Chapter 1
January 15, 1972
Phước Vĩnh, South Vietnam
The late midday sun beating down on him, Lt. Colonel Jackson MacKenzie walked across the packed earth of the Phước Vĩnh forward base camp. A distinctive growl broke the silence. Close enough to feel the pressure wave, a low-flying, fully laden F4 Phantom flashed over his head like a lightning bolt. Sunlight glinted off the camo-painted wings as it banked sharply west. The air exploded with the sounds of bombs and machine-gun fire. Charlie must be close to the perimeter. He flipped off the safety on his M16 with his finger on the trigger.
Jackson strolled into Colonel Matthew Johnson’s outer office, shouldered his M16, removed his Green Beret, and tucked it under his belt. The colonel’s aide, Captain Colin “Knuckles” White, ushered him into the inner office. He smiled at the former Golden Gloves boxer as he passed and came to attention in front of his superior officer. “Lieutenant Colonel MacKenzie reporting as ordered, sir.”
Colonel Johnson finished his signature before acknowledging him with a nod. “At ease.”
Jackson snapped his hands behind his back and waited for further instructions.
“Take a seat, MacKenzie.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson sat on the chair in front of the desk and laid his weapon on the floor.
“The Pentagon brass and the CIA have a new mission for you.” Colonel Johnson drummed his fingers on the desk.
“What do they want us to do, sir?” Jackson ground his teeth together. “And why is the CIA involved?”
“I know you don’t like to work for them. It’s a broken record every time it comes up.”
“Yeah, too many chances of getting screwed over.”
“Well, this operation came directly from the Pentagon. The information on the black market art dealings came from the CIA.”
“Well, sir, what’s the mission?”
“The North Vietnamese government has been selling their rare artwork on the black market to finance their war efforts and replacing them with fakes. One piece went for over three million dollars in an underground auction last week.” Colonel Johnson tapped a light green folder on his desk. “The brass wants your unit to recover four of the most expensive originals and replace them with counterfeits. This would deny them money and their troops needed weapons and ammo. You would save the paintings for the people of Vietnam and the lives of American troops. It could even shorten the war. The art dealers will know the canvases are reproductions, and the North won’t get paid.”
“They want us to what`” Jackson hit the desktop with a closed fist. “We’re supposed to be winning the hearts and minds of these people.”
Colonel Johnson’s narrowed eyes stared over the top of his reading glasses, his forehead puckered in the center. “From your reaction, MacKenzie, you don’t like the idea.”
Unwilling to back down, Jackson shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t. It smacks of hypocrisy.”
“Your dissatisfaction and reservations are duly noted.” Colonel Johnson leaned forward in his chair. “I will not tolerate insubordination.” His voice became lower and louder. “You have my permission to forward your doubts up the chain of command. You will follow the order as given or be relieved of command.”
“I may do that, sir. Will anyone else even take the mission?” He already knew the answer.
“Probably not. You were the only choice given your current track record of pulling off the impossible. You’re the best chance of it going off without a hitch as the US Army’s absolute expert in small unit tactics.”
Jackson resisted the urge to give an eye roll to his superior officer. “Sir, I don’t agree with the mission at all. However, I will follow my orders unless my doubts find the right ears in the chain of command.”
“Fair enough.” Colonel Johnson opened the folder. “Let’s go over the plan.”
Jackson flipped his chair around and sat straddle-legged across it. For the next three hours, the two men went over the operation, line by line. The more they read, the more Jackson hated the plan. Whoever came up with this needs their screws tightened to stop their marbles from falling out.
“Any questions, MacKenzie?”
“Not for you, sir.”
Johnson closed the folder. “Then you’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson exited the office and closed the door. In the outer office, he pointed at the typewriter next to Captain White’s desk. “Mind if I use this, Colin?”
“Nope. Help yourself.”
“Who beat your nose flat?” Jackson rolled a piece of paper onto the roller.
Colin wiggled his nose back and forth with his finger. “That bad, huh? Al ‘Tiger Cat’ Jones. He won a bronze medal in the ‘68 Olympics.”
“What happened?”
“He knocked my happy ass out in the second round when I fought him in Detroit. I’m headed to the latrine. Be back in ten.”
“Don’t let the flies carry you away.” Jackson went to work on his letter to General Thomas. He bullet-pointed every reason for his misgivings and signed his name.
Duty, Honor, Country – Those words, steeped in lore and tradition, were the motto whereby every West Point cadet patterned their lives. That honor code meant everything to Jackson. It was the direction. The North arrow toward which he pointed every day of his life. He knew the meaning behind that call to arms. To fight with courage and die with honor, all for the love of his country.
Jackson placed the letter inside an envelope with a certified copy of the orders.
Since it was time for the mail run, Colonel Johnson forwarded the entire packet via the nightly courier junket to Da Nang.
For his records, Jackson slipped the carbon copy of his letter inside a binder under his arm with the mission plan. He shouldered his M16 and glanced at his watch. The hour hand pointed at eight. Crap, the mess hall closed thirty minutes ago. Harry will jump my ass again. Not the first time. Won’t be the last. It doesn’t affect my ability to command. I have a one hundred percent completion rate. Colonel Johnson doesn’t care how much I weigh as long as I get the job done.
As Jackson walked around the edge of the ammo dump into a row of small steel Quonset huts, a beam of light caught his eye. He followed it. Major Harrison Russell, his executive officer, stood in the doorway of their living quarters with a flashlight in his hand.
Jackson chuckled. “You looking for me, Harry? You’re such a mother hen.” I appreciate his insistence as my sounding board. Ever since the POW camp, I need someone to double-check my decisions. What did his ex-girlfriend call us? Oh yeah. The yin and yang of each other’s existence. We’re best friends.
“Yeah, you missed chow again.” Harry pushed two chocolate candy bars into Jackson’s hand. “You know what General Thomas said. Do you want to go home on forced retirement? That’s going to happen if you don’t follow orders.”
Jackson gripped the candy bars then looked his friend square in the eyes. They were nearly the same height. “No, I don’t, but I can’t leave, not yet.”
“We escaped that damn camp two years ago. You need to let it go.” Harry ran his hands through his short brown hair. “Maybe you should go home, my friend. What Dung did to you is eating you alive. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine, Harry. Really.” Jackson tore the wrapper off the candy bar with his teeth and laid the folder on the table, setting the second chocolate bar on top. Unslinging his M16, he placed it in the rack. “We have a new mission and twelve days to get ready for it. Go tell the others the briefing is at 0800 tomorrow.”
“Where are we going?”
Jackson bit off a chunk of the mushy chocolate. He wiped his lips before replying. “Tomorrow. You won’t believe this one. The brass has lost their minds.”
“And you haven’t? I’ve heard the words coming out of your mouth when you manage to fall asleep. Dr. Nicholson should pull the trigger on his threat to send you home. Then you can get some help and go on tour as a recruiter. General Thomas called you the living image of a Green Beret. That dark blond hair, your tan, those dimpled cheeks, and sapphire blue eyes will make you a hit with the babes in your dress uniform. Especially with that Marine Corps high and tight you’re sportin’ on your head.”
Jackson gave Harry a bemused sneer. “Yeah, right? Like any woman would want me now. I’m okay. Go tell the others about the briefing. Since you’re so worried about me, we’ll meet in the mess hall for breakfast at 0730. Satisfied?”
Harry nodded in agreement. He took two steps to the door then spun around. “Yep, that way, you’ll eat more than a piece of toast and drink a gallon of black coffee. I know you’re committed to staying in ‘Nam, but I see what it’s costing you.” With a two-finger salute, he turned on his heel and left the hut.
Jackson looked up from his paperwork when the door shut. Harry’s right. I should stop pulling strings to stay in ‘Nam. But I have nothing to go home to except a room at the BOQ. Doesn’t matter. I’m headed home after the next weigh-in. I lost a pound this week. That means forced retirement, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Four hours later, Jackson still stared at the mission plan as he lay in his bunk under his overhead light. A dirty, stinky, wadded-up sock landed next to his head.
“Turn out the damn light. It’s keeping me awake. If you don’t, I’ll toss your bloody colonel’s ass outside. It’s late. If things go according to plan tomorrow, we have a long day ahead of us. Go to bed, you knucklehead!” Harry pulled his blanket over his head.
Unable to find another reason to stay up, Jackson ate the second candy bar then surrendered to his friend’s good sense and his own exhaustion. He threw the sock back at its owner and switched off the lamp beside his bunk. In the darkness, he mulled over the plan on one side of his mind while a small voice yelled at him from the other. Don’t go. Something’s wrong. Tell Colonel Johnson no. I’ll put myself on sick call and let Dr. Nicholson send me home. What was he thinking? That damn POW camp was messing with his mind. His heart’s throwing a red flag. Forget it. Duty requires me to follow all reasonable orders, no matter how much I don’t like them. This mission will save lives. That makes it important and why the brass gave it to me—again.
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