THE BONOBO EXPERIMENTS - 1, Rev.
Copyright 2009, 2012 by Carl Mason
All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. However based on real events and places, "The Bonobo Experiments" is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Further, as in real life, sexual themes unfold gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at firstname.lastname@example.org
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This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, remember that maturity generally demands safe sex.
As he climbed down from the cockpit of Naval Aviation's meanest new fighter, Lieutenant Commander Randy Patterson smiled in pride. It had scarcely been worth it to get up into the air from Norfolk, but from the moment the copter had returned him to terra firma from the Carrier Enterprise, he had known that the brass wanted him at NAS Lakehurst two or three days ago! His quiet smile widened into a wide grin as he spotted Captain Robert Irwin, his immediate supervisor in Naval Intelligence, making his way to greet him.
[Author's Note: The Naval Air Station at Lakehurst, NJ, was the physical and emotional heart of the U.S. Navy's lighter-than-air program in the years between World Wars I and II. The rigid airships (i.e, the dirigibles) Shenandoah, Los Angeles, and Akron all called the station home, as did many U.S. Navy blimps. The station was the U.S. terminus for the commercial transatlantic flights of the German dirigibles Hindenburg and Graf Zeppelin. It will, of course, long be remembered as the site of the Hindenburg disaster in 1937. After the last American and German dirigibles had been scrapped shortly before the outbreak of World War II, it remained an eastern center for blimp patrols against German U-boats operating off our East Coast. Even when the Navy retreated fully from lighter-than-air, it became an important engineering R&D site for Naval Air. As the 21st Century has unfolded and interest in lighter-than-air has slowly returned, NAS Lakehurst has retained its place as the heart of the movement. Only last year (A.D. 2076), for instance, the magnificent "National Museum of Lighter-than-Air" opened at Lakehurst in a thoroughly renovated "Hanger #1".]
Standing tall beside the futuristic-looking jet, the young officer saluted sharply as his immediate boss - and the #2 men in the Office of Naval Intelligence - approached. "Hey, youngster!" Irwin called out as he waved his hand in a semblance of a salute and then firmly stuck his hand out in friendship and mutual respect. "Hey, sir," the 25-year-old, newly decorated and promoted Lieutenant Commander responded. "Man, I'm always happy to return to Lakehurst. Did I ever tell you that my grandfather served here during the late '30s - in fact, was here when the Hindenburg blew? The family lived on base until he was sent out west shortly after Pearl Harbor." Naturally, the Captain probably knew more about his subordinate's background than he did! Nevertheless, he smiled and quietly murmured, "Well, I guess that there was more than one reason for your new assignment. (Pause.) We'd better get our asses inside, sailor! The Admirals - and three of them are waiting on us - are chomping at the bit!" "Should I be happy that I don't have scrambled eggs on my visor?" Patterson asked wryly. [Author's Note: "Scrambled eggs" is American military slang for the golden decorations on the visors of senior officer hats, beginning with full Commanders. Conversely, Lieutenant Commanders represent the highest rank of junior officers and, hence, sport plain visors. Randy was asking whether he should be grateful that he had lesser responsibility for current problems.] The Captain grinned, shrugged, and pushed Patterson towards the entrance guarded by two marines with drawn rifles. One had a German Shepherd that sniffed...everything!
The little procession (the two Naval officers led by a brawny young Marine, with a second Marine bringing up the rear) quickly made its way down the plain corridor. They soon reached the fourth door where another Marine sentry stood guard. As they approached he snapped to attention and respectfully knocked on the door before opening it and standing aside. As he followed the Captain through the door into a partially lighted room, Randy just about choked on the thick cigar smoke. ('Well,' he grunted to himself, 'he wasn't dealing with junior officers in their twenties!') As he chanced a quick glance around, he realized that there was enough brass in the room to sink most smaller ships. One of the men, who wore the insignia of a Rear Admiral, rose, smiled, and greeted Captain Irwin. "I see you made it, Bobby," he murmured, stretching out his hand as he received a formal salute. "I finally get to meet your protege, the toast of the Navy."
"Good evening, sir...gentlemen. Sorry for the delay," Irwin replied. "Admiral Hendron," he continued formally, "may I present Lieutenant Commander Randolph G. Patterson, the man who single-handedly rescued two of our operatives in St. Petersburg." The Chief of Naval Intelligence smiled as he returned the young officer's salute, saying, "We're happy to have you with us, Commander. Everyone here joins me in congratulating you on your heroism, as well as the recent decoration and promotion. Come over here, you two, enjoy a drink, and join us for what will probably be a long evening."
As Randy's face relaxed into an expression of extreme pleasure, the thought entered his head that he was probably tasting the best beer he had ever encountered. His mental activity was abruptly interrupted when an old Admiral - his small, wiry body pushed well back into a massive chair, his face barely illuminated in the dim light and swirling smoke - growled, "It's Hubertusbräu [Hoo-BEAR-toos-broy], Commander. Some people say it's the finest lager in the world...made by some monks at a monastery just outside Vienna on the Danube." (Pause.) Admiral Smith continued, "Your young operative has good taste, Hendron - but let's get on with it." Turning directly to the young officer, he said, "We're familiar with your background and your present assignment, Commander. You're bright and cultured; you're young, vigorous, and discreet; your family has deep roots in American lighter-than-air. You've been assigned to serve as the #3 member of our team that the German Government has invited to serve as a liaison with its airship industry. German personnel will serve in a similar manner on our ships and installations. Your task is to...discover all that can be learned about contemporary German airship technology, their new ships, their personnel, and their plans. Unfortunately," he concluded, coughing slightly into his napkin, "present world developments dictate that all of this vital work may have to be put on the back burner."
The young officer gasped and sat back with a visible jerk. "Admiral Cavenaugh," Smith continued calmly, "kindly bring us up to date on the new geopolitical situation." Little known in the Fleet, but an officer whose analytic skills were highly respected throughout the Department of the Navy, Admiral Herbert Cavenaugh cleared his throat and immediately cut to the heart of the matter. "Baldly put, gentlemen, the Russian Federation is in the process of collapsing just as thoroughly, and no less quickly, than did the Soviet Union in 1991. They have no hope of saving everything. Thus, the present battle concerns that which they should save and can save from their empire. Their administration has indicated its potential interest in selling Siberia - from the Urals to the Pacific - to the United States for a surprisingly reasonable price, plus other terms. You will guess that the entire Federation is in chaos. Riots have broken out in several cities in European Russia; major figures in the officer corps have reportedly called for martial law - or in the case of the Air Force, a revolt. In Siberian cities, by way of contrast, massive crowds have besieged our consulates in both Ekaterinburg just east of the Urals and Vladivostok in the Far East. Hundreds have requested asylum; countless more are calling for the United States to accept the Russian offer."
"The Joint Chiefs and the Administration are well aware of the potentially explosive mix in this situation," Admiral Smith added. "There is unanimous agreement the we must have direct field observations if we are to proceed without becoming involved in a Russian civil war. Several high officers have argued that immediately introducing U.S. assets (e.g., heavy aircraft, troops, or even a major diplomatic team) into the region, for instance, could have the worst possible effect. That is one reason why I spoke to the Chief of Naval Intelligence about other possibilities.
Admiral Hendron immediately took up the analysis. The problems involved in securing useful field observations are many, but two reports came across my desk two days ago that initially appear promising. Four of Russia's newest Naval lieutenants, all members of the Class of 2074, were among those requesting asylum. Both military officers in their respective academies and officers in their early field assignments have rated them as among their most promising new officers. Each is well connected. For instance, one of the these officers comes from one of the most distinguished 'Naval Infantry' (i.e., Marines) families in the Federation. He's been serving on the heavy missile cruiser Ivan IV in the Russian Pacific Fleet."
Continuing, Hendron pointed to a second fact that had caught his attention on noting the asylum applications. The Chiefs of Staff had made it entirely clear that American involvement at this point in time had to be very sensitive indeed. Surely, there were those in the higher echelons of the Russian leadership who suspected that the United States was already highly involved in the Siberian "crisis"! The fainter our footprint, therefore, the better. What if they were to turn to their treaty with Germany and request the assistance of one of the new German dirigibles (perhaps their flagship, the giant new Graf Zeppelin III) in surreptitiously conducting the observations? (It was also the case that the Russians might be less suspicious were the slower, infinitely more vulnerable dirigibles were involved rather than more threatening long-range jet bombers! Perhaps the trip might be promoted under the guise of recreating the first Graf Zeppelin's history-making 'Round-the-World-Flight' of 1929, a flight that had carried it across the breadth of European Russia and Siberia. And what if they were to accept the German offer to activate the liaison team, appointing the very young, inexperienced and, surely, 'innocent' Commander Patterson as its first American member? Although it's true that he is fluent in both Russian and German, his inexperience might suggest some staff support...perhaps from the four young Siberian junior lieutenants.
In light of all this, Admiral Hendron had already had the young Siberian-Russian officers ferried to NAS Brunswick, a station focused on maritime patrol and reconnaissance. Additionally, the station was tasked with several support missions, plus providing facilities and programs for Naval reservists throughout New England. In this case, the Maine naval air facility was chosen because it was closest to our European assets. He added with a slight smile that it was also about as far from Norfolk, Washington, and New York as one could go while maintaining full security. He recommended that senior Navy Department staff explore the German possibilities while Captain Irwin and Commander Patterson fly up to Maine and determine what the young Siberians might contribute to the intelligence-gathering operation.
At first light, Irwin let his protege know that their boss's recommendation had been accepted and that their jet was ready to go at any time. The three admirals had already returned to Washington.
(The Siberian Surprise)
After a quick flight from Lakehurst to Brunswick, Maine (only some twenty miles north of Portland, the seat of Bowdoin College, and the small city that stood at the beginning of the central Maine coastal area), the two intelligence officers were directed to reserved rooms in the BOQ (Bachelor Officers' Quarters). Randy noticed immediately that NAS Brunswick was just about as buttoned down as Lakehurst and Norfolk. Intuition said that the Russian-American tensions mentioned the night before might be even more serious than described. As they reached the BOQ, the Marine escort departed and they were directed to take the stairs up to the second deck and follow the long corridor to its end. They found that one wall of the corridor was glassed and overlooked an Olympic-size pool area. (Towards its end, the corridor appeared to overlook the end of a large indoor gymnasium.)
Already feeling the effects of many hours without substantial rest, Randy hadn't marched 15 feet along the corridor when he became aware that the Captain seemed to be experiencing major breathing problems and had fallen behind. He turned to see that Irwin's face had lost its customary tan and was as pale as that of a cadaver! Following his bulging eyes as they rotated down to the pool, he immediately saw four young men who were...without question...among the most perfect physical specimens he had ever had the good fortune to observe. Tall as date palms, ruddy of complexion, muscular as classical Olympic athletes, unbelievably handsome as only the majority ethnic group in Russia, the "Great Russians," can be in their prime - and as naked as the day they were born - they were vigorously "horsing around" in the water and on the pool deck. In a voice barely under his control, the Captain gasped, "Those, Mr. Patterson, are the four Siberian junior lieutenants who are about to become your responsibility. Believe that the file photos I saw last night did no justice to those twenty-year-olds. I envy you, sir."
Patterson made no immediate comment. In the first place, his breathing was also impaired; in the second, there was something strange about the group that took him a few seconds to verbalize. "Sir, are those boys clones?" he finally managed to gasp. "Wait," he said almost in the next breath. "Only two of them appear to be identical. The other two are really close, even though the redhead is somewhat larger. Maybe they're fraternal twins. What's going on, sir?" "Sharp observation, Commander," the Captain murmured, regaining control over his voice. "Let's get to our quarters and I'll fill you on additional details I've been given."
(To Be Continued)