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bedroom windows, and they never allowed even a single point of sun into the chamber. That was the way he liked it: dark.
    He licked some more of the myx stain from the brunette's tiny breasts and then lay back to enjoy whatever reaction even this minuscule amount had in store for him.
    He closed his eyes. . .
    Suddenly there was a dark figure standing over him. It was a man. He was dressed all in black, and wearing a black hood over what might have been a helmet, complete with an opaque visor.
    The First Governor shivered once. This was not what he was expecting. The figure before him was exuding power, strength, control. All three frightened the Fourth Reich high commander.
    "What . . . what are you?" he whispered, frightened, to the strange form in black. "Are you a dream?"
    "I am the ghost of Finn MacCool," the apparition hissed, his voice sounding oddly mechanical. "Have you ever heard of me?"
    The First Governor immediately wet the bed. "I'm ... I'm not sure . . ."
    The ghost moved closer to the stricken officer.
    "Is it worth your life to remember?" it said.
    "Finn MacCool... was ... an old ... Celtic . . . warrior," the First Governor stammered, somehow remembering his student university studies in mythology from forty years ago. "The divine leader of the Fianna and the soldiers of destiny. Am I correct?"
    The spirit didn't respond. A long silence seemed to indicate that the First Governor was correct.
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    "What . . . what do you want?" the First Governor finally blurted out.
    "I want you to say your prayers," was the reply. The eerie, static voice was driving a wedge right through the petrified Nazi's psyche.
    "You've been sent ... to kill me?"
    "I am here to save you," came the words that sounded like steam.
    The First Governor let out a long, relieved breath. Strangely he could see it leave his mouth in the form of a blue mist.
    "How . . . how can I be saved?" he asked the frightful figure.
    The black ghost loomed even closer to him. Now it was almost as if it was hovering over the huge bed. "You must find a man of water," it said.
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Chapter Seven
The Bundeswehr Four Aerodrome
    Both Itchy and Bone were used to flying with hangovers.
    It had to do with their aircraft's oxygen supply. Nothing cured the morning-after like a few gulps of the Big O. So the first thing both of them did after climbing into their respective F-105s was to lock in their oxygen hose and then start breathing deep. Instantly their heads began to clear and their stomachs began to settle.
    They never expected to party so hard with the Fourth Reich soldiers. Before leaving their main base up near what used to be called New Chicago, their squadron commander had told them that the Fourth Reich soldiers were, in his words, "prissy little girls." Nothing that Bone and Itchy saw the night before really dispelled that notion too much. It was just that these New Nazis really hung the rag out when it came to boozing, nose candy, and fucking young girls.
    And as far as giving them some myx free of charge, well, that was a mistake Itchy vowed never to make again.
    But all in all, the business trip had gone well. The Cherrybusters had their pounds of cocaine, smack, and crack. The Fourth Reich had their load of young beauties. For the air pirates, the dope meant they'd be able to get some hard currency, which in turn meant they'd be able to buy more airplanes, which in turn meant they would be one step closer to reestablishing some of their former dominance in the skies over North America.
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    With obstacles like the United Americans-and especially the late Hawk Hunter-out of the way, as well as the nod from the Fourth Reich, the air pirates were free to expand their operations up into Free Canada as well as down into Mexico and Central America.
    In a word, their future looked "bright."
    Itchy and Bone rolled their garish F-105s to the end of the Aerodrome's main runway and waited for the gigantic 747 jumbo jet to take off. The huge airliner made the best