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"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 humanity 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 audition-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?
