Part One.  

Call Sign: "Footloose One."

Chapter One.

09.35 Hrs, Friday, 20th September 1968.

Camp Holloway, Pleiku City.

South Vietnam.

It was promising to be just one more long, hot, stagnant day… the kind of day you just wished you could escape from, and find some cool place that did not seem to exist anywhere in this God-forsaken Country. The Camp Holloway operational flight area was already blanketed by a big temperature inversion layer caused by late slash and burn agriculture in, and around Northern Laos; not helped by the latter part of the wet monsoon season that was holding the saturating heat down on the ground.

On the chopper pad, Chief Warrant Officer Tim Lockhardt walked up to his Bell UH-1H Huey… call sign: "Gator Four," opened the cockpit door, pulled out the logbook and flipped it open. He saw that it was still "Red-X'd." There was no damned point in walking around his bird doing any further pre-flight checks. He glanced back at the tail rotor and swore quietly under his breath. Damn! The rotor blade hadn't been replaced overnight in spite of the repair docket being issued. The deep gouge in the tip of the leading edge of one of the blades throwing it out of balance had been caused by a flying lump of wood during the emergency dust-off that he had been diverted onto, the previous night, at a LZ on a high, wooded area about twenty klicks east of Pakse.

As if flying into a hot LZ in one of the noisiest ships known to modern warfare wasn't bad enough, the flight home had been particularly rough. He had four wounded grunts in the back; "Gator Four" was taking heavy vibration from the damaged tail rotor blade; and he had to keep full right torque pedal applied to keep her straight. She wouldn't be flying again until a new tail rotor had been fitted, and the whole drive shaft to the gearbox had been checked out. That meant he would have to fly one of the spare hacks until his bird was signed off as airworthy.

You simply laid down your money and took your chances with one of these tired old ships. The Tet Offensive had been running since January and had only just ground to a halt after massive losses of Communist troops; but the Vietcong had moved in and were making life difficult out in the "Boonies"... the surrounding countryside.

Flying one of these hacks, especially the UH-1D's out into Indian country was not a deal of fun… they weren't too good, hot and high. This was because the tail rotor was on the wrong side, and trying to pull air through the vertical tail fin. It also rotated counter-clockwise with the leading blade tip rotating down at the front, away from the rotor wash, and losing even more effectiveness. Apart from that; they had a nasty habit of developing hydraulics temperature peaking which could cause a runaway of the semi-rigid, teetering rotor system… and if that hit you; you didn't even get a snowflake's chance in hell of safely auto-rotating down.

He suddenly felt the familiar eerie sensation in his ears. It was always the same... no matter how many times he had heard it before; an undercurrent in the humid, stagnant air... faintly at first, but getting more distinct by the second. Within a couple of minutes, he could hear it coming; pulsing, throbbing; until he could almost feel the flat, hollow, thump-thumping "Whup-whup-whup-whup… Whup-whup-whup-whup" of wide rotor blades slapping the humid air, getting louder and louder. Turning around, he spotted the Huey in the sky as a tiny black speck coming in low and fast from the south... from the direction of Saigon.

As he stood and watched; the 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) Bell Huey, Charlie model gunship came clattering across the perimeter of Camp Holloway, four klicks due east of Pleiku City on the plateau of the Central Highlands of Vietnam. The pilot shot a low approach, lined up, and came to a hover over the spot on the hardstanding designated by the Camp Holloway controller. Whilst still hovering, the gunship turned on its hover axis and proceeded to put down on the edge of the peaceful flight line in a chaotic whirlwind of red dust, next to the row of lightly-armed UH-1Ds and UH-1H "Slick" troopships... so-called because they were used to lift troops or cargo, and were armed only with minimal protective armaments systems… which were parked up alongside the single main runway.

The gunship's rotors began to slow imperceptibly as the turbine wound down; the door slid back, and a canvas valise was tossed out, followed by a pretty, young blonde girl wearing combat fatigues, jungle boots, with a point-forty-four Magnum revolver in a quick-draw holster strapped to her right hip; who jumped down out of the Huey's rear cabin.

She picked up the valise, waved to the pilot, turned, and stepped away from the dust cloud kicked up by the rotor wash as a jeep came bouncing across the uneven dirt track that led from the cluster of huts on the south side of the camp, and skidded to a halt beside her. A young Lieutenant jumped out and approached the girl.

'Lieutenant Mckenna? Welcome to the 119th Assault Helicopter Company. The Colonel's waiting for you.'

Stacey Mckenna was just eighteen; petite in stature, blonde and beautiful; with calm, grey-blue eyes; standing only five feet four, and weighing just one hundred and fourteen pounds; but she feared nothing and no-one, and as they would soon discover; she could hold her own with any man.

The young Lieutenant tossed her valise into the back of the jeep and climbed back into the driving seat. As the girl climbed into the front passenger seat, the gunship pilot gently pulled up on his collective, increased the revs, and the Huey lifted off in a cloud of dust. He pushed forward on the cyclic, and keeping her straight with the pedals, achieved effective transitional lift, clattering away out over the runway, and banking out in a graceful climbing turn to the left.

Stacey Mckenna clung on grimly to the jeep windshield frame as the young Lieutenant sent the vehicle howling and jolting across the rough trackway that led up to the rudimentary headquarters building... which was just one more wooden hut like all the rest. As it lurched to a halt outside the building, a tall, distinguished-looking man wearing jungle fatigues stepped out from the doorway. The only clue to tell that he held the rank of "Full-Bird" Colonel were the single silver eagle rank badges pinned to his epaulettes. As Stacey approached, he stepped forward and shook her by the hand.

'Lieutenant Mckenna. Welcome to Camp Holloway. Damn, but you do look like your mother!'

She saluted, and smiled.

'You know my mother, Colonel?'

He nodded.

'Yeah; we met when she was coming out of Berlin in '45. A very brave, and resourceful Lady. Do come inside.'

The office was spartan... just a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. The Colonel invited Stacey to sit, and introduced himself.

'I am Stephen Lounsbury. I was a young Major with Counter Intelligence Corps at Magdeburg in Germany when I first met your mother. I understand she ended up posted to Korea with The Agency?'

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Stacey nodded.

'So she told me. I was born in Japan and brought up there.'

Lounsbury nodded.

'So where is your Mother now?'

'She finished her tour in Korea, and I was told, years ago; that she was on assignment in Berlin... but I haven't heard anything since. She could be almost anywhere.'

'And your father?...'

She shrugged.

'I never knew my father. They say he was lost on special ops in North Korea before I was born.'

Stephen Lounsbury nodded.

'Yeah; Max Segal. Nobody knows what happened, and nothing has ever been found. He might still be alive for all we know.'

She nodded.

'Perhaps.'

Stephen Lounsbury opened a file on his desk and studied the contents. Then he looked up.

'Do you have your log book with you?'

She nodded, and rummaged in her valise. Pulling out a slim book covered in black linen; she slid it across the desk to him. He flipped through a few pages and looked up.

'That's one hell of a log sheet, Lieutenant. Seems you're checked out on a whole bunch of airplanes.'

She nodded.

'Yes, Colonel. I'm type-approved on all the Company's fleet types, except the big Boeing jets.

Stephen Lounsbury whistled.

'Damn! Outstanding! Where did you learn to fly?'

She smiled.

'I've been flying since I was ten and could reach the rudder pedals. Colonel Josie Pullen is a friend of my mother's and introduced me to a Fairchild PT-19 trainer as a tenth birthday gift. When I followed Mom and Pop into the Company, she put me through Advanced Individual Training at the Special Operations Division Air Branch flight-training centre at Hsinchu, in Taiwan. Don't worry Colonel; I really am as good as the rest of these guys.'

He smiled.

'OK, Stacey; you want to fly the friendly skies of Southeast Asia? There's a Turbo-Porter out there on the strip; gassed up, and ready to go. She's the squadron hack; so you needn't treat her gently. Take her up; wring her neck, and let's see how much of this log is bullshit.'

She nodded and unzipped her valise. From it, she pulled a battered old A4 flying jacket... emblazoned with the Wartime W.A.S.P's official mascot "Fifinella" patch.... Josie Pullen's old flight jacket. Pulling it on, she smiled at the Colonel; and said:

'My Lucky Mascot… In this climate… Hot… but Lucky!

As she left the office and walked across to where the Turbo-Porter was parked, Stacey noticed a knot of pilots and ground crew gathering to watch this dumb chick screw up. A new Peter pilot... or would it be "Peta" pilot in her case? This was the stigma worn by all new arrivals… a non-entity to be ignored. She smiled quietly. Josie had said that this was the one downside to flying with "The Company." Under the critical gaze of the assembled crowd, she went through her pre-flight walk-around, and satisfied, climbed into the cockpit. She strapped into the seat harness, put on the headset, and reached across to flick up the ignition, followed by the engine-start switches. With the engine running, she went through the final pre-flight checklist and wound on the correct amount of trim for the variable incidence tailplane with the crank handle in the cockpit roof above her head.

She gave the instruments a final scan… everything up and reading normally; released the brakes and taxied out to the runway. And now, for the trick that Josie had taught her back at flight school. Pushing the power control lever fully forward, she brought the engine up to full power whilst holding on the brakes; and, with the stick all the way back; she released the brakes and began to accelerate down the asphalt strip. As the Airspeed indicator pointer reached the optimum fifty-six knots indicated, she reached up; wound down eight cranks of take-off flap with the crank fitted next to the tailplane incidence control, and shoved the power control lever through the detent gate at the emergency power end of the quadrant; pulling back on the stick at the same time. The Turbo-Porter went up like a high-speed elevator in the Empire State Building.

At a hundred feet, Stacey retracted flaps and pulled hard back, pushing the stick over into a screaming corkscrew climb-out to eight thousand feet, where she hung on her prop for a few seconds; and executed a tail-slide into a perfect hammerhead turn. She flipped the Porter into a falling leaf tumble for two thousand or so, feet; then pulled out and howled across the runway at almost zero feet.

Out over the camp perimeter she pulled up into a classically-executed Immelmann turn; and, punching in sixty degrees of bank, side-slipped in, cranked on eleven turns of flap, and hit reverse pitch as she touched down. The Turbo-Porter stopped within a little more than one hundred and sixty feet of its wheels first touching the runway. She lifted the power control lever, moved it forward beyond the detent of the quadrant to select normal pitch, and taxied back to the hardstanding. She then went through the shut-down procedure, checked all switches were off and the parking brake was set; unbuckled her harness, pulled off her headset; opened the cockpit door and jumped out.

She was immediately surrounded by onlookers... some grinning, some with disbelief written all over their faces. Stephen Lounsbury pushed his way through and stood; hands on hips in front of her.

'Where in the hell d'you learn to fly like that? You were doing things up there that I didn't know these birds could do! For Pete's sake, you were flying her like she was a goddamned Helio Courier!'

She smiled.

'I told you I could hack it, Colonel.'

Lounsbury grinned.

'Hack it? That's got to be the goddamned understatement of the year! If you were one of Uncle Sam's you'd be up for a court-martial for that little show!'

Stacey smiled sweetly.

'But I'm not one of Uncle Sam's. If I was, you'd never have given me the chance to show you.'

The onlookers went quiet as they listened to the conversation. They were looking at this dumb chick in a new light, now. She had to be with "The Company." She just couldn't be anything else; and for that one reason alone, she deserved their grudging respect.

"The Company"… Air America; was an American passenger and cargo airline established in 1950 and covertly owned and operated by the Central Intelligence Agency's Special Activities Division. Operating primarily out of Laos and Thailand, in a war which was so secret that the name of the country was banished from all official communications and everyone involved simply referred to these operations as being expedited in "The Other Theater"; Air America missions included everything from food drops to photo reconnaissance; to the delivery and recovery of covert operatives and special-missions teams across national borders. On occasion, they even flew top-secret missions into Burma and the People's Republic of China.

Air America's civilian-marked craft were frequently used under the control of the Seventh/Thirteenth Air Force, to launch search and rescue missions for U.S. pilots downed throughout Southeast Asia. Air America pilots were the only known private U.S. corporate employees allowed to operate non-Federal Aviation Administration-certified military aircraft in a combat role. Their pilots transported tens of thousands of VIPs, troops and refugees, flew food and weapons to the Hmong tribes that were fighting the communists, and inserted and extracted road watch teams. They flew emergency medevac missions and night time airdrop missions over the Ho Chi Minh Trail, monitored sensors along infiltration routes; conducted a highly successful photo-reconnaissance programme, and engaged in numerous clandestine missions using night-vision glasses and state-of-the-art electronic equipment. Without Air America's presence, the CIA's effort in Laos could not possibly have been sustained for any length of time.

Air America also tended to register its aircraft in Taiwan, operating in Laos without the B- nationality prefix. Ex U.S. military aircraft were often used with the last three digits of the serial as a civil marking, sometimes with a B- prefix. But the job was fraught with danger even though the pilots' wages were high. The pay was roughly eight hundred Dollars per month for a co-pilot and twelve-hundred Dollars for a captain; which was comparable to that of civilian airline pilots, with additional pay for hazardous duty in enemy territory.

"The Company" pilots of Air America were not regarded as being members of the U.S. Armed Forces, and therefore, had no status under the Geneva Convention. Every man there knew that if that was indeed what this pretty little blonde was; that fact would make not the slightest difference to the Communist Vietnam People's Army, the Viet Cong, or the Laotian Communists if she was ever shot down and captured whilst on a mission. These Gooks played by no accepted rules. They were notorious murderers who would kill anyone who crossed their path. As far as they would be concerned, this pretty girl would be big game to them and would most likely give them hours of fun by torturing her to death if she fell into their hands.

Each Air America pilot was obliged to carry a small pill of lethal Saxitoxin paralytic shellfish toxin, especially created by the CIA, which he had sworn to take if he ever fell into the hands of the enemy. There was no known antidote, and death would occur from respiratory failure… because a quick death was something normally denied to any American who fell into the hands of the Pathēt Lāo.

The Camp Holloway flyers knew that, even when put up against their perilous occupations of dropping troops into hot zones, the Air America life was the perfect occupation for anyone who enjoyed living on the edge under extreme difficulties and at great personal risk. Anything in the air after dark in "The Other Theater" was fair game... it was also fair game in daylight... but at least then, you might just see it coming in time to take avoiding action.

With the superiority complex of her fellow "Company" pilots, with regard to fixed-wing airplanes as being their personal property; this pretty little gal would almost certainly be flying an uncamouflaged, civilian unarmed Huey in some of the most dangerous skies of the entire Indo-Chinese peninsula… a rugged land where few runways were paved and where every Pathēt Lāo with a rifle of any description… even flintlocks; took pot-shots at every airplane they saw. And, on top of that… she would be facing this without even a door gunner.