Chapter 1
September 12, 2001
1000 Hours
Double M Ranch
Beaver Creek, MT
Jackson MacKenzie heard a knock at the front door. Since he was the only person in the house, he left his office on the first floor to answer it. His wife, Cathy, was in town with their friend and fellow retired Navy doctor, Frank Howard, helping with a patient who broke his leg falling off a horse on a neighboring ranch. Glad it’s not me, or I’d never heard the end of it.
An Air Force major in a class A uniform snapped to attention when Jackson opened the door. “General MacKenzie, permission to enter, sir?” he popped off with gusto.
“I’m retired, but sure.” Jackson stepped aside to allow the man into the entry hall. “This way to my office.” He waved the man forward, went to his office, sat on the edge of his desk then glanced at the major’s name tag. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Major Wallace?”
Wallace held out a large manila envelope with Classified – Top Secret/Eyes Only – Lieutenant General J.J. MacKenzie – USMC stamped on the front. “I have a message from the President.”
“Why not a phone call?”
“After yesterday, he didn’t feel the lines are secure.”
Makes sense. Neither would I. Jackson pulled the paperwork, held together by a metal binder clip, out of the envelope. He skimmed through the first four pages. “I’m being recalled to active duty in the Marine Corps along with my executive officer Colonel Harry Russell. My wife, Cathy, is under recall to the Navy with a promotion to Captain, and the Army is getting Brigadier General Chris Patterson.”
“Yes, sir. The attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon are a new kind of war. The President wants our tactics master back in the saddle for your advice.”
“Please, Major. Surely someone else can take that mantle now.”
“I don’t know, sir. The President wants you, Captain MacKenzie, Colonel Russell, and General Patterson in DC ASAP. There’s a Gulfstream III waiting for you at the Billings Logan International Airport, fueled and ready to go.”
“Isn’t all air traffic shut down?” Jackson asked, thumbing through the extensive paperwork.
Wallace shook his head. “Not for you, sir. Since you’ll take the controls, all the pertinent information, maps, flight plan, classified call sign, and code words for transit through the no-fly zones are in the packet. This is a priority and time-sensitive, sir.”
“Understood.” Jackson laughed at the classified call sign listed for him, Zane Gray. Someone, probably as a joke, had resurrected the one they used while working for the CIA all those years ago. After setting the folder on the desk, he dialed Chris Patterson’s home phone number. “Chris, get over to my house. The President pulled the plug on our retirements.”
“What!” Chris exclaimed. “I can guess why.”
“Yeah. There’s an Air Force courier in my office. Tell Harry to get his butt over here. They yanked his too.”
“Don’t have to. He’s here with me. We were in the middle of a meeting discussing a new client. Be there in five.”
Jackson hung up and dialed the number to Dr. Frank Howard’s office.
“Beaver Creek Clinic, Dr. MacKenzie speaking,” said Cathy.
“Honey, get home ASAP.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nine-eleven. I’ll explain when you get here. This will change our lives.” I’ll have to give Ty power of attorney for the ranch and ask Gabby to take temporary custody of my teenage sons. I hope she says yes. But I hate not being able to watch them grow up. And what if something happens to me? To Cathy? Or, God forbid, both of us. Even though I’m pissed off about yesterday, like everyone else in the country, I’m not sure I want to go overseas again or even Washington this time. I’ve done my duty many times over. Why me? Can’t someone else do it?
June 9, 2003
Operation Iraqi Freedom
Bagdad Green Zone
Headquarters - 1st Marine Expeditionary Force
Iraq
Someone knocked on his open office door. Jackson looked up from the paperwork on his desk. “Enter.”
A sergeant came in with an envelope in his hand. “Mail Call, sir. I thought you’d want this right away.”
“Thanks.” Jackson checked the return address. Gabby Russell—Double M Ranch—Beaver Creek, MT. Sweat ran down his face as he ripped open the envelope. Even in his semi-air-conditioned office, these desert six-color “chocolate chip” BDUs were blazing hot. But at least he didn’t have to shine his boots anymore with them made for hot weather with a flesh-side out leather upper and Vibram rubber-lugged outer sole. The best part, they matched the BDUs—tan.
It had been a long year with the only communication with his family—long-distance phone calls, emails, an occasional video call, and the most cherished, at least to someone like him with five wars under his belt, letters. A physical reminder of home and everything he was missing. He clutched the edges, leaving sweat marks on the paper as he read the letter.
May 20, 2003
Jackson,
The twins finished the school year with straight As. Peter plays centerfield and James, third base on the varsity baseball team. Those two rug rats find every hiding place on the ranch to avoid their chores. I didn’t know there was a cave in the north pasture. Who built the old log fort near the creek?
Shotgun looks for you every day. He misses you so much. Colonel is as happy-go-lucky as always. The boys ride them all the time to stretch their legs. I spend an hour every evening feeding them peppermints and giving them love, especially Shotgun. He loves to have his butt scratched with a curry comb.
Ty and Chief have the ranch running smoothly. The last batch of steers went for twice the going rate. Everyone wants the first pick of your cows.
JJ received his accelerated promotion to Major, won the best Ranger completion then joined the training cadre at Ft. Benning. I’m glad he’s home from Afghanistan. At least for now, I won’t become a gold star mom. He loves to tell his Army buddies about his father and favorite uncle.
Susan’s residency at the San Diego Naval Hospital keeps her busy. She’s planning a two-week leave for Christmas. Tim called about his promotion to Captain with the 1st Battalion, 10th Marines, 2nd Marine Division at Camp Lejeune. I’m sure you already know with your connections. He’ll be home for Christmas too.
I read in the Navy Times about General Nowak presenting you with the Navy Distinguished Service Medal and Harry, the Legion of Merit. Both of you got the Navy/Marine Corps Overseas Service, Combat Action Medal, and a Presidential Unit Citation. I ran the article and picture on the front page of the Beaver Creek Gazette. Have you two been sneaking out with your men on patrol again? Shame on you.
You and Harry are the town heroes. The mayor wants to have a parade in your honor when you both get home. Plan on being the grand marshals in Mrs. VanBuren’s convertible ’57 red Thunderbird.
Peter and James want to apply to West Point at their first opportunity. They’ve already filled out the packets and waiting to take the entrance tests. The MacKenzie name will return to the Army. At least in theory. They plan to impersonate each other in class. You need to speak to them about that before it causes a problem.
I found a copy of the 1957 Howitzer and gave it to the boys for their birthday. I didn’t want them to destroy yours. It’s between their beds, opened to your graduation picture. You looked so handsome in that gray uniform.
James and Peter will turn heads when they walk by your picture as a distinguished graduate and a winner of the Sylvanus Thayer Award since they are almost mirror images of you. I know you wanted to go to the ceremony for a homecoming with your classmates but couldn’t while stuck in Afghanistan.
I hope the boys feel as much pride as I did seeing your name on the Medal of Honor recipients list in Cullum Hall and accepting your awards for you. Both medals reside in a place of honor in my office, displayed for everyone to see. Did you know it was Chris who led the charge to get your class to nominate you?
Things are hectic for Cathy at Bethesda with the wounded coming home in large numbers. She told me seeing all the amputees on her ward made her think of Harry and what he went through at the VA after Vietnam. Her days have been long, twelve on, twelve off. She misses you and the kids. Keep your head down and my husband safe. Come home soon. Please don’t make us both gold star wives.
With love,
Gabby Russell
Jackson tucked the two photographs of his identical twin boys into his shirt pocket to keep them close to his heart. All he’d seen for the last year—was sand, sand, and more sand. His fifth war zone deployment hadn’t been uneventful in the slightest.
In the demanding upscale precipitancy of the forward advance, he fought the enemy, heat, and the voracious, nasty sand flies—carriers of Leishmaniasis. They caused skin ulcers that took months to heal, fever, low red blood cell counts, an enlarged spleen and liver. A good reason to use the strongest bug repellant he could find and keep his skin covered. He didn’t want to go home with a disability covered in weeping sores. Or exacerbate the unknown factors of his previous bout years ago with near organ failure. Who knew what damage it had done to him internally?
Nor did he want to get Kala-azar, Oriental Sore, Espundia, Pappataci, or Oroya Fever with all the complications of those parasitic diseases. No thank you.
Rounds flew over their heads in Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan and during the Iraqi invasion with the ongoing search for the dictator, sadistic tyrant, and butcher, Saddam Hussein.
Jackson kept a deck of the Iraqi most-wanted playing cards in his shirt pocket. You never knew who you might run into who needed immediate identification. He and Harry played poker with them in their very few moments of spare time. In this war, you were never truly off-duty. A vetted local could run into your quarters with an IED at any moment and blast you into millions of tiny, blood pieces, only identifiable by a DNA records match.
Mortars, grenades, and rocket fire hit the ground around them amidst the advance into Bagdad. Their Humvees ran over roadside bombs in the Battle of Nasiriyah. They fired back at the enemy with their M16s in Dhi Qar Province and everywhere else when attacked by the enemy.
Duty came first. In the rear would never happen. He would rather die as a Marine than in his bed. Except, his family came first. He needed to go home. His body had been through enough abuse over the intervening years since his first war, Korea. It was time for a life of peace. He picked up the phone and dialed the direct line to the White House.
The line rang twice and stopped. “Hello,” said a sleepy, deep male voice.
Oops, forgot about the time difference. Got no choice now. “Mr. President, this is General MacKenzie. Please allow me, Colonel Russell, General Patterson, and my wife to retire for good. It’s time for someone else to take the lead. We’ve done our part.” Many times over.
“I was wondering when you’d make that decision. Consider it done. Pack your stuff. There’ll be a charter plane at the Bagdad airport for you, Colonel Russell, and General Patterson in the morning. I’ll inform CENTCOM about your change of status. Thank you for your service. Enjoy the rest of your life with your family and friends. You earned it. This country owes you both a huge debt of gratitude for your dedication to defending her against all enemies no matter what the cost.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson smiled. He was ready to leave war and the death of combat behind him forever. Time to go home for good.
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