Prisoner in Paradise

By Jim Cleary

A unique combination of adventure, romance and fantasy.

Propelled in a heartbeat from a war zone to being captive in a picturesque mountain forest, journalist Sean O’Donnell knows he won’t be going home to his beautiful wife any time soon. But when other captives appear, will he want to?

And how long will the woman he left behind wait for her missing husband before having him declared dead and moving on with her life?

Not knowing the identify his captors is only one of the hurdles he must overcome to gain his freedom, but his fellow captives may pose an even bigger barrier.

Prisoner in Paradise is an unusual survival tale, filled with romantic entanglements and plot twists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Cleary
• Release date: Apr 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781641842631

Jim Cleary

Jim Cleary is an attorney in Kansas City, Missouri. He started his legal career as an Assistant City Prosecutor in the Municipal Court of Kansas City, and then practiced law for many years. His first book for non-lawyers was a 70,000-word hardcover volume entitled Prosecuting The Shoplifter – A Loss Prevention Strategy (Butterworth Publishers, 1986), which contained 78 actual court cases on the law of shoplifting for retail merchants. Cleary also produced a training video and a set of shoplifting loss prevention seminars. He was a speaker at shoplifting loss prevention conferences and presented the training seminars to retail merchants all over the country for ten years, which was a sideline to his law practice.

Book preview

Chapter 1

October 1965

There was beauty all around, but Sean O’Donnell couldn’t see it.

The meadow was blanketed with tall elephant grass and sprinkled with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. Clear water gurgled over rocks in a shallow stream that flowed out of a dense forest.

Sean didn’t notice. As he made his way, wooziness and rubbery legs caused him to stumble often, but he pushed himself and broke into a run, gradually reaching a full sprint.

The soft, warm air was filled with the ambrosial scent of ponderosa pines, and majestic mountains rose up in the distance, with peaks towering 4,000 feet above the valley. The muted sunlight coming through a hazy sky made the panorama look like a fantasyland.

Sean kept running. He wanted to call out, but something stopped him. He fell again, and this time he didn’t get up. His head ached as if he had a hangover. He lay on his back and tried to focus.

Suddenly it all came back to him: the fiery explosions—the screaming—the chaos—and the thousand bits of metal shattering Andy’s face.

Three Weeks Earlier

It was Friday night, and Sean was already thinking about how he and Linda would spend their Saturday. He pictured himself snuggling next to her in the morning, waking her by stroking her hair. Oh, how he loved her shoulder-length, soft brown hair. Later, she’d go horseback riding with friends, and he’d stay home to watch the football game. That night, they were having friends over to grill steaks.

Three long, loud beeps pierced the air, and Sean tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The lights on his police and fire radio scanner began flashing. It was the third call for assistance at a working fire in the warehouse district. He turned his car around and headed toward the action.

Rarely was he an eyewitness to most of the night-beat news stories he wrote for the Arizona Republic. Car accidents, shootings, and robberies had to be reported by interviewing police detectives or maybe a shop owner who’d been held up.

But fires were different. There was always plenty of time to get there to see it firsthand. A newsworthy fire would burn for hours.

Sean watched as the flames engulfed the abandoned wood building. He’d seen it all before. He could hear the battalion chief telling him arson was a possibility. He knew the building owner would be checked out, and there would be an investigation. Then, the insurance company would fight it out with the owner.

How can I be so cynical? I’m twenty-six, and I’ve only been doing this for four years.

Several firefighters appeared, running toward the street, carrying a stretcher. Sean caught a quick glimpse of an unconscious man. He recognized the face from other fires but didn’t know his name.

Smoke inhalation, one fireman shouted to no one in particular. Within minutes, a rescue squad sped the fallen firefighter away from the scene. Sean made a mental note to call the hospital later for his condition.

Using his homemade shorthand, he scribbled in his notebook: tremendous blaze, fireman overcome by smoke, dramatic rescue. He decided tonight he would give more than his usual robotic effort. This story needed to reflect not just the facts, but also a bit of emotion, maybe even a dose of outrage. A firefighter might die because of someone’s carelessness—or criminal actions.

*****

The unceasing buzz of the Teletype machine drowned out the sound of Sean’s typewriter.

It was 1:00 a.m., just fifteen minutes before deadline, and Sean was putting the finishing touches on his story for the morning edition.

He turned in his article and walked back to his desk. He was again thinking about the coming weekend when he saw his editor walking toward him. Maybe he had a question about the fire. Or maybe a compliment on a well-written article.

Ed Lewis was the consummate journalist—always calm and controlled in the face of the organized chaos of the newsroom. He looked like a newspaperman from another era: tall, fast-talking, and didn’t smile a lot. He even talked the way a journalist was supposed to write: getting right to the point.

Sean, how would you like to spend two months in a war zone—South Vietnam?

Are you kidding me?

I know you don’t think you have the experience—and, frankly, you don’t—but I think you can handle this assignment. You’ve got talent, so let’s find out if you have what it takes to become a great newspaperman.

Sean knew American troops were being sent to help the South Vietnamese repel the Communists from the North, but he didn’t want to admit he knew very little about the war. He figured it was much like the Korean War. It would probably end in the same kind of a stalemate.

After last year’s elections, Ed said, We all thought this war would be over by now, but, at last count, we’ve got more than 150,000 Americans over there, and it’s time we stepped up our coverage.

Sean’s adrenalin began pumping as he envisioned the words war correspondent on his resume. He wanted this assignment badly. He had no military background, and he wasn’t sure what types of stories he would be expected to cover, but he wasn’t about to show any lack of confidence.

I’m in.

Hold on there. I haven’t even told you what you’ll have to do—and it’s not as glamorous as you might think. A lot of Arizona kids are there, and many have been killed already. Your job will be to find the local boys and write stories about them for our readers back home.

Now his confidence wasn’t faked. He knew he could do it and do it well.

I’m in.

It’s a big commitment, and it could be dangerous, Ed said. You need to talk it over with Linda. And be honest with her. This won’t be a picnic. People are dying over there. Let me know on Monday.

*****

As Sean drove home, his heart was pounding. He wondered what Linda would think. He stopped at an all-night diner and bought two of her favorite cookies—peanut butter-chocolate chip.

When he arrived home, he made no effort to be quiet. Hey, Linda, wake up. I’ve got cookies—and I’ve got big news. Let’s pour some wine and sit outside.

Linda rubbed her eyes, climbed out of bed, and threw on a pair of blue jeans and a plaid shirt. Sean grabbed the picnic blanket they used for late-night stargazing.

They sat on the grass behind the four-story brick apartment building that had been home since their marriage three years before.

Two months is a long time to be apart, Linda said. Since we got married, we’ve never been separated for even one night. And this would put our baby plans on hold, and what if you get hurt? Or what if you get… She began to cry.

He put his arms around her and wiped the tears from her cheek. Don’t cry. It’s okay. I won’t be in any real danger. I’ll be way behind the front lines, far away from any real fighting. And this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make a name for myself.

But how do you know you’ll really be safe?

Trust me. I’ll be fine. Nothing in this world could ever keep me from coming home to you.

After another hour of going over and over the same ground, Linda took a deep breath of resignation. Sean, you need to do this. I’ll be fine. Besides, Mark wants me to do all of the media buys for the new Ford account, and that’ll keep me extra busy at the office.

Mark. Sean hated to hear that name. Linda had never given him any reason to be jealous, but he’d always thought Mark had a crush on his beautiful wife.

No time to think about that now. I love you, sweet girl.

I love you, too. I’ll miss you. She could barely get the last words out before her tears returned. She nestled her head against his shoulder, and Sean could feel warm teardrops on his neck.

He took her in his arms and stroked her hair. Did I ever mention how much I love your hair?

Yes, just a few hundred times, I think.

He kissed her lightly on the lips. She kissed him back hard, then took his hand and, keeping it outside her blouse, slid it onto one of her breasts.

They sank onto the blanket and made love under the stars.

Afterward, Linda grinned. Perfecto.

Sean laughed. Perfecto—you. You know, sometimes, it scares me how much I love you. I think to myself that there’s no way you could love me that much—or that, at some point, you’ll get bored with me.

There’s no way that could ever happen. Stop worrying. I love you, and I could never feel this way about anyone else.

She nuzzled her head into his shoulder. Sean lay on his back, looking skyward. Isn’t it amazing? I’ll be able to see these same constellations in Vietnam—halfway around the world.

Chapter 2

Sean got only a brief glimpse of Saigon as they flew over the South China Sea. He was on a military transport with fifty nervous young men about to begin their year-long tours in Vietnam.

Before he could absorb anything about his new surroundings, he was hustled from the aircraft to a helicopter that would take him to DaNang, one of the northern-most cities in South Vietnam.

During the short walk across the tarmac, Sean’s shirt stuck to his chest. No dry heat like back home.

Although the helicopter had room for about fifteen, Sean was the only passenger, so he sat next to the pilot.

We’re in an Iroquois—single-engine, the pilot shouted. We mainly use them for evacuating wounded guys from the bush. Not the fastest way to travel, but we have more of these contraptions than airplanes.

He handed Sean a radio headset. Here, put this on. It’ll be a noisy two-and-a-half hours. And, by the way, I’ve never flown one of these, but I did read the manual.

Sean scribbled in his notebook: American sense of humor intact.

Even above the rhythmic roar of the chopper, Sean heard loud booms in the distance.

Navy ships off the coast, the pilot explained. They’re shelling targets radioed in from the field.

As they made their way north, Sean’s senses were in overdrive. The lush terrain below told him he was in a far different world. These mountainous areas were a stark contrast to the shrub-filled slopes back home.

The steep hillsides were layered with wide, leafy trees, making it a sea of green, a fairy-tale-like merger of jungle and mountainside. In the low-lying areas, he saw a maze of canals and rivers.

As they approached the DaNang airfield, Sean could see the ocean with its long, white, sandy beaches. He spotted the enormous ships offshore in the Gulf of Tonkin. The frequency and volume of the artillery fire increased. Suddenly, the war seemed very real.

As he climbed out of the helicopter, a man with a clipboard approached. Are you Sean O’Donnell?

Yes. Are you the soldier who’s going to—

Marine. I’m a Marine, not a soldier.

Oh, sorry.

I’m Corporal Jack Zelinski. I’ve been assigned to help you during your stay with us. My jeep’s right over there. Hop in.

A few feet away stood a Pan Am 707. Freedom Bird, Jack said. Just forty-three more days, and I’ll be on one of those.

They drove outside the fenced perimeter of the airfield and onto a two-lane paved road. Vietnamese on motorcycles and bicycles weaved in and out of the heavy military traffic of trucks and jeeps.

They passed a series of shacks that appeared to be slapped together with plywood. Sean thought they looked like something a group of kids might build for a treehouse, but he soon realized these were actual businesses. He saw glitzy trinkets hanging on hooks on the inside walls. Behind the flimsy buildings were more shacks. Sean guessed they were the homes of the shop owners.

Women stood in the doorways of many of the storefronts. Most were very slender, had long, straight, black hair, and wore tight-fitting, ankle-length dresses in colorful pastels. The dresses had slits up the sides, with pantaloons visible underneath.

Corporal Zelinski noticed Sean’s eyes widen. Yeah, I know. Those dresses are pretty cool. There’s a saying over here. They cover everything but hide nothing.

The few men in the area were older and wore loose-fitting pants and untucked shirts that looked more like pajamas.

When traffic forced them to stop, two small boys sprinted over, shouting, G.I. want boom- boom? Sean thought they couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

Didi mau, Jack yelled as he waved them away. Beggars and pimps, he said. But the boys persisted, this time putting their fingers to their mouths as if they were puffing on a cigarette. Jack softened and reached for his pack of Camels and handed each boy a smoke before the traffic cleared, and they pulled away.

After about three miles on the main drag through the village, Jack turned onto a dirt road, and Sean got his first glimpse of the rice paddies he had read so much about.

There were six Vietnamese squatting in a swampy field, using a sickle to cut the stalks and then tying them into bundles. Sean couldn’t tell if they were men or women. All were dressed in the pajama-like clothing and wearing cone-shaped hats to protect their faces from the blistering sun.

Sean wondered how on earth they could stay in the squatting position for so long. Almost as soon as the question crossed his mind, he sensed the answer: because they had to. Sean realized he had just learned an important lesson about the Vietnamese.

In another part of the field, he saw something shocking. The cart where the bundles of rice were being stacked was powered by two oxen.

Was this 1965 or 1865?

After a few more miles on dirt roads, they arrived at the Marine outpost at the base of a steep mountainside. That’s Hill 327, Jack said. Don’t ask me about the numbers. I have no idea.

As they drove, Jack played tour guide, and Sean wrote as fast as he could. Barracks—wood bottoms, screen tops—8-10 beds—wood floors. Slightly longer huts for battalion headquarters, mess hall, and sickbay. Trench lines around camp perimeter.

Sean could hear rock-n-roll music coming from several of the huts. "Electricity," he scribbled.

Jack parked his jeep outside one of the huts. We’ve located two men from Arizona. You’re about to meet one of them—Andy Adamson. He’s our supply sergeant. I’ll drop you off with him. The other Arizona guy is me. I’m from Yuma. Maybe we’ll talk tomorrow.

Andy was only about five-foot-seven-inches, with a stocky build and bright red hair. He stuck out his hand. Hi, I’m Andy Adamson, Chino Valley, Arizona. I’ve been waiting for you. We’ve never had press here before.

Sean shook Andy’s hand and introduced himself.

Hey, man, the first thing we’re gonna do, Andy said, is get you some better gear. Andy took a good look at Sean and, after rummaging through some cardboard boxes, tossed him a set of jungle camouflage fatigues with no military markings.

"Take these. I’ll get you some combat boots, a helmet, and a flak jacket. I can’t issue you an M-16, but here’s a bowie knife and a utility belt. Let’s get going. We’ve got a show tonight, and I need to give you a tour of our luxurious living quarters, the head, the shower, and the finest American restaurant in South Vietnam. And I’m telling ya, man, this really is luxury compared to the guys out in the bush."

Sean stared at Andy. A show?

Come on. You’ll see.

After an ice-cold shower, a quick change, and shoveling down two helpings of rice and beef stew at the mess hall, Sean and Andy walked toward one of the larger huts. The sun was setting over the hills, but Sean noticed that, unlike home, there was no quick relief from the heat. The humidity kept his skin moist.

This is the club, Andy said. We have beer, and about once a month, we have girls. But it’s not what you think. It’s an all-girl rock-n-roll band from Korea—and they wear very skimpy outfits.

They ordered a pitcher of beer, and when the show began, out came Sean’s notebook: Sexy girls in their 20s, not wearing much—colorful—good guitar players—not bad singers—everything from Beatles to the Beach Boys to Buddy Holly—about 30 Marines whooping and clapping.

After several high-energy songs, the lead singer took the microphone in one hand, its cord in her other, and walked off the small stage and among the tables as she sang a sultry version of the Everly Brothers’ All I Have To Do Is Dream.

She swayed and serenaded her way over to the table that Sean and Andy shared with six other Marines. She stopped in front of Andy, leaned over, ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed his cheek. The Marines went wild. Andy beamed, and his face turned almost as red as his hair.

When the band took a break, Andy was still grinning. He took out a big cigar and lit up. He was the star of the night. Sean was writing in his notebook, and when he looked up, there was a tall, hefty Marine standing in front of Andy, who was aimlessly puffing away on his victory smoke.

So, you think you’re pretty hot stuff, huh, Adamson?

I guess I am tonight.

Well, I don’t think so. And who said you could smoke a cigar in here? It stinks.

Cool off, Watson. You’ve had too much to drink.

I can handle my liquor. And don’t tell me what to do, squirt.

With one quick stroke, Watson swatted Andy’s cigar out of his mouth and onto the floor. Andy jumped to his feet, standing chin level to his antagonist.

Sean stood up, too. He also was overmatched, but he spoke defiantly. Leave him alone.

Oh, so the writer thinks he’s a fighter. If you’re so fuckin’ tough, why in the fuck aren’t you over here fighting with the rest of us?

Sean’s face flushed with anger, and his hands were shaking. He knew no matter how he answered that question, it would only fuel the fire. Andy was either too stunned or too drunk to say anything.

Hey, we’re all on the same side here, Sean said. I’m trying to tell the folks back home what it's like for you guys over here, so let’s just stay calm.

Finally, one of the other Marines at the table spoke up. Joe, drop it.

Watson took a small step back. Hell, these Asian chicks can’t sing worth a shit, anyway. And they’re just as ugly as all of the other gooks in this damn place. I’m outta here.

Chapter 3

Sean’s pulse was still racing when he and Andy left the club and strolled toward their hut.

Man, I can’t believe you did that, Andy said. That jerk has had it in for me ever since he got here.

To tell you the truth, I can’t believe I did it either, Sean said. I don’t think I’ve been in a fight since I was in the fourth grade. That guy probably would have torn me apart.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead as he glanced at the sky. Wow. Look at those stars.

Andy stumbled on one of the wooden planks that formed the walkways between the camp buildings and casually sat down as if that’s what he meant to do. You’re lucky, man. We’ve had nothing but downpours for the last two weeks.

Suddenly, four quick flashes of light streaked across the sky in rapid succession. Sean had seen shooting stars many times, but this was an unusual and exciting sight.

I’ve been an astronomy buff ever since I was a kid. We lived in a small town in Iowa, and my dad would take me away from the lights in town and teach me the names of the constellations. Hey, there’s Cetus, the Whale. And look, the three stars of Orion’s Belt.

Andy half-heartedly glanced at the sky, and Sean continued. I’ve been saving up for a telescope. Maybe when we’re back home, you could come down to Phoenix, and we could do some real star-gazing.

Deal, Andy said.

Sean pulled out his notebook and pen. So, what keeps you guys going over here?

That’s simple. Decent food, letters from home, and counting the number of days till we go back to The World. Hey, are you writing this down?

Don’t worry. I’ll make you look good. I promise.

Okay, but be sure to say how much I miss my girlfriend—and my mom and dad—and my little brother. God, I hope he never has to come over here.

You got it, Sean said.

When I get back next summer, Melissa and me are getting married. I know I can get my old job back at the garage. Mr. Greer says I’m one of the best auto mechanics he’s ever had.

Do you have a picture?

Andy smiled and pulled out a tattered photo from his billfold.

Hey, she’s got red hair, just like you. She’s very pretty.

Without being asked, Sean pulled out his photo of Linda.

Very nice, Andy said.

Sean glanced again at Melissa’s photo, then at Andy. Let me ask the obvious question. Are you afraid of dying?

With a grin still on his face, Andy said: "Well, not really. Sure, I know I could get killed, but I just figure it’s not going to happen to me."

Then, the smile left his face, and he looked Sean in the eye. "But, man, I’m telling you, there is something I’m afraid of—something worse."

Something worse?

Yes, being captured. The way I figure it, if I’m killed, I won’t know I’m dead, but if I’m a prisoner, then it’s like I’m dead, but I’ll know it every second.

Sean looked silently at Andy for several seconds before speaking. I guess I’ve heard about what the Japs did in World War II. Is that it?

That’s true, but there are also rumors that some POWs are being shipped off to Russia.

Russia? Why?

Supposedly, they force Americans to help them train spies to do a better job posing as Americans.

That sounds pretty far-fetched. Do you really think it’s true?

Who knows, man, but the thought of not being free, totally under someone else’s thumb like an animal—it just makes my skin crawl.

Sean looked up at the sky and thought about the images Andy had put into his head. Shipped off to Russia like an animal.

Andy stood up. Let’s head back to the hut. I’m beat.

*****

The Marines in the hut were all asleep, but Sean was lying on his back, wide awake. The events of the day kept floating around in his head. Was the drunken Watson right? Should he enlist? He and Linda had been worried about being apart for a couple of months. Could they manage it for a year or even longer?

He thought about Andy’s dread of becoming a POW. Would that really be the worst possible fate?

He was just starting to drift off when he heard an explosion in the distance. Then sirens started blaring. He heard an elongated whistling, then a loud boom. It seemed very close.

There were shouts outside the hut. Incoming mortars!

The Marines scrambled out of their beds, laced up their boots, grabbed their flak jackets, helmets, and rifles, and ran out the door. Sean quickly put on his flak jacket and grabbed the utility belt and knife that Andy had given him, as well as his notebook and pen.

He saw Andy running toward the door of the hut and followed. Just as he reached the three wooden steps outside the hut, he saw a large flash out of the corner of his eye. He felt a blast of intense heat. Two men crumpled to the ground.

Explosions were going off every few seconds, and someone yelled, Hit the bunkers!

Andy grabbed Sean by the arm and yanked him into a large foxhole outside their hut. The muddy hole was already filled with Marines, and Sean noticed the barrels of many of the M-16s were caked in grime. He wondered if the weapons could even fire.

Each man checked himself for injuries, unnoticed in the scramble for cover. Many had blood trickling from their head, legs, or arms. Sean didn’t seem to be injured. He couldn’t believe his luck, but seeing all of the wounded men, he realized his flak jacket covered only part of his upper body, leaving large areas exposed.

After a few minutes, one of the officers came to the bunker. Everyone to the perimeter. They’re trying to overrun us.

Without hesitation, the Marines jumped from the safety of their bunker and sprinted away.

Sean followed. I’ve got to get the story. He fell in behind three men running at top speed. When he reached the camp boundary, he dove into the trench and saw Andy loading his rifle a few yards away. Just then, a popping sound startled him, and a flare illuminated the entire mountainside. He could see hundreds of shadows moving toward them.

Machine-gun fire was going out and coming in. One man, a few feet away, suddenly screamed and grabbed his arm. I’ve been hit. Then a flurry of bullets took off another Marine’s helmet, and he slumped to the