Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 14

  “Welcome to El Paso, Texas,” says the captain, then he announces the local time. “We hope you have a wonderful time here in the Sun City or wherever your travels take you.”

  Wherever is right.

  ***

  “I just landed.”

  I’ve got my newest phone to my right ear and the backpack slung onto both shoulders as I make my way through the El Paso International Airport.

  “It’s about time,” George says, sounding exasperated. “I’ve been waiting for your call for an hour now.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on I-20 near Monahans,” he says. “I gotta tell you. There’s somebody following me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hang on,” he says. “I’m lighting another cigarette.”

  I can hear the click of his lighter and the sizzle of the end of the cigarette. He must be holding the phone close to his mouth.

  “Isn’t your rental car nonsmoking?” I ask. Ahead, there’s the sign for the counters and an escalator to the lower floor of the terminal.

  “Yeah,” he says and blows out the first puff of what I envision as a nasty cloud of smoke. “Like that’s the worst of my problems right now. I need the cigarette more than I need to worry about a smoking fee.”

  “Understood.”

  “So, back to me being followed,” he continues. “I get off of the plane and I’m looking around to make sure I don’t see anyone suspicious or anything. After you told me about switching your phone again, I got a little freaked.”

  I step off of the escalator, turn left, and see a Starbucks ahead of me on the left. That’ll be my next stop. I need some caffeine to get me out of this “my life sucks and I’d rather be living in a dirt bowl next to an airport than be me” funk.

  “I don’t see anyone. So I get my rental car, walk out to the lot, and grab my car,” he pauses and puffs. “No problem, right?”

  “Right…”

  “Then I’m on I-20 near Odessa when this black SUV speeds past me and exits on this loop that goes around the city. I notice it because the driver’s going so fast.”

  I’m in line at Starbucks. The prices are even more outrageous in an airport.

  “Well, that loop, 338, crosses I-20 twice,” George is speaking faster now. “Right when I pass it the second time, you know the western part of that loop?, the same SUV gets back on the highway right behind me.”

  “How do you know it was the same SUV?”

  I’m not surprised he’s being followed. The fact that they’d use a black SUV is weird. Isn’t there a less obvious car? The bad guys in movies are always in black SUVs.

  “I’m positive.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it has New Mexico license plates.”

  “And?”

  “New Mexico plates are bright blue with yellow lettering,” he says in a tone that indicates how stupid he thinks I am. “They’re not hard to spot. It’s the same vehicle, Jackson.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Two or three car lengths back.” He takes another drag. “There’s a minivan between us. They’re there. I don’t know how to shake them. I can’t let them follow me all the way to the observatory. We’re screwed.”

  “We’re not screwed,” I try to reassure him. “Hang on. I’ll call you back in a minute.”

  “I’d like a venti Americano with room for cream, please.” Espresso with a little milk will wake me up. I pay for the overpriced coffee, give the barista my name and slide over to the end of the counter.

  I open the internet application on my phone. Opening a search window and keyboard I type in MONAHANS TEXAS.

  Up pops a list of nearly two million results. I click on one of them linking to the visitor’s guide. The screen clears and refreshes with a list of restaurants. There’s a pull down menu for shopping. I activate that link. Most of the shopping is on either South Stockton or Sealy. I close the application and redial George.

  “Yeah,” he answers on the first ring.

  “Have you passed Monahans yet?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “Exit there and look for either Stockton or Sealy Streets.”

  “Why?”

  “There are a fair number of stores there. Those look like relatively busy streets. You might be able to find a way to shake the SUV.” I grab the Americano off the counter and move it over to the condiment table and pop off the lid.

  “Okay,” he says. “I should be exiting in a couple of minutes. “I’ll call you back once I do. How’s the car?”

  “Haven’t gotten it yet.” I stir in sweetener and some nonfat milk. “Should be on the road in about fifteen minutes though.”

  “Talk to you soon.” He hangs up without waiting for a response.

  I stir in sweetener and some nonfat milk, take a sip of the coffee, and start walking to get my car. The first counter is a combination of Hertz and Advantage. When I step up, the clerk greets me with a big smile and a West Texas drawl.

  “How may I help you?”

  I slip off my backpack to grab my wallet. “I have a car reserved for Jackson Ellsworth.”

  “Okay, sir…” She starts clicking away on her computer. “I see your reservation. There is already a credit card attached. I need your driver’s license please.”

  I pull out the license and hand it to her.

  “Let’s see,” she takes the license and glances at it. “This says your last name is Quick and not Ellsworth.”

  I reach across the counter and point to the license. “Ellsworth is my middle name, see? Sometimes that happens. People hear ‘Quick’ and think it’s not part of my name.”

  She smiles. “Makes sense. No problem, Mr. Quick. Have you outta here in a jiffy! Would you like a GPS?”

  “Sure. Please add it to the card.” George’s card.

  “I have you in a midsize vehicle,” she adds while looking at the computer screen. “Will that be okay?”

  “Any chance you have a big SUV? In black?”

  “Let me check,” she punches a few keys. “Yes, we do. It has satellite radio.”

  ***

  The music on the radio has a catchy beat. I take a sip of the twenty ounce coffee and, for a minute, I’m on a mindless road trip in West Texas.

  I’m on I-10 heading east, driving parallel to the Texas-Mexico border. At times, I’m just a few hundred feet from Mexico. I wonder if I’d be safer there, trying to survive the drug cartels.

  “That was Dion’s ‘Donna The Prima Donna’,” the deejay chimes in at the end of the song. “A big hit for the crooner after he went solo. It reached number six on the charts in late 1963.”

  The deejay is about to introduce the next song when the radio goes silent and my phone rings over the speakers. I press the answer button on the right side of the steering wheel.

  “Hey, George.”

  “I lost ‘em,” he proclaims. “I really lost ‘em!”

  “Where are you?”

  The GPS stuck to the dash tells me I’m cruising at 78 miles per hour. I should be at the observatory in a little more than two and a half hours.

  “Monahans. Where you told me to go.”

  “Why do you think you lost them?” I grab the coffee for another swig.

  “Well,” he pauses, “here’s the thing. I took the exit for Monahans at the last second and looked for the streets you mentioned. This is not a big town. They didn’t follow me. They didn’t take the exit. I’ve been sitting in front of this restaurant, ‘El Chapito’, on South Stockton for twenty minutes and I haven’t seen them. I lost them.”

  “Perfect. Get back on the interstate and drive the speed limit all the way to the observatory. Let me know when you get there.”

  “All right,” he says, sounding relieved. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I hang up without telling him what he doesn’t want to hear. He didn’t lose the tail. They already know where he’s going.
They have to know. The black suit who nearly killed me in the tunnel said they’d followed us to Rice. Dr. Aglo told me he was being harassed. They didn’t lose George. They’re letting him think they did.

  Given how skittish George has been since the car accident, I don’t need him worrying more than he already is.

  I hope they don’t get to him before I do…

  I pick up my phone from the passenger seat and call him back.

  “Hello?” George picks up on the second ring. “Jackson?”

  “Yeah. Hey listen, on second thought, I don’t want you to get up to the observatory before me. We should arrive together.”

  “Okaaaay,” he says apprehensively. He knows there’s something I’m not telling him.

  “It’s safer if we go there together. We don’t know what kind of guy Ripley is. He’s been under stress. He could be armed for his own protection. We know his dad likes guns, right?”

  “Yeah,” says George. “Okay. Where do you want to meet?”

  “I-20 and I-10 meet at Texas highway 118. That’s where we both turn off to head to the observatory. From there it’s about a forty-five minute drive. When you get there, or near there, and find a good meeting place, call me.”

  “All right,” George hangs up and the radio turns on again.

  “Thanks for listening to the Oldies Hour on 1150 AM,” says the deejay. “Now it’s time for talk. Stay tuned for the latest headlines and your phone calls on KHRO 1150 El Paso.”

  I check the GPS. At my current speed, I should meet George in about an hour and a half.

  ***

  “The Governor, in the days leading up to a critical debate, is now trailing in the polls to energy gazillionaire Don Carlos Buell, and that is really touching a nerve here,” the talk show host elaborates. “You’ve got tens of thousands of Texans who like the idea of secession. They’re sick of the way the federal government sticks its filthy little nose into everything we do. Tax here, fee there, and so on.”

  I’m about an hour from meeting George and the conversation on the radio is piquing my interest. Apparently the Governor gave another speech at which he hinted at the need for Texas to consider seceding.

  “Let me take a call here from Mark Helms,” the host says. “Mark, you’re on the air with Curt, KHRO 1150 El Paso.”

  “Yeah, Curt, love your show. I’m gonna tell you why secession would work. Then I’m gonna explain why it wouldn’t.”

  “Go for it, Mark,” says Curt. “Enlighten us all.”

  “Okay, Curt, here’s why we could do it,” Mark says seriously. “We lead the country in cattle. We have more of them and we export a ton of them. We keep all that cattle to ourselves and we’re in good shape, especially since we got more ranches and farms too. We’re major cotton producers.”

  “So agriculturally we’re okay?” Curt asks.

  “Yep. We have our own power system. Our electric grid is independent of everyone else. That’s huge.”

  “Given,” Curt concedes.

  “We have access to the Gulf. We are not landlocked. That’s big. There are big ports in Houston and Corpus Christi. With the Panama Canal expanding, we could be huge trade partners for the Chinese.”

  “Good points, Mark.”

  “Thank you,” Mark says. “I’m not done yet. We’ve got NASA and a ton of aerospace companies. Dell and Hewlett Packard have a lot of people in Texas. Technology-wise we don’t need the rest of the country.”

  “Not sure I agree,” argues Curt. “There’s this place in northern California called Silicon Valley and in North Carolina there’s the Research Triangle Park. Those two places alone are significant technological engines for this country. Plus, much of the research NASA conducts is outside of Texas. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory is in California, for example. So as good as your agriculture, grid, and trade points were, this one falls short for me.”

  “Yeah,” counters Mark. “Well, what about oil? We’ve got the majority of the refineries in the country. The petrochemical industry survives because of Texas. Think of all the things we get from that. There are plastics, medicine, glue, ink, soap. I mean the list is endless. Even the Astroturf on our high school football fields is made from that stuff. We’ve really got our own economy down here. It’s better than everyone else’s.”

  “That, of course, is the elephant in the room,” admits Curt. “The energy industry is where most experts would argue Texas is most valuable to the United States and, as a result, has the gun to the head of the federal government.”

  “I don’t know,” says Mark. “That’s why I’ll tell you there are some real obstacles too.”

  “You did say you had some reasons secession couldn’t work,” prods Curt.

  “I didn’t say it couldn’t work,” Mark corrects the host and I turn up the volume a notch. “I said it wouldn’t.”

  “Okay,” says Curt with a touch of irritation in his voice. “Why wouldn’t it work?”

  “Money,” says Mark. “Plain and simple. It’s too expensive. You’ve got to come up with so much cash to pay for a military, border protection, roads, farm subsidies, welfare, social security—”

  “Hold on a minute, Mark,” interrupts the host. “You’re advocating social welfare programs? That’s part of what has gotten us into a financial crisis. You’d want to continue it with farm subsidies and welfare?”

  “Yes and no,” Mark clarifies. “We would have to provide a backstop of some kind. We can’t go cold turkey. That’d be stupid. We’d have to structure a system from the ground up, which empowers people. It doesn’t have to be a crutch like what we have now. It could be better.”

  “Not sure about that, Mark.” I can hear Curt shaking his head through the radio. “I do agree the economics are prohibitive. Let’s get a better handle with an expert. Right after the break, we’ll talk to an expert from the South Texas College of Law about the reality and the fiction of secession.”

  Some music, BTO's ‘Taking Care of Business’, starts playing and there’s my boss’ voice. It’s the Governor in what I imagine is a stump speech, appealing to his base.

  “We are The Republic of Texas. We are not like every other state,” the Governor chuckles in a self-deprecating way I’ve heard so many times before. “We fought for our independence too!” he says, voice beginning to soar. “At Goliad! At The Alamo! At San Jacinto!" The crowd roars.

  "I might be a farm boy from Hempstead and I might have a little ole degree in business from Texas Tech, but I know liberty," another chuckle. "I know how we should be living as red blooded Texans. This is not it. We are not a ‘fly over’ state as the media elite would have the rest of the country believe. We are not suckling on Washington's teat.”

  The music amplifies and a commercial starts. I’m about five miles from Van Horn. The GPS tells me I’ve got about forty minutes until I meet George.

  Chapter 7

  The Governor’s speech on the radio reminds me of a conversation we had not long after the Alaska drop off. We were sitting across from each other on bar stools outside of Home Slice Pizza in Austin. Two state troopers sat at the table next to ours, sharing a large extra cheese.

  The Governor folded his thin slice of white clam pizza and turned it sideways to take a bite. With one cheek stuffed full he pointed to the plate in the middle of the table.

  “You gonna have a garlic knot?” He winked when he pointed. It was an instruction as much as a question. “They’re delicious.”

  I took one, dipping it the marinara sauce before taking a bite. I’d already finished my slice of pepperoni. The Governor was on his third piece of the white clam specialty. He loved Home Slice and its thin, greasy New York style pizza.

  “You know,” he said, wiping his chin with the back of his left hand, “this is about the only thing worth importing from the East Coast.” He swallowed and took a swig from a Mexican Coke made with real cane sugar.

  “They got it all wrong over there, Jackson.” He picked up a napkin and wiped his u
pper lip. He was still holding the slice in his right hand.

  "Sir?"

  "They think we're all tumbleweeds and oil fields here. Oh, and refineries. They imagine pipes and filthy air everywhere. We ain't Calcutta."

  "Calcutta?" I turn the cap on my bottled water to chase down the garlic and take a sip.

  "It's an example, Jackson," he waves his hands in explanation. "You know, a filthy city. When Sarah Palin left Fox, we lost the only sensible voice on the East Coast. She's been here to Texas. She knows we're more than that. I mean, really, son," he leaned on the table with both of his elbows, looking at me intently, "we are so taken for granted here. We could survive."

  The last syllable dragged with his drawl and he nodded at his own sentiment, staring past me into the distance. He looked for a moment like a dog whose attention was grabbed by a squirrel.

  "Survive, sir?"

  "Go it on our own," he said, his eyes refocusing on mine. "Secession. We could leave the other forty-nine and be good. It just takes money."

  “I’m not sure I’m following the logic, Governor. There were eighty-thousand signatures on the White House petition to secede after President Obama was reelected. That went nowhere.”

  “That was hooey anyhow, Jackson,” he says. “Eighty-thousand is less than a percent of the Texas population. That’s nothing. Asking the White House to approve secession? That’s like a slave asking his master for permission to go free. You don’t do that. You run away first and have it set up so you can’t get put back into the chains.”

  He shifts in his seat and goes on. “See, I’ve given this some thought… ” The creases in his brow relax when he smiles broadly. “If you talk to some financial gurus, they’ll tell you we can’t survive without the billions the federal government gives us. That isn’t true. We put more money into the system than we get out of it. That’s fact. I mean, we send close to three hundred billion dollars in various taxes to the feds. We’d keep that money here.”