Chapter Eighteen

The First Mate rolled Cheryl’s small, black prison towards officer’s country. He knew what was inside, for it was his job to see to it that its contents were discretely stowed and properly cared for during her journey. The ship was subject to search while still in American waters, but although the Coast Guard was diligent at screening vessels entering American waters, no one cared much once the ships had left. A few thousand dollars of easy money would be split between himself and the Captain, a small bonus for the other officers. All for a few days’ work and, of course, for silence. The Atlantic Ocean was just as lonely and deadly for ship’s officers as for the crew.

The box was taken down a service elevator outside the Captain’s quarters. His destination, or rather Cheryl’s, was a small cabin at the bottom of the ship. Three doors, all locked, separated the cabin from officer’s country, and that was the only way in or out. Inside the cabin was a small hatchway, hidden from all but the most scrupulous of searches. Four times during inbound trips to the U.S. the room had been searched by Coast Guard, customs men and the like. No one had found the hatch yet. On the way in, it had contained 50 kilograms of cocaine. On the way out, it contained the imprisoned body of a young female on her way to a life of slavery.

After the hatch had been opened, Cheryl’s box was rolled in, back end first. This made it easier to affix the oxygen tube to the box’s small openings. Before closing the hatchway and sealing our young lady into her hiding place, the First Mate removed a small plastic bottle from his pocket. The bottle had a narrow top and was designed to permit its contents to be squeezed out. The First Mate squirted the contents of the bottle down the tube that led to Cheryl’s gag. He then attached a water pressure line that pushed the liquid down the tube and into Cheryl’s stomach. When he was sure the drugged liquid had been pushed far enough, he stopped the flow. Cheryl had no choice in the matter; the liquid sped down the tube and, after a few moments, commenced absorption into her blood stream.

Cheryl had been alert to the movements of her prison and surmised that she was reaching some sort of destination. She hoped and prayed that her confinement would soon end. But then the box stopped moving. There was a pause and then a flow of air gently into her nose. Next, she felt something traveling down the tube through her throat. A few moments later, the dizziness she had felt before, at the commencement of her involuntary journey, was felt once more. Cheryl realized that she had been drugged again. As her mind started its protest, the fog of semi-consciousness descended upon her.

Twice over the next twenty-four hours Cheryl was permitted to ingest nutrition. A cup of a special diet supplement was pumped down the tube that led to her stomach. Each time, Cheryl, who by now had settled into a listless dream-like state, felt that she was drowning, unable to acclimate herself to the experience of being force fed. As she was stirred from her listlessness, she again was forced to undergo the horror of realizing where she was. Once a day, her container was rolled from its hideaway, the back side removed and a cleaning performed. The Turk had affixed a small pad to Cheryl’s sex before finalizing her enclosure, and a small plug had been inserted into her ass. The First Mate simply removed the pad and replaced it. This was not, of course, for Cheryl’s comfort, but to prevent her from suffocating in her own wastes. The plug remained in place.

There were many possible destinations around the globe for Cheryl. There were many places where men of wealth and power could possess and own women. From the back streets of Hong Kong to the pampas of the Argentine, from the jungles of Thailand to the steppes of the former Soviet Union, evil men, cruel men, owned and brutalized women. It might take a slow freighter the better part of a week to reach a port convenient to some of these destinations. But Cheryl was lucky. Three days out from Baltimore, outside the tiny Azores Islands, a small shore craft nosed up to the side of the freighter. Cheryl’s box, retrieved from its hiding place, was gently lowered over the side and received by the smaller boat. Within five minutes of arrival, it whizzed away. A seaplane was waiting at dockside and Cheryl was rapidly transferred. A few minutes later, it was in the air and headed south.

Benjamin Stoner was a millionaire many times over who had grown tired of the pedestrian pleasures of civilized life. For the last fifteen years, he had owned a large plantation about seventy miles inland of the African coast. Katanga was a small country and reliant on the investments Stoner had made there. Down by the capital, Stoner’s exercise of “influence” took a somewhat discrete form. Too many aid agencies and snoopy diplomats made the blatant flex of his muscle risky. Stoner had the monopoly on construction and imports in Katanga and the flow of aid from western nations very often came to rest in Stoner’s bank accounts. He also had many interests in the civilized world and he knew that even his wealth could not prevent all harm if some of his machinations with the ruling junta were discovered.

But he made his own rules north of the Paliba River. Twenty thousand square miles were his domain. Nothing moved there without his permission, nothing came in or out. His plantation, nestled between the jungle and the mountains, knew no ruler other than him.