Dragon Mountain. Daniel Reid

      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