Long Tieng, Laos
CNN
—
Deep in the sweltering jungles of central Laos, a 4,500-foot stretch of cracked concrete cuts through the trees — an airstrip without an airport, in a village where many have never been on a plane.
But behind its crumbling control tower and bomb-cratered runway lies a hidden chapter of America’s Cold War history — a site once known as “the most secret place on Earth.”
The village of Long Tieng sits in central Laos, about 80 miles northeast of the capital, Vientiane. Today, it’s a sleepy settlement of a few thousand people who mostly rely on the land to carve out a living.
There are a couple of restaurants, two guesthouses and a handful of multipurpose shops selling everything from rice to farming tools made from repurposed bombshell metal — a nod to the village’s agricultural roots and wartime past.
At the village center lies the airstrip. It no longer serves aircraft, instead now functioning as a kind of outdoor community center: children ride scooters, farmers herd cattle and elderly villagers take early morning strolls before the intense heat engulfs the valley.
But 50 years ago, the scene was vastly different.
From the 1960s to the early 1970s, Laos played a central role in the United States’ fight to stop the spread of communism in Southeast Asia. Long Tieng was the secret headquarters of a US-backed Hmong anti-communist army fighting against the communist Pathet Lao forces, which were supported by the North Vietnamese Army.
At its height, tens of thousands of inhabitants — Hmong soldiers, their families, refugees from other parts of Laos, Thai soldiers and a small contingent of American CIA operatives and secret US Air Force pilots, dubbed “Ravens” — called this place home. It was the heart of the largest paramilitary operation ever conducted by the CIA.
At one point in time, the tiny airstrip handled 900 daily take-offs and landings, making it one of the busiest airports in the world. Cargo planes would offload crucial supplies including ammunition and food, which would then be loaded onto smaller planes that flew to even smaller airstrips around the country.
Despite the scale of the base, it was so secret even some of those participating in the war in other locations did not know of its existence, says Paul Carter, a Laos Secret War specialist who lives in Southeast Asia.
“The war in Laos was so compartmentalized … I knew guys who participated in that war, they did not even know Long Tieng existed until the late 1960s when they started letting the reporters in there,” he tells CNN.
From this remote mountain village, the CIA-backed Hmong army, led by the charismatic General Vang Pao, fought not only the communist Pathet Lao forces but also conducted guerrilla operations — destroying North Vietnamese supply depots, blowing up critical supply routes and generally harassing communist forces — all with full support from the US.
As part of this secret war, the US launched a brutal bombing campaign that paralleled its broader military operations in Vietnam. And because international agreements barred direct military involvement in Laos, the effort fell almost entirely on the CIA.
American pilots flew thousands of missions from Long Tieng’s airstrip, which was known by the codenames Lima Site 98 and Lima Site 20A.
Fifty years after the fall of Long Tieng in 1975, I set out to explore the remnants of the US presence in the area.
I was drawn here after reading the book, “A Great Place to Have a War” by Joshua Kurlantzick. It pulled me into a world I’d never known — a hidden Cold War battleground on the sidelines of the Vietnam War. Watching old, grainy newsreels of reporters wandering around the base only deepened my fascination. Somewhere along the way, I realized I needed to see Long Tieng with my own eyes.
Before long, I find myself in Vientiane with an old college friend who I’ve convinced to come along for an adventure and Mr. Pao — the only driver I could find with a car suitable for the journey.
Pao says he used to work at the mines near Long Tieng and is familiar with the area, though he admits he’s only visited the village once before.
Several tour companies organize trips, but the number of tourists that visit Long Tieng still pales in comparison to Laos’ major tourist destinations like Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng.
Chris Corbett, owner of Laos Adv Tours and Rentals, tells CNN that his company operates around 10 motorbike tours a year to the site, taking a total of around 40 people to the village. He said his guests mainly come from the United States, Australia and Europe.
Today, the village remains largely cut off from the rest of the country. Though just 80 miles from Vientiane, the drive takes over eight hours.
Beyond the capital’s outskirts, roads quickly degrade — first into unsealed dirt tracks, then into rugged mining roads scarred by landslides and potholes.
Visibility is often poor — dust kicked up by mining trucks combines with smoke from slash-and-burn agriculture. At times, we crawl forward, barely reaching 5 mph.
Part of the road winds over a rugged mountain pass with no guardrails, just a sheer drop into the valley below. Sitting in the back of the car, I grip the seat in front of me as our driver edges closer to the cliffside, the tires skimming loose gravel.
At one point, our driver glances back and warns us that if we get a flat tire out here, we’ll likely be stuck for a long time — maybe hours. There’s no phone signal. We nod silently and keep going.
As we approach Long Tieng, the rough dirt road suddenly gives way to smooth pavement. Cresting the final mountain pass, we expect to glimpse the airstrip — but thick smoke shrouds the valley, limiting visibility to a few hundred meters.
Descending into the village as the sun sets, there’s little sign that 30,000 people once lived here. Family farms now occupy land once filled with barracks and command centers. Military convoys have long been replaced by scooters and cattle.
We stay in a guesthouse next to the airstrip. It’s barebones — a wooden bed and a single creaky fan that spins with little effect. There’s no air conditioning, and the humid air hangs heavy and unmoving. It’s hard to sleep — not just because of the heat, but because I can’t stop thinking about what this place had once been.
The next morning, we walk down the center of the airstrip as the sun rises over the valley. Once one of the busiest runways in the world, it now lies silent. Tall grass sprouts from potholes left by artillery strikes. The crumbling control tower is only half its original height, and the hangars at the far end sit abandoned — rusting reminders of a war long past.
As I walk along its length, I notice the absence of signposts, statues or any form of commemoration. Despite the airstrip’s historical importance, there’s nothing to mark it.
Among those who operated out of Long Tieng during the war were the Ravens, a secret group of active-duty Air Force pilots who volunteered to serve in Laos. Their primary role was to act as forward air controllers (FACs), flying low behind enemy lines to identify and mark targets for US Air Force bombers.
“They were just kind of taken off the books,” Carter says. “They operated under a different cover.“
The Ravens wore civilian clothing and were issued US Embassy ID cards. In some cases, Carter notes, pilots were also issued US Agency for International Development (USAID) identity cards.
The Ravens often flew in pairs — an American pilot in front and a local Hmong “backseater” who communicated with ground forces.
But they weren’t alone over the skies of Laos. Pilots from Air America, a secret CIA-owned airline, also operated in Long Tieng; they flew in crucial supplies to the base and conducted daring search and rescue missions to recover downed pilots deep behind enemy lines.
“I landed there pretty much every other day,” Neil Hansen, a pilot stationed in Laos during part of the war, tells CNN.
Hansen worked for Air America between 1964 and 1973 and detailed his experience in the book, “FLIGHT: An Air America Pilot’s Story of Adventure, Descent and Redemption.”
“I was flying a C-123, bringing in munitions, supplies and fuel for ‘the little birds,’ which would then distribute it to other sites,” Hansen recalls. As part of his mission, he also transported “CIA customers.”
During one flight in 1972, Hansen was shot down over the Plateau de Bolevan in southern Laos.
“After getting my crew out and bailing out, I watched the C-123 fall out of the sky and explode,” he says, noting he was rescued by Air America helicopters shortly after.
About 100 meters west of the airstrip stands a two-story house that once served as the headquarters of General Vang Pao, the leader of the CIA-backed Hmong army. From this remote compound, Pao worked closely with American operatives to coordinate a covert war, marshaling thousands of Hmong fighters while receiving US air support, weapons and humanitarian aid in return.
Set behind a tall fence and overgrown garden, the house still feels separated from the rest of the village — distant, guarded. A sign on the front door, written in English, reads: “No entry without permission.” It’s the only English sign we’ve seen in the entire village, and it stops us in our tracks. With no one around, we circle the property, peering through dusty windows, unsure whether we can get inside.
An older man in weathered military fatigues appears nearby. Without saying a word, he approaches, slowly dangling a key in front of our faces. He doesn’t speak English, but types out a number on his phone. We nod and hand over the cash. A moment later, we’re inside.
The house is not what I expected. I’d imagined a preserved time capsule, cluttered with mementos or forgotten artifacts — but the rooms are eerily empty. No furniture, no decorations, no posters or portraits of the general. In the foyer, dozens of artillery shells are stacked neatly in one corner, with several mortar rounds resting nearby. It’s surreal to see these instruments of war arranged with such quiet precision. Through a translation app, the man warns us not to touch anything — some might still be live.
Upstairs, a single wooden desk and chair have been placed near a panoramic window facing the airstrip. I sit down, imagining General Vang Pao and CIA officers in this very spot, directing B-52 bombing runs on communist strongholds. The war — so vast, so devastating — had largely been coordinated from this small, simple room. It was almost impossible to reconcile the scale of the conflict with the modesty of this setting.
We climb up to the roof. From there, the view stretches across the old airstrip and into the mountains that once shielded Long Tieng from attack. Today, the village is quiet. A few people walk slowly down the main road. Stray dogs nap in the sun. It’s hard to believe that tens of thousands of people once lived here.
Today, the impacts of the intense US bombing campaign on Laos are still being felt. Of the 270 million sub-munitions dropped on the country, an estimated 30% did not detonate, according to the Mines Advisory Group (MAG). These unexploded ordnances continue to kill, injure and hinder development across the country, according to MAG.
Around the hills of Long Tieng, villagers still rarely venture off established roads and trails to avoid unexploded munitions.
Full US-Laos relations were restored in 1992 and since 1995, the US has invested more than $390 million in a Conventional Weapons Destruction program aimed at addressing the legacy of the war. However, questions remain about future US funding of explosive ordinance clearance in Southeast Asia following the Trump administration’s widespread suspension of foreign aid.
“I fell in love with Laos,” says Hansen. “I look back on my time as exciting and a place where I could immerse myself in the culture. I was fulfilling a purpose where I knew I was accomplishing something that was needed.”
Back in Long Tieng, children riding scooters zoom past my friend and me, their tires bumping over the broken concrete that once launched warplanes into the sky.
I now understand why the community gravitates toward the airstrip whenever they can: it’s one of the few open spaces cleared of unexploded ordnance.
A rare place where children can play without fear of becoming another casualty of a war that ended 50 years ago.
The legacy of a secret conflict — barely remembered back in the United States.
