The priest working the confessional area that night was fortyish, which meant he was probably not too much of a doctrinist and likely more college educated. Valen spent thirty minutes circling the man like a vulture before the priest noticed him. He was a thin man with an ascetic face and a hipster beard, but he wore a friendly smile as he came over to where Valen was standing.
“How can I help?” he asked. None of the “my son” crap. Good.
“I’m not a Catholic,” said Valen.
“Not sure I care,” said the priest. “I’m Father Steve. Steven Archer.”
“Andy,” lied Valen, and they shook hands. “Can we, um, talk for a minute?”
“Did you want to make a confession?”
“No,” said Valen. “Just talk.”
They sat at one end of a pew far away from the few other people there. Father Steve was patient and let Valen get to it on his own.
“This isn’t a church thing,” said Valen. “Not exactly.”
The priest nodded.
Valen considered the cover story he’d prepared, and then gave it a try. “I’m in the military. JSOC. You know what that is?”
“Sure. Special operations. I was a chaplain in Afghanistan ten years ago.”
Valen almost fled right then, but did not; instead he tweaked his approach.
“I can’t tell you what unit I’m with. You understand?”
“I do.”
“And I can’t disclose any details of what I do.”
“Sure. Nor would I ask.”
“I want to continue with what I do,” said Valen slowly. “I mean, I feel I have to. It’s important work, and a lot of people are counting on me.” He didn’t need to fake being troubled. It all bubbled just below the surface. “But at the same time… the kind of work I do is bad. People get hurt. People die. You say you were a chaplain, then you’ve talked to guys like me. Guys who want to be good people, guys who don’t want to be defined by the work they do, and yet because they’re good at it, they have to keep doing it. Is any of this making sense?”
Father Steve exhaled through his nose and nodded. “Yes, it is, Andy. And you’re right, I’ve talked with a lot of soldiers who are people of faith, often very strong faith, and yet who have to go against the precepts of that faith every day.”
“How do they stay sane, Father?”
Valen heard the desperation in his own voice. There was too much of it, more than he wanted to share. But Father Steve leaned close.
“The pat answer is that ol’ Fifth Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But the reality is that the Old Testament was filled wall to wall with incidences in which God ordered his chosen people to wage war, and there are all manner of crimes for which public execution is not only permitted but endorsed. It was the New Testament, the teachings of Jesus, where he taught nonviolence and turning the other cheek. This, of course, is often cited as contradictory because in those same teachings he said that he did not come to abolish the old laws, but to complete them. By inference, the traditional forms of public execution were upheld — even if he interceded at times in this, as with the attempted stoning of the prostitute — and by extension the wars in God’s name waged by and for the people of His faith.” He stopped and smiled. “From your face I don’t think that’s what you wanted to hear.”
“Where does sin play into this?”
“Sin is something we have never fully defined. Not in any inarguable way, and yes, that sounds heretical to say. It’s not.” The priest smiled. “The laws of the church have changed and been interpreted more times than I can count. We can’t stand fast and say that we adhere without fluctuation from the pacifistic teachings of Jesus. Especially not us Catholics. The Crusades alone fly in the face of that, and those were authorized by papal bull.” Father Steve shook his head and offered a rueful grin. “The truth is that the commandment doesn’t actually say ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Most scholars agree that it says ‘Thou shalt not murder. ’”
“How is that different from what a soldier does? Innocent people are killed all the time in war.”
“And that is unfortunate. The truth is that divine forgiveness is what we have to offer when a soldier pulls a trigger. We know there is no animus between the soldier and the enemy he kills. Not really. In basic training all soldiers are taught to step outside of their morality and civilized values and trust that the enemy they are ordered to kill is truly worthy of being killed. It is a kind of brainwashing, and all of us who have served have gone through some part of it.”
The church seemed vast and dark and oppressive.
“So, you’re saying that no matter how many people a soldier kills, as long as it’s for the good of their country, then all they have to do is ask for forgiveness and that’s it? The soul is whitewashed?”
Father Steve looked pained as he shook his head. “No, Andy, it isn’t that easy, though quite a lot of people think it’s like flipping a switch.”
“What’s the secret, then?”
“Faith,” said the priest. “You have to believe that God will forgive you, and you have to genuinely repent of your sins.”
Valen turned away and stared at the statues of dead prophets and martyrs. Then, without another word, he got heavily to his feet and walked out of the church.
CHAPTER SIX
The generals and advisors left, singly or in pairs. The administration was still young enough that even old friends did not know where their colleagues’ loyalties lay. It was an ugly and awkward part of any change in administration. They’d seen it in different ways during their individual paths upward through their own careers, and doubly so once those careers became more intensely political. Now there were wild cards in the old deck, and that skewed the odds and made card counting a failing proposition.
Jennifer VanOwen understood this and watched each of them as they left, noting who glanced at whom. Making mental tick marks when she saw small, hidden smiles or flicked glances; gauging the tightness of compressed lips, and assigning possible meaning to the degree of compression. Much of what she saw lined up nicely with her own assessments.
She lingered, as did the chief of staff, until they were the only ones left in the room, with even the military and Secret Service banished. Then the president tapped his chief of staff’s wrist.
“Give us the room, Lucas.”
Admiral Lucas Murphy’s eyes clicked over to VanOwen and back. “Mr. President, I—”
“Now.”
“Yes, sir.” Admiral Murphy stood, back stiff, face wooden.
When the door was closed, VanOwen leaned toward the president. “First, sir, let me tell you how courageous and bold this decision is.”
“Thank you. It’s what needs to be done to insure that this country is second to none.”
“And history will remember you for that.”
He smiled, pleased with the compliment. Thinking that it was a compliment. VanOwen was very happy that she had spent so much time with theater coaches over the years.
“There is something to consider, however, as we move forward,” she said. “We can’t ignore the possibility of pushback from the Department of Military Sciences.”
“Those clowns,” grumped the president.
“Yes,” she said, “those clowns. Despite their many flaws, they did manage to bring down the original Majestic Three program. They are reckless and dangerous, and it’s very uncertain as to where their loyalties lie. After all, they worked for the previous administrations, and there is a clear pattern of assuming control of matters without first clearing it with your office.”