Cassie called her parents again that night and she told them she'd be home soon, probably in another week, and she'd be home with them for Christmas. She had no reason to be in L.A. anymore, she didn't want to fly for Desmond, and she was sure he'd agree that she had fulfilled her contract to the best of her ability. It was all over.

Her parents told her on the phone that they had just gotten a telegram from Nick in England, telling them how thrilled he was that she had survived. But he had sent nothing to her, probably because of Desmond.

“Does it say when he's coming home?” she asked casually, and her father laughed.

“You're too sly for your own good, Cassie O'Malley.”

“He's probably married by now anyway,” she said lightly, but she hoped not.

“No sane woman would have him.”

“I hope not.” She laughed. She was in much better spirits. And after a brief chat, she went to bed early. She had no idea what Desmond was doing in Honolulu. He never even came to see her. She supposed he was wining and dining the press, lining up interviews for her when she felt better. But he was in for a shock. She was going to do one final press conference for him, to tell them all what they wanted to know. And then she was going home and folding up the road show. It had cost too much. Billy, and almost her own life. She didn't know what she wanted to do now. But whatever it was, it was going to be on a more human scale than what Desmond had pushed her to in the last year. She had made a lot of money, but she had lost a dear friend, and almost her own life. This time the risks had come at too high a price. And she needed time to recover.

Lieutenant Clarke came in at seven o'clock the next morning, and woke her up when she pulled back the curtains and raised the shades. It was a beautiful day, and Cassie was anxious to get up and walk around. She even wanted to shower and dress, but Lieutenant Clarke didn't want her to overdo it.

She had breakfast at seven-fifteen, poached eggs and three strips of bacon. It was a far cry from their island diet of bananas and berries. She never wanted to see either one again, for as long as she lived. And as she finished her breakfast, she glanced over the morning paper.

She saw quickly that Desmond had been at it again. He had granted an interview to the Honolulu Star Bulletin and told them all about her condition. He didn't say too much however about what had happened to her on the little island; she suspected that he didn't want to steal any thunder from a major press conference with her. He thought of everything. Except her well-being. It was all business and publicity, airplanes and profit. Nick couldn't have been more accurate in his perceptions and predictions.

She was still reading the paper when she heard the first plane overhead. She thought it was an exercise by the Navy pilots. The hospital was fairly close to the airfield. But then as she listened, she heard an explosion in the distance. And then more of them. Curious, she got up and walked to the window. And then she saw them, wave after wave of bombers. They were being attacked, she realized instantly, with astonishment. It was seven fifty-five on December 7.

The sky was black with planes and they seemed to drone on endlessly, as they flew over the harbor, and systematically bombed every ship they saw beneath them. They strafed the airport simultaneously, and destroyed whatever they found there.

Lieutenant Clarke came running in, and Cassie explained to her quickly what she was seeing. Without thinking, she ran to the closet, and found the clothes that Desmond had brought her. There wasn't much. But there was a skirt and a blouse and a pair of shoes, and she hurriedly took off her robe and nightgown and got dressed for the first time since she'd been there.

In the hospital, people were crowding into the hallways, and dashing around aimlessly. Nurses and orderlies were trying to keep patients calm, and almost instinctively Cassie joined them. They were under attack for an hour, and by then the Arizona was in flames, along with a number of smaller ships, and large parts of the harbor. Reports were coming in rapidly, many of them inaccurate. And the radio was explaining that they had been bombed by the Japanese, and it was only moments later when ambulances began bringing in the wounded. There were terrifying bums, and men covered in oil, others with head injuries, some with machine gun wounds, and many with traumatic shock. Nurses were running everywhere, and patients like Cassie were giving up their beds for the men who were being brought in from the harbor.

Cassie worked alongside Lieutenant Clarke tearing bandages, and clean pieces of doth. She helped to hold wounded men in her arms, lifting them onto beds. She did anything she could to help, but before they could deal with half of the wounded men, the Japanese attacked again. And this time they got the Nevada.

Suddenly there were thousands of men, injured and half dead, bleeding from everywhere, streaming into the hospital, or taken to the hospital ship Solace.

Rebecca Clarice only looked up at her once with concern and admiration as Cassie worked tirelessly, helping the wounded. She was quite a girl. No wonder the country loved her.

“Are you all right?” the nurse asked her briskly, after Cassie had brought a particularly nasty bum case into a treatment room. The man was screaming and there was flesh hanging everywhere, and even some left on Cassie.

“I'm fine,” she said coolly. She remembered her brother and pulling him from the burning plane. She still had a scar on her arm from where the flames on his body had burned her. “Just tell me what to do.”

“You're doing just what you need to,” Lieutenant Clarke said firmly. “Don't stop unless you feel ill, and if you do, tell me.”

“I won't,” Cassie said, willing herself not to be sick as she helped the injured men, and a number of women. Civilians began coming into the hospital too. There were casualties everywhere, and after a while there was nowhere to put them. The second bombing lasted till just after ten o'clock, and then they were gone, leaving not only the island in shock, but the entire nation.

Cassie worked feverishly all afternoon, doing what she could, and she felt weak in the knees when she finally sat down at four o'clock. She hadn't stopped, and she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Lieutenant Clarke brought her a cup of tea, and together they checked the lobby for more injured. The last ones had been transferred to the Solace just an hour before. The hospital simply couldn't hold another body.

There was nothing left for her to do for the moment, except offer comfort where she could, and as she was doing that, Desmond arrived with a lone photographer beside him. All the others had gone to the harbor to see the damage there, but he had promised the young reporter a picture of Cassie O'Malley if he came with him. He strode across the lobby to her, as Lieutenant Clarke settled a young pregnant woman in a chair. She had come to inquire about her husband, and Lieutenant Clarke had just promised to find him.

‘There she is”- Desmond pointed to her dramatically-” darling, are you all right?” he asked, looking at her tenderly, as the photographer snapped a picture of her in her skirt and blouse that were covered with other people's blood, and all she could do was look at Desmond in disgust, and the photographer along with him.

“Oh, for chrissake, Desmond,” she railed at him in contempt, “stuff it. Why don't you go do something useful instead of showing off for the press all the time? And you,” she wagged a finger at the camera, and the man behind it was too startled to say anything, “why don't you go help someone, instead of standing around taking pictures of me? We've been bombed, you idiot. Get off your lazy ass, and drop your camera.” And with that she wheeled out of the lobby with Lieutenant Clarke, and she left the two men with their mouths open behind her. She had won Rebecca Clarke's heart forever that day. She knew that as long as she lived, she would never forget the tireless redhead, helping wounded men, treating bums. She had given up her private room to four of them, and had wheeled the cots in herself and made them with whatever sheets she could find, or steal, from other beds if she had to.

The director of the hospital thanked her himself that afternoon. And they found her a folding cot that she set up in a closet to get some sleep. They had sicker people to take care of now, people who needed them more, and she felt guilty taking any of their attention. She stayed on to help the next day, and they were told, not surprisingly, that the President had declared war on Japan on Monday. There was a cheer in the hospital when it was announced. And on Tuesday, she checked into the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, and called her parents. She had already called them once before to tell them she was all right, but now she wanted to let them know she was going to try and get home as soon as possible.

The hotel promised to try and get a cabin for her on the Mariposa, which was leaving on Christmas Eve. It was the first ship she could get, and the only thing she wanted to be sure of was that Desmond wasn't on it.

She had no sympathy for him at all, she thought he had behaved abominably. The only thing he was interested in was milking her story one more time. It was disgusting.

He came to see her that afternoon, and told her that the Pentagon had promised him a seat on a military flight to San Francisco in a few days, and he could arrange one for her too, since she was practically a national hero now, but she was adamant that she didn't want to go anywhere with him.

“What difference does it make?” He looked annoyed at how difficult she was being. It would look a lot better to the press if they went home together, although he could still explain it if she didn't. He could even claim that she was suddenly nervous about flying, or blame it on her health. But she was not amenable to any of his excuses.