Chapter Five.

McCauley's Citroën cabriolet turned in through the north crash gate of Wattay Airport and sped down the perimeter track towards the parking ramps and hangars on the south side of the airfield. He stopped outside the "Bird and Sons Inc." hangar beside a parked-up Beech Volpar twin turbo-prop engined airplane with a tricycle undercarriage and long, streamlined engine nacelles; painted in full, Air America blue, silver, and white livery. McCauley collected Stacey's valise from the Citroën's rumble seat and escorted her to the side-door of the hangar. In the centre of the hangar floor, resting on ground handling caster wheels fitted to the skids, she saw the freshly repainted helicopter allocated as her personal bird. The Huey was painted an overall dark olive drab with the insignia of the Royal Laotian Air Force consisting of three white elephant heads in a red roundel… the "Erawan;" painted boldly on her tail boom.

McCauley smiled.

'There she is; all ready to go, all fitted up with a Mod four, hard face composite armour kit… each seat weighs over five hundred pounds and protects you, and your right-seat guy or gal from small arms fire from below, from the back, and from the side, and is fitted with a sliding armoured panel which gives extra protection on the outboard side. I'll have the guys push her out; lose the wheels, and then we'll take a test flight up to Lima Site Twenty-Alpha; that's Long Tieng… otherwise known as Secret War Central… another place that we don't fly to and that doesn't exist, although it's the headquarters for Major General Vang Pao; not to mention being one of the largest US installations on foreign soil, and rapidly becoming one of the busiest airports in the world. You'll be flying into there quite often, so it's just as well that you get a feel for it early on.'

He grinned.

'I'd better fill you in on Vang Pao. General Vang commands the secret army. It's a highly effective force fighting against the Pathēt Lāo and People's Army of Vietnam. It's CIA-trained and supported, and Vang also moonlights as an opium warlord to supplement his war chest. It's rumoured that some of our guys regularly fly his planeloads of opium to Saigon, having been told that the packages are rice. It's said that he engages in summary executions, and runs a Hmong Army with kids as young as fourteen… but, that's the Orient for you. I'm just glad that he's on our side, in spite of the possible opium connection.'

The ground crew had opened the hangar doors and were pushing the Huey out into the sunlight. McCauley walked with Stacey out to the ramp. As the ground crew released the caster wheels he turned to her.

'I'll fly her up and you can fly her back… OK?'

Stacey nodded. McCauley reached into the cockpit and handed her a black flying helmet.

'Here you go. A brand new SPH-4, equipped with a new M87 mike. The Army hasn’t even managed to get hold of them yet for their chopper guys, but we pulled a few strings just for you. It's made of anti-Ballistic material. It'll save your head from slugs and shrapnel, but it's heavy, due to the fire-resistant suspension liner, sizing pads, earphones, microphone, and retractable visor, and will make your neck ache after you've been wearing it for a while. Better get used to it whilst you don't have to concentrate on flying. It's a hundred and thirty klicks up to Lima Site Twenty-Alpha, so you should have gotten the feel of the weight by then.'

While McCauley did his walk-around pre-flight checks, Stacey climbed into the left-hand seat and adjusted her seat and pedals. She then fastened, and tightened the seat belt and shoulder harness. OK. She started the pre-flight check-list. First check was that the cyclic, collective, and throttle friction was off. OK. She then checked the cyclic, collective pitch and pedals for full travel, centred the cyclic and pedals, and placed the collective pitch fully down.

She checked that the landing light and searchlight switches were in the OFF position, and that the A.C. circuit breakers were in. Next, she checked that all radio equipment was off. McCauley could set the desired frequencies when he came aboard. She checked that the governor was switched to AUTO and that the de-ice/hot-air valve was off. That covered all that she could pre-check as copilot. The rest was up to McCauley. As she put on, and adjusted the flying helmet, McCauley completed his walk-around and clambered into the right seat. She turned to him as he adjusted his seat and pedals.

'Primary pre-fight checks completed, Boss.'

He nodded, reached up, and set the overhead switches and circuit breakers; checked the primary system instruments and set the centre pedestal switches. Having completed the flight controls check, he set the altimeters and radio frequencies, and flicked on the BAT switch and fuel switches. A quick glance to check that the rotor blades were clear and untied; and McCauley switched on the Ignition key lock-switch, set the throttle, and pressed the engine start switch. As the whistling whine of the turbine spooling up filled the cockpit, and the rotors began to lethargically rotate above them; he flicked the inverter switch to MAIN ON, watched the engine and transmission oil pressure gauges haul their pointers up towards the green segments of their respective dials; disconnected the GPU and switched on the avionics.

The rotor blades were speeding up, casting strobe-like, flickering shadows across the cockpit interior, as the first faint resonance of the familiar flat, "Whup-whup-whup-whup… Whup-whup-whup-whup" began to build as the turbine wound up to an indicated six thousand revs per minute, and the tip of the advancing rotor blade began to break the speed of sound, creating a small sonic boom. The Huey began to gently shimmy and dance on her skids as McCauley increased throttle to full open holding the collective pitch full down. He selected desired lift-off rpm with the INCRease-DECRease switch, shifted the cyclic control into the neutral position, increased collective pitch control slowly and smoothly, and the Huey lifted off.

As she attained a hovering altitude of about three feet, he applied tail rotor pedal to maintain her heading and gently increased collective input. Hovering briefly, he checked that the engine and flight controls were operating properly and applied forward cyclic pressure as the Huey accelerated smoothly forward into effective transitional lift into clear air and began the ascent.

As the Air America ramp fell away, McCauley gently lowered the nose to increase airspeed. As he lowered the cyclic to achieve this, there was a momentary sensation of settling. This was caused by the helicopter moving from the ground cushion and the tilting of the tip-path plane of rotation of the main rotor blades to obtain forward airspeed. It was perfectly normal, but always gave Stacey momentary butterflies in the stomach although she had experienced it a hundred times before.

As the Huey climbed out over the airfield boundary McCauley maintained take-off power until a safe auto-rotative airspeed was attained, then eased back on the throttle to establish the desired rate of climb. The Nong Pakthang marsh and the village of Ban Pak Thang swept below them, and then they were climbing out over the extensive rice fields and heading out towards the Nam Ngum River and the distant mountains to the north. The pilot's compartment was hot, as the sun beating on the windshield and overhead green-tinted canopy drove up the temperature. McCauley grinned.

'If you're getting warm, open a side window and stick an arm out to let the slipstream funnel up your sleeve. That'll cool you down some.'

Climbing out to a cruise height of seven hundred feet and an indicated airspeed of ninety-five knots, on a heading of one-seven- point five degrees North by East, McCauley settled down for the eighty mile trip up to Long Tieng. Crossing the east-west dog leg of Highway Thirteen, the sinuous Nang Ngum River came into view. McCauley pointed towards a pale patch over to the left, among the forested area.

'That's Lima Site Eighty-three… Ban Nong Dao. It's being abandoned at the end of the year, and judging by its condition, you won't need to remember it. It'll be completely overgrown within a few months. Over to the right is Tong Ta Bleung… Lima Site Seventy-two; an eleven hundred foot, graded earth landing strip. It's still used occasionally by the light fixed-wingers, but most of these local Limas are dead ducks these days. Most flights rotate into Wattay.'

He pointed out of the windshield towards the approaching heavily wooded mountain ridge.

'That's Phou Khaokhoay-Est. The highest peak around here. It's almost three thousand feet, so we'd better gain some height.'

He eased back on the cyclic and adjusted the collective and throttle, and the Huey dropped her nose gently and began to climb. With the tree-covered slopes sweeping below, she climbed effortlessly up to four thousand feet as the reverse slope of the ridge fell away. The Huey swept across the narrow Nam Mang river valley and continued north into the Central Highlands.

Stacey was studying the terrain. This area appeared to be little more than raw mountainous ranges sprinkled with deep green forest areas scattered across the lower slopes, and networks of twisting streams. She turned to McCauley.

'So, how many of these Lima sites are there?'

Without taking his eyes from their flight path he replied,

'In all? About a hundred; ranging from asphalt runways to uphill dirt strips. We'll be coming over Lima Site Fourteen pretty soon. That one is a real doozy… a rust-red clay strip in the middle of a forest. That's our turning point for the last leg over the peaks into Long Tieng. We'll be into Karst country soon… they're limestone rock outcrops. You'll see them all around Long Tieng. There's a big one at the end of the runway… along with lots of aircraft wreckage strewn all around its base from screwed-up landing attempts.'

He grinned.

'Fixed wings can only land and take off in one direction, and even that has a pretty high pucker factor. The site is deep in a valley and almost totally enclosed by the surrounding high ground. Long Tieng is basically a grassy valley surrounded by towering limestone Karsts on a five-mile-long plateau about sixty-five klicks south-west of the Plaine des Jarres. The dark green, moss-covered mountains form a natural barrier on three sides of the plateau. OK. Time to turn onto our final heading.'

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He gently eased the left rudder pedal forward and moved the cyclic to the left. The radio compass needle drifted around the dial until it settled at three hundred and twelve degrees North-west by West. McCauley settled a little more purposefully into his seat.

'We're only about fourteen klicks out. Now it's time to show you how to fly properly over Indian country. There's always the possibility of NVA Regulars or Pathēt Lāo bandits around here. We fly the contours of the hills from here on in, and then drop, in order to catch the runway threshold of Long Tieng which runs uphill.'

They were flying over terrain unlike anything she had seen before; a gentle jungle-covered slope that went on for miles, then a sudden sheer drop of a couple of thousand feet, with mountains erupting out of the green sea below, some shaped like towers of limestone with sharp jagged edges, others with knife edges.

McCauley brought the Huey down to tree top height. At every rise in the terrain he pulled the Huey up and Stacey was pressed into her seat. At every drop off of the terrain he took the pitch out of the rotors and she felt the brief sensation of floating weightless before she was pushed back into the seat when the Huey stopped descending. She glanced nervously out of the door window and watched the dark green, almost luminous jungle canopy rushing past, seemingly close enough to reach out and touch; wondering if McCauley was going to make a mistake and hit the trees. She had never flown with a treetop flyer before, although she had practised this sort of manoeuvre many times in the past. Doing it was one thing… experiencing it as a passenger was quite another!

Below them, meandering through the thick jungle, Stacey saw a thin, rust-red track. McCauley nodded, without taking his eyes off the terrain.

'That's the only track into Long Tieng and the reason why they are totally dependent on support by air. They're at thirty-one-hundred feet elevation and high enough to have chilly nights and cold fogs, and surrounded by mountains as well as Karst outcrops several hundred feet high on the approach and the northwest side of the runway. Most of our guys reckon that its one of the most treacherous Lima sites in Laos…the two-mile-long Skyline Ridge, just to the north-east side, mountains to the west and the Goddamn-great Karst at the end of the runway. It's a difficult target to navigate in and out of even under the best of conditions for anything larger than a Porter, a Helio, or if you're really brave; a twin Beech. The big guys do go in loaded but come out empty since a heavy load makes clearing the gap on takeoff even more hazardous.'

Stacey stared out of the windshield at the rapidly approaching Lima site. Just as McCauley had said, on the northwest side of the runway were Karst outcrops several hundred feet high, towering into the sky like jagged cathedral spires. McCauley spoke again.

'There; those two Karsts at the end of the runway. That's what we call the "vertical speedbrake" for obvious reasons. The ramp is behind the other Karst on the right. At the north end of the airstrip they've built a barricade of forty-gallon gas drums filled with dirt and stacked three high. The purpose of the barrels is to stop the aircraft before they hit the "vertical speedbrake." So you see; it's like landing in a bowl with one way in and out. You make your approach and land first time. A "go around" is not a wise option in any fixed wing airplane; there just isn't the clearance.'

Stacey arched an eyebrow and glanced at him.

'Thanks, Boss; you really know how to give a girl confidence!'

He grinned.

'No sweat, Ma'am. The onset of the Pucker factor is reserved for fixed-wing jockeys. In a chopper, it's a milk run.'

He reached down to the central pedestal, switched radio channels, and selected the frequency range on the ADF Control Panel. He flicked a switch and Stacey suddenly heard a Morse code beeping signal in her headset. McCauley spoke over the methodical pattern of long and short beeps.

'That's the Lima Site Twenty-Alpha, Non-Directional Beacon. "N.D.B.K." We don't need it now. We are almost in visual range, but it's useful to be able to know how it works on these birds. We're just clearing the Phou Bia mountain range. Time to call up the tower; we're only ten klicks out and I don't want to meet a T-28 coming up out of the mist.'

A cluster of towering Karsts loomed ahead. McCauley eased back on the cyclic stick and collective, and the Huey rose gently. Reaching down to the pedestal he turned the knob on the VHF Command set until the frequency counters in the central indicator window read one-one-nine, point-one. He then spoke into his boom mike.

'Twenty-Alpha approach. Ridgerunner four Actual. Eight South-east at thirty-two hundred. Request short orbit transit, North-east perimeter to west-end ramp. Over.'

Stacey's headset crackled. A distinctive Texan drawl filled her earphones.

"Ridgerunner four Actual. Twenty-Alpha approach. Wind two-one-zero at ten. ASL three-one-two-zero. Cleared to short orbit. Heavy on west end of ramp. Clear vertical speedbrake right, to touchdown."

McCauley spoke again.

'Twenty-Alpha approach. Ridgerunner four Actual. Confirm speedbrake right, to touchdown. Affirmative.'

Lima Site Twenty-Alpha, Long Tieng came into view through the thinning mist hanging over the jagged peaks of the Karsts. It was just as McCauley had described it. Built into a valley with the runway taking up most of its length, with Skyline ridge on one side, and mountains on the other; a large towering black, wooded Karst rose at the end of the runway at the north-west end, with two more behind, and slightly to the left of it; beyond which, was another ridge rising some three hundred feet into the slowly dispersing mist. Steep Karst outcrops several hundred feet high rose on the right at the south end, making approaches perilous.

The settlement to the left of the runway seemed to consist of tin shacks with the exception of a single, two-storey concrete building which McCauley said was the home of General Vang Po.

In the shadow of the northern Karst was the CIA compound and ramp. Stacey noticed that, disconcertingly, there appeared to be a considerable amount of aircraft wreckage strewn all around the limestone Karsts from ill-fated landing attempts.

McCauley grinned.

'On a fair few occasions the north Karst is what finally stopped the landing aircraft. That's why they call it the "vertical speedbrake." Like I said; it's like trying to land in a bowl with one way in and one way out. All fixed wing traffic lands west and departs east without regard for the wind. The western third of the runway has a hump that prevents aircraft on one end from seeing aircraft on the other end. You make your approach and land first time. There sure as hell isn't the option of a "go around." You land on 32 and takeoff from 14. As you can see the 14 approach a real no-no, with those goddamned Karsts that can really screw your day whilst you're trying to line up to put down!'

As he began his descent across the eastern boundary of Long Tieng airstrip, Stacey gazed down at this most secret and unacknowledged headquarters for the Secret War in Laos. This place didn't exist on any maps or charts. It had also been General Vang Pao's headquarters since mid-1962, and had developed from a remote Hmong village into a sizeable settlement. The runway looked to be about forty-five-hundred feet long and was roughly paved. Flying a fixed wing, you would have to fly the contours of the hills and then descend in order to catch the beginning of the runway which appeared to run uphill; and at the end of the runway there were the ominous two-hundred-foot, high wooded, limestone Karsts. She drew a sharp breath. McCauley hadn't been joking when he had remarked that it would really ruin your whole day if you didn’t stop in time and didn't have enough speed to fly around them.

On the western side of the runway were a jumble of corrugated tin roof shacks and buildings scattered along the only road that ran through the settlement. Two ramps adjoined the runway, about a third of the way down its length, along which were parked a neat row of stubby silver airplanes, as well as a couple of grey, unmarked Cessna O-1 Bird Dogs, which appeared insubstantial and delicate, compared to their tubby companions.

Without taking his eyes from his flight path, McCauley spoke.

"The fat birds are T-28 "Tangos"… prop-driven, twin-piloted killing machines. We send them out on search and destroy missions. The Gooks coming down across the Plaine des Jarres hear these things coming and start to panic, and then it's a couple of 70mm rockets or frag bombs to blow them all to hell. This is a private war here… our war; off the books, and with unlimited funding via Uncle Sam's '"do not ask" policy. They're flown by Hmong pilots, who all use the call sign "Chaophakhao," which translates as "Lord White Buddha"… with a few of our ex-fighter jocks, as well as some RLAF and Thai guys. Our "Bookie Birds" fly in fuel and ordnance for them. The two baby birds are Ravens… Forward Air Controllers. That's their hooch next to the long operations office.'

The big Karst with propeller marks chewed into it by pilots who couldn't stop at the north end of the runway was coming up fast. McCauley eased the cyclic forward and began gently lowering the collective. The Huey slowed and began to sink. A little left pedal, and the large, dirt, west-end ramp came into view around the eastern flank of the towering wooded Karst. Stacey estimated that it was roughly two hundred yards long by one hundred and fifty yards wide, with buildings, including a tall control tower along the northern perimeter, and the barricade of rusty, forty-gallon gas drums filled with dirt and stacked three high ranged along the north and west corner, facing the runway threshold. The C-123 heavy that ground control had mentioned was parked up on the north side with its ramp down, from which crates were being unloaded and stacked on the edge of the area. Other aircraft parked up on the red earth ramp included two unmarked Cessna O-1 Bird Dogs, two grey Helio Couriers; an Air America porter, and incongruously, an AC-47 Spooky gunship camouflaged in standard three-tone green and brown, South-east Asia colours, and wearing USAF insignia. Three ground crew guys were loading ammunition pods to feed her three, six-barrelled rotary miniguns into the airplane from a pile of crates arrayed on the ramp alongside the port side of the airplane under the watchful eye of what must have been the gunship loadmaster.

McCauley turned the Huey, brought her into a hover, and put down on the north edge of the ramp close to two grey Helio Couriers. As he began his shut-down procedure he nodded his head in the direction of the two light airplanes.

'Those are two of The Company's Helio Couriers… out from Vientiane or Udorn. Their missions range from communication to flying around CIA case officers or Army Attaché people, recruiting soldiers for the Hmong army; transporting medical doctors and medicine, dropping small supplies, inserting and picking up spies and agents in enemy territory, and so on. They often work upcountry for a couple of days before returning again to base. They usually stay at the Air America chalet at LS20 Sam Thong about five klicks north from here. They have a full-time, Chinese cook from Vientiane, and the living quarters are pretty good... fresh sheets on the beds, decent food, cold beer, and tiled showers with warm water. The other ones…'

He pointed to the unmarked Bird Dogs…

'Those are Ravens… Forward Air Controllers. Essentially, what they do is fly over areas of suspected Commie activity searching for troop movements, storage facilities and the like. When they spot anything they radio AOC who decides whether an air strike is required. If it is, the Raven loiters in the vicinity and waits for the strike force. Once they are on station, the Raven describes the target and its exact coordinates. The strike force lines up and the Raven swoops in towards the target and marks it with the white phosphorus smoke rockets that they carry in under-wing pods. The strike airplanes dive in and make their attack runs one by one, whilst the Raven watches from above. As the attack progresses the Raven calls corrections until all the ordnance is expended. The strike airplanes disengage and head home whilst the Raven makes repeat passes over the target to complete a BDA... a bomb damage assessment, which is then radioed back. This is when they are most likely to meet ground fire… and there are a good few who have collected the Golden B-B. The FACs also have to make sure that there are no attacks on civilians… not easy in a combat zone where there are no front lines, and any hamlet can suddenly become part of that combat zone.

An FAC has to fly slow and low in these vulnerable ships and are continually peppered with ground fire. So all they do is simply slap strong fabric tape over the bullet holes until the ship is unsafe to fly any longer. These guys sometimes have to fly ten and twelve-hour days… say twelve to fifteen missions during daylight.'

He continued switching off the system switches, watching the EGT instrument dial as it stabilised. The rotors were slowing as the whine of the turbine diminished. Flicking the inverter switch off, he pushed down the collective pitch control and locked it, twisted the cyclic friction full on, and did a final check that all electrical switches were off. Unbuckling his seat harness, he turned to her.

'OK, Stacey; let's go meet the boys.'