Читать книгу Dragon Mountain - Daniel Reid - Страница 6

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I know this is all being transcribed for the record, but I'm no writer, so I'll just tell my story exactly as it happened, start to finish, without any fancy frills. Then I want a one-way ticket out of this place so I can go home and find my family.

My name's Jack Robertson, and I'm—I was—senior pilot for Air America, operating out of Saigon from 1962 until my last flight in September 1971. I hear that Air America folded up several years ago and that we let Saigon fall to the Reds. We're still holding the line in Korea and Taiwan, so what the hell happened to us in Vietnam?

Anyway, I remember the day it happened as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was September 2, 1971, and I'd just flown a load of ammo and communications gear from Saigon up to our forward supply depot in northern Laos, the one near Luang Prabang. It was a routine run, and I expected to be back in Saigon by nightfall.

As usual, there were a couple dozen people hanging around the airstrip, hoping to hitch a free ride back to Saigon. But we had so much opium stockpiled in the hangar for my return run—forty lugs, as I recall—that there wasn't enough space left on board for a fly to squat and shit, much less for extra passengers. Due to the short runways up there, we were still using DC-3s on that run, so we had to watch our weight carefully.

When the cargo bay was fully loaded, I grabbed the mailbag, climbed into the cockpit, and took off around 3:00 PM. I'd just reached cruising altitude when the shit hit the fan.

I'd heard some creaking back in the cabin, but assumed it was caused by all those heavy lugs of opium settling into place as I banked sharply toward the southeast. I had just lit a cigarette when a big wet wad of red betel juice sprayed past my face and splattered onto the instrument panel. I spun my head around and found the stubby barrel of an Israeli-made Uzi machine gun pointed at my face. My first thought was, "Where the hell'd he find a weapon like that in this part of the world?" It was a moot question.

Looking up at the man behind the trigger, I saw that I was in for some big trouble. Square and squat in the cabin door, betel juice dribbling like blood down his chin, there stood a filthy, bald-headed Chinese with one eye missing. A sweat-stained patch covered the empty socket. Yes, I'm sure he was Chinese-after thirty years out here, I can identify Asians at a glance.

So there stood this one-eyed Chinaman grinning at me like a maniac with red-stained teeth, casually aiming an Uzi at me. I knew that a three-second burst from that gun could inscribe the Lord's Prayer on my forehead, so I didn't pull any monkey business. I just froze and stared him down.

To my utter amazement, he addressed me politely in Chinese, using my old Chinese name. "How are you, Mr. Luo?" he sputtered in lousy Mandarin. His accent told me that he was a southern Chinese and that he felt uncomfortable speaking the northern dialect. "The Boss has sent me to greet you and to accompany you back to his place for dinner. He is very eager to see you again." Immensely amused by his little soliloquy, he burst out cackling, spraying stinking red spittle all over the cockpit. He obviously knew who I was and that I speak Chinese, so I decided not to fake it.

"This is a bit sudden," I replied in Mandarin that put his own pronunciation to shame. "Unfortunately, I have a previous engagement in Saigon this evening. Please thank your boss for his kind invitation. Perhaps some other time."

That really cracked him up, and his eyes slit shut with laughter. If he'd been holding anything else but that damn Uzi, I would have tried to overpower him right then and there, but a cockpit struggle with that piece would have been the end of both of us.

"No way!" he replied in a nasty tone. "If I don't bring you back in time for dinner tomorrow evening, the Boss will tear out my other eye and make me eat it. Aye-yah, he has such a terrible temper!"

So that's how the whole thing started. "One-Eye," as I called him, would not tell me who the "Boss" was, nor where we were headed for "dinner." Instead, he eased himself comfortably into the copilot's seat and handed me a neatly folded piece of paper with a curt message scrawled in English:

Captain Jack, long time no see! I request the

honor of your company for dinner at Dragon

Mountain. My emissary Mr. Huang is an experienced

navigator, and he will direct you here. If you refuse

to cooperate, he will kill you.

Best Regards,

Your Old Friend

Tucked inside the note was a crude map with precise navigational directions inscribed on it. One-Eye jabbed a dirty finger at a point on the map and told me that it was our destination. I could see at a glance that the point was located on the Shan Plateau in northern Burma, on the western outskirts of the Golden Triangle.

With One-Eye riding shotgun and spraying betel juice the whole way, we cruised north across Laos, skirted along the Thai border, and entered Burmese airspace right smack over the Triangle. The radio squawked a few times, but whenever I reached for the receiver, One-Eye jabbed his Uzi in my ribs.

I checked my bearings and began to descend slowly near the point indicated on the map. Steep mountains and dense carpets of green jungle stretched all the way to the horizon without a trace of civilization anywhere. Was I supposed to land in the trees?

But as we got closer to the ground, One-Eye blinked in recognition at the terrain below. Clucking his approval, he craned his neck against the window and scanned the landscape. Suddenly, he pointed toward a huge craggy mountain that loomed like a dark tower against the northern skyline.

"There it is!" he slobbered. "Dragon Mountain!"

We veered around the northern face of the mountain, and signs of human habitation began to appear below: squat thatch huts, green patches of land under cultivation, terraced rice paddies, dogs and water buffalo, smoke from cooking fires-all the elements of a typical Asian village. One-Eye directed me ten miles further north, where a tattered wind sock flapped listlessly, indicating a landing strip. The coolies below looked like busy ants as they scurried across the strip to clear away the camouflage.

"Okay, Huang, fasten your seatbelt; we're going in!"

"Good, good!" he sprayed, watching the tricky landing with his single, well-practiced eye. "Your flying skills are excellent. The Boss will be very pleased!"