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"It won't be a joke if the Kremlin leaders, backs against an economic wall, strike out in desperation and march through Europe."
"Your opposition in Congress feels the risk is offset by the very real threat of starvation, which will undermine Russia's capacity to maintain its military machine. And there are those who are banking on the eroding morale of the Russian people to crystallize in active resistance toward the ruling party."
The President shook his head. "The Kremlin is fanatical about its military buildup. They'll never slack off in spite of their economic dilemma. And the people will never rise up or stage mass demonstrations. The party's collar is too tight."
"The bottom line," said Fawcett, "is that both Larimer and Moran are dead set against taking the burden off Moscow."
The President's face twisted in disgust. "Larimer is a drunk and Moran is tainted with corruption."
"Still, there is no getting around the fact you have to sell them on your philosophy."
"I can't deny their opinions," the President admitted. "But I am convinced that if the United States saves the Eastern bloc nations from almost total disintegration, they will turn away from the Soviet Union and join with the West."
"There are many who see that as wishful thinking, Mr. President."
"The French and Germans see it my way."
"Sure, and why not? They're playing both ends of the field, relying on our NATO forces for security while expanding economic ties with the East."
"You're forgetting the many grass-roots American voters who are behind my aid plan too," said the President, his chin thrust forward at his words. "Even they realize its potential for defusing the threat of nuclear holocaust and pulling down the iron Curtain for good."
Fawcett knew it was senseless to try to sway the President when he was in a crusading mood and passionately convinced he was right. There was a kind of virtue in killing
your enemies with kindness, a truly civilized tactical move to ease the conscience of reasonable people, but Fawcett remained pessimistic. He turned inward to his thoughts and remained silent as the limousine turned Off M Street into the Washington Naval Yard and rolled to a stop on one of the long docks.
A dark-skinned man with the stony facial features of an American Indian approached as Lucas stepped from the car.
"Evening, George."
"Hello, Oscar. How's the golf game?"
"Sad shape," answered Lucas. "I haven't played in almost two weeks."
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 kidded 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, which was directly in front of the President. Lucas, because he was left-handed 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?"
