Like Another Lifetime In Another World

Mike Shepherd

Description

Like Another Lifetime In Another World follows war correspondent Mick Scott around Saigon as he searches for a street kid who could be the long-lost son of Ho Chi Minh.
This is the story of Mick Scott, some of which is based on the author's Vietnam wartime experiences as an Air Force correspondent for Armed Forces Radio. In the fictionalized version of events, on his way to Vietnam, Scott is ordered to report to US Intelligence in San Francisco where he is recruited for a special assignment. It entails finding a Saigon street kid who is the long-lost son of a top North Vietnamese Communist official; perhaps Ho Chi Minh himself. Once found, intelligence hopes to use the kid as a pawn in peace negotiations. Meanwhile, Scott travels throughout Vietnam as a reporter, which provides a vehicle to impart what is happening in arguably the most pivotal year of the war; 1967-68, with the Tet Offensive as the catalytic episode. As the story progresses, he crosses paths with a double agent, and the infamous Panther Lady, who is riding around Saigon on a motorbike gunning down GIs. Along with them, the kid intelligence wants him to find, and his drinking buddy Bobby, Scott becomes entangled in a sticky web of intrigue and deceit.

Sujets

• Histoire
• Mick Scott
• World
• History

Informations

• Publié par: iUniverse
• Date de parution: 18 mars 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781491729410
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

LIKE ANOTHER LIFETIME IN ANOTHER WORLD

 
 
 
 
 
Mike Shepherd
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
LIKE ANOTHER LIFETIME IN ANOTHER WORLD
 
 
Copyright © 2014 Mike Shepherd.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
 
 
 
 
 
iUniverse
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www.iuniverse.com
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-4917-2940-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4917-2941-0 (e)
 
 
 
 
 
iUniverse rev. date: 07/26/2023
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
CHAPTER 1

The day before I left Illinois for San Francisco, where I was to catch a plane to Vietnam, I received a telegram from the Pentagon. It told me to report to an
Army intelligence officer named Colonel Roger Smith at the federal building in Frisco to be briefed on a special assignment for which I had become the prime candidate. I thought I was being sent to Nam as a combat correspondent for Armed Forces Radio, but apparently Uncle Sam had other plans.
“At ease, Airman Scott,” the colonel said when I walked into his office and stood at attention before the big desk he was sitting behind. The way he looked at me though, over the top of his glasses, I felt anything but at ease. His eyes were large; the whites of them anyway, like cue balls, but his pupils were small, dark and piercing.
He lifted one very bushy black eyebrow, which would have served him well as a toupee; Colonel Smith was mostly bald. He twisted his mouth and shook his head slightly in a way that made me think he didn’t particularly like what he saw.
“Sit down, Airman,” he ordered, and I did, in a wobbly little chair at the front of his desk. From the lowly position it put me in, the colonel’s bald head looked even larger, shining like the moon from the light above.
“I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “That documentary you produced at Armed Forces Journalism and Defense Information School on intelligence gathering by operatives posing as foreign journalists in lands we’re at war with grabbed a lot of attention at the Pentagon.” The colonel talked fast, and his voice was nasally and monotone, like a talking robot’s.
“Consequently it’s made you the number one candidate for a special assignment that could help us put an end to this war, on our terms, and soon.”
He rocked back in his squeaky swivel chair, folded his hands on his belly, and began twiddling his thumbs as rapidly as he spoke. “Whereas this assignment does not relate specifically to the subject matter of your documentary, it requires a clear understanding of the importance of deceit when carrying out clandestine activities of all kinds.”
He grinned slyly. “Remember that aptitude test you took right before you graduated, the one administered by the CIA?”
“Uh, yes, Sir, but I didn’t know it was the CIA’s.”
“That’s because they didn’t want you to know. At any rate, it revealed your aptitude for deceit.” He chuckled. “You lied at the outset, when you said you had never been arrested before. Our background check also revealed you were a tough little street kid who liked shooting craps in taverns with drunks, using, shall we say, dice that weren’t well-balanced.”
I felt a little uncomfortable being scrutinized in this way, much like when the doctor says “pull down your pants and bend over.” The background check had been pretty thorough. I didn’t know anyone knew about the loaded dice.
“So, what’s this special assignment, Sir?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” He rolled up to his desk. “Seems there’s some snot-nosed kid running loose on the streets of Saigon who is rumored to be the son of Ho Chi Minh himself. Our sources say this kid’s mother was pregnant with him when she left Hanoi about twelve years ago to go south as a spy, and they say, now get this, Scott, they say the kid’s mother had a red star tattooed on his rump when he was born, so if something should happen to her, he’d never forget where he was from. Peculiar to be sure. In any event, the whereabouts of his mother are now unknown. We think she could be dead. And we’ve gotten word that Uncle Ho has learned of junior’s existence and wants him back in the fold to be groomed as the party’s next leader. Guess they want someone with lineage, as it were, to take over some day.” He looked at me again over the top of his glasses. Why the man wore glasses, I couldn’t tell, because he never looked through them, just over them, and down his nose at me, it seemed.
“So, Airman Scott, while you’re still being sent to Vietnam as a reporter for Armed Forces Radio, we’d like for you to work with us, on the sly, to try and find this kid before the Commies do.”
“But for what purpose, Sir?”
“To use him as a pawn in negotiations with the North Vietnamese. It might take a while to get our hands on him, so you’ll need to get started on this as soon as you get to Saigon.
“But, I-”
“As I said, we did a background check on you,” the colonel interrupted, as was his habit, “and it revealed that arrest thing in a . . . ,” and he consulted a piece of paper, finally using his glasses for something other than a prop on his nose, “. . . in, let’s see now, oh, yes, here it is, last year, just before you joined the Air Force.”
Yes, I had lied about it. The Air Force doesn’t knowingly accept guys with criminal records.
“But that’s okay,” he said, rocking back in his chair again, “. . . considering what you were arrested for.”
For busting some damn hippie in the nose when he tried to burn an American flag during an anti-war demonstration in front of the state capitol in Springfield, my home town. The son-of-a-bitch dropped it, and I stomped out the flames just before the cops came and hauled me off to jail. Best punch I’d ever thrown.
“So you know all about that, huh, Sir?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “No sweat, though, Airman. Some things are worth getting arrested for.”
He removed is glasses, rubbed his eyes, looked at me and smiled. “I know seizing some Saigon street kid may seem like a trivial thing,” he said, speaking slowly now, “but trivial things seem important to these guys. Case in point: right now they’re squawking about the size and shape of the damn table they’d be sitting at when official talks begin,” but then the pace of his speech picked up again, “Meanwhile, though, they’ve been making some behind-the-scene overtures through third parties, namely Poland, but they’ve reached an impasse. This kid could be the catalyst needed to move negotiations along. The bombing, at its present level, doesn’t seem to be doing it. So whaddya say, Airman? Interested?” He put his glasses on and peered intensely at me over the tops of them again.
“Well, Sir, I . . .”
“Think about it for a while, I wouldn’t want you to rush into anything. Times up, I haven’t got all day, Scott. What’s it gonna be?”
The colonel was a fast talker, all right just like a door-to-door salesman. And when I made the mistake of asking if he had any suggestions about what general area the kid in question might be found in—because Saigon was a large city—he responded as if I had already decided to accept the assignment. Maybe I had, but I just didn’t know it yet.
“He’s known to frequent GI watering holes on the northern outskirts of Saigon, near Tan Son Nhut, the big air base where you’ll be stationed,” he said. “Our sources tell us you’re known to frequent watering holes too. That’s another thing that qualifies you for this assignment—your love of the libation. Guess those Springfield taverns rubbed off on you, huh? Maybe you’ll run into him in one of ’em over there.”
“So what if I do run into him, Sir? Then what?”
“Befriend the little bastard then snatch him up and get him to a Captain Sylvester at intelligence headquarters at Tan Son Nhut. Here’s his phone number. When you get to the air base call him and introduce yourself. Meanwhile I’ll let him know you’re on your way.”
“You mean you want me to kidnap this kid, Sir?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” He grinned. “There’s five grand in it for you, Airman. Two now, for expenses . . . ,” he plopped an envelope down on the desk in front of me, “. . . and three more when you deliver, plus two R&Rs to anywhere in the world, and who knows, maybe even a medal.” He then pulled a sheet of paper from the middle drawer of his desk.
“Here’s an artist’s sketch of what they