Chapter Six.

McCauley and Stacey climbed out of the Huey to be greeted by a blast of furnace-hot, thick red dusty air, mingling with a pungent pot-pourri of aromas… charcoal, urine, calor gas, and pickled fish; and the ever-pervading stink of Avgas and JP-4 jet fuel; and walked across the north ramp towards the CIA compound. She gave a nervous glance at the considerable amount of ammunition, mortar rounds, and God knows what else that was trodden into the dirt of the ramp area that they were walking over. McCauley paid no heed to this litter of most-likely, live ordnance that had been dropped from the countless thousands of crates that had been unloaded here over the years, and strode forward unconcernedly. Skirting around the nose of the C-123 heavy, he led her to a gap in the rusty gas drum barricade in front of the control tower; raising his hand in greeting to the occupants who were watching their progress.

A rough dirt road led up a small hill at the end of the runway which he said was where the CIA compound was located. It was built directly under the left hand Karst of the "vertical speedbrake," and comprised barracks for sleeping, an office, and a bar.

McCauley said he should introduce her to Floyd, and grinned. The bar was open, built on top of a large Karst boulder, which had some time earlier been hollowed out. McCauley said; by case officers "grenading" it, for want of something better to do. The bar "verandah" was surrounded by a balcony constructed of scaffold tubes and rusty sections of pierced steel planking, as used on runways; and equipped with French colonial iron garden furniture and outlandishly…sun umbrellas, of the sort one would expect to find at some chic hotel on the French Riviera. Under the bar was a gated cage and in that cage was a black Asian Sun bear. They had named him Floyd, and he was the base mascot. He was also an alcoholic. McCauley said that the pilots would feed him through a trap door in the floor of the bar and that the bear liked beer, so the guys would be in there drinking at night, and if you picked up the board in the floor, Floyd would stick his snout up and ask for a drink. He drank it straight from the can. There was an iron gate on the entrance to the cage down below, and every once in a while a Hmong would get too close and Floyd would tear his arm off. There were, McCauley remarked, even stories of case officers who, pissed out of their brains, had entered Floyd’s cage to commiserate with him or even, in extreme cases, to pass out with him. Stacey gave him a quizzical look. This was really… surreal.

As they walked up the track to the CIA office… the "Puzzle Palace," as McCauley laconically described it; the smell was rank. There was no sanitation system in Long Tieng. It was now the second largest city in Laos, and there was no sewer system, so everything ran or festered in ditches that lined the sides of the roads. The sewage system of ditches didn't really begin to work properly until the rainy season…and even then, there was no place for it to run to; consequently there were open sewers everywhere. The stench was constant. The Hmong lived in makeshift huts fashioned of petrol drums and torn parachutes, of sticks, and old rice sacks. The shacks were roofed with flattened fifty-five gallon gasoline drums split open, hammered out, and put together to make a ramshackle shelter from the elements. There were also quite a few houses made from wooden ammo cases and/or the pallets on which rice was air dropped. Piglets and chickens were wandering about on the edge of the runway lined with these refugee shacks and collapsing tin hovels.

There was a little restaurant on the corner at the end of the airstrip where the road went up to the CIA office. McCauley said that they would grab a meal there after they had checked in. He pointed across the end of the runway to a ramp occupied by three O-1 Bird Dogs.

'That's the Raven's compound. They normally come up to the CIA compound at chow time. They've got their own kitchen but usually have our meals with the guys in the CIA dining hall which is run by some excellent Thai cooks. Apart from the Ravens, you're about to meet some real unusual and quirky types who are CIA as well as Department of State, USAID, and Air America. It just depends who is here at the moment. After that, we'll do the Air America bar for a few more introductions.'

The CIA compound was on the left hand corner of the runway in the shadow of the lone Karst; behind which, was the north ramp. Beneath the two northernmost Karst outcrops was "SKY"… the CIA headquarters in Long Tieng. As they walked up the hill towards the cluster of buildings, Stacey was startled by the diversity of clothing. McCauley kept up a running commentary on the various personnel passing by. The guys in Levi's and cowboy hats were Air Force, Air America, or Ravens; those in full combat fatigues were CIA paramilitary. Most of the Hmong were members of Vang Pao's CIA-created "Armée Clandestine," and wore black, billowy pants and occasionally, camouflage jackets. Others wore fitted uniforms. They were carrying every weapon imaginable. The Hmong officers all wore conspicuous side arms. Most of the Hmong women wore a simpler version of the traditional Hmong costume. He said that the CIA guys were mostly unsociable. They didn’t talk to anybody unless they knew them; and even then there were no true names used... just strange code names. Long Tieng was a bustling, almost frontier-like town of swashbuckling pilots, discrete CIA men; Hmong fighters and a vast assortment of airborne weaponry.

The CIA office was a spartan, windowless affair with the roof festooned with all manner of aerial masts and antennae. McCauley and Stacey entered to be greeted by two hatchet-faced CIA paramilitary officers. The taller of the two turned, and gave McCauley a dispassionate glance.

'Well, damifitain't Ridgerunner. To what do we owe this pleasure?'

McCauley nodded.

'Good to see you too, Redline. We're just out on a proving flight with the Lady's fresh bird, and figured we'd drop in to make the introductions. She's my new kid on the block down at Wattay, and comes highly recommended, so don't start giving her any of your spook crap.'

"Redline" raised an eyebrow and shot McCauley a hard stare. Then turning to Stacey, he grinned.

'So, what's your bag, Honey? Ash and Trash?... or d'you just ride shotgun?'

McCauley stepped up to him.

'Redline, I said no crap. This is "Footloose-One." She comes with a big, fat green light from Larry Devlin himself. She'll be dropping in here occasionally to top out on gas, and maybe, dump off assets.'

Redline gathered his composure quickly. He held out his hand to Stacey.

'Pleased to meet you. Ma'am. Sorry about that. We don't usually get American chicks up here, save for the odd nurse transiting through to "Pop" Buell's hospital over at Sam Thong. You a chopper jockey?'

Stacey smiled.

'No more than I expected, Redline. Yes, I'm a chopper jockey now; but I have flown most of the birds around here at some time or another… save for the Spooky. What is she doing here?'

Redline whistled through his teeth.

'Outstanding!'

He turned to the other CIA man.

'Frogger; where's Spooky bound to?'

The other man looked up from his files, and glanced at McCauley, who nodded. The other man consulted his movement log.

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'She's out from the 432nd CSG; fragged to lay interdiction of the Ho Chi Minh Trail down in the A Shau Valley, and then, back over the fence to Udorn. She's just topping off. It's a damn long trip.'

McCauley glanced at his wrist chronograph.

'Well, we can't stay here shooting the breeze. I have to acquaint the Lady to the rest of the flat-hatting bums down at the cantina. Stay loose, guys.'

Redline nodded and held out his hand to Stacey.

'Nice to meet you, Ma'am. Guess we'll be seeing you around.'

She nodded.

'Yes, I guess I'll be dropping in from time to time.'

The "cantina" at Long Tieng was on the corner of the dirt road in the shadow of the Karst that formed the left flank of the vertical speedbrake. A couple of pilots were sitting at a table drinking coffee. They both looked like something taken straight out of Rick's "Café Américain" in the film "Casablanca"; with crumpled white, pilot shirts, scruffy Levi's, second, or third day stubble; aviator sunglasses, cowboy boots, and battered Stetsons. One looked up as McCauley and Stacey entered. He grinned.

'Well damn me! McCauley, what in the hell you doing all the way up here, at Secret War Central?'

He gave Stacey an appreciative look.

'Who's the Babe? She with the Donut Dollies?'

McCauley shot him an admonitory glance.

'Settle down and pull your neck in, Tex. The Lady's with the Program. You're lining yourself up for the best ass-chewing you've ever heard. Keep it up and I'll ream you out from A to Zee, so show her some respect!

He turned to Stacey.

'Meet Tex and Sandman. You'll have to excuse these two uncivilised jerks. I keep meaning to bust their asses back to Udorn, but they're the best hunter-killer team I've got up here. Sandman flies the Bird-Dog and Tex rides shotgun with the Tango.'

Tex butted in.

'So what's cooking, McCauley? Somethin' must be real fubared to get you out from Channel 68, up here to Spook Central.'

McCauley grinned.

'Just stand down Tex. We're out on a shake-down flight with the Lady's new bird. I'd better introduce you. This is Stacey… coded "Footloose-One." She's just been assigned to us… and before you start; she comes with a personal game licence from Larry Devlin, Chief of Station, Laos!'

Sandman whistled quietly through his teeth.

'You flyin' that bird with the Lao markings? Damn me, she's a slick. You start diddy-bopping out over the boonies with that one, and you're gonna need a fly dude for a door man and some bad-ass hardware.'

McCauley stopped him.

'She'll get a crew chief that's been around the block; but our birds are unarmed. You know that.'

Sandman leaned back in his chair and stuck his cowboy boots on the table.

'Cut the crap and get serious, Tom. This ain't the Spook Central Mickey Mouse Club. You're gonna have to arm that bird up, pronto. The little Lady can't tough it out running rice jobs without some serious shit to suppress ground fire from the friggin' Dinks. Besides which; they'd expect any bird carrying Lao markings to be armed to the fuckin' teeth; and flying a Lao slick in Indian country just ain't going to cut the mustard. If you're gonna ask her to go dancing with the Reaper she needs to know the tune.'

McCauley nodded.

'I suppose you're right, Sandman. I'll see what we can do when we get back.'

He was interrupted by the rumble of the AC-47 Spooky taxiing past the café, and lining up for take-off. Sandman jerked his thumb laconically in its direction.

'That's what the Lady needs… one of those goddamned miniguns. Those babies can lay down some serious shit on the little Dink bastards. There's a bent snake in a smokin' hole about ten klicks north, up at Pakagnoung, with an external XM21 subsystem still attached. The jock was running a snoopy mission, got shot up, and tried to make it back. He lost the bubble about two klicks north of his turning point and piled in. We can go strip out her minigun system and you could rig it on a Sagami mount.'

McCauley nodded.

'OK, we'll see, next time we're out this way.'

Sandman gave a sardonic grin.

'OK, but don't leave it too long, and don't send the Lady up-country unless she's packing heavy heat.'

Tex was about to add something when his voice was drowned out by the AC-47 Spooky opening up her engines for her take-off run. The glass in the windows rattled and a whirlwind of red dust billowed back from her prop-wash. When it cleared, she was half-way down the strip with her tail up. She floated off; her landing gear came up, and her pilot banked her over to starboard to clear the Karsts at the southern end of the strip.

As the AC-47's engine drone diminished; McCauley turned to Stacey.

'OK, time to head for home.'

He turned to the two pilots.

'I'll bear in mind what you say. See you guys later.'

Sandman swung his boots off the table, scraped back his chair, and stood up. He looked at Stacey.

'I'll walk you to the bird. I'm kinda curious to see what tired old hack they've assigned you. But first; come and meet Floyd.'

At the end of the CIA building beneath the balcony, was a roomy cage that backed onto the flank of the Karst, with a shallow cave in the back wall that appeared to serve as the bear's lair. Sitting in an empty fifty-five gallon gasoline drum was a large black Sun bear, who studied these visitors with small beady eyes. Sandman pulled out a can of Olympia beer; punched two triangular holes in the top with his "churchkey" can piercer, and handed it to Stacey.

'Just push it close to the bars, and he'll do the rest. Then you'll be buddies forever!'

She tentatively offered the can to Floyd. The bear reached through the cage grille and, with sheathed claws, wrapped a large paw around the can. He then proceeded to pour the contents down his throat and finished by tossing the empty can back through the grill. Sandman grinned.

'On a good night, the guys line up the cans on the shelf and Floyd works his way through them one by one. After a real bender, he'll spend the next day in his cave nursing a real hummer of a hangover and be as grumpy as hell!'

McCauley grinned.

'Sounds a bit like you bums from what I hear!'

Sandman managed to look hurt.

'Shucks. You know we play the eight hour rule up here… eight hours between bottle and throttle!'

McCauley snorted.

'Yeah! And I'm Hanoi Hannah! C'mon lets go. We've gotta be getting back.'

As they strolled back across the north ramp, the C-123 was just starting up. The familiar sound of the APU puttering away echoed through the open tail ramp as the prop on number one began to turn slowly, backfiring through its carburettor, and belching out a great, greyish-white cloud of unburned fuel and oil smoke which billowed back towards the tail and drifted across the ramp. They quickened their pace to get out of the big airplane's way as the number two prop began turning. Sandman approached the freshly- painted Huey and nodded approvingly to Stacey.

'Damn! Uncle Sam has given you a good bird! She's an "H" with the big fourteen-hundred howler! She's got enough power to handle almost any mission in this theatre. Pity she's got a Lao paint job; she'd really look the ticket in Company colours!'

McCauley gave him a sardonic glance.

'Yeah, and wouldn’t the Dinks just love it if they brought her down carrying those colours and found Stacey on board?'

Sandman nodded contritely.

'Yeah; you've got a point, Tom.'

McCauley turned to Stacey.

'OK, let's get this bird outta here.'

She nodded and climbed into the right seat, strapped in, and put on her helmet. She ran through the cockpit pre-flight checklist as McCauley carried out the exterior checks walk-around. Satisfied, he climbed in through the starboard door and strapped in. Stacey looked out of the cockpit window at Sandman and raised her thumb. He replied with a horizontal circular motion of his left hand. OK; rotor blades clear. DC volts above fourteen… she hit the starter switch. The shaft turbine engine began to spool up with a rising whine. OK; Engine and Transmission oil pressures... Check. Start fuel switch... On. Radios and headsets... On… Inverter switch to MAIN ON.

She gently retarded the throttle to the Flight Idle stop; checked that the Gas Producer RPM was within limits, and that the Engine and Transmission Oil pressures were in the green. Fuel pressure was up in the green. All lights were off on the Caution and Master Caution panel; and she flicked the Low RPM switch. OK… Audio, then Off. The rotor blade shadows were strobing now as the blades increased in speed. Soon the tips would reach the sound barrier and the familiar "Whup-whup-whup-whup… Whup-whup-whup-whup" would begin. Everything was looking good.

The Huey began to gently shimmy on her skids as Stacey increased throttle to full open, holding the collective pitch fully down. She watched as the needle crept up to desired lift-off rpm; gave a final scan of the ramp area; shifted the cyclic control into the neutral position, increased collective pitch control slowly and smoothly, and the Huey lifted off.

At a hovering altitude of about three feet she applied tail rotor pedal to maintain her heading and gently increased collective input. Hovering briefly, she 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 and began the ascent out towards Skyline ridge. Maintaining take-off power until safe auto rotative airspeed was attained, she applied right pedal, and as the Huey turned to follow the Skyline ridge scarp; eased back on the throttle to establish the desired rate of climb.

As the Huey clattered away out over the north-east perimeter of Long Tieng; Sandman watched her climb out over the Karst formations, then turned to walk back to the café. He smiled quietly to himself. Yep. That pretty little Gal was right on the money.