***
2314 hours: A loud boom echoed through the room as the ceiling of the bunker collapsed under the incoming mortar fire. Captain McKenzie Ford, C.O. of the Special Forces A-Team, was pinned under a beam from the fallen roof. Sergeant First Class Sandy Hampton helped him get free and they both scrambled out of the debris to find out what was happening. Hampton had grabbed one of the AN/PRC-25 radios as they tried to avoid the mortar rounds hitting around them. Another round hit a few meters away sending shrapnel into Hampton’s leg. McKenzie shook his head to clear the blast concussion and tried to focus on his duty. He needed to find out what was happening and get everyone that he could to safety.
Hampton wrapped up his leg using the bandage pack that every GI carried on his cargo harness, hoping that the wound wasn’t too severe. McKenzie moved on, as he continuously checked the status of the camp, coordinating the defense. Seeing his Operations Sergeant Phil Bailey, McKenzie grabbed him, yelling for a SITREP over the sounds of the battle, knowing Phil had been in contact with every intelligence source he could. Bailey told him the NVA would be hitting the camp hard that night, that this was no quick and dirty probe. McKenzie knew that with almost six hours of darkness remaining, they were in for real trouble. The Viet Cong and North Vietnamese did not attack at this time of night unless they were very serious.
Staff Sergeant John Fairchild, the team medic, was kneeling beside one of the Civilian Irregular Defense Group soldiers who was writhing in pain from multiple bullet and shrapnel wounds to his chest and gut. John knew the guy would die, but he was giving it his best as he tried to stop the bleeding. So intent on his job, he didn’t see the Chinese potato masher grenade that came flying in from a North Vietnamese soldier who was about fifteen yards away.
McKenzie heard the arming click of the grenade as it left the hand of the NVA and saw it land beside John. Instantly he dove down and pitched the grenade away as he rolled onto John, flattening him with his body. The grenade exploded a few yards from the three men. Shrapnel tore into McKenzie’s flak jacket and nicked his butt and knee. John was unhurt.
The CIDG was dead and there was no reason for McKenzie and John to stay exposed. Both men grabbed their M-16s and ripped off a full 30-round magazine at the approaching NVA, inserting another magazine as they ran.
The M-60 machine guns emplaced at key positions around the camp were pounding the enemy, but they kept coming, some throwing their bodies on the barbed wire perimeter so their comrades could run over their backs. The indigenous Montagnard tribesmen who made up the CIDG were fighting hard, but were slowly giving ground as each fighting position was being destroyed.
Gathering up the men who could move, or be moved, McKenzie began ordering everyone to pull back to the center of the camp. Ammo was running low, and many had to depend on grenades to fend off the enemy onslaught. McKenzie had radioed the Air Force forward air controller for air force support as well as requesting Puff The Magic Dragon, the nickname for an AC-47 flare/gunship, as he watched the men around him scramble for safety, some not getting far before being taken down by gunfire, shrapnel, debris, and explosions.
The AC-47 arrived above the camp within a few minutes and dropped a two million candlepower flare to illuminate the battle and then began to fire the three 6-barreled 7.62 mm gatling guns mounted in the doorway and two windows of the left side. Sounding like a freight train, the aircraft rained death and destruction on the attacking troops firing 6,000 rounds per minute. Looking through a World War II gunsight in his left window, the pilot held the plane in a tight circle as he flew over the camp. But he could not fire on the enemy soldiers already inside the camp perimeter.
As more of his men died or fell wounded, more hellish AK-47 and heavy machine gun fire filled the air. The remainder fell back into the command bunker where a peg board was wired to twenty-five claymore mines precisely placed around the bunker. One of the mines was enough to take out half a dozen men, and as a last stand, this was pretty much guaranteed to take down anyone around the bunker. With the comfort that the dragonship would eventually convince the NVA to back off, McKenzie felt a bit of hope, especially if the fast movers got here soon with their 500 pound M-82 bombs.
Suddenly, there was a massive increase of AK-47 fire just outside of the bunker, and everyone inside knew it was just a matter of time until the enemy burst into the bunker. Time had run out. McKenzie flicked the switch.
The world shook with a tremendous roar, sand and dust filling the air as the 800 ball bearings in each claymore blasted out from detonation of the C-4 plastic explosive in which they were packed. The noise was horrific and left McKenzie nearly deaf.
The ringing in his ears hit an odd pitch, and McKenzie blinked hard trying to see through the sudden darkness that had enveloped him. A flashing red light caught his attention and he sighed, turning off the alarm clock. His body groaned in protest as he rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. The echoes of war from long ago still filled his mind, as they often did, but the ravages of time were what slowed his body. Vietnam was a long time ago.
The hot water of his shower did little to ease the aches, and his breakfast consisted of a handful of colorful pills of varying sizes and shapes followed by two cups of black coffee. Knowing what his body needed, as well as his mind, he turned on the news and jumped on the treadmill, five-pound weights in each hand. He started to feel the tension of the flashback begin to leave his body with the adrenaline of the workout releasing the PTSD, for now at least.
His workout equipment was in the living room of his small Florida home in Gilchrist County on the beautiful Suwannee River. Built on stilts due to the annual floods, it had two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen and the small living room. A porch overlooked the slow flowing river. More than enough for him, especially when the 18 foot Boston Whaler down at the dock was part of the package, and the 10 year old Ford 150 king cab pickup was an added benefit, and it got him to wherever he needed to go on land.
A warm shower cooled him down after his workout. He donned his current uniform, a pair of cargo shorts, white socks, a pair of Chaps deck shoes, and one of his custom embroidered polo shirts, reading McKenzie Ford above Investigator on the right breast.
An hour later, McKenzie walked into his P.I. office in a small building a few miles away. His dfirst client was already sitting in the waiting area, her pastel pants suit and tight smile almost made him laugh. Walking into the next room, he headed to the larger of the two desks.
“You’re lookin’ bright and shiny on top this lovely 51omethi’, Mister Sunshine,” he remarked to the balding head bent over the other desk.
“Yeah, yeah, and soon I’ll get a stylish tattoo to remind everyone that hair should be covering it.” John Fairchild glanced up at McKenzie before returning to the papers in front of him. “Mrs. Johansen needs her dose of bad news so we can move along with our small list of bill payers.”
“What happened to bein’ a badass P.I.? Guns blazin’ in dark alleys, stealthy missions in mansions, and sexy women givin’ me that ‘come hither’ look over the rim of a dry martini?” McKenzie sighed as he slumped behind his desk, grabbing the file for Mrs. Johansen, or rather, the soon to be former Mrs. Johansen, according to the content of the photos.
“We’re too old for that stuff anyways.”
“I’ll be too old when I can’t get out of bed anymore, until then I’ll settle for bitchin’ about it and getting paid for the cheating spouses and fake injuries that seem to have become our specialty,” McKenzie retorted.
John shrugged as he stood and went to the door, calling in Mrs. Johansen. As she sat in the chair across from him, McKenzie couldn’t help but admire her beauty, as stuck up as she seemed to be. He figured it was probably why the old man was cheating. The prettier they are, the more likely that they’ll act like their body was a sacred ground you were more than lucky to ever be so honored to explore.
“So, we got the answers you were lookin’ for, ma’am. Your old man is definit
ely 51omething’ the greener pastures.” As McKenzie grabbed the stack of photos and dropped them in front of the woman, her eyes widened to a comical level as the images of her husband and a young woman were seared into her brain. A few of the pictures gave proof of some more than interesting sexual positions. “Yep, he’s cheatin’ on you, so go ahead and get that divorce you were wantin’ and move on from this bastard.”
“I appreciate you completing the job and giving me the proof I’ll need for the divorce,” Her eyes shot up, locking onto his own making him arch his brow in surprise, “but I find your manner a bit crass and cruel. A little gentlemanly preparation before you show someone something so vulgar and heartbreaking would be nice. And you could dress a bit more professionally.”
“I apologize for my bedside manner and for displaying my manly legs, but my motto is not sugar coating the truth.” McKenzie pointed to the plaque that John had made for him as a passive aggressive joke one year. The roughly carved letters simply stated, “It’s bad, but now you know.”
“Uh, yes, I can see that. Well, uh, thank you, Mr. Ford, I guess.” Swallowing audibly, she placed a filled in check on the desk, grabbed the stack of photos and the accompanying report, and abruptly left the room.
As soon as the outer door shut, McKenzie barked in laughter. John shook his head, a smirk on his lips. After all these years, he had grown used to McKenzie’s obnoxious and bullheaded ways, but it never lessened his respect and honor for the man that had saved his life all those years ago.
“Am I really that much of an asshole, John?” McKenzie smiled as his friend and partner gave him a look, knowing he didn’t need to answer. “Yeah, well, I think I’m old enough to get away with it now. And you just remember, you’ll catch up to me some day.”
John chuckled as he thought of Mrs. Johansen’s comments and he thought of Mac’s ‘uniform,’ his own similar except he always wore khaki slacks instead of cargo shorts.
With a sigh, McKenzie slogged on through the day. Each client seemed to irritate him to one degree or another, barely relieving the aggravation when they handed him the checks for his “hard” work. Mike Valentine was faking his injuries, Donald something’s wife had taken out an exceptionally large life insurance policy on him, and Mrs. Farber was furious to learn that her ex-husband was a wonderful father to her children but she had nothing to support her claim of her husband’s drug use for testimony in court in the custody hearing. She didn’t pay, but she could keep the hundred bucks as long as she left the room quickly so John could disinfect the chair she sat in.
McKenzie was reading through the notes on another custody case when the phone rang. John answered it before putting the caller on hold, his face showing surprise as he pointed to the receiver on McKenzie’s desk.
“Who is it?”
“Rob Andrew.”
“Well now, if it isn’t one of the ‘Old Farts,’ how ya doin’ Rob?”
McKenzie’s face faltered, worry creasing his brow as he listened. “Alright, yeah, we don’t have a lot goin’ on here. We can be there by this evenin’ if that’s good for you?”
McKenzie said his goodbyes and looked at John, his face unreadable. “As they say, be careful what you wish for and all that jazz, seems we have a real case.”
“In Miami?”
“Yep. Pack your bags, dear Watson, we’re goin’ on a trip!”
“Um, Mac,” John was alarmed at Rob Andrew, McKenzie’s and his mentor in the investigative world, needing their help. “What’s going on?”
“Sounds like Andrew’s boy is causin’ some headaches, and in the process, his two teenage children are missin’,” McKenzie grinned as he began gathering his keys, iPhone, his two Glocks plus a duffel bag he dragged out of the closet.
“And you’re grinning….”
“Yeah! Private Eyes, teamin’ up together, a case to solve!”
“Wow.” John shook his head. “I think you’re getting senile.”
“Nah, age is just a number, my good man!”
“Yeah, and yours is a big one.”
“Just because all us Old Farts are getting old, doesn’t mean we have to act like it. Grab your gear.”
John sighed, knowing it did no good to point out the weirdness of being excited about your buddy’s missing kids, or the futility in pointing out any occasion in which McKenzie was being inappropriate, which was often. He, too, pulled a duffel out of the closet.
“Let’s go to Miami!” McKenzie said, headed for the door with John following close behind, stopping only to lock up.
The Old Farts In Miami Page 3