Chapter Forty-Nine: Mount Momotombo

Toby awoke to a world of silence and bright lights. A nurse leaned over him, saying something, but nothing came out of her mouth. Then Toby realized the world wasn’t silent; there was a constant ringing in the background.

“Mr. Platt, can you hear me now?” The voice, which matched her lips, came from his TC.

“Where am I?” He couldn’t hear his voice.

“You are in a hospital, Mr. Platt. You were injured in an explosion and by a sonic boom that gave you a concussion and damaged your eardrums. That’s why I’m talking to you through your TC.”

Then he remembered the events at the school’s front gate. “Tyler!” He sat up, then gasped in pain. The nurse pushed him back down. She turned a knob on a machine next to Toby’s bed. He noticed the tube feeding into his arm.

“You are in no condition to get up, Mr. Platt,” she said. “You have major internal injuries. They will be operating on you shortly. Until then, you need to go to sleep. I just put something in your fluids that’ll do that.”

He started to protest, then…

* * *

When Toby woke up again, a woman stood over him, and she seemed vaguely familiar. Everything seemed fuzzy.

“Are you awake?” she asked. There was something about that—then he remembered he’d lost his hearing, but it was back. He looked at the woman, and recognized his daughter Lara.

“You’ve been in an induced coma for three days,” she said. “With stimulated growth, you should be pretty much healed now.”

He sat up, flinching for a second from the memory of the last time he’d done that, but there was no pain. “What happened?” Now he saw that Olivia and Tyler were there as well, asleep in chairs nearby.

Lara summarized. Marty Reese, the would-be assassin, with a few explosives, scramblers, and wiring tricks, had fooled everyone into thinking he’d taken Tyler and the school hostage. He’d gotten Toby to stand near the blue floater, which was packed with explosives. When he’d survived that, Reese himself came out of the house across the street, pretending to be a doctor.

“I remember him now,” Toby said. “I saw him at several campaign events. A man with one arm, always wearing an old American Army uniform.”

“Melissa Smith also remembered him. Said she met him in Australia. Said he was creepy, talked about swatting candidates like flies.”

He took a deep breath. “Tell me the worst. Don’t hold back.”

“There’s not much good news. Your bodyguards, Turk and Crowbar, are dead. So is Chandler and eight of the Gray Guard. Bruce is in critical condition—Turk and Crowbar were between him and the explosion and took most of the impact, or he’d have died. He lost an arm. And Bruce partially shielded you, or you’d be much worse off. Twenty-two lost her left eyestalk, and the sonic boom from her ship hit her pretty hard. After ramming Reese, the ship picked her up and left, and we haven’t seen them since. Or Reese, except for a few pieces left behind.”

“And Tyler?”

“Nobody at the school was hurt. They didn’t even know what was going on. There was an explosion outside the school, so they went into lockdown in the classrooms. Reese never was in the school.”

Toby fell back into the bed and tried to blank his mind out, but couldn’t. He’d brought about these deaths and injuries by acting on his emotions instead of his brain. How could he go on?

“No one knows much of anything about this Reese,” Lara continued. “He’s a former U.S. soldier, but since his discharge about fifteen years ago, he pretty much disappeared. You know what?”

“What?”

“I think Dubois sent him. Or maybe Duffy.”

Toby had wondered the same thing. “I don’t think so,” he said. “As bad as Dubois is, I don’t think he’s ever used an assassin. He’d rather embarrass someone than kill them. And Duffy, if he wanted me dead, he’d arrange someone from the Gray Guard to do it. No, I think Vasquez sent him, before Duffy arrested him.” He told her about the confrontation with Vasquez in Mexico City.

“I just can’t believe history can be made or unmade by so-called lone assassins,” Lara said. “I’ve been with Dubois since you left, and he’s become paranoid. He’s worried about India and Islam Nation, thinks you could win both. I’m sure he sent Reese.”

“He’s worried about me taking Islam Nation? Then he’s gone nutty.” Toby could take India, which would give him a temporary lead, but if Dubois was worried about the hyper-conservative Islam world, then he was truly out of touch.

“I’ve quit the campaign,” Lara said.

That was not expected. “What happened?”

“I can’t stay on a campaign that might be trying to kill my father. But that’s not the sole reason. While you were in your coma, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I kept asking myself, ‘Is the world better with Dubois or you as president?’ The answer was obvious, both on personal characteristics and policy.”

“That means a lot to me,” Toby said. “But I have to ask something. Did you support him before because of Eth?”

“Dad!” She stood up suddenly. “You can’t blame that for anything. I wasn’t on Eth when I agreed to run Dubois’s campaign. When I made decisions to run ads that went after you, I wasn’t on Eth, though sometimes I used it afterwards to soften the blow. No one makes bad decisions because of Eth; they’re not on Eth when they decide to take it, and they took it knowing what that meant. Good and bad decisions are made on their own. I made the bad decision to run Dubois’s campaign, just like you did five years ago.”

Daddy’s little girl had really grown up. “You learned all this twenty years faster than I did.”

“Dad, you’re awake?” Tyler yawned, then shook Olivia. “Mom, he’s awake.”

Victories in Russia and Asia were sweet, but not nearly so sweet as a true family reunion.

* * *

“Because you made a commitment to do so, and because the world needs you,” Bruce said two days later, Monday morning, in answer to Toby’s question. He could not forget his discussion with Turk and Crowbar on the fateful trip to the school. His misguided actions had led to their deaths. How could he go on? He’d asked himself that question over and over since he’d awoken from his coma.

“You can’t drop out because an assassin tricked us,” Bruce continued, “no more than a president should resign the first time someone gets killed on his watch. It’s part of the job, and you know that. You didn’t kill anyone; that Windmill character did, and whoever sent him.”

Toby had recovered from most of his injuries, much of it during his second three-day coma of the campaign, though the one in Vancouver hadn’t been a real coma. Now he stood next to Bruce’s bed. Bruce had been hurt far worse, but should recover from most of his injuries. The one thing Bruce wouldn’t recover from was the loss of his right arm in an explosion set, ironically, by a man without a right arm. Soon he’d have the best prosthetic arm made. But his championship table tennis days were over.

“History is made by those who make it,” Bruce continued. “Don’t let this loser Windmill guy be the one who makes it. Besides, you know Dubois and Duffy must have sent him.”

“Lara said the same thing,” Toby said. “I just don’t think they are the ones. I think it was Vasquez.”

“Vasquez? Just because he wants to be on your cabinet?”

“You weren’t there when he said he was going to put me out of this race.”

With little else to do, the two argued for hours over who sent Reese. They also speculated on Twenty-two, who once again had disappeared, this time by choice, but badly injured.

What they did know was that their extensive campaign plans for Latin America were pretty much gone. The explosion had taken place on Wednesday, five days prior. The election was tomorrow, Tuesday.

“You know what else is tomorrow?” Toby asked. Bruce shook his head. “Tyler’s table tennis tryouts.”

* * *

“…on some of these issues. Just a little more Ajala, a little less Bruce.”

Toby awoke to these words, and realized they had been droning on for some time. He opened his eyes and saw Melissa.

“In Latin America,” the Antarctican teenager continued, “you need someone who can give your message, not just in speeches to the masses, but to the leaders, the opinion leaders, so if you get their support—”

“How long have you been here?” Toby asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“What do you mean? We’ve been talking for a while. Oh—you weren’t awake? Sorry. Where was I when you first heard, so I can go over that again and—”

“Stop! In the wise words of everyone who’s ever had a conversation with you, I surrender!”

“That’s what I said to her when we discussed the election earlier,” said Bruce as he entered in a wheelchair. “But I learned a lot before my head exploded.” Several tubes and wires came out of him and connected with various devices on the back of the wheelchair. “She had some good ideas about Latin America.”

“Since you two can’t campaign and talk to people, you need someone who can,” Melissa said.

“But you’re seventeen years old,” said Toby.

“Don’t let anyone hear you said that,” said Bruce. “Sixteen-year-olds can vote. And don’t spread this around, and I’ll deny it if you do, but this teenager is better than me. She doesn’t even need a TC. She’s earnest and likeable, and I have to fake it. She talks faster than a speeding bullet. More knowledgeable than a politics professor. Able to quote the demographics of La Paz, Bolivia, and everything else about Latin American in a single sentence. Look, up in the press room, it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s Melissa Smith! Strange being from Antarctica who—”

“You’ve been watching old TV shows in bed,” Toby interrupted. He sat up. “Would you like to join my campaign?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for the last ten minutes. I can argue the moderate position since the election is between that and the conservatives, and so there’s no liberal position to argue. After the election, if you win, we can discuss what the moderate position should be. With a little makeup I can appear a little older, and be a talking head on shows all over Latin America, both the mainstream English ones and the Spanish ones. My parents were from Argentina and I’m fluent. Vote por el gran Toby Platt!”

“Where did you learn so much about politics?” Toby asked.

“There’s not much else to do in Antarctica,” she said. “But there’s this site I go to on my TC all the time, PoliticalPeopleParty, and I sometimes spend days there, just debating and arguing, and some of the people are so smart. So—”

“You’re hired,” said Toby.

She froze for a moment, then flashed her best campaign smile. “Thank you. But I’m a volunteer.”

“Then donate your salary to PUFF or some other charity. You are now our Secretary of Explaining Stuff. Get together with Bruce and Gene, work out a schedule, and get down to Latin America and start talking. You’re our secret weapon down there.”

“¡Sí, señor!”

* * *

On Monday afternoon, over the loud protests of their doctors, they flew to Sao Paulo, Brazil. Improvised hospital beds were installed on the Rocinante for Toby and Bruce. Toby was pretty much healed, but the doctors wanted him to spend one more day in bed. They wanted Bruce to spend another week in bed, and restrain from any activities. Bruce agreed, then ignored their advice.

Rather than campaign all over Latin America on the final day before the election, Bruce arranged to have Toby campaign by video. Normally that tactic would never work, but with the worldwide media exposure from the assassination attempt, Bruce thought they might away with it. Election rules stated that candidates must be in the continental region holding an election during the week before the election, but due to his hospitalization, Toby had received an abstention from traveling to Latin America until the final two days. Feodora had been campaigning in Latin America all week.

Melissa was on all the talk shows representing the campaign, still looking seventeen despite the makeup. Several opponents appeared to mock her age with condescending smiles and questions, but after getting steamrolled by the teenager they quickly forgot about her age. Bruce even put together a last-minute ad showcasing the progressive look of a Dubois campaign spokesman as he went from confident to nervous frustration as Melissa spoke. The ad finished with a smooth voice saying, “Is this the best they’ve got, bested by a teenager?”

On Monday night, hundreds of huge screens were erected in cities all over Latin American. By using screens where possible instead of just TCs, it allowed supporters—and potential supporters—to watch it together in rallies. Plus, talking off a huge screen was more impressive than the shrunken image normally viewed on a TC.

“Is it really worth flying all the way to Brazil if I’m just going to speak from the Rocinante?” Toby wondered.

“Damn straight it does!” Bruce said, still flat on his back on the hospital bed aboard the Rocinante, with a nurse hovering over him. “We may never get off the ship, but to 885 million Latin Americans—and especially here in Brazil, the big prize—you took the time to visit them despite your injuries. You can’t pay for that type of publicity—we should give what’s left of Reese’s body a big kiss.”

Toby spoke to Latin American that night from the side of Bruce’s hospital bed in the Rocinante. The location gave the best of both worlds: it showed a seemingly robust Toby, ready to take on the job of president despite the assassination attempt. And it showed Bruce, still covered with tubes and bandages, showcasing the extent and aftermath of the attempt. After the address was done and the cameras off, Toby collapsed back into his own bed.

The new stump speech highlighted gun violence, a particular problem in Latin America. Dubois was strongly for freedom of weapons and against gun registration. Ajala had been the reverse, a crusader to ban weapons from private citizens. Once again, Toby and Bruce pushed for a compromise: guns should be legal for home defense, and for recreational purposes at gun clubs, but nowhere else. Those who wanted guns had to register them and pass a short, one-time training course.

Toby thought the speech went well. Legalization of guns, along with abortion, were two issues that would never go away. Sometimes the arguments changed, such as the argument for legalizing guns for hunting, which at one time was considered a valid argument—and still was in Australia.

Bruce and Gene arranged a few interviews for later that night, and for Tuesday morning—election day—talk shows in the three largest Latin American countries: locally in Sao Paulo, Brazil; in Buenos Aires, Argentina; and in Bogota, Columbia. But Toby had other priorities, and insisted they return to the U.S. right after the Columbian talk show host finished gushing over how proud Columbia and the rest of Latin America was of him for visiting so soon after the assassination attempt. They landed in Maryland that afternoon. Melissa, the new media darling, stayed behind to represent them on all the talk shows throughout the day.

Tuesday night Toby was at Germantown Middle School. The school had closed on Thursday and Friday after the attempt, but had reopened, with added security and counselors, on Monday. Now Toby sat quietly on the sidelines, surrounded by Gray Guard, watching his son in the table tennis tryouts. Bruce was also there, in a portable hospital bed with two very unhappy doctors. He wouldn’t be able to coach, but at least he could watch. For the night, he tried to put away his worries about the election and Twenty-two, and was partially successful.

Tyler didn’t make the team—he made first alternate—but vowed to do so the following year. They went out for ice cream afterwards.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, they left for India. Toby couldn’t fight off the feeling that he was abandoning his family again, leaving them right after such a traumatic time, but with two more major regional elections, there was little choice. Hopefully the election would be wrapped up one way or another in India and Islam Nation, and they wouldn’t have to bother with Antarctica. The Gray Guard was in turmoil over their failure to stop the attack, the deaths of eight agents, and the death of Director Chandler. Toby had little trouble convincing them to double the guard over Olivia and Tyler.

Before crossing the Atlantic on their way to India, they had another Latin American errand to run. Toby had spoken with Turk and Crowbar’s family by TC. Their parents had flown to Maryland after their sons’ deaths, and now joined them in the Rocinante as the cremated remains were flown back to Nicaragua. The two had left a will with instructions for their remains. Bruce grumbled about the inefficiency of making a second trip down south. He’d wanted to hurry the parents and the cremation up so they could do the Nicaraguan trip on the way to Brazil on Monday, but Toby threatened to drop him in an active volcano—not an idle threat, considering their destination.

It wasn’t until Toby met their parents that he realized that Turk and Crowbar had real names. Of course they did—he’d just never thought about it. They’d gone by their bodyguard names so long he’d taken that for granted.

They flew to the shores of Lago de Managua, near Turk and Crowbar’s hometown of León in Nicaragua. As per their instructions, they traveled to the northwest shores of Lake Managua and dumped the cremated ashes of Oscar and Fernando Gonzalez into the 4200-foot active volcano and symbol of Nicaragua, the symmetrically cone-shaped Mount Momotombo.