Empire

Passwords

Reuben stayed off the toll roads on the way back to Aunt Margaret’s house. Too easy to stop traffic for an ID check. Besides, they’d be transporting troops northward. The toll road would be blocked up for miles.

“It probably isn’t right to take Charlie O’Brien’s car all the way to West Windsor,” said Cole. “But I don’t see us riding a bus back, either.”

“It’s wartime,” said Reuben. “We’ll mail him the keys and tell him where to pick up his car.”

“I keep running my head into a brick wall here,” said Cole. “How could weapons like this be developed without any intelligence service knowing about it?”

“Easier than you think,” said Reuben. “Defense Intelligence is mostly looking abroad for weapons development and manufacture. If they have a key guy in the FBI who knows what not to pass upward to his superiors, or who can steer agents away from the right direction, you could probably do it in some out of the way place in this country.”

“They had to transport those mechs to New York.”

“On trucks painted with the ABF logo so nobody looks twice at them.”

“There are inspection stations.”

“It’s all about money and true believers,” said Reuben. “Most of the people in the know are true believers in the cause. They don’t talk. And those who aren’t true believers are paid a lot of money, and they don’t know much anyway.”

Cole pushed seek on the radio to find a broadcast station running news.

They were all running the news. But it was still scattered. Some kind of disturbance in New York. Two downed jets. Firing reported. All landlines and cellphones silent. Rumors of aliens, of military convoys heading north through New Jersey, warships sailing toward New York, Marines getting ready to land, National Guard troops called out in New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut.

And, oh yes, preparations for the funerals of those who died on Friday the Thirteenth.

“Great. That’s how they’re going to refer to the assassination of those good men,” said Reuben. “Friday the Thirteenth. As if their deaths were simply a stroke of bad luck.”

“This is what you were doing, isn’t it,” said Cole. “Working with weapons sales and development. You know how weapons systems are hidden and how they’re found.”

“I think I was their patsy all along,” said Reuben. “I’ve been going over shipments and contracts. I was tracking some, I was carrying out others. Bidding, buying, selling, passing money to third parties to pass along to fourth parties. They told me I was fighting terrorism, helping penetrate organizations. But I think I may have shipped some of this stuff to the staging areas.”

“They did this using government budgets?”

“I don’t know whose money I was using. I was a middle man. An errand boy. I had to be smart because sometimes the assignments were dangerous. Guys who’d rather take what you delivered and keep the money, which meant killing me. Sending me helped assure that things didn’t get ugly.”

“How did you prevent it?”

“I recognized the problems going in. If it looked bad, I aborted the mission. Phillips joked that that’s why I was getting the big bucks—for knowing when to walk away from the deal.”

“Big bucks?”

“It was a joke,” said Reuben. “I drew my salary, period.”

“I bet you were a good boy and didn’t keep any records.”

“I wasn’t that good. Encrypted files on my PDA.”

“What’s your password?”

Reuben couldn’t believe he asked. Then he realized Cole was right. “I guess we’ve got a new system of classification now. Top Secret. Eyes Only. Coleman Only.”

“You could have died today,” said Cole. “They could arrest you or kill you at any time. You need that PDA out of your possession and someone else needs to know the password. If you think it has evidence.”

“I never even told Cessy my passwords,” said Reuben. “To protect her.”

“It only protects her against a rational enemy,” said Cole. “An irrational one won’t believe she doesn’t know it till she’s dead.”

“I think these guys are trying to play by some version of American rules.”

“Those bullets pouring into the Chinese restaurant at us didn’t know who was behind those walls.”

“Maybe they had software that recognized our faces. Maybe getting us was worth some collateral damage.”

“Password,” said Cole.

“And maybe you’ve been my shadow the past few days just so you could get that password before you kill me,” said Reuben. “Maybe you’re working for these clowns. They accepted that you might have to kill a few of their guys to earn my trust. You get my password, then you take my PDA and kill me. I don’t know you, Cole.”

“No, you don’t,” said Cole. “For a minute there you trusted me, though.”

“I did.”

“How’s it working out so far?” asked Cole.

“I asked for you to be assigned to me,” said Reuben. “Then again, I chose from a list. They provided the list.”

“We don’t know who they are,” said Cole. “But hang on to the PDA for a while yet. I’m not going to try to force the issue. It’s foolish. But I understand the paranoia.”

“Thank you,” said Reuben. “I still trust you, Cole. I’m taking you home to my family.”

“I know,” said Cole.

“They didn’t know where we were, but they’ll figure it out,” said Reuben. “Where else would I have gone on the Jersey side of New York City? A little research and they’ll be at Aunt Margaret’s. Maybe before we even get there.”

“So let me out before we get too close,” said Cole. “So they don’t get us both.”

“I keep the PDA at home, or I’d give it to you right now.”

“But not the password.”

“No, not the password. You’d be my off-site storage.”

“Who’s trying to arrest us?” said Cole. “Is it the guys who just invaded New York—the ones who are working inside the government to subvert it? Or is it the good guys, who figure it can’t just be coincidence that we keep showing up right where the crisis is?”

“All that planted evidence,” said Reuben. “They can’t ignore it.”

“Is it just coincidence we keep showing up?”

“It’s only happened twice,” said Reuben. “First time, they watched us. Not coincidence. Part of their effort to pin it on me. On an American soldier. But today—no, they had no way of knowing we’d decide to take a five a.m. drive to Ground Zero. They certainly weren’t going to time this invasion to fit our whims. The second day after the assassinations. Still within the time of maximum chaos. Who’s in charge? Nobody’s established the chain of command again. What will this President want? How long will he wrestle with the problems before he acts? Ideal time. Nothing to do with us.”

“Except that I don’t care who did this,” said Cole. “They were killing cops. They were killing uniforms. They may think they’re saving the Constitution, but they’re saving nothing. It’s all about imposing their will on unwilling people.”

“But Cole,” said Reuben. “Don’t you understand? When you have the Truth, then anybody who opposes you is either ignorant or evil. You rule over the ignorant and you kill or lock up the evil. Then you can make the world run according to your perfect Truth.”

“On the Left and the Right,” said Cole. “Same thing.”

“The English Civil War,” said Reuben. “On one side, Divine Right of Kings, patriotism, the status quo, the cool long-haired Cavaliers. Oh the other side, the Puritans, guardians of God’s word, short-haired, Bible-carrying perfectionists. Most people couldn’t care a rat’s ass either way.”

“The Puritans had Cromwell.”

“So they won. For a while,” said Reuben. “But as soon as they had power, they started trying to enact their program. No Christmas, no sports, can’t twitch on Sunday, lives of unrelenting work and prayer. No playing, no plays even. No bear-baiting. No heresy tolerated, and that includes the familiar trappings of religion. Ten years of that and the people were ready to bring back the kings—even if they might have Catholic sympathies.”

“So you’re saying that people will get sick of the excesses of whichever group of perfectionists just took over Manhattan.”

“Eventually,” said Reuben. “But that doesn’t mean they can get rid of the Puritans that easily. Cromwell died without a strong successor. Castro flat out didn’t die. Hitler and Stalin were too ruthless to be overthrown. Pol Pot just killed everybody. Whenever the fanatics take over, it’s a crapshoot whether you can ever get rid of them, at least without a long and bloody struggle, or decades of oppression. Generations.”

“So you’re saying you have limited optimism about the future.”

There was nothing to say to that. They drove in silence for a while as they took some back roads to avoid sirens and Cole studied the state map that Charlie O’Brien carried in his car.

Reuben knew Cole was right about the password to the PDA. The information on there might be the key to finding out where these weapons originated. There was that series of shipments that were going to the Port of New York, ostensibly for overseas shipment. But what if they only got to the port and sat on the dock waiting for the command to take over the city? The trouble was, Reuben wasn’t sure where the shipment originated. Again, it seemed much of it was coming from the Port of Seattle. But did that mean it came from overseas, or somewhere else on the West Coast, or maybe it originated in Washington, or maybe it was paperworked out of Washington but in fact was shipped from Mexico. For all he knew.

Still, it was a start, that link to Seattle. If he really had helped to arrange shipment eastward.

These bastards, plotting to take over New York City, and using government money to pay for it and government agents to handle the paperwork and payments.

Could Phillips possibly be clean? There he was in the White House. He had to be the one who notified the terrorists!

No, no, Reuben told himself. No leaping to conclusions. If they were smart—and so far they’ve been smarter than me—they’d never have the same guy working on shipments of weapons and serving as the inside guy to tip off the terrorists. They’d use two different people.

Two people inside the White House, betraying what was supposedly the most fanatically conservative presidency in history, to hear the Left talk about it—or an endemically corrupt, power-hungry government no matter who was in power, to hear the Right talk about it.

And who inside the Pentagon? It was time to call DeeNee and find out if she knew anything yet.

She wasn’t at the office, of course. Or maybe she was—on a Sunday with New York under attack, everybody would be called in. He called her cellphone anyway. She answered on the second ring.

“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” said Reuben.

“I got the preacher to hold the prayer till I’m off the phone,” said DeeNee.

“Not really, right?”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Not in Washington,” said Reuben. “If you don’t know—”

“I know,” she said.

“What do we know?”

“Well, we know you’re supposed to be under arrest near the Holland Tunnel,” she said, “and there’s a guy standing here telling me not to say this.”

The phone was apparently torn out of her hand as she said the last few words. A man came on the line.

“Do you realize how guilty you’re making yourself look?” Reuben recognized the voice of one of his debriefers.

“I was in New York looking at Ground Zero,” said Reuben. “One of their pod monsters started shooting at me. Some cops and I got the sucker down on the ground and looked inside. Then I got a dozen or so cops out of the city and helped plug the Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel. There I pulled a semi-living soldier out of one of the mechs for later interrogation. I also saved the body armor and personal electronics of one of their ground troops. And you want to arrest me for something you know damn well I tried to prevent?”

There was silence for a moment.

“Hell, Malich, I don’t want to arrest you, but that’s the orders we’re getting.”

“Getting from where?” said Reuben. “Doesn’t it occur to you that the same people who gave my plans to the terrorists might be the people who are ordering you to arrest me?”

“Major Malich, you know as well as I do that it’s possible to be a hero and a traitor. Benedict Arnold was.”

“Not on the same damn day,” said Reuben. He turned the phone off.

“Probably talked too long,” said Cole.

“They already know I’m in Jersey.”

“I’d throw away that phone.”

“And lose all my speed dial numbers?” Reuben tossed it out the window. “This is getting expensive. I wish I had some of the budget these guys had to build the mechs.”

“I thought they were pod monsters.”

“One is the brand name, the other’s the generic. Like Coke and soda pop.”

“Or heroin and smack. I noticed how you made yourself the lone ranger. I did this, I did that.”

“Trying to keep you out of the discussion.”

“Yeah, like the cops will forget there were two Army guys helping them.”

“I can’t stand to share credit,” said Reuben. “Live with it.”

Reuben came toward Aunt Margaret’s house from the north and parked the car two streets away. “Keeping your weapons with you?” he asked Cole.

“I’m not taking a piss without my weapons, sir,” said Cole.

“Just don’t yank the clip out of the wrong one,” said Reuben.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.” Cole got out of the car.

Reuben drove on to the house.

Nobody waiting out in front. No news vans. No police cars. No military vehicles. No unmarked black cars with guys in suits.

So maybe the guys who were after him weren’t perfect.

Or maybe they just didn’t care enough right now to make him a top priority, compared to, say, conquering New York.

When he went into the house, Cessy greeted him with a hug. She had been crying. “Where were you?” she said.

“I don’t think we can make it to Mass this morning,” he said.

“You were there, weren’t you. You and Coleman, you had to go into the city, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t know this was invasion day,” said Reuben. “But we got out alive. Now we’ve got to get out of here. They know we’re in Jersey, it doesn’t take a genius to think of checking the homes of known relatives.”

“Who’s after you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. There’s an order from the Pentagon to arrest me. But I don’t know if it’s the good guys, who are fooled by the phony evidence planted against me, or the bad guys, hoping to use that as an excuse to get their hands on me and shut me up for good. Where are the kids?”

“I confined them to their rooms. Mark and Nick are entertaining the girls and J. P.”

Aunt Margaret came in dangling keys. “Take my PT Cruiser.”

“We won’t all fit,” said Reuben.

“You aren’t taking the kids,” said Margaret. “Don’t be insane. People are shooting out there. This is a nice little house in a nice little town in the Garden State. But the two of you are very smart. You need to get away from the kids to keep them safe.”

“In your PT Cruiser.”

“I have your nice SUV. Where’s the one you borrowed to come here?”

“In the city,” said Reuben. “I don’t want to leave the kids.”

“Neither do I,” said Cessy.

Her cellphone rang. “I guess it’s not you,” she said.

She said hello and then listened. Then she said “all right” about five times and hung up.

“That’s one hell of a cold-call salesman if you just bought new carpet,” said Reuben.

“That was Sandy. LaMonte wants us to meet with him.”

“Us? You and me?”

“And Captain Coleman. Where is he? He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“He walked the last couple of blocks in full battle gear. In case this place was surrounded.”

The doorbell rang. Aunt Margaret opened it. “You have blood on your uniform, young man.”

“I had a cut thumb,” said Cole. He held up his Minimi. “In a neighborhood like this, I feel like a little kid playing army men. Can I come in?”

“May I come in is more proper,” said Aunt Margaret, opening the door wider to let him pass. “But it’s rude to correct people’s grammar, so I never do.”

The PT Cruiser didn’t like going faster than 65. At 70 it started trembling.

Then again, Cessy didn’t like driving faster than 65 anyway. And she was driving. Cole was sitting behind the seats with the shelf over his head. They looked like two nice citizens on their way to or from church. Unless you looked closely and saw all the weapons on the floor of the back seat. And the guy in the back with the machine gun.

Aunt Margaret was taking the kids to the home of some very good friends in Hamilton. “Good Croatians,” she said. “They’ll not breathe a word. And I’ll stay with the kids the whole time.” She was only driving Charlie O’Brien’s car as far as Lawrence, and her friends were picking her up there. She’d mail Charlie’s keys to him and tell him where to get the car. “I feel like a spy,” she said.

“You should feel like a refugee,” answered Cessy.

But it still tore her apart to leave the kids behind. And she could see that even though Mark was as manic as ever and Nick as quiet, they were scared. There was terrible stuff happening on the news, and their own parents were right in the thick of it, and now they were going into hiding. The girls, of course, were irritated that Mom and Dad were leaving them, but they had no clue about the outside world. They’d be fine, she was sure of that. Fine fine fine.

“I thought I turned down that job in the White House,” Cessy said.

“Well,” said Reuben, “technically, since the President isn’t in the White House… ”

Cessy wished she could have heard the discussions when LaMonte told them he wasn’t going to Camp David or any of the known locations. “Since we don’t know whom we can trust,” LaMonte would have said, “we can’t vouch for our security anywhere.”

“Some political adviser was bound to say, “It’ll look like you’re in hiding. It’ll cause confusion and make you look bad.”

“I’m not running for anything right now,” LaMonte would have said. “And the country doesn’t need another dead President right now.”

But… why Gettysburg?

“Gettysburg?” she said out loud.

“It’s an appropriate place,” said Reuben. “He’s not moving the whole government there, just himself and enough aides to keep communications going. Lots of parkland. A good buffer. Relatively easy to maintain reasonable security.”

“Plenty of places for people to sneak past checkpoints,” said Captain Coleman from the back.

“Symbolically,” said Reuben, “it’s the place where the last Civil War we had broke its back. And it’s close to Washington. He can come back whenever he wants.”

“Also lots of motels for his staff,” said Captain Coleman.

“And since the visitors information office is closed most of the time, it won’t really interfere with park operations,” said Reuben.

Cessy explained to Captain Coleman. “He’s still irritated that we got there after six on a summer day and they were already closed. Three more hours of daylight. This was two years ago, remember.”

“I just don’t understand why government has to be run without reference to what people actually want and need,” said Reuben.

“People want so many different things,” said Cessy. “Some people want visitors’ centers open late. Other people want lower taxes.”

“Other people want to take over a city here, a city there.”

“Oh look,” said Cessy. “Aunt Margaret has XM. We can listen to the news.”

Reuben turned on the system and went straight to Fox News. They listened for a while. No mention of attacks on any city other than New York. Lots of speculation about the death ray that brought down the F-16s. Speculation about what city would be next. Speculation about casualties in New York. Experts talking about how long New York could last without trucks bringing in food and fuel. Other experts talking about how many businesses would be shut down because their workers couldn’t get into the city tomorrow.

Speculation on foreign powers that might take advantage of the present situation. Speculation about foreign powers that might be behind all of this. Was this a terrorist takeover? What would the United States do if Manhattan was being held hostage? What were the diplomats at the United Nations going to do?

Eventually, though, some answers started coming through, in an endless succession of news bulletins. It came from the United Nations, where a group of diplomats from Germany, France, and Canada were allowed to take off in a helicopter and go to Kennedy, where they held a press conference. The Canadian ambassador did most of the talking, and most of what he said came from documents provided him by the invaders.

“The military force that took over Manhattan affirms that not one civilian has been harmed.”

“What a lie,” said Coleman. “We saw one dead doorman with our own eyes.”

“They call themselves the Progressive Restoration. They declare that Progressives won the popular vote and the electoral vote for President in 2000, and only flagrant vote-stealing by the radical Right kept the duly elected President from taking office.”

“Please say they’re not bringing back Al Gore,” said Reuben.

“Shut up, please, boys,” said Cessy.

“Since stealing office, the usurpers trampled on the Bill of Rights, involved the United States in illegal and immoral foreign wars, destroyed the environment, oppressed minorities of every kind, imposed their brand of Christianity on the whole country, stifled scientific research, ran up huge deficits, and flaunted—I’m sure they mean flouted—”

“He’s correcting their grammar now,” said Reuben.

“Flouted world opinion and international law, and brought the world to the brink of disaster.”

“They didn’t mention Zionism,” said Coleman. “What are they thinking?”

“Now the radical right wing, which dominates the U.S. Army, has planned and carried out the assassination of their own President and Vice President as the first step toward imposing full-fledged dictatorship on the United States. Only this national emergency prompted the Progressives to take action in defense of freedom against the totalitarian Christian and Zionist agenda.”

“They were saving it up for last,” said Reuben.

“The Progressives have liberated New York City, they say, as the first step to restoring Constitutional government to the United States.”

“All they have is Manhattan,” said Coleman.

“They are not interested in war with the illegal government, but they are prepared to defend New York City against any attempt to impose hegemony over the city. They encourage the U.N. to remain in New York City and affirm that it will be protected and all diplomatic rights respected. They have petitioned the city of New York to recognize the Progressive Restoration as the acting government-in-exile of the United States of America and they invite all other cities and states in the United States to recognize the Progressive government and no other as the legitimate government of the United States.”

The official announcement was over. Reuben reached over and turned down the press questions. “So it was the Left,” he said.

“But it could have been the Right,” said Cessy.

“And it could very easily turn into a war between the wackos of one side and the wackos of the other,” said Reuben. “We saw it in Yugoslavia. People were getting along fine, Serbs and Croats, Christians and Muslims. But when the wackos started shooting, you either had to shoot back or die. Not wanting to fight didn’t protect you. You had to choose up sides.”

“There weren’t any sides today,” said Coleman. “Just uniforms and non-uniforms.”

“The whole leftist philosophy is about rejecting authority,” said Reuben bitterly. “And replacing it with an even more rigid list of forbidden ideas. The only difference is that the Progressive thought police won’t wear uniforms.”

“Stop it,” said Cessy. “Like I said, it could have been the right wing, and then the thought police would carry Bibles.”

“Let’s not do this now,” said Reuben.

“But you were doing it,” she said. “You’re married to a liberal, Reuben.”

“Not an insane one.”

“Most of us are not insane. Just like most conservatives are like you, reasonable people. You warn us how it could turn into a war just like Yugoslavia, and then you start condemning the other guys like their ideas don’t matter.”

“I was, wasn’t I,” said Reuben. “I’m just so angry. They killed the President.”

“Really? All the Progressives of America, all the liberals, they got together and plotted to kill the President?”

“But they’re glad.”

“No. You’re wrong. The sick ones, yes. The sad, miserable, mind-numbingly self-righteous ones, sure. But most of them are in shock. They didn’t do it and they didn’t want it done. They didn’t ask for anyone to invade New York, either.”

“But they’ll let it stand, won’t they?”

“They might. Or they might enthusiastically join this Progressive Restoration. That’s what they’re counting on, aren’t they? That people will flock to their banner. And if we start talking and thinking the way you were talking and thinking just now, Reuben, then we’ll end up driving them to the Progressive banner. So stop it!”

Reuben looked out the side window.

“Reuben,” said Cessy. “I think the great American achievement of our war against terror was that we did it without having to hate all Arabs or all Muslims or even all Iranians, even though they’re financing it now. We stayed focused. We waged a war without hate.”

“Except for the Americans who hated us for fighting it.”

“Do you hate them, Reuben? Enough to kill them?”

He shook his head. “You’re right,” he said. “Completely right. But they’re tearing apart my country. They’re killing guys like me because we volunteered to defend it. You can’t expect me to stay calm.”

“When it’s all over,” said Cessy, “I want you to come home as Reuben Malich.”

“Me too,” said Reuben. “I will.” And then he turned again toward the window and Cessy realized that he was crying, his forehead resting on his right hand, tears dropping straight down from his eyes onto his lap. “I killed a man with my bare hands today,” he said. “And another with a knife. And another with a spray of bullets. I cut off a guy’s thumb.”

Cessy had nothing to say to that. She knew that was the kind of thing a soldier had to do. If he hadn’t done it, he’d have been found and killed. He got other men out of the city alive. He helped stop the mechs at the Jersey end of the Holland Tunnel. And that’s how jobs like that are done—with force. Force unto death.

But she couldn’t say, There there, that’s all right. It wasn’t all right. It was a terrible thing. It had to be done, and because he and Coleman were the ones who knew how, it had to be done by them.

Steering with her left hand, she hooked her right hand through the crook of Reuben’s left arm. She slid her hand down the inside of his arm, pulling it closer until she was holding his hand. She squeezed. He squeezed back. But he still cried.

In the back, Coleman had brains enough to keep silent.

On the radio, the press conference and commentary went on and on, almost too soft to hear now. A constant background of commentators pooling their ignorance but coming, bit by bit, closer to the conclusion that a second American revolution had begun, if you viewed it one way, or a second civil war, if you looked at it another.

“What did that professor of yours say?” Cessy asked softly.

“What?”

“At Princeton. That one professor. What’s his name? Torrance. No, that’s a city in California.”

“Torrent.”

“About the fall of Rome. How civil wars in the Roman Republic led to the foundation of the empire.”

“Oh, yeah, I bet Torrent’s happy now,” said Reuben. “He’s getting all the chaos he could ask for.”

“He really is the same guy they just made National Security Adviser, right?”

“Yes,” said Reuben. “He was already a top adviser to the NSA. Adviser to the adviser. Now that Sarkissian is Secretary of State, they bumped Torrent up to NSA.”

“If Congress approves him.”

“Oh, that’s one thing President Nielson’s got for sure—a rubber-stamp Congress. Time of national emergency and all that.”

“Maybe not,” said Coleman from the back.

“So… would Torrent be happy?” asked Cessy.

“No, of course not. I just meant—he just said that before America could truly be great, we had to—have a crisis that would end the republic and bring about—no, he can’t be part of this.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t advocate it,” said Reuben. “He just… but the way he talked… somebody could get the wrong idea. Somebody with a little megalomaniac in him could decide to try to act on Torrent’s theory. Fulfill his prophecy.”

“So it might be a bunch of his former students doing this?”

“All it would take is one former student in the group. Or just somebody who went to a speech of his. He used to lecture all over the place. I don’t know if this Roman Empire thing is in any of his books. Wouldn’t that be a weird situation to be in? National Security Adviser to a President who’s fighting a civil war caused by somebody following your theory.”

“Kind of like having the President assassinated by somebody using your plan,” said Coleman from the back.

“Yeah,” said Reuben. “Like that.”

Silence for a while. Then Reuben said, “Zarathustra.”

“What?” asked Cessy.

“I’m telling Cole. The password. To my files. ‘Zarathustra.’ And then when the software tells you that you’re wrong, type in ‘Mar-duk.’ ” He spelled it.

“You’re so paranoid you doubled your password?” said Cessy.

“Hope I never need to use them,” said Coleman.

“I’ve got to trust somebody. And if I die, I don’t want that data lost.”

Cessy shook her head. “Ancient gods of Iran and Iraq.”

“Zarathustra was a prophet, not a god,” said Reuben.

“They sacrificed children to Marduk, didn’t they?” said Cessy.

“You’re thinking of Moloch.”

“Gods of war, either way,” said Cessy.

“But not my God,” said Reuben. “I don’t take his name in vain.”

I hope we can learn to forgive our enemies, thought Cessy. I hope God forgives us for daring to decide that we know when it’s right to kill.

But if men like my husband weren’t willing to kill in defense of civilization, then the world would be doomed to be ruled by those who were willing to kill in pursuit of their own power.

I’ll explain all that to God on judgment day. I know he’s just waiting for me to clarify the matter.

If he sends these good soldiers to hell for killing the enemies of their country, then I’ll go with them.