“No, Father, it has not.”
“When did you last come to confession?”
Embarrassment caused her to hesitate. She thought about lying. But confession was about telling the truth, wasn’t it? “Over twenty years ago. I was eighteen. I have been away from the church since.”
“The Lord is pleased that you have returned. He says, ‘My sheep know my voice.’ Surely you are responding to his voice.”
“I hope that is right.”
“What is your sin, my daughter?”
Her stomach knotted again. “My sin, Father, is with a man.”
“A man? What is your sin with this man?”
She hesitated. Should she tell him everything? “To tell you the truth, Father, it is not just one man. It is more than one man.”
There was a pause. “Oh, I see.” The voice of the priest remained calm. “As I said, Jesus died for your sins. He paid the price for all of our sins, even before we were born. There is no end to his compassion. Please. Relax. Bask in the warmth of his love, and release the secret of your innermost sin from your soul.”
The words of the priest were warm, but the sweat on her forehead was cold.
“Father, I am not ready for this. I must go now.”
“Wait! Do not leave!”
She stood. “Thank you, Father.” She reached for the door and ran outside, down the hallway to the exit. The warm evening air felt good to her face, but her stomach clenched tighter than ever.
Ronald Reagan National Airport
12:00 p.m.
Only a Virginian would understand it, Robert thought. The tingle of exhilaration, deep down, somewhere within the soul.
Lieutenant Robert Molster had been gone for two years now. But he felt the spark, each and every time he returned to the native soil of his blessed Virginia.
He had often wondered why. Why the little tingle every time he returned home?
Deep down, though he could not fully articulate the reason, he knew why.
No, he had not marched with Washington into Trenton, nor been there when Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, nor stood with the sons of Virginia under the command of the immortal Robert E. Lee in the moment before Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. Yet, in a sense, he was there.
He was feeling it now. No, he had technically not set foot on his native soil, but sat in row 17C of Continental Flight 1240, which had just touched down and was taxiing down the runway at Ronald Reagan National Airport. Robert gazed across the banks of the Potomac, from the soil of his native Virginia to the green, flowered banks of the District of Columbia, where the white marble of the Washington Monument and the US Capitol dome gleamed against the noontime sun.
Virginians felt a special kinship with the District, and rightly so. With that thought, Robert remembered that in two hours, he would be in the White House, briefing his commander in chief, the president of the United States.
Surrealistic. That was what kept coming to mind. Was he dreaming?
The plane rolled forward slowly, then came to a stop.
Ding. The sound of the electronic double bell on the airplane’s PA system.
Passengers stood, crowding into the aisle. Why did some people cram themselves into the aisle of an airplane like sardines when the door hadn’t even opened yet? Robert stayed seated by the window until the crowd cleared.
He stood, resplendent in his service dress-blue uniform, and grabbed his white uniform cover from the overhead compartment. Then he exited the plane and headed toward the baggage claim area.
“Lieutenant Molster?”
Robert turned around and saw another US Navy lieutenant, also in a service dress-blue uniform, standing just behind him. This lieutenant, bearing a name tag that said Sellers, wore a gold, corded armband around his shoulder, indicating that he was an aide to an admiral.
“I’m Lieutenant Mike Sellers. I’m on Admiral Jones’ staff. Welcome to Washington.”
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” Robert said. “I guess you’re my ride to the Pentagon?”
“Actually,” Sellers said, “there’s a slight change of plans. I’m your ride to the White House.”
“The White House?” Robert gulped. “I didn’t think that was until fourteen-hundred.”
“You’re right,” Sellers said. “The president changed his mind. He wants to see you now.”
“Now? I was hoping for a few minutes to get my thoughts together. And what about my bags?”
“Senior Chief Fryermier here will take care of your bags.” Sellers gave a hitchhiking reverse thumb maneuver back over his shoulder, and Robert saw that a navy senior chief petty officer, a submariner, was standing just a few feet behind him.
“Let’s roll,” Sellers said. “The president and the National Security Council are waiting. You can prep in the car as we cross the river.”
“The National Security Council too?”
“You’re in high cotton, Lieutenant. Whatever you’re serving, the big brass wants some of it.”
Lieutenant Molster followed Sellers out to a navy blue Ford Taurus with US government tags. The car hugged the banks of the Potomac River as it sped north along the George Washington Parkway from Reagan Airport.
Passing under Interstate 95 and Robert’s future duty station, the limestone monstrosity that is the Pentagon, the car bore to the right, rolling onto Memorial Bridge, where traffic slowed as the car headed straight toward the Lincoln Memorial.
With the blue waters of the Potomac gently flowing under the cars jammed on the bridge, the sight of the great memorial dedicated to the life and service of America’s sixteenth president reminded Robert again that in just a few minutes, he would be standing in front of America’s current president.
Perhaps a little conversation would calm him down.
“Isn’t the North Portico blocked off?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lieutenant Sellers said, “but we’re not going that way.” Traffic cleared, and the Taurus sped by the Lincoln Memorial and headed left onto the broad, tree-lined expanse of Constitution Avenue. They passed various government buildings, mostly three- and four-story stone and limestone structures from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including historic buildings which housed part of the Department of the Interior.
To their right, the long, black V-shaped wall of the Vietnam Memorial, sunk into the grass of the Mall, hosted curious seekers and visitors placing flowers next to the names of loved ones who had died in that war.
The black sheen of the Vietnam Memorial was in stark contrast to the gleaming white obelisk that was the Washington Monument, which rose triumphantly in the very middle of the long, famous Mall that began at the Lincoln Memorial and ended at the US Capitol.
Robert closed his eyes and uttered a quick, silent prayer. Lord, give me strength, courage, and wisdom for whatever it is you are calling me to do.
When he opened his eyes, the car was turning left off Constitution Avenue and onto 17th Street. Now, as the car slowed, the Ellipse and the South Lawn were suddenly to their right, and Robert’s eyes fell on the White House itself. At the sight of it, a remarkable calm fell over him.
The car slowed more and turned right from 17th Street onto E Street, where it stopped in front of four blue-uniformed US Marines who were standing guard at a gate blocking the E Street entrance to the White House grounds.
Sellers rolled down the window as a marine approached the car and saluted. “May I help you, sir?”
Sellers flashed an Armed Forces identification card. “I’m Lieutenant Sellers with Admiral Jones’ staff.”
The marine examined the card. “Ah, yes, sir. My apologies that I didn’t recognize you, sir.”
“This is Lieutenant Molster.” Sellers nodded to Robert, who by now was flashing his Armed Forces identification card also. “He’s scheduled to brief the president and the NSC.”
The marine took Robert’s card. “Yes, sir.” He popped another salute, then crisply dropped it. “We have you on the list. Pull forward, please, then make your first left. You’ll have to stop at the next gate and pass through security.”