by Tom Clancy
And so, those three men of God went to the hospital. One of them, our friend Skip, went to assist his parishioner in her time of need. The other two, the Catholics, went because they, too, were men of God, and they, too, stood for the same things that we do, because the Word of Jesus IS THE SAME FOR ALL OF US!” Hosiah Jackson’s voice boomed out.
“Yes, sir,” the same white voice agreed, and there were nods in the congregation.
“And so those three men of God went to the hospital to save the life of a little baby, a little baby that the government of that heathen land wanted to kill—and why? They wanted to kill it because its mother and father believe in God—and, oh, no, they couldn’t allow people like that to bring a child into the world! Oh, no, they couldn’t allow people of faith to bring a child into their country, because that was like inviting in a spy. That was a danger to their godless government. And why is it a danger?
“It’s a danger because they know that they are godless pagans! It’s a danger because they know that God’s Holy Word is the most powerful force in the world! And their only response to that kind of danger is to kill, to take the life that God Himself gives to each of us, because in denying God, they can also deny life, and you know, those pagans, those unbelievers, those killers love to have that kind of power. They love pretending that they are gods. They love their power, and they love using it in the service of Satan! They know they are destined to spend eternity in Hell, and they want to share their Hell with us here on earth, and they want to deny to us the only thing that can liberate us from the destiny they have chosen for themselves. That is why they condemned that innocent little baby to death.
“And when those three men went to the hospital to preserve the life of that innocent baby, they stood in God’s own place. They took God’s place, but they did so in humility and in the strength of their faith. They stood in God’s place to fulfill God’s will, not to get power for themselves, not to be false heroes. They went there to serve, not to rule. To serve, as the Lord Jesus Himself served. As his apostles served. They went there to protect an innocent life. They went there to do the Lord God’s work!”
You people probably don’t know this, but when I was first ordained I spent three years in the United States Navy, and I served as a chaplain to the Marines. I was assigned to the Second Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. When I was there, I got to know people we call heroes, and for sure a lot of Marines fall into that category. I was there to minister to the dead and dying after a terrible helicopter crash, and it was one of the great honors of my life to be there and to comfort dying young Marines—be—cause I knew they were going to see God. I remember one, a sergeant, the man had just gotten married a month before, and he died while he was saying a prayer to God for his wife. He was a veteran of Vietnam, that sergeant, and he had lots of decorations. He was what we call a tough guy,” Patterson told the black congregation, ”but the toughest thing about that Marine was that when he knew he was going to die, he prayed not for himself, but for his young wife, that God would comfort her. That Marine died as a Christian man, and he went from this world to stand proud before his God as a man who did his duty in every way he could.
“Well, so did Skip, and so did Renato. They sacrificed their lives to save a baby. God sent them. God gave those men their orders. And they heard the orders, and they followed them without flinching, without hesitating, without thinking except to be sure that they were doing the right thing.
“And today, eight thousand miles from here there is a new life, a new little baby, probably asleep now. That baby will never know all the hubbub that came just before she was born, but with parents like that, that baby will know the Word of God. And all that happened because three brave men of God went to that hospital, and two of them died there to do the Lord’s Work.
“Skip was a Baptist. Renato was a Catholic.
“Skip was yellow. I’m white. You people are black.
“But Jesus doesn’t care about any of that. We have all heard His words. We have all accepted Him as our Savior. So did Skip. So did Renato. Those two brave men sacrificed their lives for The Right. The Catholic’s last words—he asked if the baby was okay, and the other Catholic, the German priest, said ‘yes,’ and Renato said, ‘Bene.’ That’s Italian. It means, ‘That’s good, that’s all right.’ He died knowing that he did the right thing, And that’s not a bad thing, is it?”
“That’s right!” three voices called out.
There is so much to learn from their example,” Hosiah Jackson told his borrowed congregation.
“We must learn, first of all, that God’s Word is the same for all of us. I’m a black man. You folks are white. Skip was Chinese. In that we are all different, but in God’s Holy Word we are all the same. Of all the things we have to learn, of all the things we have to keep in our hearts every day we live, that is the most important. Jesus is Savior to us all, if only we accept Him, if only we take Him into our hearts, if only we listen when He talks to us. That is the first lesson we need to learn from the death of those two brave men.
“The next lesson we need to learn is that Satan is still alive out there, and while we must listen to the words of God, there are those out there who prefer to listen to the words of Lucifer. We need to recognize those people for what they are.
“Forty years ago, we had some of those people among us. I remember it, and probably you do, too. We got over all that. The reason we got over it is that we have all heard the Word of God. We’ve all remembered that our God is a God of Mercy. Our God is a God of Justice. If we remember that, we remember a lot more besides. God does not measure us by what we are against. Jesus looks into our hearts and measures us by what we are for.
“But we cannot be for justice except by being against injustice. We must remember Skip and Renato. We must remember Mr. and Mrs. Yang, and all like them, those people in China who’ve been denied the chance to hear the Word of God. The sons of Lucifer are afraid of God’s Holy Word. The sons of Lucifer are afraid of us. The sons of Satan are afraid of God’s Will, because in God’s Love and in the Way of the Lord lies their destruction. They may hate God. They may hate God’s word—but they fear, they FEAR the consequences of their own actions. They fear the damnation that awaits them. They may deny God, but they know the righteousness of God, and they know that every human soul cries out for knowledge of our Lord.
“That’s why they feared Reverend Yu Fa An. That’s why they feared Cardinal DiMilo, and that’s why they fear us. Me and you good people. Those sons of Satan are afraid of us because they know that their words and their false beliefs can no more stand up to the Word of God than a house trailer can stand before a springtime tornado! And they know that all men are born with some knowledge of God’s Holy Word. That’s why they fear us.
“Good!” Reverend Hosiah Jackson exclaimed. “Then let’s give them another reason to fear us! Let God’s faithful show them the power and the conviction of our faith!”
But we can be sure that God was there with Skip, and with Cardinal DiMilo. God directed their brave hands, and through them God saved that innocent little child,” Patterson told his black congregation. ”And God welcomed to his bosom the two men He sent there to do His work, and today our friend Skip and Cardinal DiMilo stand proudly before the Lord God, those good and faithful servants of His Holy Word.
“My friends, they did their job. They did the Lord’s work that day. They saved the life of an innocent child. They showed the whole world what the power of faith can be.
“But what of our job?” Patterson asked.
It is not the job of the faithful to encourage Satan,” Hosiah Jackson told the people before him. He’d captured their attention as surely as Lord Olivier on his best day—and why not? These were not the words of Shakespeare. These were the words of one of God’s ministers. ”When Jesus looks into our hearts, will He see people who support the sons of Lucifer? Will Jesus see people who give their money to support the godless killers of the
innocent? Will Jesus see people who give their money to the new Hitler?”
“No!” A female voice shouted in reply. “No!”
“What is it that we, we the people of God, the people of faith—what is it that we stand for? When the sons of Lucifer kill the faithful, where do you stand? Will you stand for justice? Will you stand for your faith? Will you stand with the holy martyrs? Will you stand with Jesus?” Jackson demanded of his borrowed white congregation.
And as one voice, they answered him: “Yes!”
Jesus H. Christ,” Ryan said. He’d walked over to the Vice President’s office to catch the TV coverage.
“Told you my Pap was good at this stuff. Hell, I grew up with it over the dinner table, and he still gets inside my head,” said Robby Jackson, wondering if he’d allow himself a drink tonight. “Patterson is probably doing okay, too. Pap says he’s an okay guy, but my Pap is the champ.”
“Did he ever think of becoming a Jesuit?” Jack asked with a grin.
“Pap’s a preacherman, but he ain’t quite a saint. The celibacy would be kinda hard on him,” Robby answered.
Then the scene changed to Leonardo di Vinci International Airport outside Rome, where the Alitalia 747 had just landed and was now pulling up to the jetway. Below it was a truck, and next to the truck some cars belonging to the Vatican. It had already been announced that Renato Cardinal DiMilo would be getting his own full state funeral at St. Peter’s Basilica, and CNN would be there to cover all of it, joined by SkyNews, Fox, and all the major networks. They’d been late getting onto the story at the beginning, but that only made this part of the coverage more full.
Back in Mississippi, Hosiah Jackson walked slowly down from the pulpit as the last hymn ended. He walked with grace and dignity to the front door, so as to greet all of the congregation members on the way out.
That took much longer than he’d expected. It seemed that every single one of them wanted to take his hand and thank him for coming—the degree of hospitality was well in excess of his most optimistic expectations. And there was no doubting their sincerity. Some insisted on talking for a few moments, until the press of the departing crowd forced them down the steps and onto the parking lot. Hosiah counted six invitations to dinner, and ten inquiries about his church, and if it needed any special work. Finally, there was just one man left, pushing seventy, with scraggly gray hair and a hooked nose that had seen its share of whiskey bottles. He looked like a man who’d topped out as assistant foreman at the sawmill.
“Hello,” Jackson said agreeably.
“Pastor,” the man replied, uneasily, as though wanting to say more.
It was a look Hosiah had seen often enough. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Pastor ... years ago ...” And his voice choked up again. “Pastor,” he began again. “Pastor, I sinned.”
“My friend, we all sin. God knows that. That’s why he sent His Son to be with us and conquer our sins.” The minister grabbed the man’s shoulder to steady him.
“I was in the Klan, Pastor, I did ... sinful things ... I ... hurt nigras just cuz I hated them, and I—”
“What’s your name?” Hosiah asked gently.
“Charlie Picket,” the man replied. And then Hosiah knew. He had a good memory for names. Charles Worthington Picket had been the Grand Kleegle of the local Klavern. He’d never been convicted of a major crime, but his name was one that came up much of the time.
“Mr. Picket, those things all happened many years ago,” he reminded the man.
“I ain’t never—I mean, I ain’t never killed nobody. Honest, Pastor, I ain’t never done that,” Picket insisted, with real desperation in his voice. “But I know’d thems that did, and I never told the cops. I never told them not to do it ... sweet Jesus, I don’t know what I was back then, Pastor. I was ... it was...”
“Mr. Picket, are you sorry for your sins?”
“Oh, yes, oh Jesus, yes, Pastor. I’ve prayed for forgiveness, but—”
“There is no ‘but,’ Mr. Picket. God has forgiven you your sins,” Jackson told him in his gentlest voice.
“Are you sure?”
A smile and a nod. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Pastor, you need help at your church, roofing and stuff, you call me, y’hear? That’s the house of God, too. Maybe I didn’t always know it, but by damn I know it now, sir.”
He’d probably never called a black man “sir” in his life, unless there’d been a gun to his head. So, the minister thought, at least one person had listened to his sermon, and learned something from it. And that wasn’t bad for a man in his line of work.
“Pastor, I gots to apologize for all the evil words and thoughts I had. Ain’t never done that, but I gots to do it now.” He seized Hosiah’s hand. “Pastor, I am sorry, sorry as a man can be for all the things I done back then, and I beg your forgiveness.”
“And the Lord Jesus said, ‘Go forth and sin no more.’ Mr. Picket, that’s all of scripture in one sentence. God came to forgive our sins. God has already forgiven you.”
Finally, their eyes met. “Thank you, Pastor. And God bless you, sir.”
“And may the Lord bless you, too.” Hosiah Jackson watched the man walk off to his pickup truck, wondering if a soul had just been saved. If so, Skip would be pleased with the black friend he’d never met.
CHAPTER 32
Coalition Collision
It was a long drive from the airport to the Vatican, every yard of it covered by cameras in the high-speed motorcade, until finally the vehicles entered the Piazza San Pietro, St. Peter’s Square. There, waiting, was a squad of Swiss Guards wearing the purple-and-gold uniforms designed by Michelangelo. Some of the Guards pulled the casket containing a Prince of the Church, martyred far away, and carried it through the towering bronze doors into the cavernous interior of the church, where the next day a Requiem Mass would be celebrated by the Pope himself.
But it wasn’t about religion now, except to the public. For the President of the United States, it was about matters of state. It turned out that Tom Jefferson had been right after all. The power of government devolved directly from the people, and Ryan had to act now, in a way that the people would approve, because when you got down to it, the nation wasn’t his. It was theirs.
And one thing made it worse. SORGE had coughed up another report that morning, and it was late coming in only because Mary Patricia Foley wanted to be doubly sure that the translation was right.
Also in the Oval Office were Ben Goodley, Arnie van Damm, and the Vice President. “Well?” Ryan asked them.
“Cocksuckers,” Robby said, first of all. “If they really think this way, we shouldn’t sell them shit in a paper bag. Even at Top Gun after a long night of boilermakers, even Navy fighter pilots don’t talk like this.”
“It is callous,” Ben Goodley agreed.
“They don’t issue consciences to the political leaders, I guess,” van Damm said, making it unanimous.
“How would your father react to information like this, Robby?” Ryan asked.
“His immediate response will be the same as mine: Nuke the bastards. Then he’ll remember what happens in a real war and settle down some. Jack, we have to punish them.”
Ryan nodded. “Okay, but if we shut down trade to the PRC, the first people hurt are the poor schlubs in the factories, aren’t they?”
“Sure, Jack, but who’s holding them hostage, the good guys or the bad guys? Somebody can always say that, and if fear of hurting them prevents you from taking any action, then you’re only making sure that things never get better for them. So, you can’t allow yourself to be limited that way,” TOMCAT concluded, “or you become the hostage.”
Then the phone rang. Ryan got it, grumbling at the interruption.
“Secretary Adler for you, Mr. President. He says it’s important.”
Jack leaned across his desk and punched the blinking button. “Yeah, Scott.”
“I got the download. It’s not unexpected, and people ta
lk differently inside the office than outside, remember.”
“That’s great to hear, Scott, and if they talk about taking a few thousand Jews on a train excursion to Auschwitz, is that supposed to be funny, too?”
“Jack, I’m the Jew here, remember?”
Ryan let out a long breath and pushed another button. “Okay, Scott, you’re on speaker now. Talk,” POTUS ordered.
“This is just the way the bastards talk. Yes, they’re arrogant, but we already knew that. Jack, if other countries knew how we talk inside the White House, we’d have a lot fewer allies and a lot more wars. Sometimes intelligence can be too good.”
Adler really was a good SecState, Ryan thought. His job was to look for simple and safe ways out of problems, and he worked damned hard at it.
“Okay, suggestions?”
“I have Carl Hitch lay a note on them. We demand a statement of apology for this fuckup.”
“And if they tell us to shove it?”
“Then we pull Rutledge and Hitch back for ‘consultations,’ and let them simmer for a while.”
“The note, Scott?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Write it on asbestos paper and sign it in blood,” Jack told him coldly.
“Yes, sir,” SecState acknowledged, and the line went dead.
It was a lot later in the day in Moscow when Pavel Yefremov and Oleg Provalov came into Sergey Golovko’s office.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t have you in sooner,” the SVR chairman told his guests. “We’ve been busy with problems—the Chinese and that shooting in Beijing.” He’d been looking into it just like every other person in the world.
