As Lucas spoke he looked into the piercing dark eyes of George Blackowl, the acting supervisor and advance agent for the President's movement. Blackowl was about Lucas' height, five years younger and carried about ten pounds of excess weight. A habitual gum chewer-his jaws worked constantly-he was half Sioux and was constantly kinded about his ancestors' role at the Little Big Horn.

"Safe to board?" asked Lucas.

"The boat has been swept for explosives and listening devices.

The frogmen finished checking the hull about ten minutes ago, and the outboard chase boat is manned and ready to follow."

Lucas nodded. "A hundred-and-ten-foot Coast Guard cutter will be standing by when you'reach Mount Vernon."

"Then I guess we're ready for the Boss."

Lucas paused for nearly a minute while he scanned the surrounding dock area. Detecting nothing suspicious, he opened the door for the President. Then the agents formed a security diamond around him.

Blackowl walked ahead of the point man, who was directly in front of the President. Lucas, because he was lefthanded and required ease of movement in case he had to draw his gun, walked the left point and slightly to the rear. Fawcett tailed several yards behind and out of the way.

At the boarding ramp Lucas and Blackowl stood aside to let the others pass.

"Okay, George, he's all yours."

"Lucky you," Blackowl said, smiling. "You get the weekend off."

"First time this month."

"Heading home from here?"

"Not yet. I have to run by the office and clear my desk first.

There were a few hitches during the last trip to Los Angeles. I want to review the planning."

They turned in unison as another government limousine pulled up to the dock. Senator Marcus Larimer climbed out and strode toward the presidential yacht followed by an aid who dutifully carried an overnight bag.

Larimer wore a brown suit with a vest; he always wore a brown suit with a vest. It had been suggested by one of his fellow legislators that he was born in one. His hair was sandy colored and styled in the dry look. He was big and rough-cut, with the look of a hod carrier trying to crash a celebrity benefit.

He simply nodded to Blackowl and threw Lucas the standard politician's greeting: "Nice to see you, Oscar."

"You're looking healthy, Senator."

"Nothing a bottle of scotch won't cure," Larimer replied with a booming laugh. Then he swept up the ramp and disappeared into the main salon.

"Have fun," Lucas said sarcastically to Blackowl. "I don't envy you this trip."

A few minutes later, while driving through the naval-yard gate onto M Street, Lucas passed a compact Chevrolet carrying Congressman Alan Moran going in the opposite direction. Lucas didn't like the Speaker of the House. Not nearly as flamboyant as his predecessor, Moran was a Horatio Alger type who had succeeded not so much from intelligence or perception as from stowing away in the congressional power circles and supplying more favors than he begged. Once accused of masterminding an oil-leasing scheme on government lands, he had greased his way out of the impending scandal by calling in his political IOU's.