"That's ugly," he said to his XO, thankful that the explosion hadn't occurred when they were closer. "Lower boats. People must've been blown off into the water. And get the hoses going as quickly as possible."
Harkins relayed the orders. He would control fighting the fire on what remained of the Wallace. Soon they were close enough and hoses sent streams of water onto the destroyer, but without apparent effect on the raging inferno. Explosions still ripped through the ship, sending more debris onto the cutter. Even though all his men were protected by their helmets, they ducked nonetheless. A number were struck and badly bruised.
All too soon the Willow's boats returned with their awful cargo. Many of the wounded had been horribly mangled and burned, while the dead were almost unrecognizable as having once been human beings. The Wallace was badly hurt but not about to sink, at least not yet. The destroyer was a tough bird and her crew had been trained to a high peak of efficiency after patrolling off Cuba during the earlier crisis that could have exploded at any time. The only thing they'd been unprepared for was a Christmas day bombing attack while at anchor in the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay. The hull of the Wallace had been opened like a tin can, which, Watkins thought wryly, was what a destroyer was called.
The fire was still dramatic but the destroyer’s skipper radioed that he thought it was coming under control. Watkins hoped so, but had serious doubts. A tug was coming to take the Wallace in tow and would arrive in a couple of hours. A dozen wounded sailors from her were now in the Willow's small sick bay and an equal number of corpses were stored in the freezer. Vitale would need a lot of help with the wounded.
As he said that, another violent explosion suddenly shook the destroyer and lifted her from the water. Broken in half, she sank within a few minutes. Her captain had been terribly wrong. Scores of heads bobbed in the water along with limp and broken bodies. Weeping openly, Watkins ordered his ship to proceed and pick up all they could find. He felt a tug at his sleeve.
"We got orders, sir," said Harkins. "We're to head for Miami with the wounded."
Watkins wiped his tears away and nodded sadly. "Good."
"One last thing, Skipper."
"What?"
"Uh, congratulations. You've been promoted to commander."
Chapter Seven
It had suddenly ceased to be a normal Christmas morning. All across the United States, people who were happily opening Christmas presents or making phone calls to relatives began to realize something was terribly wrong. They turned on their televisions and radios and got the message that Cuba had attacked the American base in Cuba. Worse, the military had apparently suffered heavy casualties. War on Christmas Day? It was inconceivable except, of course, for the fact that it was happening.
Frantic phone calls were made to friends and relatives: Did you hear? The Russians just attacked us! People began to pack up and head for the perceived safety of the country. It took a few minutes for many Americans to comprehend that the attack was localized to the eastern end of Cuba. With that, the incipient panic subsided. Still, there was anguish and confusion. What did it mean?
Many didn't even know where Guantanamo Bay was and others wondered why we were fighting. If it was on Cuba, what were we doing there in the first place? Still, nothing changed the basic facts: just like Pearl Harbor, an American base had been the victim of a surprise attack and hundreds, if not thousands of American servicemen and civilians, were dead, wounded, or captured. It was not lost on most people that the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had also occurred on a Sunday in December and it had been only twenty-one years ago. Someone born that month in 1941 was just now reaching legal adulthood, and could vote and drink.
Children continued to open presents with wide-eyed innocence while older family members wondered just what the impact would be. Would the fighting spread to other places, like Korea or Berlin, where American and Communist forces also confronted each other? Was this part of a greater plot that could result in a nuclear holocaust? What had happened to the peace brokered between Russia and the United States? Every young man wondered about his status in the draft and whether he'd be called up to fight a war in a place he'd likely never heard of — Guantanamo.
Large numbers of people who hadn't planned on going to church this Christmas suddenly changed their minds and all denominations of houses of worship were jammed. Priests and ministers who'd heard about the new war, adjusted their sermons, while those men of God who hadn't heard wondered where all the new people had come from. The crowd was larger than the usual extended Christmas congregation, what was laughingly referred to as the 'pines and palms' Christians, those who came to church only on Christmas and Easter.
Those people with fallout shelters decided to see if they were stocked with food and water, while others determined to check on how much they cost to build. Families who had them made plans to move into them very quickly. Perhaps right after Christmas dinner was over and the dishes were cleaned.
Events were particularly traumatic in military households. Phone calls had gone out cancelling leaves and ordering reservists to report for duty. Most were told off the record to finish their Christmas and then get to their stations. The world was not going to end in the next twelve or twenty-four hours.
Or was it?
On bases all over America's military world, young soldiers who'd either enlisted for four years or been drafted for two, wondered if they were ever going to get out of the service and go home. Extensions had been forced on many of them a year ago over a crisis in Berlin and they could see it happening all over again. They wondered if a two year draft or a four year enlistment had just become a lifetime vocation.
Radio and television stations broke in and announced that President Kennedy would speak to the nation at ten in the morning, Eastern Standard Time.
Charles Kraeger sat comfortably in a chair in CIA Director McCone's Conference room and stared at the television. It was a black and white RCA and he wondered why the Director of the CIA couldn't afford a color TV. He thought it was about fucking time Kennedy said something about Cuba. With only the briefest of introductions, Kennedy appeared on the small screen. He looks like hell, Charley thought. He looked like a man who'd been up all night trying to figure a way out of this mess. Charley hoped he had been.
A reasonably attractive woman in her early thirties came in and took another chair. She had dark hair and tan skin. She nodded. "Elena Santano, agent Kraeger. I'm with the Cuban desk. Director McCone wanted me to talk to you."
He thought she'd be a knockout if she'd had time to fix herself up before coming in. As it was he elevated his already good early opinion of her. "Right after Kennedy explains this big screw-up."
The camera moved in on Kennedy. "My fellow Americans. It is with great sadness that I confirm what many of you already know. Communist Cuba, under the command of the Marxist dictator, Fidel Castro, has broken the peace agreement signed only a few weeks ago by representatives of the Soviet Union and the United States of America."
He paused. What he was about to say was intensely painful and an indictment of his presidency. "Very early this morning, an estimated three Cuban army divisions, more than twenty thousand men, supported by planes and a large number of tanks, launched a savage, brutal, and overwhelming assault against our small garrison at Guantanamo Bay, on the eastern tip of the island of Cuba.