were so engrossed in what they were doing neither man heard the door slowly creak open, or saw the black, round, smoke grenade as it rolled slowly across the carpet, hissing and spewing a thickening tendril of deep, grey smoke. They did not see the second object that followed.

The masked figure in the black coveralls nodded quickly to his counterpart to close the door halfway and then turned to hurry down the corridor. They had barely turned the corner into the cross corridor when behind them the artillery simulator went off with a bang that set the overhead fixtures to flickering, and sent a small tremor through the tile covered floor.

In the guardroom Frank had reached the point of no return. He was growling and squeezing Hsu's thick erection, when the room seemed to explode. Frank was so startled that he leaped forward, throwing the unfortunate Hsu to the floor. As he fumbled for his weapon, which was tangled in his underpants and trousers gathered in an untidy circle around his ankles, Frank did not realize that his penis was jerking and spasming, sending long, thin lines of semen from the bulbous head onto Hsu, who was squawking and squirming in shock.

Frank's training took over and he managed to find his 9-mil. "Shut the fuck up!" he ordered cruelly. He cocked the weapon and looked up to see the flaring, fiery, rage-filled eyes of Michael Chan staring back at him.

"Oh, fuck," sighed Frank as he lowered the pistol.

The two black-clad figures ignored the lift and pounded up the wooden staircase to the main floor. The whooping of the fire alarm helped to muffle the sound of their footsteps on the polished oak of the antique and art-filled Long Corridor, the pandemonium and chaos they had left behind them adding to the din.

Slipping into drawing room they paused before the tall French window and quickly stripped off their black coveralls and masks. Under his coveralls Laurence wore a smart, double-breasted, light grey, London tailored pinstriped suit, starched shirt, and a neatly knotted, Royal Marine tie. Logan wore his junior footman's livery: dark blue tailcoat with evenly spaced brass buttons, a buff waistcoat, and a white shirt as stiffly starched as Laurence's. The knot in his black tie was as carefully and deliberately tied as his mentor's.

Pausing before opening the door, Laurence listened to the shouting and tumult the artillery simulator had caused and winked at Logan. Outside, sharp footsteps slapped against the flagstone terrace as Captain K'ang and a small group of men, all armed with automatic weapons, charged toward the main entrance.

Laurence waited but a minute, looked at Logan, and asked, "Ready?"

Logan nodded. "As I ever will be," he replied, hoping that the noise drowned out the thudding of his heart as it pounded in his chest.

"Now remember," Laurence warned as he led the way onto the terrace. "Controlled panic. We are civilians to them . . ." He nodded with his head toward a group of men in combat gear running across the immaculate greensward. "They expect us to be wetting ourselves with fear."

Lieutenant, once Gunnery Sergeant, USMC, Peter Sheppard, leading a half-company of outside guards, ignored the well-dressed man he knew to be the Major's secretary and the younger ostensibly panicked footman.

Laurence stopped at the wall that surrounded the estate and pushed aside a small bush, which they had ripped up the night before when they slipped in to hide their escape clothes, revealing a small, hidden wooden door. Laurence cackled evilly as he bent down to pull the door open. "A lesson, young Logan," he said as he moved out and onto the roadway.

"A lesson?"

"Complacency leads to disaster."

They hurried across the road and into the deep woods. "I have a feeling that Michael will be royally pissed off at us!" offered Logan as they followed the all but invisible trail to the small, hollow tree where they had hidden their combats.

"Very definitely," replied Laurence as he stripped off his finery to reveal his white T-shirt and boxer shorts. "The security chaps will have a hard time explaining what happened. I don't envy them at all."

Logan followed Laurence's lead, quickly stripping off his livery and kicked off his shoes. With a total lack of embarrassment, he bared his genitals - he had consigned his only pair of briefs to an early morning grave with the breakfast wrappers - and pulled out his woodland-patterned combats. "What about us?" he asked as he stripped off his black dress socks and replaced them with a pair of heavy woollen boot socks. "How much trouble are we in?" he continued as he pulled on the trousers and reached for his jacket and shirt.

"Us?" asked Laurence as he found his shirt and jacket. He thought a moment. "Michael will be livid, or as livid as he ever gets, and Captain K'ang and Lieutenant Sheppard will bear the results. When he's finished Michael will hopefully remember that I told him, in writing, that there were problems about the security of the cantonment." He winked at Logan. "Not to worry, we have friends in high places and I'm the one who will wear it."

"Sheppard and K'ang will be out for blood!" Logan offered. "Ours!"

"Always ready to show the worth of a Royal Marine Commando if they are," replied Laurence, unimpressed. "And they have to find us first." He picked up his pack and jerked his head. "Now, come along, Logan. No time to dawdle." He set off at a quick pace. "We have a few more surprises in store for Messrs K'ang and Sheppard!"

Grimacing, and moaning softly, "Oh, fuck!" Logan hurried after the laughing young Royal Marine.