The Surge - 03

by Joe Nobody

  Simmons stood, turning to gaze out at the Austin skyline through the large, curved window behind his desk. “Damn,” the politician initially remarked, soon followed by, “The timing of this couldn’t be worse.”

  “Sir, the obvious thing to do would be to delay or put a hold on the sale of automatic weapons until this can all be sorted out. I’m no politician, but I can’t imagine it would be good for the republic to be providing arms and ammunition used to overthrow a neighboring government.”

  “I wish it were that easy, gentlemen. As I’m sure both of you are aware, the House and Senate have been vigorously debating that law, as well as the merits of a dozen major pieces of legislation due to expire, for the past several months. Texas was formed on the conservative principles that promised a small, non-intrusive government. The people want a federal presence that keeps its nose out of their business. Somehow, the gun control issue has become the litmus test to determine if we’re going to keep our promise.”

  Simmons was pacing now, obviously deep in troubled thought. The two senior rangers watched, both knowing it wasn’t wise to interrupt.

  The president finally resumed, “This is a complicated issue, gentlemen. For example, I could sign an executive order delaying the new law by 30 days. That act, in my opinion, would lead to enormous public unrest, perhaps outright disobedience. Even the people who don’t care about gun control would then be watching Austin with a suspicious eye. We have to keep the promises made before the secession.”

  “What if you informed the general pubic the delay was due to a credible, international threat?” Putnam offered. “Tell the people that law enforcement needs the additional time to round up some very dangerous men?”

  Simmons waved off the suggestion. “We’ve had quite enough of law enforcement weighing in on this debate. If I were to sign such an order, a lot of people would proclaim we were stalling to keep the police happy and safe, all at the cost of personal liberties. There are about 100 police chiefs I wish had kept their mouths shut about this entire affair. All they’ve managed to do is gin up emotions on both sides of the argument.”

  The colonel weighed in, “Sir, if there is a coup in Mexico, it is likely to be an extremely violent affair with unprecedented amounts of bloodshed. Even if the cartels fail to overthrow the government, having a bunch of Texas weapons involved in the attempt can’t possibly be good for the republic. There has to be something we can do.”

  The argument didn’t seem to carry much weight with the Commander in Chief. “Even before the secession, Mexico constantly complained that the United States was arming the cartels. I remember one study that claimed over 90% of the weapons seized by the Mexican authorities were from America. I’m not convinced the Lone Star Republic’s disallowing such devices would make all that much difference.”

  Putnam upped the ante, “If the cartels do win, many experts believe there will be a civil war in Mexico within a year. Perhaps more than one. I’ve seen models that predict our neighbor to the south will eventually end up like Europe in the 1600s, separating into a bunch of smaller, independent states that are constantly fighting amongst themselves. It doesn’t take a Ph.D. from Texas Tech to see how such conditions south of the Rio Grande would spill over into our nation. The worst case scenario is that we would be drawn into those regional conflicts.”

  “Yes, I’ve read those same prophecies,” Simmons nodded. He then began counting on his fingers, “First, Texas would be inundated with refugees trying to escape the violence. Then, the losing side would retreat across our border for sanctuary. They would be pursued by those with the upper hand, and our towns and cities would become battlefields. And that is just the first wave of contact; the forecasts continue with repercussions that last for years, perhaps decades. And yet, we can’t impact the lives of our citizens based on the expectations, estimates, and the potential actions of another country. Believe me, gentlemen, I understand the ramifications. It’s an extremely troubling paradox because there is no workable solution.”

  The three men sat in silence for some time, each running the private gauntlet of his own thoughts. The atmosphere in the president’s office was fouled with both an air of foreboding and a deep-seated vein of frustration. All of them knew trouble was brewing on the horizon, the threat from their southern neighbor looming large in the new nation’s path to prosperity. Yet, there wasn’t any course of action, policy, or plan to avoid a collision.

  “I feel like I’m stuck on a railroad track, and I can see the train in the distance,” Putnam offered in a distant, monotone voice. “I know the engine is going to crush me. I can see the train’s light, barreling my way. The only hope is that I come up with a plan before it’s too late.”

  The colonel nodded, “I understand. I feel the same way. Yet, I was always a firm believer in the phrase, ‘Hope is not a strategy.’”

  Their words seemed to motivate the republic’s highest official. Simmons stood again, his face brightened by a potential solution. “We’ll close the border,” he announced with a firm voice. “While I’m sure this decision eliminates any chance I have at a second term, sometimes a leader has to do what is right, no matter how unpopular.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. President?” the colonel asked, surprised by the abrupt turn. “A large part of our economy is exporting goods and services to Mexico. A lot of very wealthy individuals aren’t going to be happy with that course of action.”

  “We can’t be a catalyst for a civil war, gentlemen,” the president stated. “All that I ask is that the rangers pull out all the stops to find any revolutionaries on our soil and bring them to justice.”

  Both of the lawmen rose to leave, each already thinking of the orders they would issue once back at headquarters. Simmons stopped them before they reached the door. “Hurry, my friends. I’ve just made our government the enemy of every factory, bank, rancher, and citizen along the border. If this situation drags on for too long, we may have our own civil war to worry about.”

  Four days had passed since the massacre, Sam and Zach working and reworking every lead, source, and potential. So far, they had nothing other than Chico’s vague story. The ambassador had disappeared, the two rangers uncertain if his absence had been arranged so that he could avoid them, or Carlos the Hammer.

  Chico’s tale had sent hundreds of lawmen on a mission to find the who, what, when, and where of any mass purchase of weaponry. The task had not only been daunting, but fruitless.

  There were “only” 112 companies manufacturing complete shoulder-fired weapons in Texas. While that number was manageable, it soon became clear to the various law enforcement organizations that they were facing a much larger beast.

  Another 500+ firms manufactured or resold kits that would convert existing weapons to “fully automatic” blasters. That figure didn’t count the unknown number of garage-based businesses with 3D printers, or the importers who were having trigger mechanisms produced overseas.

  “Our friends in the cartels don’t have to buy complete rifles,” Zach informed his partner. “They can buy, make, or source small, inexpensive parts just about anywhere. We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s a worthless endeavor.”

  The pressure on the two lawmen was made even more intense by the fact that it had been Zach’s source that had initiated a rather large, extremely controversial ball rolling.

  As promised, President Simmons had closed the border, and the outrage was quickly mounting on both sides of the international boundary.

  The news was filled with a virtual parade of victims, everyone from human rights watchdogs to farmers and factory owners crying, bitching, threatening, and infuriated by the president’s executive order.

  It seemed like every broadcast was filled with folks from one side or the other telling a reporter their tales of woe. “My mother is dying in a Brownsville hospital,” one teary-eyed woman claimed. “They won’t let me across to be at her side when she dies.”

  One of the worst was a Texas
woman who was obviously near term with her pregnancy. “I’m a citizen of Texas, born and bred,” she sniffled into the Mexican news microphone. “I came south to visit family before the baby came. My child is due any day, and if it’s not born in Texas, I don’t know what we’re going to do!”

  “Our business is going to fail if the borders are closed for much longer,” claimed a nice looking man in a business suit. “We depend on exports to Mexico and Central America. Our product is sitting on trucks at the border while our customers are trying to find other sources for the parts they need. We will have to lay off over 90 workers if this situation isn’t resolved soon.”

  On and on, droned the tales of the hardship and trauma being imposed by Texas’s unexplained act. It seemed like every day new video of yet an even greater tragedy was broadcast over the airwaves.

  Zach was just finishing his burger when the television behind the bar began another in a series of heart-wrenching reports. This time, it was a sobbing, older man standing beside a small truck overflowing with rotting vegetables. “I’m not going to be able to pay our mortgage to the bank,” he wept. “The rest of my crop is decaying in the field. We’re ruined.”

  The ranger peered at his partner, the discomfort evident on his face. Motioning to the bartender, he said, “Is there anything else on, Pete? That shit could ruin a man’s appetite.”

  It took the barkeep three presses of the remote to find a channel that wasn’t covering the situation on the border.

  Sam, seeing her partner’s scowl, repeated the same statement she’d already made several times during the last few days. “You didn’t tell the president to close the border, Zach. It’s not your fault.”

  Just like the half dozen times before, she braced for his moody, harsh response. She was spared by the ringing of Zach’s cell.

  The disgusted ranger glanced at the caller ID and then shook his head. “Not now, Cheyenne. It’s not a good time,” he whispered, returning the phone to rest beside his plate.

  “You should talk to her,” Sam advised. “As grumpy as you’ve been lately, a little personal time with your girl might improve that shitty mood.”

  Zach ignored the remark, stabbing a French fry deep into a puddle of ketchup.

  Again, his cell buzzed, Cheyenne determined not to be denied. With a frown, Zach answered the call. “What’s up?” he grumbled.

  “I’m in trouble, Zach. I hate to bother you, but I don’t know who else to turn to,” came the rushed response.

  The ranger’s demeanor changed instantly, something in the woman’s voice putting him on alert. “What’s wrong?” he said, throwing Sam a look.

  “I took out a loan… to consolidate my credit cards. And… well… the bank is getting really nasty with me, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Zach relaxed, visions of someone breaking into her apartment or threatening her with a gun pushed from his mind. “I can lend you some cash if that’s all it is,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone. “How much do you need?”

  Now it was Chey’s turn to be frustrated. “It’s not that. Not like that at all. I’m convinced this banker dude is up doing something very illegal. He’s threatening my career, my family … everything.”

  “How much do you owe them?”

  “I took out a loan for $65,000 Texas Greenbacks,” she responded.

  Before Zach could stop himself, a long whistle left his throat. “What on earth do you need with that much money, Chey? I know my birthday’s coming up, but that’s a ton of cash.”

  Her voice grew impatient. “I bought a new car and paid off all of my credit cards,” she answered with a snarl. “The payments were supposed to be a little over $1,200 per month, which I can handle, no problem. After I made the first installment, the bank sent me a statement saying I owed $3,500 next month.”

  “Huh? That doesn’t make any sense. Were you late with the payment or something?”

  “No, not at all. I thought it was a mistake. When I went to talk to the banker, he got all shitty and then made me an … err … interesting offer. I think these guys are some sort of con artists or something. Given the proposition he made me, I have to wonder if this is a tactic to prey on unsuspecting women.”

  Zach knew Cheyenne wasn’t one to overreact in most situations. This, however, was the first time financial matters had ever entered their relationship. Still, what she was describing didn’t sound legit.

  “Damn it, Chey, you know good and well that they don’t bury bankers after they die – they screw them into the ground. They are all shysters, but legal ones for the most part. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Abilene, sitting outside the bank. I needed to settle down a little bit after the meeting I just had. I’m shaking so badly I am afraid I am going to wreck my new car. These guys are scaring the crap out of me, Zach.”

  The ranger asked a few more questions, the answers more and more troubling. Finally, he decided Chey needed him, if not his badge. She sounded like a little moral support would go a long way, and besides, they weren’t making much headway on the massacre case. “I’m about an hour and a half out. I can head that way. Let’s talk this over in person.”

  “I don’t want to interfere. I know you guys are right in the middle of a nasty situation… I just didn’t know who else to call,” she said, a sniffle punctuating the last sentence.

  Zach’s concern was growing. Chey didn’t cry. He’d never seen her cry. These collection people must really be pushing her hard. “Meet us at the mall at that restaurant on the south side. You know the one…. We had a steak there a few months ago.”

  “Okay, Zach. And thanks. This really means a lot to me. I’ll make it up to you; I promise.”

  The two rangers headed north, travelling mostly in silence after Zach relayed the pervious conversation. Eventually, they arrived at the lot of the specified shopping mall.

  “There she is,” Zach nodded.

  Cheyenne saw them park at the same moment and began the process of uncoiling her gangly frame from the small, all-electric sedan. “I’ve got gun cases bigger than that car,” Zach noted. “I wish she’d picked something with a little more meat on its bones. She’s going to get herself killed in that cracker box.”

  Sam snorted. “You carry a weapon and chase down some of the most violent men the species has to offer, and you’re worried about the sheet metal surrounding your girlfriend? I wonder about you sometimes, Zachariah Bass. How hard did that Middle Eastern ghost thump that noggin of yours?”

  The reference to his arch nemesis was like a sucker punch to Zach’s gut. “Not to mention the fact that some of my armed coworkers are the ill-tempered sort who threaten to shoot a man at the slightest provocation,” sounded his snide comeback.

  With her cheeks blushing red hot, Sam inhaled deeply, preparing to launch a significant verbal assault. Zach was saved by Cheyenne opening the truck’s rear door and stepping up into the backseat. “Hi, guys! I feel so much better now that you’re here,” she sang with a cheery tone. “How are my two favorite white hats this afternoon?”

  “Hey, Chey,” Sam responded. Leaning toward the back and exchanging a quick hug with the new passenger. Zach was next, pivoting in the driver’s seat to kiss the new arrival on the cheek. “I filled Sam in on the way up here,” he began. “Why don’t you start from the beginning, just to make sure we’re both up to speed?”

  “Sure,” Cheyenne responded, instantly deflated by the need to relive past events. “This is kind of embarrassing. A friend of mine recently got a loan, and her interest rate was really low. She was saving all kinds of money, so I decided I would do the same thing … pay off my credit cards. Cut them up … and put back a little money. A girl has to think about the future, ya know.”

  Chey paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts before continuing. “A few months ago, I started checking around and came across a web page for this bank called Trustline. I was going to be in Abilene anyway, so I came in and filled out an application. At first,
I only wanted to borrow about 20 grand, but the branch manager suggested I go ahead and roll in my car loan as well.”

  She went on to explain that one Mr. Carson, a distinguished-looking gent in his early 50s, had nodded, smiled, and seemed sympathetic to the beauty’s dilemma. Cheyenne had left the branch an hour later, the proud owner of a 22-page loan document and newly funded account.

  Chey had made her first payment. When the statement came in the mail for the second installment, the “minimum amount required,” was quite a shocker, well over $3,500 dollars.

  “I called the bank’s customer help line, confused, slightly pissed, but sure it was all a mistake,” the victim continued.

  “What did they say?” Sam asked.

  “The lady in the call center was very nice. She said that it was a brand new loan and wasn’t in their computer just yet. She suggested I stop by the branch and speak with the loan officer. That’s why I went by here today.”

  “And?” Zach said, not liking where the whole episode was going.

  “I wasn’t going to be back in Abilene for a while, so I first called Mr. Carson on the phone. It was as if I was talking to a completely different man. He scolded me like I was a child and kept repeating that I had agreed to the bank’s terms … kept telling me to read the contract … told me it was only going to get worse if I got behind on the loan.”

  Continuing the story, Chey said she then began receiving nasty phone calls, threatening letters, and even a rather rough-looking goon at her door. The bank threatened to expose her as a fraud across the entire internet. “We know your social media accounts. We know where you work. We know your parents own land in West Texas. We’re going after all of it and ruin you in the process.”

  Chey paused, noting the disapproving look on Zach’s face. Anticipating his question, she offered, “Hey, I know I should have said something two weeks ago. I was just so embarrassed and wanted to try to handle this all myself.”