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its two escort aircraft-a pair of ancient F-105 Thunderchiefs-landed behind it. They too were painted in almost obscenely showy colors: one was covered with black and Day-Glo orange checkerboard squares, the other was a swirl of X-rated tattoos. The Thuds rolled up next to the 747, and all three aircraft slowly taxied toward their appointed parking stations.
    An edgy delegation of Fourth Reich officers was waiting for the trio of airplanes, surrounded by a company of heavily armed NS. They watched nervously as the jumbo jet screeched to a halt barely twenty feet in front of their review stand. Its huge, cartoonish mouth looming over them, as if to devour them whole.
    The F-105 pilots popped their canopies and slowly disentangled themselves from their safety harnesses and life support systems. They emerged, both dressed in identical black leather flight suits, heavy flight boots and decal plastered helmets. Retrieving their AK-47 assault rifles from a special storage 28
    space underneath the F-105's seat, the pilots climbed down from the airplane and walked around in front of the jumbo jet.
    Several NS men instinctively raised their own rifles as the armed flyers approached, but their officers waved them away.
    "They're not stupid," the senior Fourth Reich officer crackled in German.
    "Let's make sure we're not either."
    The two pilots yanked off their black helmets to reveal two long manes of gnarled, stringy hair, and scruffy beards to match.
    "I'm Bone. He's Itchy," one of the pilots said by way of crude introduction.
    "First Squadron, Cherrybusters."
    "Luft Seerauber," one of the Fourth Reich officers whispered to another who didn't speak English. "Air pirates."
    "Do you have the cargo, my friend?" the senior Nazi officer, major, asked the air pirate named Bone.
    "Do you have the blow, man?" Bone asked back.
    The Fourth Reich officer turned and nodded to his second in command. This man in turn signaled the driver of a jeep waiting nearby. The vehicle lurched ahead, circled underneath the jumbo jet and came to a stop near the second F-105. The air pirates accompanied the Fourth Reich major around to the back of the jeep, where three suitcases had been placed.
    The major snapped the buckles off the first of the suitcases and opened it.
    Inside was 75 pounds of pure cocaine.
    Bone dipped his finger into the sea of white powder, tasted it and pronounced it good.
    The second suitcase was opened. It contained 98 pounds of pure heroin. Bone picked up a pinch and put it into his right nostril. He sniffed, sneezed and then gave a thumbs-up signal.
    The third suitcase was snapped open. Inside were ten football-size chunks of crack. For this test, the pirate named Itchy stepped forward. Using an enormous Bowie knife, he cut off a small piece, put it between his filthy teeth and gave it a crunch.
    "Aces up," he assured Bone. "Fine as wine." Bone immediately raised his hand over his head and
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    snapped his fingers. Instantly, the two large cargo doors installed on the 747's port side creaked open.
    Inside were two hundred and eleven very frightened girls, ranging in age from young teens to early twenties. They were all wearing ill fitting T-shirts and baggy pants. Each one had their hands bound together.
    "Well?" The air pirate Bone asked, turning back to the Fourth Reich major wearing a snide smile, "Can we do business?"
    30

Chapter Four
Early the next morning
    Fitz woke up to the sound of someone screaming.
    He rolled out of his bunk, falling to the dirty floor. Beside him, gleaming in the dull light of dawn, was an empty bottle of bad wine. Next to that, scattered on the floor, were the notes of his fledgling sabotage plan.
    He was horrified. It had happened again: he'd started working on the plan, got drunk, passed out, leaving himself foolishly exposed. If the NS had found his place in this condition, they would have shot him on the spot, or more likely, slowly, painfully crucified him.
    "Help! Please help us!"
    Fitz was