Grandy had been of Mexican descent but claimed heritage to the old Karankawa Indians. He still believed in the old ways and customs of the Texas Indian tribe, absorbed almost completely when Texas became a nation in 1836. But the old man held on to the customs and the legends of his past: legends passed down from Grandy’s grandfather when Grandy was only a small boy. Legends and stories Grandy passed on to Ruben. Legends Ruben continued.
Beau placed his leg in the open door of the Jeep and turned to his friend. “Who’s on the team? Sully, BJ? Ted didn’t say but is he running the show?”
The Jeep rolled smoothly over the road leading to the Naval Air Station; a warm, sultry salt breeze from the Gulf of Mexico filled the air. Sand lined the road on both sides. A hundred yards to the left was the bay of Corpus Christi, and lagoons filled the area to the right where residential subdivisions were slowly taking over. Already they could see the Station.
Ruben confirmed Ted led the group. Their old friends, Commander Thomas “Sully” Sullivan and Lieutenant Commander Jack “BJ” Warren, who fought with them in Operation Iraqi Freedom, were also attached to the group. Along with them were seven other pilots: four Americans and three from a pilot exchange program developed between the United States and its Allies. The three were from Britain, Canada, and Australia.
Beau was the eleventh pilot on the team and was assigned to them until the protests of the Syrians were cleared. Only then would he be free to pursue his future or suffer the consequences of the military tribunal. “Any hotshots?” Beau asked.
“Well, there’s a kid, Lieutenant Mark Fitzhenry; we call him Fitz. He’s damn good. Maybe better’n you!” Ruben Chuckled.
“Good, I’ve been wanting to step down,” Beau said, leaning back in the bucket seat.
“Quit my ass!” snapped Ruben.
“Think so, Ruben. I wanta go to West Texas with my brothers. I don’t wanta fight any more,” he said. “Besides, I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“Too old!” snapped Ruben incredulously. “You’re only what… thirty-four and a half?”
Beau started to laugh uncontrollably. “Only you could say something like that.”
In the distance loomed the gates to the Naval Air Station. As they neared them, Beau noticed crowds gathered at the entrance.
“What the hell is going on?”
In front of the gates were pickets protesting Beau’s return — something he anticipated. And there were other protestors. A line had been drawn between them, and the road was the line. On one-side anti-abortionists held placards claiming murder, yelling taunts to the pro-choice across the road; a minister knelt in prayer with his right hand on top of a bible. Blacks patrolled both sides with signs demanding jobs, housing, and food.
A cluster of armed MPs stood their vigil prepared, should the present protests get out of hand. Some environmentalists held up signs saying, “Save the animals and our children. Stop drilling for oil.” Four Hispanics held signs with the words, “Make Spanish the national language.”
Beau pointed to the environmentalists and said, “Those posy-sniffers will never change — until they have no gas for their cars.” Ruben nodded and then Beau pointed to the four Hispanics. “Are they serious?”
“Serious, hell. Where have you been?” Ruben immediately thought about his words. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. While you were out of the country a half dozen counties in Florida made Spanish the official language. Last year, El Paso did the same and Brownsville almost did too, but the referendum lost by a thin margin.”
“Insanity.”
“Yep,” said Ruben.
Something was missing, “Ruben, the manger scene, the cross, Jesus?”
Ruben shook his head. “It’s against the law to have anything in reference to Jesus or Christianity on display on any federal or state property.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Wish I were.”
Something caught Beaus eye. Incredulous, Beau pointed, “What the hell is that?
Ruben followed the direction Beau glared and caught the two military personnel that had caught his attention. A group of soldiers clustered near the gate where two of the men had thick beards but it was the turbans they wore that stood out. He shook his head, “You’ve been gone too long. Three years ago the President authorized beards and turbans for Muslims in the military.”
Shaking his head in disgust Beau mumbled, “What the hell has happened to America?”
Ruben grunted, “When you said hell you were real close to where America is now.”
“I expected problems with my arrival but why are the others here?”
“Some big-wig politicians are coming to our New Year’s party.” Ruben sighed. “They still want to give everything to the ones that do nothing. It’s the same thing. They want more from guys like you and me.”
“Maybe the country is in worse shape than I thought.” Near the gate they passed a man who at first appeared more like a derelict than a protestor. He held a sign plastered with the words, “No Housing. No Peace!”
“What’s that?” asked Beau as he pointed to the sign.
“A bunch of winos have demanded free housing. If not, they’ve refused to leave the downtown park. They threaten anyone who enters. The ACLU says it’s illegal to remove them.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope. ‘Fraid not.”
“I never understood people like that. If they worked real jobs half as hard as they protest, they wouldn’t have to demand housing; they could earn it.”
“I know but you can’t tell the politicians,” grumbled Ruben. “Same old shit. Nothing has changed since you left, except our government has just about broken us. Democrats and Republicans. Nothing changed until now.”
Beau sighed. “Outa sight, outa mind. If you don’t see or hear the problem, it doesn’t exist.”
“Yeah.”
“Hope it’s not too late.”
“It might be too late already,” Ruben said somberly.
When Beau heard his friend’s words it caught him off guard. Ruben was the type of person who was always upbeat. They neared a large group chanting, “Death to the Murderer. Hang the Traitor.” The mob had worked itself into a frenzy of anger. At the gate Ruben handed the guard their IDs. Just inside Ruben stopped.
Beau looked back at the mob. The scene reminded him of the Israeli-Palestinian confrontations he had seen. Nothing good came from those. Nothing good was going to come of this.
“Hey, let’s have some fun,” he said, smiling mischievously.
Beau rolled his eyes. “No, Ruben, don’t do it.”
“Aw, come on.” He had already lifted himself from the Jeep and was walking back toward the gate. Reluctantly Beau followed. On the other side, Ruben approached a man who appeared to be leading the protestors. “Can I be of assistance?” Ruben offered.
“We’re here to make sure the traitor doesn’t return to Texas,” roared the protestor. Instantly, the others chimed in with their leader.
“Don’t tell anybody, but—,” Ruben cast an apprehensive eye about, “we’re on your side. We hope you get that son-of-a-bitch.” Ruben nodded to Beau. “Right?”
“Absolutely,” he agreed, nodding his head affirmatively.
“What are your names?” asked the protestor.
Without hesitation Ruben pointed to Beau. “This is Commander John Smith and I’m Captain Jim Jones.”
“How can we recognize him?”
“Easy,” Ruben said as he turned. “Commander, take off your glasses.” Ruben pointed to Beau and continued. “The traitor you seek will be just like him. But pay close attention to his eyes. The guy you want just looks evil. You can’t miss him.” Beau slid the glasses back into position. The protestor shook Ruben’s hand. “Thanks for the help, we appreciate it.”