Major Marc Rambouill entered the marine ready room and the twenty perfect young jarheads snapped to attention, their dogtags tinkling in unison like a windchime in a breeze. Each was a nineteen to twenty-one year old super-patriot volunteer, handpicked for low intelligence, physical perfection and lack of family ties. Their native fanatic patriotism had been honed by chemical brainwashing until they fervently believed there was but one reason for their existence ... to die as training "snuff fodder."

Recruiters around the country were on the watch for buff high school drop-outs way too stupid to ordinarily be allowed into the corps. These were ear-marked expressly for consumption at Camp Heron, Missouri. There was no interest in their brains ... just their big, useful bodies.

The impressive crop of boy-hunks were clad just in gym trunks and Marc swiftly made the rounds, pulling out the front of each stud's trunks to check his crotch. After a bit he found the specimen he was looking for. The kid was a macho blond bull, one of the younger ones ... likely a nineteener ... with a cute face that was a nice contrast to the big, sculpted body. Sparkling blue eyes gazed straight ahead but flickered over to glance at the legendary officer speaking to him.

"I'm going for my morning run, marine. How'd you like to come along?"

"Sir! I'd be honored, sir! Semper Fidelis, sir!"

"Nulli Secundis, marine. Never second. Let's go for that run."

And that was really all the boy was.

There were two marine battalions stationed at Camp Heron. One was a standard security force protecting the top-secret installation tucked around a lake deep in the Mark Twain Wilderness in the Ozarks in southern Missouri. The only access was by helicoptor.

The other battalion was the special training force, the brainwashed, clueless foils to be consumed in the creation, honing and maintenance of the world's most deadly non-nuclear weapons. Each Saturday a big double-bladed Chinook chopper ferried in a fifty man platoon of training fodder fresh from the special brainwashing facility at Camp Pendleton to replace the "casualties" from the preceding week.

BlackHawk had been the brainchild of Pentagon, CIA and NSA thinkers responding to the terrible waves of terrorism that had virtually crippled the world, including America, during the first decade of the Twenty-First Century. It's successes were legion, its failures few ... though one such failure was what had brought Major Rambouill back to Camp Heron. As long as he was there, he had decided to indulge in some retraining to hone his instincts just a bit more.

The counter-terrorist group had exploded onto the world scene five years before with a series of stunning operations in Iraq, The Phillipines, Syria, and Afganistan. Their first act had been to remove Saddam Hussein as a thorn festering in the world's hide. However, it wasn't until after the spectacular destruction of the Muslim terrorists occupying the Los Angeles city hall, defusing their tactical nuke with just minutes to spare, that the identity of the unit finally leaked out. The jubilant President could not resist disclosing the dramatic name at his press conference on the steps of the bullet-scarred city hall. .

After that, the title became the stuff of legend, generating books, movies and video games. The suddenly peaceful Iranians translated the name into words meaning "Black Birds of Death" as terrorist incidents began tapering off dramatically.

The unit functioned upon seven basic precepts, most of which were decidedly contrary to american and western philosophy.

(1) A man, properly trained and conditioned physically and mentally, can do anything.
(2) A warrior unafraid of death is unstoppable.
(3) A man must enjoy killing to be best at it.
(4) Only actual killing trains a man to be a master at killing.
(5) Individual lives are utterly expendable.
(6) Some men are born to be killers ... others just to be killed.

(7) If a man tastes failure, he becomes unreliable and thus useless.

There had been a failure. A three-team strike "capsule" had mis-timed their assault on terrorists occupying the French National Assembly. Though many of the targets had been removed, not only had the leader and others in the group escaped but they managed to set off a bomb that killed fifty-seven French parliamentarians. The President of France, among the hostages, had been spirited away with the fleeing terrorists and murdered in reprisal for the abortive attack by the american elite force.

Graduates of Camp Heron were mated in two-man teams based upon psychological compatability. They were clones who easily and quickly bonded into steely closeness. It was a poorly kept "secret" that most teams engaged in mutual sexual release since the commandos were forbidden any relationships outside the unit. Families had to be discarded ... lovers rejected. The homosexual relationship that usually developed was unofficially viewed as a good thing.

A team that functioned well in bed would likely carry the same unity into battle, two men operating as one.

Realistically, the powerful libidos of the super-buff, perfect male bodies forged at Camp Heron had to be sated in some manner, especially since the steady diet of killing was intentionally tied to the pleasure centers in the commandos' brains. They were conditioned to find killing other men intensely erotic and to lust after the exquisite pleasure it produced.

The teams were indivisible and if one member was lost, the other had to be disposed of as well, viewed as no longer reliable. Like some type of primitive beasts, they mated only once and that was only for the mutual duration of their short, violent lives. Along with Directive 7, that gave tremendous incentive for members of a team to support each other and put their all into every mission.

The commandos knew that they would function until they failed, lost a partner or simply aged too much. Then they would be destroyed. They were simply too dangerous to be released back into the stream of humanity. They had agreed to the harsh terms when they were recruited to serve their country and the world community as living weapons.

With BlackHawk there was no such thing as an aging commando or retirement.

The teams, though able to operate as single units, were perfectly trained to mesh with other teams to form deadly "strike capsules" for given missions, such as the one that had failed so dramatically in Paris. When Marc and Jake had helped end the brutal depredations of the phillipine pirates in the South China Sea, theirs was one of twenty-five teams "capsuled" in the largest operation yet undertaken.

The number of teams in existence and their bases was a closely guarded secret and Marc certainly had no idea. He and Jake were posted at Fort Reilly, Kansas. They knew there were other teams there as well but never were permitted contact. Close ties to other teams was deemed to be as undesirable as the bonding between team partners was viewed as positive.

A team operating in a capsule simply had to regard the other teams as utterly expendable and emotional ties might interfere with that.

Marine Private Heath Broadlow kept casting surreptitious, admiring glances at the tall, handsome officer as they jogged down the runing path through the Missouri forest. The flexing and coursing of the steely muscles in the nearly naked body were wonderful to watch ... like a living liquid beneath the tawny skin.

In his dull brain, he was utterly thrilled.

He knew he was about to be put to death. He had no idea how, though he supposed it would be very violent and painful.

He didn't care.

In fact, he was delighted that he was finally going to serve some useful purpose in helping hone the edge of America's important anti-terrorist weapon. He was otherwise without any value whatsoever ... just taking up space and wasting limited resources in a crowded world. But the magnificent cajun major with the french name pronounced Ram-bool had chosen him to use as a training dummy this day! It was a heady sensation and his broad, deep chest swelled with pride.

It was the first time in his nineteen years that he had ever felt important. He knew he didn't have the mental wattage to light a thirty watt bulb and, illigitimate and abandoned, he had been raised as an unwanted burden on an uncle's sheep ranch in the wilds of Montana. Though a handsome young bull, he was too introverted to do well with relationships and had grown up a sad loner. Despite his size and gorgeous physique he was just clumsy enough that he had always been a second stringer in sports before dropping out of school altogether at seventeen.

He had understood he was a hopeless, useless loser.

Until today! Today was his moment to finally, albeit briefly and painfully, be a star! He would have the undivided attention of the legendary warrior who was called "Rambo" behind his back. He had expected to be consumed in the development of some trainee commando, but his incredible luck in being chosen by the major was still making his slow wits reel in excited disbelief.

It was kinda like winning the lottery!

The identities of commandos was a holy secret outside of Camp Heron but within its confines the field exploits of individual teams were celebrated to encourage those still in training. The sultry-dark, twenty-six year old major jogging just ahead of him was already a legend. He and his partner, golden god-like Major Jake "The Shark" Mallory, had been involved in the assault on Saddam Hussein. They had penetrated Iraqi security into the dictator's bedroom and "Rambo" had personally pumped ten high-calibre, explosive rounds into the Butcher of Bagdad to end his reign.

There hadn't been enough of the bastard left to bury.

And then, unbelievably, the pair had escaped unscathed, leaving more than sixty dead presidential guards in their wake!

"Sir," he panted softly as they ran, "If you wouldn't mind, sir, I'm curious as to why you chose me from all the men in the ready room."

"Your pubes."

"Pardon me, sir? I don't understand...."

"You had the fullest copse of hair on your groin in the room and I like it's bronze-gold color and silkiness. I collect pubic scalps as a hobby. Yours will be a great addition to my collection, marine."

Damn! He'd always been a bit embarrassed in the showers about that flaring, flaxen mane between his thighs, a contrast to his otherwise smooth body. Now he was proud as punch of the asset which had turned out to be the most valuable part of him!

His curiosity went further. It was said that Rambo and Jake both had another pretty standard fetish with their training dummies.

"Thank you for telling me that, sir. I'm proud to add to your collection, sir. But sir, I wondered too ... I've heard ... well ... sir ... are you going to castrate me?"

"Is the Pope Catholic, marine?"

"Uh ... sir ... yes, sir!"

"Then you have your answer. Of course I'm gonna nut your young ass. You got any problem with that, marine?"

"No sir! Absolutely not, sir!"

"Yesturday when I was running, I spotted that. I couldn't help thinking how it would look to see a man impaled through the ass on that spit of wood. What do you think, marine?"

"I ... I think it would sure look great, sir. Not to presume to give the major advice, sir, but I think you should impale my useless ass on that, sir, so you can find out what it looks like, sir!"

"I think so too, marine, I think so too."

It really is a beauty, he thought. Big, low-hanging sac bulging with seeders too ... the kind I most enjoy nutting. Jake will be pleased when I bring those back to him.

His golden-haired partner loved balls. He enjoyed eating them, thus his nickname of "The Shark."

But then he looked at the boy. Such a harmless, magnificent young creature, so full of life and vitality. Really cute as a bug in a macho sort of way. His pathetic desire to please Marc and the hero worship in the baby blue eyes was deeply touching.

The human part of of Marc flooded to the surface and he reached out and enfolded the naked marine in his powerful arms and let his hands explore the hard body beneath the velvet skin. He was deliciously warm to the touch and the steady throb of the great heart was strong and sure. Even his musky male aroma was intoxicating.

Heath was shocked to his core. This just could not be happening to him. He sensed the sudden deep upwelling of affection in the major and was stunned. Never in his nineteen years had he felt so urgently, totally needed by another person and he almost swooned at the caresses.

When Marc kissed him, he responded eagerly with his own lips and tongue, pouring forth his pent-up, frustrated needs. Their loins were pressed together and Heath could feel the swiftly rising bulge in the major's thin gym trunks tenting urgently into his own crotch. His cock too hardened and rose in instant response and when Marc reached down and lovingly stroked the swollen organ, a convulsive shudder raced through the marine's buff, sculpted body.

It was, of course, just part of Marc's training regimen. He freed his emotions and compassions ... let them run wild and form a deep, sympathetic bond with his victim. He legitimately, honestly longed to spare this innocent, harmless child living in the great manly body, take him home and make passionate love to him night after night.

When the bonding was strong, his compassion for Heath deep, he pulled the trained, honed killer back to the surface and proved once again how total was his ability to control his emotions ... to turn them on and off like a light switch. That quality, shared with Jake, made the team an absolutely deadly machine.

Both had high IQ's and were well educated and cultured. They could be absolutely charming hosts at a cocktail party, honestly enjoying the companionship around them, then become efficient, mercilous predators, killing every guest in the room before the victims stopped laughing at their last witticism. They could lure a victim to bed, make passionate love, momentarily adoring the sated body cuddling close after the shared orgasmic release, then gut him or her without hesitation or remorse.

At some point after the Phillipine and Iraqi operations, this deadly quality was noted by their intrigued superiors. Their team became a special assassination squad of the BlackHawk unit, having a finesse and deceptive ability lacking in most of the fairly brutish killers forged in the bloody crucible of Camp Heron.

"Hold tightly to my shoulders with one hand , marine," he whispered. "And stroke your cock with the other. Keep it hard for me. Concentrate just on your penis ... nothing else. It will make it easier. I want you to splatter my chest with your cream ... can you do that for me?"

"Y ... yes, sir! I ... I'll try at least, sir, honest I will. Semper Fidelis, sir!"

Even as his hands came down to loop back behind the boy's knees in a powerful grip, Marc whispered back,

"Nulli secundis, marine."

Heath felt the tip of the jagged crag as it pressed against the tight pucker of his virgin asshole. When he was perfectly aligned, the major began to slowly lower him and the searing, burning pain as he was torn open was like nothing the hunk had ever imagined. He tried hard not to scream but couldn't help it. His bellowing shreak startled nearby birds from the trees as inch after inch of wood moved up through his guts, splinters ripping and shredding as it went. He felt the lightning hardened oak edge up into the bottom of his belly and rupture his stomach as Marc continued to pull him down onto the spike. His cries aborted as blood came up and filled his mouth when a deep, involuntary retch convulsed him.
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A cold sensation was begining to grip him and he realized shock was setting in. The contorted rictus of suffering on his tense face softened. Resigned, he closed his eyes and awaited the next steps he knew would come. He idly wondered how badly it hurt to be castrated.

But he hadn't failed the major!

Even as he was being impaled, his innards ruptured and torn beyond repair, he had pulsed out his gism and decorated the handsome cajun commando's mighty chest. Even now his hand clutched the still hard cock , a drool of sticky cum dangling from its lips like a little icicle.

When the stinging burn began along the edge of his pubic brush, he tensed and cringed but it was somehow not all that bad. He was becoming so numbed as he began to die that he was able to avoid screaming any more as he was carefully, expertly scalped between his thighs.

Marc moved the very tip of the razored k-bar knife all around the skin edging the trophy, just barely slicing it. He took care to dip far below the sides of the genitals to ecompass virtually every hair of the luxuriant growth.

Funny, he thought, how some guys develop such a beautiful, luxuriant mane down there while others produce just weedy little patches.

He finished the circumcision around the pelt, carefully peeled up one edge with the side of the blade until he could get a good grip on the raised tab with his fingers, then began to rip the scalp free. Heath shuddered deeply at the sensation and moaned, more blood spilling from his mouth, but he did not cry out. His hands were completely free but at no point had the gutsy marine attempted to interfere with his mutilation.

"I'm taking your balls now," Marc advised Heath in a matter of fact tone.

He's being careful to get the whole bag, Heath idly thought, drifting more and more into a foggy haze.

He did feel the searing burn as he was castrated, but it was almost a detached feeling, like he was watching it done to someone else.

He's just about out from shock, Marc noted. He must be bleeding internally at a furious rate. Let's end it.

He usually left a training dummy to die of the injuries inflicted unless he was testing or perfecting some new killing method. But Heath had been so pathetically cooperative that Marc rewarded the air-headed boy.

He stepped behind him, reached up and tilted back the head by the chin, bringing the knife up with his other hand. He deftly cut the dying marine's throat from ear to ear with a practiced, graceful movement, nearly decapitating him.

He was drenched in blood but washed himself in a nearby stream before returning to his barracks room with his twin trophies. Later in the day he'd scrape the back of the pubic scalp and salt it before stretching and tacking it to a curing board to tan.

Back in the room, he found Jake still slumbering in bed. He slipped over and laid Heath's severed balls on the pillow just below the golden bull's nose. Jake's nostrils flared and contracted as the aroma of male musk and blood was drawn in and he opened his steely blue eyes in pleasure. He raised his head to get a good look at the grisley gift and grinned in delight.

"Wow! That's a nice, big pair! Thanks! You've been a busy boy already today. Did he have a nice pelt too?"

"A beauty," Marc happily displayed his prize. "It'll tan out just great."

"Take off your shorts and turn around," he ordered. "I need you bad this morning."

It was a symbolic sharing of the kill.
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Both exquisitely sated, they showered and prepared for the mission that had brought them back to Camp Heron.

There were six other commandos ... three complete teams ... who were to be destroyed that day. The method was entirely in the discretion of the two-man killing team dispatched from Fort Reilly to carry out the necessary action. It had, however, been suggested that the condemned men be dispatched before the assembled current class of trainees as a graphic example that Directive Seven was no mere hollow threat.

The executions were scheduled for ten in the morning, leaving them some free time to kill.

In Jake's case, that was literally true.
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Marc watched with interest, working out with weights off to one side. He noted happily that Jake had done him the courtesy of choosing a victim with a nice big head of pubic hair.

Cool! Another nice piece for his collection. He already had forty-seven such scalps in the special storage box he had constructed, each on a small, polished board that easily slid in and out of grooved slots. Each board had a small brass plaque with the first name of the man who had been trophied, his age and the date.

Of course Jake could have killed the marine with a few well placed punches of his deadly fists but carefully took his time and sparred with short, brutal swings, dragging the exercise out over nearly a half hour. Virtually every bone in the buff upper body was fractured and the genitals a bloody pulp by the time he was finished and the boy dangled limp and lifeless.

"Gee, man," Marc playfully shoved his partner. "Look at the mess you made! I'll have to wash all that blood from his crotch just to see the trophy before I can carve it off!"

"Things are tough all over, aren't they, buddy."

"Be thankful I took care not to rupture the skin on his fucking groin and spoil the pelt."

This was a very rare event. Marine airhead dummies were killed daily in the camp, but these were some of the commandos' own who were about to die before their eyes ... guys who'd been trained right there, just like them. That was heady enough stuff, but they were going to get to see the famed Rambo and Shark at work!

Despite the intense pleasure the executioners were experiencing, there was a certain amount of fairness to be accorded the condemned. The Paris incident had been intensely studied and it was determined that the mission had failed in part because of defective intelligence furnished to the commando group. Then it had ultimately failed because of one man's shockingly careless lapse in being prematurely detected. Two teams had performed their assigned missions with near perfection. While all still had to be destroyed, they were to be accorded varying degrees of pain in dying.

The first four, the ones at no personal fault, were simply hanged. Admittedly, they were slow-hanged to strangle rather than have their necks broken, but, after all, a message was being sent to the watching trainees.

The four resolutely stepped beneath the waiting ropes and allowed the hemp nooses to be snugged around their necks. They were not bound. They would not resist. With the killing devices clutching their throats, all four started to bcome aroused in varying degrees between their muscular thighs.

The camp historian had asked for a group photo and the four pressed close together as he sighted in through his viewfinder. One reached between his thighs and actually stroked his meat in obscene abandon for the photo that, blown up, would be framed and displayed in the hallway of the headquarters building.
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He was in severe distress, his face a grimace of suffering, his body flexed and writhing, as he finally reached orgasm.

By then his three companions had joined him in their little dances of death as one by one they were hoisted up. They too gamely stroked their manrods and two more achieved orgasm. The fourth lapsed into unconciousness before he could quite pop his load.

The nooses had been expressly designed to continually tighten until they were a steely garrotte and death was not as protracted as would usually be the case in a slow hanging. It was not intended that these four suffer excessively in their trip into dark oblivion.

That was also the case with the blameless partner of the prime offender. Marc used him to demonstrate the proper administration of the nerve thrust, a killing technique of which he was the famed master. As soon as the audience realized what they were going to witness, an excited ripple of anticipation ran through the group and they again applauded, this time for Marc whom they idolized as their ultimate ideal.

Jason Landers faced Marc with stoic acceptance of his fate written on his macho face. A superb figure of manhood, he felt no resentment. If their roles were reversed he would extract the life from Rambo's body without hesitation ... with no personal animosity, though he would, of course, deeply enjoy it. They had, after all, been conditioned to enjoy killing. Thus he knew the cajun commando standing before him was going to gain powerful, erotic pleasure from killing him and that seemed only right.

Marc used a magic marker to draw a small "x" just below Jason's belly button.
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He was close enough to Marc to smell the musky, male scent of his bared upper body and enjoy the warmth radiating from his skin. There was something so very pleasant and personal about their relationship at that moment that Jason's big cock swelled with blood and rose into erection.

That caused excited murmurs among the watching trainees. The condemned guy had brass balls ... facing death hard as rock between his thighs!

Marc smiled down into Jason's handsome face. He reached down and let his fingers lightly brush the commando's cheek with almost tender affection.

"You served well, man. You're a credit to the unit. Now just hold very still ... close your eyes if you want ... this will just take a moment."

Marc's free hand drew back and up, the first two fingers extended and together. He drew in a deep breath, steeled his own form and concentrated all of his strength to flow into the cocked hand, rising above Jason like a cobra about to strike.

With blinding speed, the hand arched down and the fingers knifed deep into the exact point an inch below the navel that Marc knew would impact the most sensitive nerve point in the human body. It was like a punch from a pile driver, actually rupturing the skin and lacerating the underlying muscle.

The blow accomplished two things.

First, it ruptured the linings of both the chest and abdominal cavities where they met and set off massive internal bleeding as vessals throughout the lower torso burst. That alone would have been fatal in about twenty minutes, but no man bled to death from one of Marc's famed thrusts.

The second thing that occured was shock on a level beyond comprehension. The impacted nerves went berserk and literally froze the man's diaphragm while constricting the chest muscles so tight that they compressed the lungs and heart like a steely vise. It had approximately the same effect as running high voltage from side to side through the chest.

Jason's rigid body contracted so intensely that his muscles stood out like cords of steel through his smooth, tanned skin. His cock involuntarily reached orgasm and then spurted a stream of bloody urine, veins in his bladder having ruptured. He shook violently all over and made a gutteral, wheezing, choking noise for about thirty seconds like an asthmatic in the throes of a massive attack. Then he just went limp and collapsed. His heart continued to pulse erratically for another few seconds, then faltered, took up its beat again momentarily, then stopped.

The vital parts of his body had been stressed beyond tolerance. He was quite dead within a minute of the deadly blow. It wasn't quite as instant a death from massive trauma as being hit head-on by a train ... but damned close.

There was a shocked, disbelieving silence from the crowd. They had heard of this killing mode but, since few men could master the utterly precise timing and placement, it was not taught at the camp. Marc had learned it from an oriental trainer. One trainee commando muttered softly ...

"Fuck! That was just ... awesome!"

Watching, Jake shook his head and grinned. As always, Marc was the crowd pleaser. It was lucky he loved him so intensely or he would have been green with envy. He was up next and would give an agonizing death to Jason's partner, the commando most at fault in the Paris snafu. In theory that should have been the main event of the executions, but he knew he would not receive nearly the acclaim accorded his ebony-haired partner.

Oh well.

He brought the man forward and the audience went silent, watching with intense interest as Lance Greene calmly, resolutely stepped forth to die. Seeing his beloved partner Jason executed moments before had removed any last desires on his part to continue to exist. Both he and the rabid bunch of trainees knew he would die very hard and he could see the kid commandos almost salivating at the prospect.

He shrugged and glanced at Jake.

"Let's get it on, man. Let's give them a real good show."

Watching, Marc settled in. This would likely take a while, but Jake was a real artiste with that damned knife. He'd never seen anyone faster or more adept with a blade.

The blond commando studied his victim like a snake examining a mouse standing mesmerized before its fangs. He ran his hands almost lovingly over the tanned, velvet skin stretched taut over the hard belts and curves of underlying muscle.

Suddenly the left nipple seemed to just leap from Jason's chest into Jake's fingers. In a delayed reaction, there was a sputter of crimson from the fresh, raw wound where the tit had jutted forth on the deep crest of the pec. The movement of the knife had been so swift and exact that it was almost invisible. Both Jason and the crowd of trainees gasped, startled at the speed and precision of the violence.

After a bit more coy caressing of Jason's trembling body, Jake struck again. The knife was a sudden blur through the air and the second nipple tumbled free, almost explosively exiting the curve of the pec to which it had been rooted for over two decades. Jason cried out softly in pain, his body flexing deeply, his face contorted.

The tip of the knife came up to just above the bloody wound on the right pec and Jake deftly, slowly, etched the letter "U" in the smooth, burnished skin. Little streaks of blood oozed from the shallow incision in the skin and trickled down like excess paint on a graffitti-smeared wall. It burned sharply as the knife-point made the cut, but Jason gamely stood there and took it. He kept his self-control as the letter "S" was carved on his chest on the left pec.

He writhed and trembled, steeling his muscles, as "M" and "C" were carved onto his abdoman just below and to the right and left of the little pool of his belly button.

As the trainees realized the message, they applauded and cheered. Though the unit was composed of members of all services, the great majority were, in fact, marines and they liked the sight of the bloody "USMC" now decorating the prisoner's naked body.

Jason seemed less enthusiastic about the matter.

Now Jake got serious about inflicting pain.
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Jason writhed and moaned, flexing wildly as the cut remorselessly progressed. As it began to open up his scrotal sac, slowly splitting the bag in half from the rear, down and up the front, he began to lose his grip. His grunts and groans became louder and shriller.

As the knife began slitting the underside of his big cock, moving down the length of the organ towards the flared crown head, he began to squeal like a pig.

The squeals turned to full, lung-searing screams as Jake reached the cockhead and began to amputate it with the same practiced patience with which he'd made the agonizing cut from the asshole up. Blood pumped in pulsing little spurts from the headless rod after the crown had finally been cut off.

Jason screamed with renewed vigor as he was slowly castrated, then the rest of his penis cut from him at its base. Jake stepped back and surveyed the bloody wreckage of his victim's body, looking very pleased. It had been a good session. Jason had been under the torture for over an hour and was clearly on the edge of shock from his excruciating pain and blood loss.

The executioner stepped forward again, positioned the knife point to the man's chest and drove it in nearly to the hilt, coming in at an upwards angle directly into the heart. A quick twist of the wrist burst the beating organ and death came almost at once.

After the trainees were dismissed, Jake went to shower away the blood splattered copiously all over his body. Marc had another assignment to carry out, given him as an afterthought by his superiors when they sent him to Camp Heron for the executions just completed.

They wanted him to field test a new six-shot underwater speargun.
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Marc painted a target on each belly, centering the bullseyes on the navels, then the pair stood there naked and listened as he explained the exercise that was to consume their lives.

The speargun looked ridiculous, like some plastic kid's toy out of Buck Rogers, until you noted the gleaming, serrated points of the small projectiles jutting from the six chambers in the cylindrical mouth of the device. Those looked very deadly indeed.

The gun was amazingly lightweight and streamlined, easy to wield and aim in the water. Each barbed dart was equipped with its own compressed gas cartridge at its base. When fired, the cartridge separated as soon as it exited the barrel. The chambers were grooved to give a spin to the shaft, turning the spear into a small drill as it lanced through the water with tremendous force and speed.

Marc had test fired it a number of times and was impressed. It was much more versatile and deadly than any underwater weapon he had yet encountered. One of its best features was that all six spears could be fired off as fast as the trigger could be pulled, the barrel cylinder rotating to position the next chamber for discharge in the same movement that sent the last spear erupting forth.

It was this rapid fire capability that he was to study today as well as check out the penetrating power of the spears on muscular human bodies for the first time.

He explained to his "fish" that they were to head into the lake and separate off from each other. They were to swim within a hundred yards of the dock and stay underwater for as long as they could, going up to get fresh air in their lungs only when absolutely needed. They were to attempt to evade him as he sought to bag them.
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"Okay, marines. Let's get this going. Into the water with you and I'll give you a three minute head start."

Three minutes later Marc slipped into the cool water and began to seek out his prey. He could have just had the pair swim around close by the dock and shot them like fish in a pond but was in the mood for greater sport and the hunt was fun.

In less than five minutes, coming up for air just twice, he located the blond marine from a distance of about twenty yards. The black lines of the target on the boy's flat gut showed starkly in the clear water and Marc brought up the gun, aimed briefly, and sent a barbed torpedo on its way.
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The first projectile hissed by the marine's gut to his right by mere inches as the boy violently threw himself away from its deadly path.

That was the extent of his luck. He had thrown himself directly into the path of a second bolt and there was no chance for evasion. The barbed point drilled his belly right in the center ring of the bullseye painted on his skin. It was not actually in his belly button but just barely to one side.
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Marc made a note of where the body was headed. He and Jake would retrieve it later for disposal after trophying out the well-endowed crotch. He then set off in search of the brawny brunet marine for the second kill.

He found him after a while, managing to slip into the hunting zone without being detected. He paused behind a huge boulder and waited until the young, buff adonis had to rise to the surface and gulp in fresh air. Just as the hunk started diving back down Marc loosed a spray of three spears in a tight pattern, fired almost in tandem.

The first caught the guy square in the crotch and exploded out the cleft of his ass in back. A split second later the second incoming round caught him in the belly just above the painted target on his gut. The blow sent the naked body spinning backwards and the third spear perforated the left thigh on the inside just below the crotch.
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Damn! Marc marvelled. This is one great fucking tool. Whoever engineered this baby knew what he was doing!

He could hardly wait for an assignment where an underwater attack was called for. In fact, he was so keyed up and excited by the killings that he went looking for Jake. Shortly they stood with fully loaded spearguns with six more of the marines naked on the dock, targets painted on their trim bellies.

After the "fish" dove into the water, the commandos joined in a long, wet kiss and groped each other's hotly aroused crotch until the three minutes had elapsed.

Withdrawing his mouth from Jake's and his hand from his crotch, Marc flashed his loving partner a happy grin.

"It's time, man. Let's go get them! Two spears per target ... let's make a clean sweep."