Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 15

  “What about defending ourselves?” I ask. “Don’t we need the military?

  “No,” he shakes his head. “We’d build our own. The average military expenditure for countries across the globe is about four to five percent of their gross domestic product. If we spent that here in Texas, we’d be one of the best defended nations on Earth.”

  “What about banking and currency?”

  “We could stay on the dollar in the short term. Other countries are on the dollar. Until we can figure out what our trade position is in the world, we’ll be able to use the dollar.”

  “You make it sound so simple.” I’d never thought he was serious.

  “All it takes is the startup capital,” he admits, leaning back in his chair. “We need a few billion to get going.”

  “Is that all?” I roll my eyes, forgetting for a split second with whom I am talking.

  “Really, Jackson?” The Governor seems as shocked as I am embarrassed. “Your sarcasm is not becoming.”

  “I’m sorry, Governor, I—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, interrupting me. He pinches the bridge of his nose and chuckles. “Even I know it sounds crazy sometimes.”

  ***

  My hands on the wheel, I glance past the edges of the highway to the brown landscape that frames the road. Every few hundred yards there are black pump jacks. Some of them are still, resting from their endless task. Others are busy pecking down and up, spinning the siphon that draws the oil from old wells which have long since lost their pressure.

  The windows to the SUV are up, but I can imagine their rusty whine as they suck the black goo from deep inside the earth. Pumping. Spinning. Whining. Always staying in one place. With a purpose.

  Unlike me.

  I’ve never settled anywhere. I’ve always been in flight; from my past, from my present, from myself. Until a couple of days ago, the chase was always figurative. Now, speeding toward a nano-scientist in the mountains of West Texas, it’s freaking literal.

  The radio is still on, callers droning on about secession and nullification and the Supreme Court. I’m somewhat tuned out, thinking about what all of this means.

  I think back to the iPod in Alaska and the account number that flashed on the screen.

  An account number.

  Obviously there’s a money transfer involved. Either the Governor is giving or receiving. My guess would be receiving.

  Receiving lots of money.

  There’s the photograph on the wall of Ripley’s office at Rice. My contacts, all in one place, meeting with a man who’s working on enhancing energy efficiency. I recall what George said to me in Houston, right after we left Rice: “The Governor and these energy people are colluding with Ripley to generate a competing technology that makes oil and gas last longer. Maybe Ripley hedges, and so the Governor keeps him in line by framing his father for the assassination attempt on his political opponent. If Don Carlos Buell dies in the attempt, two birds are killed with one stone. His only political threat is gone, and the money behind Nanergetix disappears too. Your boss, by the way, likes to talk about secession like it’s feasible. Like it’s part of a political platform.”

  There’s a cluster of pump jacks to the right side of the highway, all of them pumping in unison.

  The Governor is using oil companies to fund secession.

  It makes sense. The oil companies love Texas. They’re all based here. The Governor has made sure the business climate suits them, while Washington continues to threaten taking away tax breaks. The loss of those incentives alone would cost the big five energy companies more than two and a half billion dollars every year. If their taxes went up, the losses would be even greater.

  Imagine what those oil companies could stand to gain by operating in the New Republic of Texas? They help fund his operation secretly with what he, himself, called starter capital.

  As a further reward, he helps them gain access to Ripley’s cutting edge technology. Everybody gets rich and the Governor gets his new country. He has the votes in both sides of the state legislature to declare independence.

  A perfect plan.

  Ripley gets nervous about the secret arrangement and the Governor plays hardball. As George suggested, he knocks Buell out of the way, while at the same time putting pressure on the young Ripley by framing the old man.

  Where do Charlie, the black suits, the detective, and The Saint fit into this? If The Saint is on the opposite side of Charlie and the detective, and he killed a black suit to save me, is he really on my side as he claims?

  Whose side am I on?

  ***

  The Chevron station in Salt Flat, Texas is a good meeting place, north of I-10 at the intersection with Highway 118. I pull into the parking lot next to a faded blue Ford F-250. I check the rear the side view mirrors before turning off the ignition, grabbing my phone and backpack, and stepping out into the dry heat of West Texas.

  I can taste the dust in the air, and I lick my lips and duck into the small convenience store. A bell chimes, announcing my entrance. To the left there’s an eyeball security camera above the register counter. The clerk, sitting on a wooden bar stool, looks up from his issue of Hot Rod Magazine and nods a greeting. There’s music playing on the single speaker radio next to the register. Johnny Cash.

  I return the nod, slug the backpack onto my right shoulder and walk back to the floor-to-ceiling cooler along the back wall of the store. The aging, corrugated shelves are only sparsely populated with snacks, toiletries, motor oil, and fuel additives.

  I reach for the cooler handle and hear Waylon Jennings’ scratchy voice on the radio. Maybe the song’s a duet.

  Diet Dr. Pepper is on the bottom shelf so I reach down to grab a couple of bottles. I’m thirsty from the dry air and I need the caffeine. On my way to the counter I snag a pack of peppermint gum and place it on the counter with the sodas.

  We shall all sing Hallelujah, I’m American by birth and southern by the grace of God.

  Definitely a duet.

  “Johnny Cash?” I ask the clerk, who’s gotten up from the stool to ring me up.

  “Man in black,” he says. “Nobody better.” He keys the prices into the register.

  “How much?”

  “Four fifty,” he says. “Need a bag?”

  “No thanks.” I hand him a twenty. “Sorry I don’t have anything smaller.”

  “Not a problem.”

  I gather up the drinks and gum and turn to leave when the door chimes. It’s a familiar face. He’s smoking another cigarette.

  “George,” I smile at the rumpled sight of him. “What took you so long? You should have beaten me here.”

  “I kept taking exit ramps to avoid being followed,” he says, glancing at the clerk as he does.

  “Hey,” I turn to the clerk. “Do you mind if my friend here leaves his car for a little while? We’re gonna ride together up to the observatory.”

  “How long?” The clerk’s returned to his stool, the magazine open on his lap.

  “I dunno… It’s getting late, so maybe first thing tomorrow morning?”

  The clerk moves his eyes between the two of us. He looks down at the magazine and flips a page.

  “What do you think?” I take a step toward the counter. “Less than twenty-four hours?”

  “I’ll give you twenty bucks,” offers George.

  “Fifty,” the clerk counters without looking up. He flips another page.

  “C’mon,” I plead. “You don’t want us going down the road feeling bad do you?”

  The clerk looks up from his magazine and smiles at me. “Okay. Twenty.”

  “Deal,” I slip the cash onto the counter.

  “You can pull it around back. There’s a covered spot back there.” He points in the direction of the back of the store.

  George leads me out into the parking lot and walks to his rental and opens the driver’s side door. “What was that about?”

  “He’s a Johnny Cash fan.”
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  “So?”

  “‘Going Down the Road Feeling Bad’ is a Cash song.”

  George rolls his eyes as he slides into his car. “I thought I caught a weird vibe in there.”

  “See you around back.” I shut the door. We’ve got a lot to talk about on the short ride ahead.

  ***

  Highway 118 heads south but it feels like we’re driving north, and it narrows as we climb into the Ft. Davis Mountains. The landscape quickly dissolves into an endless parade of mesquite and yaupon. The sun is setting to our right, casting long shadows on the brush.

  “How long now?” George is reflexively tapping his heel on the floorboard, his knee bouncing up and down.

  I glance down at the GPS. “Twenty minutes maybe. I hope we’re there by dark.”

  “I made some calls,” George says, turning toward me but still fidgeting in his seat. When he speaks I can smell the smoke on his breath.

  "Okay," I shrug.

  "I got the license plate for the black SUV that was following me," George tells me. "The one with the New Mexico plates."

  "You're burying the lead," I tell the television news reporter.

  "The plates come back to a company called NewMex Holdings. It's out of Taos County, right along the Texas border, near Cannon Air Force Base. It's a small area, only a couple thousand people live there. From what I could find out, there's a post office box there. No real address or anything."

  "A dead end, then?" I take a gulp of diet Dr. Pepper.

  "Hardly." George is still bouncing his knee. He keeps licking his lips. He must need a cigarette. "I had my investigative producer look up some stuff for me. He found NewMex is owned by a Dallas company called F. Pickle Security Consultants. That’s the same company I mentioned back in Houston. They owned the car that crashed into us. They also do work for the Governor. FPSC has fifteen of these shell holding companies in its name. It looks like they're all used for buying vehicles and holding leases on various properties."

  "Who is FPSC? I mean Pickle is a weird name." I thumb the sweat on the side of the soda bottle and take another sip. "What do they have to do with any of this? Are they contracted spooks or something?" I chuckle at my own suggestion, but when I turn to look at George I can see he's not laughing and his leg has stopped thumping.

  Without thinking, I jerk the steering wheel to the right and speed onto the narrow shoulder of the road. The SUV pitches to the right more than I expect and I pull back to the left and brake. Dust engulfs the SUV as we sit there, staring at each other in silence.

  I push the hazards on and hear the faint click of the red warning button flash on and off. "I need a second."

  "Since you're sitting here," George says, “I might as well continue."

  "All right." I put the soda bottle in the center console and replace the cap. I'm not thirsty anymore.

  "F. Pickle Security Consultants is a company founded by, run by, and full of former CIA, NSA, and FBI agents. They took their knowledge, skills, and clandestine experience and went into the private sector. The company is about 25 years old. They're the ones that supposedly helped Enron in its overseas dealings in the late 1990s – intelligence gathering, relationship building, cash handlers. When Enron went belly-up, it almost took Pickle with it. The company, though, sustained enough other lucrative contracts to survive."

  "The thing is," George waves the back of his hand at the dashboard, signaling for me to start driving again, "nobody knows exactly who their current clients are. If it hadn't been for the Enron debacle, nobody on the outside would ever have known about them at all."

  I slide back on the highway and press heavily on the accelerator to climb the incline leading us further into the Ft. Davis Mountains.

  "How do you know all of this?"

  "Like I said, my investigative producer helped me. He worked for CNN until they blew apart their investigative documentary unit in 2012. He's really connected and knows stuff most people don't want to know. He was from Houston, wanted to come home. It worked out." George shakes his head to reclaim his thoughts. "I digress. Here's where it comes back to us. It tells me I didn’t really lose those guys following me here. They’re somewhere. They’re watching us."

  The road forks to the right at sign for Highway 166. I stay to the left on 118.

  "The last time a car followed us was when we got into the wreck, right?"

  "Right," I say.

  "It was after we left Rice…" George pauses. He's stringing me along.

  "Just tell me, dude." I press the accelerator out of frustration more than necessity. The engine resists for a moment before complying.

  "Okay. I got a parking ticket at Rice. We weren't there that long. I figured if I got a ticket, and the guys in that black car were following us, they probably got one too. At least, if they got out of the car to find out what we learned inside the lab, it was a possibility. Then I thought that couldn't be, because they were following us on 59. I guess they have two cars tailing us. They are professionals right?"

  I nod.

  George rubs his thighs with both hands. There's a sweat stain on each leg from his palms. "So, I know a cop over at Rice. I gave him a call and asked him to run all the tickets within an hour of when I got mine. He found one in the same lot, across from the nano lab, about thirty minutes after mine. The car was registered to Black Bayou Holdings, which if you can't already figure out, is a subsidiary of Pickle."

  "That still doesn't tell us who they're working for, does it?" I'm trying to split my attention between the road, which is now starting to wind, and George, who looks like he's about to explode.

  "It wouldn't," he admits, "except Black Bayou Holdings is in Houston. Guess who is listed as one of its corporate officers with the Texas Secretary of State?"

  "Who?"

  "The Vice President in charge of strategic acquisitions for Aleutian Energy Providers."

  "Who is he?"

  "She," George smiles, his lips quivering. "You've met her. In Alaska."

  ***

  The landscape rushing by the SUV is less mesquite and more piñon pine and juniper. The thermometer beneath the speedometer reads five degrees cooler than it did when we turned onto 118. I run over a dead rattlesnake; I'm not the first, or second, to have done so.

  The road veers east and curves in an S before heading south and east again. We're getting close. We might beat the sunset.

  "Mary Brown," I say for the third time, remembering her lack of warmth more than the chill of Anchorage. "The one with the Dorothy Hamill haircut. She's funding the black suits?"

  "Not exactly," George says. "She's on two teams. On the surface, she's the go-between. She communicates to Black Bayou, or Pickle, whatever it is Aleutian needs. She takes the intelligence Pickle gathers and alerts those who need to know at Aleutian."

  "Why would she be so clumsy to have public records connecting her to both companies?"

  "It's not that clumsy," George has resumed thumping his knee intermittently. I don't think he’s aware of it. "I mean, how many people are going to cross-reference an Alaskan oil company vice president with some small holding company in Houston?"

  "Somebody did."

  "Yeah," he admits. "She's been doing both jobs for at least the last five years. This is nothing new. She's been operating in both capacities long enough, that this is a perpetual mode of operation. I bet, if I'd had time, my producer would have found more of your contacts involved in similar arrangements. This is something big that's been brewing for a while."

  "So it’s the oil companies that wanted me dead to start with. They're the ones who killed Bobby. They're the ones who followed us to Rice and slammed into us downtown. They're the ones who nearly killed me in the tunnel bathroom."

  "What?!?" George's jaw drops and his face draws a new shade of sallow. "What are you talking about?"

  "I thought you knew? After the wreck I ran into the tunnels. I stopped in a bathroom to check my injuries when one of the black suits cornered me.
"

  George is still slack jawed. He says nothing.

  "I fought back against him, but I was losing too much blood," I swallow against my throat. "I got weak. The guy was about to kill me when..."

  "When what?" George is riveted. His leg is in overdrive, up and down like a juiced pump jack.

  "I don't know really." I shake my head. "Somebody came in and killed him."

  "Who?" Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. It's beginning to drive me nuts.

  "It was The Saint."

  "The Saint?"

  "The guy who kidnapped me."

  "Holy crap." George grabs his heads with both hands. His eyebrows are pulled back tighter than Joan Rivers'. "I can't believe this crap. I can't believe this." George is starting to hyperventilate. So much for faking compassion.

  "Look," I say in a soft but firm voice. "Calm down, George. This is good."

  "How is it good?" He balls his hands into fists alongside his head, grabbing clumps of hair. "How is any of this good? I knew I shouldn't have come. No story is worth this. None."

  "George," I repeat.

  "I've won three Lone Star Emmys!" He holds up three fingers without completely letting go of his head. "Three! None of them put my life in danger. Even my Headliner Award. Nobody died. Nobody!"

  George keeps ranting about awards and death. I tune him out long enough to notice a large deer off to the left side of the road, easily six points, with thick shoulders and a large white area on its neck. Its large ears make it look like a donkey with antlers.

  ***

  The Governor took me deer hunting once. We were sitting in a couple of highchairs in the back of a Chevy Silverado at dawn. He handed me a cup of hot coffee and a gun.

  "The coffee's Venezuelan," he nodded at the Styrofoam cup. "The rifle's a Ruger M77 Hawkeye All Weather Bolt Action. It's .308. Nice trigger action. She shoots true."

  "Thanks for the coffee," I told him. We both smiled.