The year is 1966 and the informed insiders on the ground were already whispering (at least to each other) that the Vietnam War was, at best, a stale mate: back on the US mainland, the optics of the daily "TV war" was starting to deliver the full political cost to the Johnson White House and their conversations with the war’s architects was slowly but surely changing into one around how the US could save face and get out.
But this was all far removed from a rugged, hard-to-find valley just 150 km’s north of the old French colonial capital, Vientiane in neighboring Laos where a very different but related conflict was being fought at full cry.
From the air, Long Tiene looks like any other thriving shanty market village in South East Asia - except for one defining feature: a 5000 ft runway cutting through the tin roofs across the valley floor.
LT (as it was known) was perhaps the world’s most secret place that officially didn’t exist on any map but which was now home to about 25,000 people. It’s main industry, if you like, was conducted by a handful of CIA spooks and their “sheep dipped” ex-military advisors and civilian contractors engaged in the re-purposing of displaced refugees and tribal fighters from the hilly northern provinces into an effective fighting force (both aerial and terrestrial) to engage with Laotian communists and North Vietnamese infiltrators.
LT was also a regional hub for Air America which itself was staffed by ex-USAF veterans and younger contract pilots and support staff, and contracted (ultimately) by the US government to deliver people and materials into LT. Air America also operated a fleet of "bush planes" involved in the far riskier trade of ferrying fighters and weaponry to remote bush-strips cut into the undergrowth of the hills and mountains nearer the border with Vietnam to engage with the enemy - making Long Tiene airport one of the busiest in the world.
The Laotian locals, meanwhile, were engaged LT’s other industry - running taxis, street food stands, black market gold and currency exchange and, of course, bars and brothels to extract the maximum out of their home-sick American guests.
And business was booming on all fronts, literally.
But nothing is what it seemed: American personnel adopted assumed nicknames and identities - "sheep dipped" US servicemen who volunteered in Laos after becoming disillusioned with the official war over the border or hard core warriors who chaffed against traditional military discipline - jumpy Vietnam rejects who were perfect hires for the CIA in Laos.
Mike Hand, thick set, dark haired, tall, tanned twenty-something, sits amidst his war buddies playing one final round of Texas Hold ’Em in the back of “Big Sky Bar” on the busy main street (....in reality, a dirt street running roughly parallel to LT’s runway) - it’s a tight group of elite military trainers, pilots, special forces and logistics guys. The dress code is casual - more suited to a Caribbean fishing trip - and the banter is quick and funny.
Festooned with a chaotic collection of war memorabilia and found objects, Big Sky was co-owned by an Air America pilot from Montana and some locals - despite appearances, the joint somehow managed to offer a tiny refuge from the craziness that was beginning to creep like a veil over the war.
This particular card game is also something of a farewell - Mike has completed his two year assignment as a CIA contractor and tomorrow ships out on his way back to the US to re-engage with civilian life and start business school. Mike’s close buddy is also at the table - pilot “Bud” King, the tall lanky slightly older yank who had flown him into and out of trouble in extreme conditions time and time again.
A few other Americans, and some Laotian military types sit towards the front of the bar - variously chatting to the girls, reading letters from home or out of date magazines and newspapers as a sudden late afternoon downpour, so typical of South East Asia, begins to inundate the street outside.
A man, shouldering a knapsack, dodges the newly-formed puddles as he crosses the street, ducks out of the rain and enters the bar. He stops to shake out his cowboy hat, revealing hair just a little too long.
The patrons in the front section clock him - this character clearly doesn’t fit. The man looks around and, with a smile, tries to order a drink - but the Laotian barman simply returns a grin and heads into the back room.
There’s a quick conversation around the card table - someone needs to speak to this guy. Bud volunteers, gets up. Mike gives the other players a wry grin and goes to join him a few seconds later.
The two men approach the newcomer and offer to buy him a drink - it’s all smiles and friendly chat on the surface, but there’s a palpable tension in the conversation.
"Little surprised to find so many Americans here - if officially there’s no war in Laos, what’s everyone doing?" the man ventures, drink in hand.
"English, huh? How exactly did you manage to get here?" Bud asks after a pause, ignoring the man’s question.
"Hitched a ride on local trucks and buses up from the capital, wasn’t easy with recent weather and definitely not cheap," Clint offers casually. "I’m Clint, freelance writer by the way, London based. You guys?"
Mike and Bud look at each other. Mike spots a camera in Clint’s knapsack and is more direct: "OK listen carefully Clint - you can’t be here," Mike says, getting more direct.
"Well I was planning to stay for a few days, take a look around, speak to some people," says Clint still smiling, peering out back into the street and taking another sip of his rapidly warming drink.
"My friend here can be quite persuasive - the best thing would be for you to turn right around, leave, forget everything about this place," adds Bud.
Clint just shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, but clearly already knows more than he’s letting on.
"Actually you do have some choices - we run you to the airport, speak to some people and get you on a flight back to Vientiane tonight. Or sit here and try to finish your drink before the local Laos police show up - it’s a restricted zone and you’ll be arrested, and, best case, interrogated and probably deported after a month or so in one the worst shit holes you could imagine - your choice," Mike offers, deadpan.
Ten minutes later and the three ride in an open jeep through the town, towards what passes for an airport terminal.
Clint, realizing he has nothing to lose, tries to turn the conversation:
"So I already know a fair bit about what’s happening here, the CIA’s dirty little secret...." Bud and Mike don’t react, say nothing.
"General Vang Pao, the opium trade, the local labs and the trade with Vietnam and Europe. It’s going to get written about regardless, nothing will stop the story from getting out either via me or others......" Clint says trying to raise the stakes, growing more animated.
Bud and Mike exchange glances this time - but again won’t be drawn. Clint pulls his camera out from his bag, begins to take some shots of the town and facilities as they drive.
Mike turns around and swats the camera out of his hand in a quick, deft movement - there’s a brief struggle but Mike, a trained Green Beret, quickly gets the best of the situation - Clint sits back resigned and somehow manages a smile at the two men.
Clint is handed to Laotian military police at the Airport - Bud speaks to some American ground staff and the two men leave. Clint smiles and waves as they drive away, shaking his head.
Bud and Mike head back to the card game.
The next day Bud and Mike are flying south over the mountains towards the capital, Vientiane, in a beat up, stout looking Pilatus PC-6, Air America’s work house in these parts. A few thousand feet above the cool dense jungle below, the two men are chatting through the intercom when the subject of the Clint’s allegations comes up again.
"What do you know about the dope trade?" Bud asks.
Mike takes a moment before answering.
"Look we’re not babes in the woods - and the trade isn’t actually illegal in Laos. It was here before the French, it’s still here now and it’ll be here after we’re gone...."
"But taking it out of Laos? We know where it ends up...."
Another thoughtful pause.
"Look, there’s a war on and sometimes you’re just better off not asking some stuff....." Mike finally says
With that, Mike pulls out Clint’s camera and opens the back plate, removes the canister and begins pulling out the exposed film - he feeds it through a small sliding cockpit window beside him. The film rattles noisily in the aircraft’s slipstream for a moment and then, released, begins a strange, looping dance on its way down to the jungle canopy below. Smiling, Mike offers the camera to Bud - another war souvenir. Bud just smiles.
They fly on for some time each alone in their thoughts until Bud breaks the silence, changing the subject.
"Fuck this shit, if I make it out of here, happy to just be a civil pilot, banging air hostesses across America, divorced and a heart bypass by the time I’m 40."
Mike chuckles. "Business school for me…..mortgage, wife, kids, a picket fence in the suburbs cant be far off."
The two men laugh as the moment when their lives would forever diverge drew closer than ever.