The Jackson MacKenzie Chronicles: Duty, Honor, and Courage

Book 3: The Jackson MacKenzie Chronicles

by Angel Giacomo

Genres: War & Military; Military Thrillers; PTSD; revenge; special forces; Army; war; Courage; Duty; USMC

Synopsis

Danger lurks in the shadows, danger that threatens not only Colonel Jackson MacKenzie and his friends but the American way of life. MacKenzie’s honor and his freedom were stolen from him once. Now a disgraced soldier, he must risk his life and his freedom in a fight to save his friends, his country, and himself. Or will the real traitor destroy everything Jackson holds dear?

Release date: January 2, 2022

Publisher: 1st Battalion Publishing

Print pages: 279

Content advisory: Strong language dealing with war situations.

Sample

Chapter 1

 

July 23, 1985

1740 hours

Double M Ranch

Beaver Creek, MT

 

Jackson MacKenzie whistled Cathy’s new favorite song, Holding Out for a Hero, on his way from the barn to the main house for dinner. The two-story farmhouse with a wraparound covered porch glowed white in the late afternoon sun. Cathy reminded him constantly how the lyrics reminded her of him. Never in a million years was he a white knight. Too many deaths by his hands.

Today turned from one of uncertainty to fantastic. His youngest horse, Shotgun, worked well during the roundup. The size of the steers exceeded his expectations, each one weighing sixteen-to-eighteen hundred pounds. The ranch would eclipse last quarter’s sales figures tenfold at the auction this weekend.

Crunching gravel invaded his thoughts. Jackson recognized his best friend Harry’s brown Ford Bronco and met him at the driver’s door, looking him in the eyes. They were the same height—six foot one. “What’re you doing here? You never come without calling first. Has something happened?”

“Everything’s fine. We need to talk.” Harry nodded at the bunkhouse. “Are Ty and Chief around?”

“Yeah. They headed to the house a few minutes ago. Why?”

“Let’s go inside.” Harry grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat. “The general will be interested in this too.”

As they entered the house, Jackson spotted the telltale outline of a Colt .45 pistol in Harry’s waistband, under his untucked shirt. Why’s he armed?

Jackson stopped at the kitchen door as Harry continued toward the ranch office. “Aunt Sara, Harry’s here without Gabby and JJ. Can you set an extra place at the table? He wants to have a powwow. We might be late for dinner.”

Sara turned from the stove and smiled. Her coffered silver hair sparkled in the overhead light.  “Sure. Go take care of your business first. If Harry’s here without his wife and that exuberant godson of yours, it’s important. Dinner can wait. I’ll keep it warm.”

“Thanks.” Jackson kissed her cheek then went into the dining room, where his godfather Mangus Malone and two friends, fellow AWOL Army fugitives, 1st Lieutenant Tyler “Ty” Carter and SFC Dakota “Chief” Blackwater, sat at the table. “Hey, guys, go to the office. Harry showed up unannounced.”

Harry stood next to the office doorway as they filed inside. “Sorry for the short notice. It’ll be worth it.”

Mangus placed the desk chair in front of the couch, taking up every bit of it as he sat down, looking like a gruff bear with a silver-white Marine regulation high and tight haircut.

Chief and Ty sat on either side of Mangus in folding chairs from the closet. Chief’s chair creaked from his massive six-foot-two-inch frame. Ty, at five-foot-ten, looked like a slim curly brown-haired suntanned movie star but darker-skinned than Chief, a full-blood Osage Indian.

Jackson took a seat beside Harry on the couch. “What got you on the road without calling first?”

“A package arrived from Colonel Cord yesterday.” Harry placed his pistol alongside his briefcase on the coffee table. “Initially, I thought it might be Cain trying to take me out with something that goes boom.”

“Because you turned down that chicken-shit mission to Africa last week? The one that would have got all of us killed.”

“Yeah. That’s why I made sure the package wasn’t booby-trapped.” Harry unlocked the briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to him. “Read this first.”

Jackson unfolded the letter. The 75th Ranger Regiment letterhead stood out at the top.

 

Major Russell,

 

I reviewed all available information about Colonel MacKenzie’s footlockers. The records were either misfiled, lost, or destroyed. However, I’m leaning toward a different option since the records clerk was more interested in his girlfriend’s phone call than helping me. His career will stop at PFC. He’ll spend the next six months peeling potatoes.

General Thomas retired after Grenada then took his wife on a six-month vacation to parts unknown. I caught up with him two weeks ago and showed him my copy of the promotion list. He’d never seen it and was astonished to see Colonel MacKenzie’s name at the top.

I brought up Colonel MacKenzie’s letter. Also, a no-go. We talked about the charges. The arrest orders didn’t come from his office. General Thomas didn’t understand how that happened since he should have been the convening authority.

One thing played in our favor. General Thomas kept his personal files from Vietnam. We spent hours in his basement going through the boxes. Guess what we found? Two sealed envelopes the general had never seen. He agreed with Colonel MacKenzie’s reservations and would have canceled the mission, no matter how many staff officers signed off on it.

Colonel MacKenzie needs to contact JAG ASAP. I look forward to seeing all of you in the field soon, including you, Major Russell. I know you can pass the review board after Grenada. Lt. Perez had no idea you were missing your left foot.

I made certified copies of everything in case something happens. Our “unofficial” report on the mistakes made in Grenada turned heads. Colonel MacKenzie’s name turned even more, most in his favor.

 

Good luck,

Colonel Stephen Cord, 75th Ranger Regiment

Ft. Benning, Georgia

Rangers Lead the Way

 

Interesting. Jackson passed the letter to Mangus. “Okay, what did he send me?”

Harry handed him the smaller manila envelope. “First, take a look at this.”

Jackson pulled out a set of stapled documents, yellowed with age. A copy of the promotion list, stamped, Received by headquarters—15 JAN 1972. “Well, that shows someone in General Thomas’ office laid hands on the list. It wasn’t lost or misfiled.”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing.” Harry gave him a thick manila envelope. “Now, for the pièce de résistance.”

Jackson’s eyes widened as he pulled out a light green folder. His breaths came in short gasps. Stamped on the cover, a faded teal blue and gold Special Forces patch, handwritten underneath, Lt. Colonel J.J. MacKenzie—Operation Memphis. “Now, I understand why you drove all night to get here.” To make sure, he opened it. His heart skipped a beat.

The first page was his original letter to General Thomas outlining his mission concerns with his signature alongside the date, 14 JAN 1972. Paper-clipped to it was a certified set of the mission orders, the embossed stamp of headquarters in the left lower corner. On the last page, the sign-off list with the Department of the Army seal. The five names on it, a who’s who of active-duty generals. Two of them were members of his promotion board. Now, I can prove I told the truth.

“What’s in the folder?” Mangus held out his hand.

Jackson gave him the open folder. “Take a look.”

“Is this your original letter?” Mangus fumbled the words in his haste to spit them out.

“Yes, sir.”

Ty and Chief craned their heads over Mangus’ arms.

“Now what, sir?” Ty asked.

Jackson pointed at the phone on the end table. “I set up a meeting with JAG. I’ll go alone. I don’t want you guys involved until things calm down. You never know what will happen with lawyers. Murphy’s law likes to bite us in the butt when we’re not looking.”

“What if it does? After what happened in that filthy cell at Bragg, we know you won’t go into another one willingly.”

“Don’t think that will happen.” Jackson waved the folder. “With this, it shouldn’t even come up.”

Mangus rubbed his chin. “I’ll call my lawyer, Navy JAG, and General Castleberry anyway. If they lock you up, they’ll have to deal with me and everything I can throw at them. You can go alone, but I’ll be standing by with reinforcements in case the Army gets stupid.”

“I won’t try to talk you out of it. You’re as stubborn as me. If the Army gets stupid, send in the bulldogs.” A movie scene rolled in Jackson’s head. Lt. General Mangus Malone, waving his Mameluke sword, storming the gates of the Ft. Leavenworth Disciplinary Barracks with the 1st Marine Division behind him. The Marines’ Hymn playing in the background.

Mangus nodded. “Funny, but appropriate. How are you going to do this? I don’t think JAG will take your call. Whoever answers will hang up thinking it’s a bad joke.”

“Good point.” Jackson went with his gut feeling. “I’ll contact Colonel Patterson. His character took a big hit in San Diego. He’ll want everything out in the open.” I hope Chris will work with me. He might be the one who hangs up.

“Where do you want to have the meeting?” Mangus pointed at the large wooden blue diamond 1st Division patch on the hickory paneled wall. “A Marine base is perfect. I have the pull to take control if things escalate out of hand.”

“Excellent question.” Jackson glanced at the United States map on the wall. “How about Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho? The Air Force won’t allow the Army to circumvent the rules. They’ll follow the regulations. The base is close to Cathy’s place. It’s far enough from here to stay out of anyone’s sights should anything go wrong. I can hide out with her if things go sideways.”

“Do you think something will happen?” Harry asked.

Jackson spread his hands. “It’s us. When hasn’t something happened? I’m throwing out ideas here.”

Harry crossed his arms. “You’re right. Don’t get hurt. I can’t take another day sitting by your bed, wondering if you’ll live or die. Grenada almost gave me heart failure.”

“For my health and yours, I intend to avoid hospitals at all costs. Once JAG says this is over, I’ll propose to Cathy and, hopefully, get my career back or at least a small piece of it.”

“Hear, hear, boss.” Chief thumped his chest with his fist. “We’re right with you.”

“How are you going to get there?” Ty pulled paper-clipped registration papers out of the in-box. “Surely you’re not going to drive the Bronco. If they arrest you, it’ll be impounded. You’ll lose it forever.”

“Easy.” Jackson spun his finger like a prop. “I’m a pilot. I’ll rent a plane and fly. I’ll hitch a ride with Harry in the morning. His route home takes him past the Saint Cloud exit.”

“Won’t they ask for your license?”

“I still have a license. All I need is a flight physical to go with it. Since I’ll be in uniform wearing my wings, who’s going to check?”

“That makes sense.”

“Okay. We’ve got everything ironed out.” Jackson squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s eat. I’m hungry.”

“So am I.” Harry rubbed his stomach.

Sara stood in the doorway as the men exited.

Last in line, Jackson looked at the floor as he passed her. “Sorry it took so long.”

Sara put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him mid-stride. “Don’t worry about it. I want to plan a wedding and spoil grandchildren.”

“Right, Aunt Sara.” Jackson kissed her cheek. “Go. You need to sit down before I starve to death.”

“Brat.” Sara swatted his butt.

“Always.” Jackson placed his arm around her petit shoulders and guided her into the dining room. With her only five-foot-five, he was careful not to step on her tiny feet with his size 12 cowboy boots.

 

July 24, 1985 – 1300 hours

Dr. Cathy Alexander’s Residence/Clinic

St. Cloud, ID (Population 205)

 

Jackson tossed his faded green duffle bag on Cathy’s living room couch. His briefcase containing the irreplaceable paperwork stayed in his possession. “You here?”

Cathy popped her head out the open clinic door attached to the living room. “Yeah, what’s going on? I wasn’t expecting you until this weekend.”

“Grab the portable Motorola phone and meet me in the kitchen.”

“I love my birthday present. That two-pound brick saved me last week when I had to call for an ambulance. The phone lines around here go out every time it rains.” Cathy disappeared into her office.

Jackson placed his briefcase on the table. He set two cups of coffee next to it and sat down.

“Why are you here?” Cathy sat beside him with the phone, still wearing her white lab coat and long red hair in a ponytail.

“Read this.” Jackson pushed the light green folder to her.

Cathy drew an audible breath as she read through the documents. “Finally, someone had the guts to do the right thing. What’s your next move?”

“Contact Patterson. Let him set up a meeting with JAG.”

Cathy ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “You know he’ll trace the call.”

Jackson picked up his mug. “He can try. According to my sources, that’s impossible. The signal bounces off radio towers. There’s no physical connection to a switching station like a landline. Here’s the best part. If Patterson checks with the phone company, it’s listed under my CIA cover, Jackson Jones from Provo, Utah.”

“Good plan.”

Jackson dialed the direct line to Patterson’s office. Thank you, Uncle Manny. He tapped his foot until the ringing stopped.

“Fort Meade, 902nd Military Intelligence Group. Colonel Patterson’s office, First Lieutenant Ortiz speaking.”

“Lieutenant Ortiz, it’s Colonel MacKenzie. I need to speak with Colonel Patterson.”

“Right… Is this a joke?”

“No joke. You should recognize my voice after San Diego. Put Patterson on the line.”

The phone went silent for several seconds.

“Colonel Patterson speaking. How are you doing, JJ?”

He’s using my nickname. Jackson leaned back in his chair. “Great. All healed up.”

“Good.” Patterson’s voice became muffled. “Trace this call.” Then it came back clear again. “What do you want?”

Jackson snickered. “Your hand isn’t soundproof. Go ahead. Waste your time. As to your question, I want an audience with JAG.”

“Why?”

“To clear our names, of course. You won’t believe where the information points.” I don’t understand how it slipped past so many safeguards.

“I bet. When do you want to have this meeting?”

“ASAP.” Jackson looked at Cathy. “I have a promise to keep.”

“All right. Where?”

“Mountain Home Air Force Base. You know after San Diego why I don’t trust the Army.”

“I’ll call back when I have the information. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.” Jackson rattled off the portable phone number. “Good day, Chris.” He stood and drained his coffee cup.

“Where are you going?” Cathy set her cup in the sink.

“The Salmon airport. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Can I use your Bronco?”

“Sure.” Cathy placed her keys on the table.

“One more thing. Since you know my body so well.” Jackson held up an envelope from his briefcase. “Could you fill this out?”

“What is it?”

“A flight physical for my pilot’s license. Haven’t had one since ‘Nam.”

“Only if I get the physical part tonight.”

Jackson looped his arm around Cathy’s waist and kissed her cheek. He plucked the keys off the table with his other hand. “You betcha.”

 

1600 hours

 

Newer than his Bronco, Cathy’s gray one felt like a Cadillac rather than a deuce-and-a-half truck. His aching back appreciated the smooth ride to Salmon-twenty miles from St. Cloud. Jackson parked in the gravel lot next to the airstrip. He headed to the largest hangar on the apron, an Army surplus corrugated steel Quonset hut, and slapped his hand on the counter when he got there. “I need to rent a plane.”

The clerk pulled a form from a drawer. “For when and where? What’s your experience?”

“When, not sure, depends on a phone call. Let’s do an open-ended contract. As for my experience, I have a commercial pilot’s license for single and multi-engine with an instrument rating. I’m qualified on UH-1s and Blackhawks.”

“Nam?”

“Yeah. ‘Nam, Grenada, Lebanon, and lots of others.” Jackson laid his license, flight physical, and logbook on the counter. He pulled his dog tags from under his t-shirt.

The man picked up the papers. “Let’s see. Flight physical’s current. Commercial instrument license, 1635289.” He flipped through the logbook. “You have hundreds of hours in a Gulfstream. Won’t a Cessna be a downgrade?”

“Nah, don’t need anything bigger.”

“Okay.” The man set everything on the countertop and poised his pen above the rental agreement. “I’m not sure about an open-ended contract. These planes are how I make my living.”

Jackson pulled a rubber-banded roll of cash from his pocket. He had pulled every penny out of his savings account in the Beaver Creek Bank to cover his expenses. “How about if I pay double the deposit and triple the rental rate?”

“Deal.” The clerk scribbled on the paper and turned it around. He pointed at a blank line at the bottom. “Sign here.”

“Thanks.” Jackson signed his name and handed over the money. “I’ll call when I need the plane.”

 

1800 hours

Dr. Cathy Alexander’s Residence/Clinic

St. Cloud, ID

 

“Honey, I’m back.” Jackson tossed the car keys onto the end table next to the couch.

Cathy came into the living room, wiping her hands on a towel. “What’s your plan for the rest of the day?”

“Work on my presentation.” Jackson sat at the kitchen table with his briefcase and read through each page of Cord’s packet. Cathy filtered in and out, checking on his progress. He wrote every detail on a legal pad with coffee as his constant companion.

As the afternoon shadows grew longer, Jackson practiced his argument with Cathy as his captive audience. Everything had to be perfect. Their lives and freedom depended on it. “First, I want to cover my promotion…” At the end of the fourth time, he swallowed to soothe his sore throat. He hadn’t talked this much since giving his tactics thesis at West Point on the Battle of Antietam.

Cathy held up her hand. “I’m impressed. Your attention to the details makes the most of your presentation. It’s organized perfectly. Stop before you wind up with laryngitis. You don’t want to sound like a frog.”

Jackson kissed her. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be good. How about we go have fun? I know what I want for dinner tonight.” A jolt ran up his spine as Cathy slipped her hand into the waistband of his jeans and stroked his penis.

“Sounds good to me, big guy.”

Jackson picked her up then carried her to the bedroom. At five foot three and a hundred ten pounds, she felt like a feather in his arms. He closed the door with his foot.