Chapter Three.

As the big transport droned on towards Vientiane, Stacey watched Hilliard. He was good. He flew the airplane calmly, just the occasional input on the controls… relaxed, confident. She spoke into her mike.

'So, how long have you been flying these Bookie Birds?'

'About three years. I was on the relief flights out of Da Nang during the siege of Khe Sanh when things got too hot for the C-130s to continue air-dropping supplies to the Marines. We used to bring in supplies that were too fragile for airdropping; and evacuated casualties and personnel when we were able to land on the potholed runway by the light of artillery flares, under heavy automatic weapons and mortar fire. Added to that, the runway was often fog-shrouded below minimum instrument landing conditions each day through mid-morning, and was only thirty-nine hundred feet long… dropping off on a three percent gradient from west to east. It was unhealthy, to say the least.

Wind velocities in the Khe Sanh valley were extreme and unpredictable, and the whole layout was wicked; rising steeply on three sides of the field, with Gook gun emplacements on all sides. With absolute minimum ground times necessary for all landings, extremely hot turnarounds were needed. At night, the first thousand feet of runway was usually partially controlled by the Gooks; so we had to shoot long landings on the metal-planked airstrip.

We landed the bird in the assault configuration and tried to stop without reversing the props, which would have caused the turbojets to shut down. At touchdown, the kicker popped the ramp, and as we reached the offload area, shoved the pallets out while we continued to taxi slowly. Any pick-ups then piled aboard. We used to average three minutes from touchdown to gear up, and several times it took under a minute. We used the new maximum assault descent procedure. By employing this approach into the Khe Sanh runway and DZ, the Gooks could only bead us in for a few seconds. The assault descent began about five klicks out from the DZ, or about seventy-five seconds of rapid three thousand feet-per-minute sink rate without flaps; then levelling off at eight hundred feet, just twelve seconds from the DZ. Then, you popped out full flap and held a tight pucker. If you didn't screw it up, the maximum period at drop altitude was fifteen seconds. Even so, we still lost five C-123s in that shit-hole.'

Danny butted in.

'Yeah, ol' Vinnie here has been dodging the Golden B-B ever since… but it'll bite him in the ass one day!'

Stacey raised an eyebrow.

'Do you always fly without a copilot?

Hilliard shook his head.

'No. my regular one has a bad case of "jungle rot," and is taking a few days R and R in Saigon.'

Danny laughed.

'Yeah, and about goddamned time. You’ve no notion of how off-putting it was, with him scratching his nuts all the time!'

"Jungle rot" wasn't actually "rot," nor was it from the jungle. It was either some unseen parasite or a chronic fungal disease. During long flying days in the heat and humidity, loaded down with harness and parachute, the sweat ran down the body and soaked the clothing. Eventually it caused body sores, scabs, and watering. The itching was unbearable.

Hilliard growled at Danny.

Can it, you dumb bastard. Remember we have a lady present!'

Danny gave Stacey an admonished look.

She smiled.

'Don't worry, Danny. It takes a damn sight more than that to faze me!'

At the point where the River Mekong curved around to the west; Hilliard aimed for the spot between Vientiane's Oupmoung and Khounta Temples, and, crossing the river; cruised out across the glittering expanse of the Ban Nong Douang rice paddies skirting the French Military Mission camp, to join the Vientiane circuit on his downwind leg. He followed the Rue Nong Duong and finally turned in on base leg; lining up with the little settlement of Sikeut. Crossing Highway Thirteen and committed to final approach over NongNiaw market; he began the descent to the threshold of runway 13/31.

Hilliard lined up on the centre line of the six thousand foot concrete ribbon and lowered the flaps. The C-123 slowed sharply… almost as though he had applied invisible brakes. A short distance from the threshold of the end of the runway he began easing back the throttle levers. The dirt and dust on the cockpit floor began to dance as the airplane resonated to the changing engine revs. Ahead; Stacey could easily make out the long bend in the reddish-brown Mekong River as it arched around to the south past Don Chan Island. Vientiane was away to the left of the end of the concrete ribbon which was surrounded by sparkling rice paddies that marched right up to the airfield boundary fence.

With a thump and a squeal, the main gear made contact with the rubber-stained concrete, and, as the speed began to decay, the nose settled with a soft squeak from the nose gear tires as it touched down. Hilliard pulled the throttle levers back to, but not through the reverse thrust detent. There was no need; by the time the C-123 had rolled past the right-hand turn-off taxiway half-way along the main strip, she had slowed to a steady thirty-five knots.

Hilliard continued to taxi to the far end of the runway and turned off onto the right-hand, forty-five-degree taxiway that led towards the parking ramps and hangars on the south side of the airfield. He taxied past three tubby, grey-painted Curtiss C-46 Commando twin-engined freighters parked up outside a hangar on the north side of the ramp, and turned through one hundred and eighty degrees; facing back out the way he came in. With the engines idling, he braked to a standstill and turned to Stacey.

'OK. End of the line. Now, you be careful out there. This ain't like any flying you've ever done before. Maybe we'll meet up here sometime when I'm transiting through, and have a drink in the "Purple Porpoise" bar down on The Strip.'

She smiled

'Thank you, Vinnie. You be careful too. Thanks for the ride.'

Hilliard grinned.

'No sweat! Your new boss is waiting on the apron.'

He motioned to a figure that stood in the shadow thrown by the hangar frontage.

'Tom McCauley. Best goddamned bush-pilot this side of the Rockies. You'll be OK with him.'

She nodded.

'Thanks, Vinnie. 'Bye, now.'

Danny helped her down the ladder to the cargo bay and pulled her canvas valise from the forward stowage locker. Handing it to her he led her down the fuselage to the rear entry door below the trailing edge of the wing. He grinned.

'Safer this way with the engines running. I'd sure hate for you to walk into a prop.'

She smiled.

'Thanks Danny.'

Stepping down onto the concrete ramp, the humidity, and heat hit her like an open oven door. Quickly, she walked away from the airplane towards the hangar and the waiting McCauley. As she stepped away from the shadow of the wing, Danny slammed the rear door as Hilliard throttled up, and initiated his taxi along the runway's parallel taxiway up to the refuelling compound where he would replenish his tanks. Stacey watched the C-123 trundle away, then turned, and walked towards McCauley.

Tom McCauley was fifty-five years of age; a big, six-foot Montanan, with receding salt n' pepper hair, steely blue eyes, and a typical pilot's deeply suntanned face. Officially, he was operations manager of Continental Air Services Inc... the successor of Bird & Sons Inc; both, proprietary companies of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. Continental Air Services, and the earlier Bird and Sons had contracted to the Royal Laotian Government rather than Air America. They flew Helio Couriers and Pilatus Porters, but Air America used their ramp and facilities at Vientiane. The legend: "Bird and Sons Inc." was still emblazoned across the frontage of the hangar behind him; but, McCauley was actually operations controller for Air America, Vientiane. He stepped forward.

'Hi! You must be Charlotte Mckenna's daughter. Colonel Pullen signalled that you would be arriving today.'

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Stacey smiled.

'Colonel Pullen?... Josie Pullen? She taught me to fly.'

McCauley grinned.

'Yeah, I know. She also told me that you really are your mother's daughter; and if that's true, then any second thoughts I might have had about taking you on ain't worth no more than a heap of beans.'

He grinned again.

'Let's take a look at your bird, shall we?'

Walking into the interior of the hangar, Stacey was surprised at the number and diversity of airplane types it contained. Ranged around the walls in various states of maintenance were the usual Turbo Porters, Helio Couriers, a handful of assorted Cessnas; a Beech 18, and a pair of Bell 205D choppers. All were painted in the Air America blue and silver livery. McCauley pointed to a curtained-off area at the back of the hangar.

'Your bird is in there. We're giving her a fresh paint job. Want to take a look-see?'

Stacey nodded.

McCauley pulled back a corner of the curtain. The paint smell was strong. Under the lamps, the Bell 205 chopper gleamed yellow in her fresh coat of primer; but she wasn't quite the same as the other Bell 205s in the hangar. The aerial arrays were different, and there were certain fittings that the other choppers didn't have. McCauley gave her a wry grin.

'Air America doesn't have female pilots… not-a-one. The Gooks are fully aware of this; so, if you ever come down, they will never imagine that you are one of us. You will carry identification that you are one of our USAIDs, teaching modern farming techniques to the villagers. That way, you stand a better chance of getting out in one piece.'

'This bird is an ex-army UH-1H, brought up from the first batch allocated to Udorn. It has a more powerful engine than those "D" types back there, and has real performance with regard to lift capacity; particularly under "hot and high"… that is, hot temperature and high ground altitude conditions. It's the standard army dust-off chopper, and just what you'll need in terms of the missions you're earmarked for.'

'Now, dust-off operations are usually unescorted and very hazardous. Dust-off birds are unarmed except for personal side arms and are painted with red crosses, but this is not a war of niceties and they've found that those red crosses only seem to have made them better targets. The rate of loss to hostile fire for medivac choppers is almost three and-a-half times the loss rate of all other types of helicopter missions, and more than a third of all flight crews of dust-off ships get killed or wounded.'

'As you know Air America policy is to be non-combatant... but, we've left in the Sagami mount... the skeleton frame gun mount that swings out from a fixed position at the rear of the cabin, in case we ever need to arm you.'

Stacey studied him for a few moments.

'Why would I need to have her armed?'

McCauley's grin vanished.

'You probably won't. Use of Air America pilots in armed airplanes poses a major problem under The International Agreement on the Neutrality of Laos by permitting U.S. civilians to engage in hostilities under conditions in which they might be treated legally as "unprivileged belligerents" if they fall into enemy hands. Not only would it be difficult to claim any rights of POW treatment for them in accordance with international law and practice, but the communists would be given confirmation of their charges of the paramilitary character of Air America. That said; as senior CIA officer, it is my responsibility to ensure that my people are protected by whatever means are at my disposal. The first time you come back with holes in the bird, I'll rethink our policy. I owe that much to your mother and Josie.'

Stacey nodded.

'So how long have you known my mother and Josie Pullen?

Tom McCauley smiled.

'We go way back. We all used to rattle around Washington long before you were born.'

He smiled again and let the curtain drop back.

'OK. Let's leave the guys to finish the paint job, then, once she's cured off, we'll flight-test her. Meantime, let's go to my office where I'll fill you in on the sort of missions you'll be flying, and where you'll be living whilst you're attached here in Vientiane.'

In his office, Tom McCauley poured Stacey a cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk. He studied her.

'So; what do you know of our operations here?'

Stacey shrugged.

'Only what I've been told by my controllers back at Atsugi; and they were pretty vague.'

McCauley nodded.

'Yeah, that figures. They don't even want to admit that we're here… let alone that we're controlling the Hmong fighters. Let me lay it out for you. The background facts are pretty straightforward. Back in 1960, Bill Lair; then a Company Advisor based in Thailand, was introduced to a certain Royal Laotian Army Battalion Commander named Vang Po. He later arranged to provide weapons and training for the Hmong contingent that Vang Po commanded. This was in line with the Company's support of US policy objectives.

An agreement was reached between the two regarding fighting the communists who wanted to overrun the country. Air America was set up from what had been known as the Company's "Air proprietary"… which had provided airplanes and crews in both Korea and during the French war against Communist insurgents in Indochina, to supply the Hmong troops under Vang Po. They were fighting the communist Pathēt Lāo and the North Vietnamese, denying them easy access to La Plaine des Jarres.

The main Hmong base was set up in the Long Tieng valley, which was virtually unoccupied at that time. By 1964, a forty-one hundred foot runway had been carved out, and two years later, Long Tieng… or "Cheng" in the native language, had become one of the largest U.S. installations on foreign soil. The Hmong are an Asian ethnic group from the mountainous regions of China, Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand.

Their lifestyle was basically agricultural, but Vang Po organised them into deadly guerrilla fighters against the communists, disrupting the flow of food and supplies along the Ho Chi Minh trail. The North Vietnamese were forced to police the trail in Laos, thus preventing those troops from being sent south. Security-wise, the Hmong were a perfect choice. They have no written language and all communication is by word of mouth. Consequently, there was no possibility of any strategic documentation falling into enemy hands.'

He paused, and grinned.

'Anyway; that's the background of us… if we were here… which we're not. And better still; you're not with us, anyway… because we don't have any female pilots.'

Stacey put down her coffee cup.

'So, what will I be used for?'

McCauley rested his chin on his hands.

'Anything and everything. Just like the rest of the guys. The difference is that you will carry a Laotian private pilot's licence, and a U.S. Peace Corps ID card. Your legend is that you are contracted by the U.S. Peace Corps to The Royal Government of Laos. Your bird will not be painted in Air America Livery, and will carry Royal Lao Air Force insignia. The commies will probably still shoot at you; but if you go down, and are captured; your get-out-of-jail-free card is that you are an accredited USAID advisor who was a passenger, and that your pilot has abandoned you.'

Stacey regarded him with a thin, ironic smile.

'Oh good. Never a dull moment, then.'

McCauley looked genuinely hurt.

'It's just a precaution. If you do go down, try to find one of the Hmong Guerrillas. They're tough little bastards and will willingly lead you out.'

Stacey gave him a thin smile.

'And if I can't find one?'

'We'll issue you with an SRU-21/P survival vest. Stowed in the various pockets on the vest are the following items: AN/PRC-90 Survival Radio; compass, mirror, smoke and Illumination flares; sea dye marker, distress light marker, chemical agent detectors; distress signal kit, operators manual, and survival packets consisting of medical and basic components necessary for survival.

If you do go down; key the squawk home button on the survival radio and I'll come and get you myself. It's the least I can do seeing as you come to us with a personal game licence from Larry Devlin, Chief of Station, Laos!'

Stacey smiled.

'Fair enough. It's a deal!'

McCauley grinned again.

'I should damn well think so. I can see that you are just as hard-headed as your Momma. You're sure as hell going to liven up this place! Now, let's get you sorted as to where you will stay. I've arranged for you to live at the Settha Palace Hotel, downtown on La Rue Pang Kam. It’s a classy place that some of our people use; typical French colonial-style architecture, a decent restaurant and only a ten-minute drive to the ramp. The hotel is guarded around the clock by contracted Lao guards who also provide a taxi service to the base every morning. This security is necessary because the hotel also contains the residential quarters of the Communist Chinese delegation to Laos. It's just as well the Lao guards work for CAS… that's "Controlled American Source"… another cover name for the Company.'

Stacey smiled.

'Oh good! Oriental spooks as neighbours! It's just as well Mom arranged to have me taught Mandarin and Cantonese as a child.'

McCauley stared at her.

'Damn me, you're full of surprises, Stacey Mckenna! How many languages do you speak?'

She studied him for a few moments.

'Six. That includes Russian, German, and French. But then, Mom was Deputy Head of the translation section at Atsugi, and I had an endless supply of linguists to teach me… which is reasonable, seeing as you know that Atsugi is the home of the largest CIA station in the Pacific.'

With a wry grin, McCauley nodded.

'Yeah, we don't talk too much about that around here. Now, let's get you down to your quarters in the city.'

He walked with her around to the rear of the hangar where his car was parked… a Citroën Traction Avant, two-seat cabriolet finished in a beautiful deep burgundy with glossy black fenders. McCauley took her valise and opened the rumble seat at the rear; dropping it on the matching burgundy leather seat. He then closed the rumble seat and opened the passenger door for her.

Stacey climbed in and smiled at McCauley.

'What a wonderful old car. Where on earth did you find it?'

McCauley grinned.

'She's a beauty, isn’t she? She's an old pre-war French military mission car with a six-cylinder motor. I picked her up from Luang Prabang, where she had been abandoned after her previous owner had been removed by the Programs Evaluation Office in '61.'

Stacey nodded. She knew of the PEO; her controller had warned her about them. They were not to be trusted. To get around the prohibitions of the Geneva agreements - which the United States had pledged to honour… the U.S. Department of Defense had established a disguised military mission in Vientiane called the Programs Evaluation Office… or PEO for short. The PEO became operational in December 1955 and worked under the cover of the civilian aid mission; being staffed by military personnel and headed by a general officer, all of whom wore civilian clothes and whose names had been removed from Department of Defense rosters of active service personnel.

McCauley grinned again.

'Their loss.... our gain! This old auto is nice with the hood down and the wind in your hair.'

He started the motor, which hummed powerfully and smoothly. The gear change was set in the dashboard, with the lever protruding through a vertical, "H"-shaped gate. McCauley selected reverse, released the umbrella-type handbrake protruding from under the dash by her left knee as Stacey settled herself on the Burgundy leather front bench seat, and reversed the car out of the parking slot behind the hangar. He accelerated away down through the airfield building complex out to the main gate; then turned left onto Highway Thirteen towards the centre of downtown Vientiane.