Secession: The Storm (37 page)

“Mexico will kick their asses within three months,” spouted the state congressman from Delaware. “They’ll be back, begging to rejoin the union as soon as the first Mexican division crosses the Rio Grande, and as far as I’m concerned, we should tell them to go pound sand in their asses.”

One of the representative’s aides cleared his throat, “Actually, sir, according to this fact sheet, if Texas were an independent nation, it would have the 13
th
largest economy in the world - ahead of Spain and South Korea, and much larger than Mexico.”

Waving off the statement, the congressman retorted, “All the more reason for Mexico to try and retake what they consider to be their territory anyway. A sizeable economy doesn’t equate to an equally large military.”

“I don’t know. From what I see here,” replied the aide, pointing to the latest documents from the president’s commission, “Texas would actually have a significant military presence, roughly equivalent to Great Britain. Not a pushover by any sense.”

“How? When we pull the U.S. men and equipment out of there, how are they going to build up a military force so quickly?”

“That’s my point, sir,” replied the nervous assistant. “This report indicates that Texas would retain 9% of the current U.S. military hardware. That includes planes, ships, armor, personnel… even nuclear weapons.”

“What? That’s preposterous! The American taxpayer footed the bill for all of that, and now the president is going to give away part of our arsenal?”

“They’ve paid for it too, sir. According to these numbers, Texas contributes 9% of the U.S. population and funds 9.2% of the tax revenue. I think the president is only considering what would be their fair share.”

Snorting, the congressman countered, “Then give them 9% of the federal debt, too. Fine with me.”

“You know, this is really interesting. I’m reading here that the Pentagon is seriously concerned about the secession. It seems that while Texas is only 9% of the population, they make up almost 13% of the military personnel. The Joint Chiefs are predicting manpower shortages for at least six years.”

The first tee at Almaden Country Club was more than just a launching point for an exclusive round of golf. Its proximity to the oversized putting green allowed casual connections between members, often leading to informal gatherings while the next foursome waited its turn to ply the links.

The long, narrow tee-box was located just off the primary cart path; a busy thoroughfare used to access the driving range, snack bar, and nearby locker room.

Well-dressed members, brandishing the absolute latest in golfing style and technology, often huddled at the #1 tee. It was a social hub, a place where old friends exchanged casual waves, warm smiles, and lighthearted harassment so common amongst competitive men.  

Nestled between San Jose, California and the foothills of the Santa Cruz mountains, Almaden wasn’t the most exclusive club in the area. That title was reserved for the invitation-only echelons of the super-wealthy, such as the San Francisco Golf Club or Cypress Point on the Monterey peninsula.

No, the club was a haven for northern California’s working millionaires, men who had started businesses and made them grow with sweat equity, hard work, clear thinking, and being just a little faster than the opposition.

Entrepreneurs felt a natural kinship at the facility, regardless of their trade or specialty. The CPA, who 30 years ago branched out and started his own firm, was right at home playing alongside the owner of a distribution company. How you made money wasn’t important here. Success was the social equalizer, good taste and professional behavior more important than one’s alma mater or political affiliation. Many of the rank and file were street fighters, elite warriors and survivors of the ultimate conflict – business. They were welcome.

On an ordinary Friday afternoon, the primary topic of discussion would have involved handicaps, hefty wagers, and strokes given or received. On occasion, the subject might be the markets, the club’s latest board meeting, or an investment opportunity being considered or proposed. Rarely were partisan issues topics of conversation here, seldom were international events dissected.

The proposed independence of Texas had changed all that. Not for the political ramifications, nor for the social implications. The buzz was, as usual, about what it all might mean for commerce, trade, and the bottom line of the members’ broad range of businesses.

Andy stood on the back of the tee-box, absentmindedly swinging his driver through the air as he waited, watching the group ahead search for a lost ball.

“Hey Paulie,” he said, turning to address a member of his own foursome, “Am I going to have to file an international tax return if this Texas thing goes through?”

“Probably,” came the CPA’s grinning response. “I’m already talking to my people about doubling our fees. I’m projecting this secession-thing will be like rocket fuel to our bottom line.”

“Double?” chimed in David. “Hell, Paul, I’d get him for at least triple. International tax is a complex animal, isn’t it?”

“Don’t give him any ideas, David,” Andy replied. “And besides, don’t you have an office down in Dallas… another in Houston?”

“Sure do, but I’m going to move my primary residence down there so I can lower my tax bill all around. How do you think I’d look playing golf in a cowboy hat?”

“Do you think it will help your hook?” came Jimmy’s voice, pulling his own driver from a bag riding on the back of a cart.

“Nothing will help that hook,” added Andy. “But seriously, has anybody heard how they plan to regulate cross-border commerce? Some of my biggest customers are in Texas.”

All eyes turned back to the group’s expert on things financial and accounting. Paulie shrugged, “If it’s like Mexico, it won’t be a big deal. If it’s like Canada, it will suck. That’s not counting the whole NAFTA mess. If Congress opens that beauty up, all bets are off. But it’s not happened yet, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

The group in front of them had finally moved on, allowing Jimmy to tee up his ball. After a few warm-up strokes, he settled in, launching the drive a little left, flirting with the lake that adorned that side of the hole.

David was next, pegging his Titleist and setting up to draw the shot. The metallic ping of solid contact sounded, the ball’s initial trajectory looking sweet. Mid-flight, it took a hard left turn, diving for the ground as if it were a falcon swooping in on a field mouse. “Damn it!” he growled. “Maybe I
should
try that cowboy hat.”

Paulie was next, eyeing David’s short drive with a sly grin. “If you do move to Texas, my golf earnings are definitely going down the tube. You better fix that hook, or I’ll be filing bankruptcy papers on your behalf. You’ll qualify for Chapter 18.”

“Chapter 18? What’s that?” David responded, still glaring at his misbehaving ball.

“Default by golf debt. Wagers lost over 18 holes,” came the chuckled reply.

“Seriously, Paul, you don’t think they’ll secede?” Jimmy asked.

The answer didn’t come immediately, Paul’s drive splitting the fairway. “Short, but in the middle,” he mumbled. “The story of my golf game… and sex life.”

After returning his club, Paul watched his partner hit a solid shot, then cringe as the ball drifted right, rolling toward a fairway bunker that seemed to possess an almost magnetic attraction to the sliced ball.

Paul spoke up, “You just answered your own question, Jimmy. I think the country is like that tee shot you just hit. It tends to drift to the right, and often ends up in a bunker. Maybe letting Texas go is the bunker this time… maybe not. I’m not going to worry about it until I see papers being signed.”

And so it went, the electric whine of cart motors intermingled with curses, boisterous laughter, and the occasional celebration as the group toured the course.

It was traditional for the men to gather in the club’s bar after their round. There were bets to be paid, drinks to be bought, stories to be told.

“David, you’re not really thinking of moving to Texas?” Jimmy asked.

“No, I couldn’t handle the weather there. San Jose has spoiled me. But it is tempting. One of my sons lives down there, and he doesn’t pay state income tax. The same house that costs $4 million here, you can buy down there for $500,000 dollars. The difference in the cost of living alone is astounding.”

Several heads nodded around the table, signaling their agreement. Andy spoke up, “David doesn’t need the money,” he noted, “but a lot of people do. My biggest concern over this entire Texas thing is that droves of people start moving there, either sick of liberal thinking or wanting the economic advantages. I heard one news commentator claim that every millionaire in the country would move to Texas; every person on welfare would move out. If that happens, the rest of the country is in big trouble.”

Jimmy dismissed his friend’s concern with a wave, “Never happen. Look around us. The girl who brought us these drinks isn’t well off. The grounds crew mowing the putting green this morning isn’t wealthy. You have to have a mixture, or it doesn’t work. Even the most exclusive, expensive locales have all different levels of income. No reason why Texas wouldn’t be the same way.”

David nodded, “I’m with Jimmy on this one. How many times have we all sat around bitching about an increase in California’s tax… or fees… or whatever pocket-robbing scheme those assholes in Sacramento were dumping on our heads? All of us could have afforded to move anytime we wanted. I could have pulled my company out of here and into Nevada in a heartbeat, and it would have saved me plenty. But we didn’t. None of us did, and I bet most people will decide against pulling up stakes and heading to Texas.”

“I get so tired of the liberals that run this state,” Paul confessed, looking around to see who might be in earshot. “If it’s not some harebrained environmental program, it’s social engineering, or gun control, or some damn regulation that takes money out of my pocket. I’m sick of living in a place that’s always on the brink of financial ruin, yet won’t control its own spending. If the State of California were one of my companies, I’d have fired the manager or sold it off years ago. But David’s right. I won’t move either. At least not until the lack of water forces us all out.”

Andy sighed, “I’d go,” he announced to the surprise of his friends. “I feel like a man without a country. I’m white, middle-class, male, Christian, and over 40 years old. I no longer feel like I belong… like I’m no longer in line with the mainstream values of this nation. Everywhere I turn, the country’s problems are being attributed to my race, gender, and religion.”

Paul nodded, “Well of course you’re to blame. Don’t you watch the evening news? You earn too much, don’t pay enough in taxes, worship the wrong God, and are generally to blame for every historical wrong over the last 1,000 years. Slavery was your fault. Poverty and discrimination were your gifts to the world. Social inequalities, injustice, and unrest were all the result of your actions. Because of your race and success, you automatically hate women, minorities, immigrants, and anyone else who doesn’t look like you.”

While Paul’s monologue generated a few chuckles, every man at the table could relate to his words. They had all felt the same way at one point in time or another.

“I do get a little tired of being labeled evil, hurtful, and destructive,” David continued. “I’m a little fed up with everyone thinking it’s wrong to base wages on skills or expect people to pull their own weight. Is it intolerant to demand rule of law? Is it really greedy to amass wealth?”