The Vice-President turned his perpetually wounded eyes on him like blue lasers. "My prime directive is survival. Entering the train is not conducive to our survival. Must survive. Must ensure your survival. Your survival will ensure my survival. My survival will guarantee your survival. Our survival-"
"I getcha," chattered the President. The poor guy was still rattled. He'd been going on and on about survival like a tape-message loop. "But if I don't have some water soon, I don't know if I'm gonna survive. "
That got a reaction. "Wait here. I will get water."
And the Vice-President came to his feet like his knees had sprung. He clambered up an attached ladder to the caboose roof and disappeared. Over the clickety-clack of the rails, the President heard his feet clump away heavily.
"Amazing!" the President said, his newfound awe of his Vice-President swelling. "When this is over, I'm gonna put that guy up for a Congressional Medal of Honor. And screw those jerks who called him a draft dodger."
The President huddled at the metal railing of the caboose platform. He clung to it with one hand, fearful of falling off. It was warm. Not hot. The sun was high and eye-stingingly bright, but he could stand it. The wind cut through his poplin windbreaker relentlessly.
The Vice-President came down the caboose carrying a plastic cup. He offered it, saying, " I found this. "
"Thanks," the President said, taking quick gulps. The water tasted good. "Want some?"
"No. I do not need water."
"Great," said the President, who really hadn't wanted to share in the first place. He drained the cup.
"Damn! That was good. Wish I had more."
"I will provide more water," the Vice-President said. "Water is important for your survival."
"No, no," the President said quickly. "Stay put. No sense risking your neck again running along the train top."
" I will not need to do that. I now carry a reserve supply."
The Vice-President took the plastic glass, and turning his back on the President, did something with it. The President's brow wrinkled at the sound of gurgling water. He sneaked a look. The Vice-President held one hand over the glass. He thought he saw water dribbling off the man's fingertips.
The glass came back into his hand, and the President took a tentative sip. He made a face.
"Tastes oily," he said.
"It will not harm you. Nothing will harm you while I am with you. It is important that you know that."
"Know it?" the President said, draining the glass in quick gulps. "I'm gonna see that you get the best thank-you note ever written. The very best. What do you think of that?"
"The job of protecting you is a job," the Vice-President said blankly.
"Great, Dan," the President said with concern. "Could I ask you why you've got that smile on your face?"
"This is the smile that is always on the face of the Vice-President. "
"Yeah, true. But not like that. It looks kinda . . . fixed. You're starting to remind me of that joker fella, from the movie. Think you could relax just a little?"
The smile dropped two stops on the register. "Is this satisfactory?" the Vice-President asked.
"Better," the President admitted.
The smiled dropped another stop, with German lens precision.
"Is this best?"
"Good. Yeah, keep it like that."
I gotta make sure this guy gets a full psychiatric evaluation at Walter Reed, the President thought. He's acting loopier than ever.
"We are nearing a city," the Vice-President said as the mountains grew thinner around them.
"How do you know that?"
" I can smell the pollution. It is very dense. There are harmful elements in the air-sulfur dioxides, carbon monoxide, zinc particles, and fecal dust."
"Must be Mexico City," the President said, suddenly impressed by his Vice-President's keen sense of smell. " I understand on really bad days the birds actually drop out of the sky from the smog. Imagine that. Hey, we have an embassy in Mexico City. We'll go there."
"Will they assist our survival?"
"Damn right. They'll assure it."
"Then we will go there."
"Of course we will," the President said, sticking his hands between his thighs for warmth.
The train began to slow and shacks appeared on either side. They looked miserable, like something found on the outskirts of a war-torn third-world battle zone. The President had traveled through Mexico before, but had never seen the rural part up close like this. It was difficult to imagine that this kind of squalor existed only a few hundred miles below the Texas border.
A road appeared on the left, and as the train slowed, the road came closer and closer to the rail-bed until the train and the sparse traffic were running parallel to one another.
"Someone's gonna see us," the President warned.
"I will protect you."
"Glad to hear it, but that's not what I meant. Maybe they'll recognize us. Help us out."
A dull gray truck with a wooden flatbed rumbled past the train, going in the opposite direction. The President noticed it because the back was crowded with a dozen or more men standing up. As they zoomed by, they reacted with shouts and pointing fingers.
The truck executed a fumy U-turn and came up alongside the caboose. The men surged to the near side of the truck bed. One waved and shouted, "El presidente?"
"Si! Si!" the President answered, getting to his feet. He waved with one hand, clutching the rail with the other. "Soy el presidente de los Estados Unidos!"
A shout went up from the men, who wore dusty clothing. They looked like ragtag Mexican farmers.
The truck picked up speed and left them breathing its malodorous exhaust.
"They're going fox help!" the President shouted joyously. "We can relax, now. They must have been looking for us all along."
"They possess weapons which can harm you," the Vice-President said mechanically.
"Guns are real popular down here. It's that machismo thing."
The train was rounding a bend, giving the President an unobstructed view of the engine. The truck drew up alongside it. Suddenly a battery of rifles and automatic weapons came level, like a firing squad on wheels.
"Must be trying to get the attention of the engineer," the President ventured. "Fella probably can't hear them over the engine racket."
The guns opened up. The firing was intense, a rattling ineffectual pop-pop-pap mixed with the harsh snap of bullets bouncing off the heavy engine.
"What the hell are they doing?" the President said, ducking for cover. "That's a lot of shooting for a warning shot."
"We must escape," the Vice-President said with metallic urgency. The train was slowing down.
"For God's sake, what's going on?"
The train ground to a jerky halt and the truck came back, its human cargo shouting and caterwauling like Pancho Villa's army.
The President was no fool. He realized this was no rescue party. Before he could say, "Let's get out of here!" a firm hand took him by the waist and yanked him down behind the caboose, pushing him against a multiwheeled truck assembly.
"These wheels will protect you," he said. The Vice-President crept forward.
"Where are you going?" the President demanded anxiously.
The Vice-President did not answer. He disappeared between the couplings that joined the caboose to the rest of the train.
The President hugged his knees to his chest and tried to make himself as small as he could. He ruefully thought that whatever dangers had awaited him in Bogota, they would be infinitely preferable to what was happening right now.
He listened to the mixture of sounds-more excited shouting, the gunning of the truck engine, and the lengthy squeal of its tires in a wild turn. They were coming back.