The (Russian) Devil & the Deep Blue Sea

For one thing, she struggled to regain the habit of wearing clothes. The captain loaned her a sailor's uniform that was only a few sizes too big. But after Brosaev's yacht she found it itchy and confining; and much to Steven's consternation she tended to shed the outfit as soon as they were alone.

That wasn't so bad, she supposed. The real trick was remembering to put the uniform on again when she went out. Soon, half the crew had taken up loitering near the cabin assigned to the Joneses. And small wonder--several times a day, the men got a candid eyeful of Abby as she strode out the door, bound for the water-fountain or messhall or showers, naked as a jaybird. It didn't even occur to her that she'd neglected a rather important detail; and she'd go on traipsing about the ship that way until some officer noticed the lapse, and gently reminded her of the rules of decorum.

More vexing still was the insistency of her craving for cock. The first time Abby had Steven cornered in their cabin, she jumped him. Probably this was for the best--given what she'd been up to with Brosaev, it couldn't possibly hurt to mate with Steven as quickly as possible, and establish his potential parentage. Her true motives, however, were not nearly so calculating. What really spurred her on was a kind of desperate, primal hunger for stimulation, much like that of a junkie chasing the next hit.

The sex itself had been very nice, and sweet. In fact, she couldn't remember when she'd climaxed with Steven in such a satisfying manner. So that was great, as far as it went. But then, a couple of hours later when she'd come back for more, he'd put her off. "Abby, we just did it! Give it a few days, all right?" He gazed at her with bewildered eyes, as if trying to understand what demon had possessed his wife. "I know you want to feel close to me, after what we've been through. But that doesn't mean we should over-indulge our baser instincts. We're together now, safe. You can relax."

No, she couldn't relax--not without some kind of release. Fortunately there was a chaplain on board. A tall, square-jawed chaplain with a lush head of hair. Abby visited him several times seeking counseling, and invariably wound up engaged in therapy of an entirely different sort...

Now, in the woman's defense, she did at least draw a few boundaries, managing to find relief somewhere shy of full-blown intercourse. And she wasn't proud of what she'd done either. Still, she'd heard it was unsafe for a drug addict to go cold-turkey, rather than tapering off gradually, and believed she fell into much the same category. Doubtless God did hate the sin--yet surely he understood how intolerable this bacchanalian withdrawal was for the sinner?

By the time the voyage ended, her urges had subsided to a manageable level, and she was able to discontinue treatment. And fortunately, the chaplain had his own reasons for wanting to maintain confidentiality.

When they docked, Abby was surprised to see that a delegation from the Global Televangelical Network had been granted permission by the Pentagon to fly in and greet them. The church elders were eager to seize on the opportunities presented by the Jones's ordeal. "I'm telling you Steven," Reverend Williams gushed, "donations are up 250% since your story hit the airwaves. A good looking, wholesome pastor and his wife are doing the Lord's work in Africa. Then the couple gets kidnapped by heathen devils, and heroically rescued by the U.S. Navy? It's a 9-figure money-maker if we play it right. And son--it'll open doors for you too. Politics, media... you can write your own ticket."

Steven was vaguely troubled by all this. "I'm not seeking anything for myself, sir. Really, Abby and I are just humbled that God chose to snatch us from the jaws of perdition, unharmed. Though of course, if the money can be used to His glory, it will indeed be a blessing."

"Quite right son, quite right. Everything we do is for the Lord's unending praise! Halleluiah and amen!!"

No one from the delegation ever mentioned the recording of Abby with Emir Fazl and his cronies. She wondered about that--surely it had been posted online by now. No real-life information bubble could possibly be as airtight as the one Brosaev had portrayed.

Still (she reasoned)... if any of the Christian leaders had heard about what she'd done, then they were surely doing their level best to forget it. That video would have fit very awkwardly alongside their preferred narratives. So maybe Yevgeny was right--maybe we only hear the stories we want to hear...

That evening, they filmed a special episode of Steven's gospel-hour show via satellite-link. The ministers had brought a valise of clothing for Abby, so she had some suitable things to wear. Her part on the show was minimal anyway. All they really needed her for was to stand alongside Steven at the end--joining him in a benediction of thanksgiving for their deliverance from the satanic clutches of Islam.

Abby spoke the words, but her mind was elsewhere. Idly, she considered whether she really ought to be thanking God at all. Perhaps her prayers should be directed toward Yevgeny Brosaev instead.

Almost at once, in her head, she had to laugh at this foolish notion. Of course all of this had happened according to God's plan. In the same way that whatever might happen nine months from now would be a part of His plan too. To believe otherwise was inconceivable.

And yet, her musings about the oligarch brought other questions to mind as well.

For instance: what had Yevgeny meant when he said 'we'll save that for another time...?'

END