Clive Cussler: Deep Six

As one, everybody on the bridge of the Catawba leaned closer to the speaker, unable to comprehend that a man they all knew and respected was dying a short distance away.

“Pulse… over two hundred. Pain… excruciating. Blackness closing vision.” There was an audible moan. “Tell… tell my wife…” The speaker went silent.

You could smell the shock, see it in the widened eyes of the crew standing in stricken horror.

Dover stared numbly at the tomb named the Amie Marie, his hands clenched in helplessness and despair.

“What’s happening?” he murmured tonelessly. “What in God’s name is killing everyone?”

“I say hang the bastard!”

“Oscar, mind your language in front of the girls.”

“They’ve heard worse. It’s insane. The scum murders four kids and some cretin of a judge throws the case out of court because the defendant was too stoned on drugs to understand his rights. God, can you believe it?”

Carolyn Lucas poured her husband’s first cup of coffee for the day and whisked their two young daughters off to the school bus stop. He gestured menacingly at the TV as if it were the fault of the anchorman announcing the news that the killer roamed free.

Oscar Lucas had a way of talking with his hands that bore little resemblance to sign language for the deaf. He sat stoop-shouldered at the breakfast table, a position that camouflaged his lanky six-foot frame. His head was as bald as an egg except for a few graying strands around the temples, and his bushy brows hovered over a pair of oak-brown eyes. Not one to join the Washington, D.C., blue pinstripe brigade, he was dressed in slacks and sportcoat.

In his early forties, Lucas might have passed for a dentist or bookkeeper instead of the special agent in charge of the Presidential Protection Division of the Secret Service. During his twenty years as an agent he had fooled many people with his nice neighbor-next-door appearance, from the Presidents whose lives he guarded to the potential assassins he’d stonewalled before they had an opportunity to act. On the job he came off aggressive and solemn, yet at home he was usually full of mischief and humor — except, of course, when he was influenced by the eight A.M. news.

Lucas took a final sip of coffee and rose from the table. He held open his coat — he was left-handed — and adjusted the high-ride hip holster holding a Smith and Wesson.357 Magnum Model 19 revolver with a 2½-inch barrel. The standard issue gun was provided by the Service when he had finished training and started out as a rookie agent in the Denver field office investigating counterfeiters and forgers. He had drawn it only twice in the line of duty, but had yet to pull the trigger outside a firing range.

Carolyn was unloading the dishwasher when he came up behind her, pulled away a cascade of blond hair and pecked her on the neck. “I’m off.”

“Don’t forget tonight is the pool party across the street at the Hardings’.”

“I should be home in time. The boss isn’t scheduled to leave the White House today.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “You see that he doesn’t.”

“I’ll inform the President first thing that my wife frowns on me working late.”

She laughed and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Six o’clock.”

“You win,” he said in mock weariness and stepped out the back door.

Lucas backed his leased government car, a plush Buick sedan, into the street and headed downtown. Before reaching the end of the block he called the Secret Service central command office over his car radio.

“Crown, this is Lucas. I’m en route to the White House.”

“Have a nice trip,” a metallic voice replied.

Already he began to sweat. He turned on the air conditioner. The summer heat in the nation’s capital never seemed to slacken. The humidity was in the nineties and the flags along Embassy Row on Massachusetts Avenue hung limp and lifeless in the muggy air.

He slowed and stopped at the checkpoint gate on West Executive Avenue and paused for a few moments while a uniformed guard of the Service nodded and passed him through. Lucas parked the car and entered the west executive entrance on the lower level of the White House.

At the SS command post, code-named W-16, he stopped to chat with the men monitoring an array of electronic communication equipment. Then he took the stairs to his office on the second floor of the East Wing.

The first thing he did each morning after settling behind his desk was to check the President’s schedule, along with advance reports by the agents in charge of planning security.

Lucas studied the folder containing future presidential “movements” a second time, consternation growing across his face. There had been an unexpected addition — a big one. He flung down the folder in irritation, swung around in his swivel chair and stared at the wall.

Most Presidents were creatures of habit, ran tight schedules and rigidly adhered to them. Clocks could be set by Nixon’s comings and goings. Reagan and Carter seldom deviated from fixed plans. Not the new man in the Oval Office. He looked upon the Secret Service detail as a nuisance, and what was worse, he was unpredictable as hell.

To Lucas and his deputy agents it was a twenty-four-hour game trying to keep one step ahead of the “Man,” guessing where he might suddenly decide to go and when, and what visitors he might invite without providing time for proper security measures. It was a game Lucas often lost.

In less than a minute he was down the stairs and in the West Wing confronting the second most powerful man in the executive branch, Chief of Staff Daniel Fawcett.

“Good morning, Oscar,” Fawcett said, smiling benignly. “I thought you’d come charging in about now.”

“There appears to be a new excursion in the schedule,” Lucas said, his tone businesslike.

“Sorry about that. But a big vote is coming up on aid to the Eastern bloc countries and the President wants to work his charms on Senator Larimer and Speaker of the House Moran to swing their support for his program.”

“So he’s taking them for a boat ride.”

“Why not? Every President since Herbert Hoover has used the presidential yacht for high-level conferences.”

“I’m not arguing the reason,” Lucas replied firmly. “I’m protesting the timing.”

Fawcett gave him an innocent look. “What’s wrong with Friday evening?”

“You know damn well what’s wrong. That’s only two days away.”

“So?”

“For a cruise down the Potomac with an overnight layover at Mount Vernon my advance team needs five days to plan security. A complete system of communications and alarms has to be installed on the grounds. The boat must be swept for explosives and listening devices, the shores checked out — and the Coast Guard requires lead time to provide a cutter on the river as an escort. We can’t do a decent job in two days.”

Fawcett was a feisty, eager individual with a sharp nose, a square red face and intense eyes; he always looked like a demolition expert eyeing a deserted building.

“Don’t you think you’re making this into an overkill, Oscar? Assassinations take place on crowded streets, or in theaters. Who ever heard of a head of state being attacked on a boat?”

“It can happen anywhere, anytime,” Lucas said with an uncompromising look. “Have you forgotten the guy we stopped who was attempting to hijack a plane he intended to crash into Air Force One? The fact is, most assassination attempts take place when the President is away from his customary haunts.”

“The President is firm on the date,” Fawcett said. “As long as you work for the President you’ll do as you’re ordered, same as me. If he wants to row a dinghy alone to Miami, that’s his choice.”