Clive Cussler: Deep Six

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 aide 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.

He looked neither right nor left as he drove by. His mind, Lucas deduced, was grinding on ways to pick the President’s influential pocket.

Not quite an hour later, as the crew of the presidential yacht were preparing to cast off, Vice President Margolin came aboard with a garment bag draped over one shoulder. He hesitated a moment and then spied the President, seated alone in a deck chair near the stern, watching the sun begin to set over the city. A steward appeared and relieved Margolin of the garment bag.

The President looked up and stared as though not fully recognizing him.

“Vince?”

“Sorry I’m late,” Margolin apologized. “But one of my aides misplaced your invitation and I only discovered it an hour ago.”

“I wasn’t sure you could make it,” the President murmured obscurely.

“Perfect timing. Beth is visiting our son at Stanford and won’t be home until Tuesday, and I had nothing on my schedule that-couldn’t be shoved ahead.”

The President stood up, forcing a friendly smile. “Senator Larimer and Congressman Moran are on board too. They’re in the dining salon.” He tilted his head in their direction. “Why don’t you say hello and rustle up a drink.”

“A drink I could use.”

Margolin bumped into Fawcett in the doorway and they exchanged a few words.

The President’s face was a study in anger. As much as he and Margolin differed in style and appearance— the Vice President was tall and nicely proportioned, not a bit of fat on his body, with a handsome face, bright blue eyes and a warm, outgoing personality— they differed even more in their politics.

The President maintained a high level of personal popularity by his inspirational speeches. An idealist and a visionary, he was almost totally occupied with creating programs that would be of global benefit ten to fifty years in the future. Unfortunately, for the most part they were programs that did not fit in with the selfish realities of domestic politics.

Margolin, on the other hand, kept a low profile with the public and news media, aiming his energies more toward domestic issues. His stand on the President’s Communist bloc aid program was that the money would be better spent at home.

The Vice President was a born politician. He had the Constitution in his blood. He had come up the hard way — through the ranks, beginning with his state legislature, then governor and later the Senate. Once entrenched in his office in the Russell Building, he surrounded himself with a powerhouse staff of advisers who possessed a flair for strategic compromise and innovative political concepts. While it was the President who proposed legislation, it was Margolin who orchestrated its passage through the maze of committees into law and policy, all too often making the White House staff appear like fumbling amateurs, a situation that did not sit well with the President and caused considerable internal back-stabbing.

Margolin might have been the people’s choice for the Presidency, but he was not the party’s. Here his integrity and image as a “shaker and doer” worked against him. He too often refused to fall in line on partisan issues if he believed in a better path; he was a maverick who followed his own conscience.

The President watched Margolin disappear into the main salon, irritation and jealousy burning within him.

“What is Vince doing here?” Fawcett asked him nervously.

“Damned if I know,” snapped the President. “He said he was invited.”

Fawcett looked stricken. “Christ, somebody on the staff must have screwed up.”

“Too late now. I can’t tell him he’s not wanted and to please leave.”

Fawcett was still confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but we’re stuck with him.”

“He could blow it.”

“I don’t think so. Regardless of what we think about Vince, he’s never made a statement that tarnished my image. That’s more than a lot of Presidents could say about their VP’s.”

Fawcett resigned himself to the situation. “There aren’t enough staterooms to go around. I’ll give up mine and stay on shore.”

“I appreciate that, Dan.”

“I can stay on the boat until tonight and then bunk at a nearby motel.”

“Perhaps, under the circumstances,” the President said slowly, “it would be best if you remained behind. With Vince along, I don’t want our guests to think we’re ganging up on them.”

“I’ll leave the documents supporting your position in your stateroom, Mr. President.”

“Thank you. I’ll study them before dinner.” Then the President paused. “By the way, any word on the Alaskan situation?”

“Only that the search for the nerve agent is under way.”

The President’s eyes reflected a disturbed look. He nodded and shook Fawcett’s hand. “See you tomorrow.”

Later Fawcett stood on the dock among the irritated Secret Service agents of the Vice President’s detail. As he watched the aging white yacht cut into the Anacostia River before turning south toward the Potomac, a knot began to tighten in the pit of his stomach.

There had been no written invitations!

None of it made any sense.

Lucas was putting on his coat, about to leave his office, when the phone linked to the command post buzzed.

“Lucas.”

“This is ‘Love Boat,’ “ replied George Blackowl, giving the code name of the movement in progress.

The call was unexpected and like a father with a daughter on a date Lucas immediately feared the worst. “Go ahead,” he said tersely.

“We have a situation. This is no emergency, I repeat, no emergency. But something’s come up that isn’t in the movement.”

Lucas expelled a sigh of relief. “I’m listening.”

“ ‘Shakespeare’ is on the boat,” said Blackowl, giving the code name for the Vice President.