Dragon Mountain

I

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!

II

As soon as we'd landed, the barefoot coolies swarmed across the airstrip again, dragging shrubs and fallen limbs to conceal it. I taxied to a halt under a makeshift canopy among the trees that served as a hangar and disembarked, with One-Eye right behind me, prodding me in the ribs with his Uzi. Dented drums of gas and oil, broken boxes full of rusty old tools, and sundry aircraft parts were strewn about the ground. Amid this mess an old woman squatted before a charcoal fire, stirring a bubbling cauldron of what appeared to be food. One-Eye commandeered a fresh chew of betel from her, then nudged me up a jungle trail with his gun.

The hike up to Dragon Mountain took a day and a half. We spent the night in a filthy hovel along the trail, which One-Eye called an inn. It was actually a guardhouse, and I spent a sleepless night chained to a post like a dog.

We finally reached the village I'd seen from the air late the following afternoon. A crude drawbridge fashioned of wooden planks and bamboo beams hung across a muddy, swift-flowing stream that separated us from the final stretch of trail into the village. One-Eye barked a sharp command at the guards on the other side, and immediately they lowered the bridge to let us cross. We trudged along another half mile or so of trail into the village, a dusty little hamlet perched on a plateau at the foot of that massive mountain.

It looked like a typical Shan village, with thatched huts built up on short bamboo stilts, each one set in a private yard enclosed within hedges of tough thornbush. A few Shan tribes-men eyed me curiously as we passed through the village, but they didn't show the least hint of surprise at my presence there. They all wore the towel-like turbans, baggy pants, and loose tunics favored by the Shan, who resemble Mongols and Tibetans more than Burmans. Their Chinese-Tibetan ancestry gives them features entirely different from Southeast Asian stock.

I stopped to light a cigarette, but One-Eye poked me rudely in the ribs and hurried me on. No time to stop and rest now. Almost sunset. Boss waiting. Dinner soon. We passed through the village and headed up a steep path that led directly to the base of Dragon Mountain.

The dirt path gave way to smooth stone steps as we approached a huge, triple-arched Chinese gate, like the ones you see in old Chinese temples and imperial palaces. A fifteen-foot-high stone wall with cornices of glazed yellow tile snaked out into the jungle in both directions from this gaudy gate. For a moment it reminded me of a stage set for one of those corny Chinese kungfu movies they make in Hong Kong. Nothing seemed real.

One-Eye shouted the same command he'd used at the drawbridge, and one of the side gates slowly swung open. Only the Boss used the big central portal, One-Eye informed me, just like the Chinese emperors of yore. Armed guards, all of them Chinese, milled around within the compound, but they too barely took notice of me.

Have you ever seen the private imperial gardens located in the northern compound of the Forbidden City in Peking? That's what the scene that unfolded before my eyes behind that gate looked like. Not a trace of the wild jungle through which we'd trekked to get there was to be seen anywhere within those walls. Instead, everything was neatly landscaped and carefully manicured, with exotic trees and flowers from all over the world growing profusely in well-tended gardens. There were mountains of cleverly sculpted rocks, rivers formed by little rills that connected carp ponds abloom with lotus, miniature stone bridges, ornate pavilions, and other classical Chinese touches. In the soft pink light of dusk, the scene looked especially beautiful—and unreal.

We followed a flagstone path through the gardens up to another huge Chinese gate. It too swung open at One-Eye's signal. We entered a spacious courtyard paved with slabs of raw marble, empty except for an enormous bronze incense cauldron, five times the size of an oil drum, set in the middle. A pair of intricately cast golden dragons snaked up the sides of the cauldron, peering ferociously at each other over the rim.

Long colonnades of rooms stretched along the walls on both sides of the courtyard, with the smooth gray face of the mountain rising abruptly opposite the gate. This cliff soared about a hundred feet straight up, with the craggy peaks of the mountain towering high above it. Halfway up the face of this cliff, I noticed windowsills jutting out. A heavy double door studded with bronze spikes formed an entrance to the cliff at ground level. Chiseled in bold relief just above the door, writhed an impressive Imperial Dragon, the kind with five claws rather than only four, the symbol of Chinese emperors for over five thousand years. Whatever lay behind that door must have been carved into solid rock.

We are here! One-Eye hissed with obvious relief, his mission accomplished. The bronze doors swung open silently, and he signaled me inside, while he remained out in the courtyard as the huge doors swung closed again behind me.

I found myself standing in a vast cavern, dimly lit by a few coconut oil lamps along the walls. It was so large that I couldn't see the ceiling. Suddenly a woman stepped out of the shadows and greeted me with a deep bow, her hands folded before her heart in the traditional Buddhist gesture of greeting. Though she was definitely of local stock, she wore a tight-fitting Chinese gown of the finest silk brocade. Silently she led me across the dark, dank cavern to a narrow stairwell carved into the living stone of the mountain and beckoned me to follow her up.

It was a long climb, and when we emerged at the top, I saw why. We now stood in a chamber set high above the cavern I'd entered down below. Plenty of light and fresh air entered this room through latticed windows cut into the stone walls, and Chinese lanterns with electric light hung from the carved wooden beams of the ceiling. The entire room was paneled in richly lacquered hardwood, and the scent of sandalwood incense sweetened the air. Traditional Chinese furnishings stood all around. It looked like one of those throne rooms in the Forbidden City, where Chinese emperors used to receive foreign dignitaries.

My escort melted into the woodwork as silently as she'd appeared, leaving me to gawk at the incredible luxury that filled the room. But the smell of tobacco told me I was not alone. Perched on some kind of elevated throne at the far end of the room sat a man smoking a cigarette and tapping the arm of his chair with the tip of a long gold, jewel-encrusted fingernail sheath that capped the little finger of his left hand. He glared at me in stony silence as I approached him.

At ten paces I froze in my tracks and squinted at the man. I could hardly believe my eyes! A smug smile spread across the man's face as he felt my recognition grow—a demented smirk that confirmed his identity beyond all doubt. Sure, he'd changed a bit—lost most of his hair and much of his bulk-but that look on his face—especially the perverse smile—hadn't changed at all. Swank on his pretentious throne, wearing a long Mandarin robe of the best Chinese silk, with a golden dragon embroidered across his chest, sat my old friend Ching Wei, grinning at me through a coiling cloud of smoke.

III

Have you eaten yet? he asked. That's a standard Chinese greeting and means basically the same as How do you do? in English. It was typical of that wise guy to greet me with such courtesy, as though he'd simply invited me over for dinner, rather than having me dragged there at gunpoint by his goon, One-Eye.

Not yet, I replied, which immediately obliged him to offer me something to eat. I hadn't had a bite of food for two days and felt famished.

Good! he said, snuffing out his cigarette in an ivory ashtray as he stood up. Dinner is ready. I am so delighted you could come here tonight. As our great sage Confucius said, 'When friends visit from afar, is this not indeed a pleasure!'

He led me through a round moon door into a smaller but equally well-appointed dining room. Scrolls of elegant Chinese calligraphy and delicate landscape paintings adorned the walls; sprays of fresh flowers artfully arranged in antique porcelain vases scented the air—all the traditional trappings of a classical Chinese gentleman were there. In the middle of the room stood a polished rosewood dining table, set for two.

Please be seated, he said, indicating my place at the table.

We sat silently and appraised each other for a few minutes. He had grown one of those long Fu Manchu types of mustaches, which he habitually twisted and tugged with his fingertips. The nail of his left little finger must have been at least two inches long, and it was sheathed inside a gold nail scabbard studded with emeralds, rubies, and sapphires that sparkled in the candlelight. This indicated, in classical Chinese fashion, that he was a gentleman of wealth and leisure, not a man of labor. His smoothly shaven head shined like a bowling ball, and his eyes flickered brightly through narrow lids. Another native girl in Chinese dress appeared from nowhere and poured us a round of hot rice wine—the real Hsiao-Shing wine from the mainland. She also placed a few platters of hot hors d'oeuvres on the table, served us a portion of each, then disappeared as silently as she'd come.

Welcome to Dragon Mountain, Captain Jack, Ching Wei finally said, hoisting his cup to toast me. Let us drink to old times. Bottoms up! His English had improved considerably since I'd last seen him. How long has it been, Jack?

About thirty years.

Ah, yes, thirty years. We have so much to talk about, and so much time to talk about it. But first, we must eat! He clapped his hands and the girl returned with the first course, a platter of roasted meat and braised poultry, garnished with coriander, scallions, and a savory sauce.

The girl returned about every fifteen minutes, each time with a fresh platter of the most superb Chinese food I'd eaten in years. One bite was enough to tell me that a genuine culinary artist was at work back in the kitchen. We had everything from bird's nest soup to shark fin stew, and some dishes that I'd never even tasted before. We didn't spoil the meal with serious discussion. Instead, we chatted about the finer points of Chinese cuisine.

By now this whole thing must sound like a fairy tale, so let me backtrack a bit and fill in the background.

I first met Ching Wei back in Chungking, China, during the war. We were both pilots then, assigned to fly supplies over the Himalayan Hump from India into Kunming and Chungking. I was stationed there from 1942 until VJ Day in 1945, when I was transferred back to Shanghai. So I knew Ching Wei for about three years there, after which I never saw him again until that night.

The first time we met was at a Chinese martial arts class that we both attended in Chungking. The weather was so terrible there that we'd often be grounded for days at a time with nothing to do. And with the chronic shortage of fuel, the constant damage to runways from Japanese bombs, and the endless bickering between General Stilwell and the Chinese command, we ended up spending more time on the ground than in the air. The martial arts class helped kill time.

There was a remarkable old Chinese master living in Chungking at the time, and he organized the class especially for Chinese and American officers stationed there. I guess the class was his personal contribution to the war effort. We simply called him Old Lee among ourselves, but always Master Lee to his face. He came from a long line of martial artists and Taoist mystics, and—believe it or not—his father was still alive then at the ripe old age of 273! To prove it, Old Lee once showed me his father's birth certificate, duly stamped with the official seals of the Kang-Hsi reign in the Ching Dynasty. I once asked his father for the secret to his health and longevity, and he simply replied, Correct breathing. Anyway, it was fascinating stuff, and it had both recreational and practical health benefits. I always looked forward to the class during those long dismal days we were grounded.

About thirty of us studied under Old Lee—ten Americans and the rest Chinese—but at any given time about half of us were stuck on the other side of the Hump in India. It was like a little fraternity: close bonds of brotherhood formed among most of Old Lee's students. That's the Chinese way.

During my three years