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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 talk 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,