The Cuban was now visible off the Willow's starboard, while her target remained invisible. "Cut him off at the pass," Watkins ordered. "If he wants that boat or whatever it is, he's not going to get it. And get some people up here with both still and movie cameras. If this turns shitty, I want documentation that our cause was just. And if it isn't just, the film will go in the ocean along with anyone who took the pictures."
Harkins grabbed his arm. "Skipper, spotters off the port see the target and it does look like a small boat and it also looks like she's sinking."
Flashes of light came from the Cuban. "Jesus," said Harkins, "Machine gun fire. She's shooting at the boat."
Watkins grinned wickedly. "Hell no, she's shooting at us. Now we have every right to defend ourselves."
Harkins was shocked. The Cuban was clearly shooting at the boat and not at them. "Sir, do you want to start World War III? Didn't President Kennedy and Khrushchev just prevent it?"
"Yeah," Watkins said reluctantly. "I guess we can't sink the little commie shit, but we can scare it. That goddamn Cuban definitely doesn't want us to reach that boat, and that really makes me want to get there first."
Harkins looked relieved. "So what are we going to do?"
"We fire a shot across the Cuban's bow. One shell from a three-incher ought to wake their asses up."
One of the guns fired and, seconds later, a large spout of water exploded about two hundred yards in front of the Cuban, which suddenly lost way, wallowing in the swells. Watkins laughed. Whoever was steering the damned thing had just flinched big time. Watkins laughed. The Cuban was probably crapping his shorts. "Can you get closer with the next shell?"
Before he got an answer, the Cuban turned away and began to head back to its homeland. Someone with more courage than sense, turned the machine gun on the Willow, kicking up splashes in her direction. Nothing hit the cutter, but Watkins was enraged.
"Dammit, now we got real proof. Sink the little shit."
Watkin's XO shook his head. "Better not, sir. There's already gonna be hell to pay for shooting first at the Commie."
"Not a chance, Harkins. We got proof on film that the Cuban opened fire on a helpless ship in peril which is against all the laws of the sea." Watkins took a deep breath and gathered himself. "Naw, you're right. Let them go. They'll go home, tell their story about us Yankee bullies, and forget it ever happened. Hell, we never hit them did we? If they do bitch, then we just roll out the films. In the meantime, let's see what the hell was so damned important."
If I'm dead and this is heaven, then it isn't what I expected, Kraeger thought as he slowly regained consciousness. For one thing, since when did heaven roll slightly and since when did heaven have bare light bulbs in the ceiling. And heaven should have clouds and not starkly painted ceilings. And be painless. Christ, he hurt like hell from a number of places. If this was heaven, it was a serious disappointment, and he’d wasted a number of Sundays going to church with his parents.
He concluded that he wasn't dead and checked to see if he was restrained. He wasn't, which meant he wasn't a prisoner, unless the Cubans or the Russians thought he was totally harmless, and that was insulting. He checked his body parts — two arms, two legs, and one pecker and, of course, he could see. All was well. The thinking exhausted him. He would have gone to sleep except for the fact that he hurt all over and his shoulder still throbbed. He closed his eyes again and let the darkness comfort and envelope him.
When he opened them again, a young man in a sailor's uniform stood over him. "Welcome back," the young man said softly and then grinned sheepishly. "I suppose I should first ask if you speak English, Mr. Fullmer?"
Kraeger nodded that he did, but who the hell was Fullmer? Oh yeah. That was the name on his passport. He tried to say something, but his voice wouldn't work. The sailor put his hand on Kraeger's shoulder. "Don't try to speak. Your throat was all crudded up with all the oil and salt water that you swallowed. We cleaned it out as best we could but you probably won't be able to speak coherently for a couple of days."
The sailor fluffed Kraeger's pillow. "Now, my name is Vitale, and I'm the medic here on the Coast Guard Cutter Willow, and when he has a moment, the captain will be here to talk to you. In the meantime, we've gotten that splinter out of your shoulder, bandaged you, and shot you full of penicillin to take care of any infection. Oh yeah, your hands were pretty much a mess, too, so we cleaned them and bandaged them up tight as well. You'll recover but you won't be performing surgery for a while."
Kraeger nodded, even smiled at Vitale’s bad joke. He was safe. The Cubans wouldn't get him. He had so much to say but no strength with which to say it. He closed his eyes and drifted off again.
When he awoke again, Vitale managed to get some water past his swollen lips by getting him to suck on a straw. It was beyond delicious and even comforted his ravaged throat. A moment later, Kraeger was staring up at a disheveled and overweight middle-aged man, a lieutenant commander.
"I'm Lieutenant Commander Watkins, Mr. Fullmer, and I'm the captain of this ship. Obviously I have some questions for you. First, what the hell were you doing out there and, second, why were the Cubans shooting at you?"
Kraeger again tried to speak but nothing happened. "Okay," said Watkins. "Let's do it the basic way. I'll ask and you nod or shake your head, okay? According to your passport, your name is Ulrich Fullmer and you're a Dutch citizen, is that correct?"
Kraeger hesitated then shook his head.
Watkins looked surprised. "Well, well, your name is not Fullmer?"
He nodded.
"Then who the hell are you?" Watkins asked and then realized to his chagrin that the man in the bed couldn't respond.
Vitale anticipated the captain's next question. "Sir, I don't think he can hold a pencil, either. Look at his hands."
Watkins agreed. Fullmer, or whatever the hell his name was, had his hands swathed in heavy bandages.
Vitali shook his head. "Sorry, sir, but his hands were all cut up and swollen. I had to bandage them like that."
"Christ, Vitale, it's not your fault," said Watkins. "You've done a great job. Blame the Cubans or even this guy for the mess he's in, not yourself."
Watkins looked around and found a letter-sized pad of paper. He took a pencil and drew quickly. Then he took the straw from the water and taped it to Kraeger's bandaged right hand.
"Okay, stranger, what I have so cleverly done is written all the letters of the alphabet on this pad along with the numbers zero through nine. I want you to tap a letter and spell out a word which I will write down. When you're through with a word, just point this at empty part of the paper. Understood?"
Kraeger nodded and Watkins smiled.
"Good, now what's your name?"
Kraeger slowly tapped out the letters of his first and last names.
"Excellent. You are now Mr. Charles Kraeger and, for some reason, you were using someone else's passport. This, of course, means you were hiding something. Will you tell me why the bastard commies were shooting at you?"
Kraeger tapped out a series of numbers. Watkins was puzzled for a moment and Vitale piped up. "Skipper, it looks like a telephone number." Kraeger nodded eagerly.
"And you want me to call that number and let whoever answers know you're alive and well, is that right?"
Again, Kraeger nodded.
"Wonderful. Now, why should I do that? Making phone connections like that are expensive and we usually don't make personal calls from a government ship. Especially not from a Coast Guard ship because we barely have enough of a budget to breathe on."
Kraeger tapped three letters on the pad. Watkins looked incredulous. His guest had spelled out CIA. "Oh shit," Watkins said.