Schumacher hurried below to have the SITREP sent out. He entered the crypto room, just off the SOD hut’s main compartment, and watched as CT Don Bailey pounded out the message on the keyboard of an encoding machine. Steve Harris suggested the report’s priority be upgraded to CRITIC, a designation that would propel it ahead of other Navy traffic to the Pentagon, the National Security Agency—and the White House.
“We have a CRITIC tape already cut, Skip, if the captain wants to wake up the president,” advised Harris.
Schumacher returned to the bridge to find the situation worsening. No. 35 was still circling, its guns aimed squarely at the American vessel. The three PT boats continued to close at high speed, their torpedo tubes loaded and their machine guns trained on the intelligence ship as they skimmed across the cold gray sea.
Bucher was taken aback by how fast things were happening. Just 20 minutes had elapsed since the sub chaser was first spotted. A pang of uneasiness shot through him. He still didn’t think things were out of hand, but how far would the communists go? Would he need to destroy his classified material? How long would that take?
He turned to Lacy. “Could we scuttle the ship quickly if we had to?” he asked.
Lacy gave his commander a searching look. “Not quickly, sir,” he replied. “About two hours to flood the main engine room, after unbolting and disconnecting the saltwater cooling intakes.” Then more time until inrushing seawater breached the bulkhead of the auxiliary engine room and its accumulating weight began to pull the ship under.
With its engines crippled and its hull filling with water, however, the Pueblo would wallow helplessly. If American jets or warships showed up and attempted a rescue, Bucher couldn’t maneuver. And what if his men had to abandon ship? Their vessel carried a 26-foot whaleboat and more than enough life rafts for everyone. But some sailors might spill overboard. The water temperature was 35 degrees, cold enough to kill a man in minutes. Would the North Koreans pick up survivors or simply leave them adrift on the high seas in the dead of winter?
Bucher called down to the pilothouse for a depth sounding. “Thirty fathoms!” someone shouted back—180 feet. The relatively shallow water increased the chances that North Korean divers could recover classified material if the ship were deliberately sunk.
The captain noticed some nervousness among his men. Though he rarely smoked, Tim Harris lit a cigarette. Bucher knew it was important for him as their leader to act with supreme confidence, to display not a trace of worry. But that was getting harder to do with each passing minute. The torpedo boats arrived, zooming to within 150 feet of the Pueblo. The sleek craft had a top speed of 50 knots, nearly four times faster than the spy ship.
From point-blank range No. 35 leveled its guns at the Pueblo. Bucher sent up a defiant flag set: INTEND TO REMAIN IN THE AREA. He noticed his signalman trembling as he tied in the pennants; whether from fear or the icy air, the captain couldn’t tell. To buck up his men on the bridge, Bucher loudly declared: “We’re not going to let these sons of bitches bullshit us!”
At that moment, two MiG fighters roared overhead at about 1,500 feet. In the distance Bucher saw a second sub chaser as well as a fourth PT boat sprinting toward him.
“Should we think about going to general quarters, Captain?” Lacy asked.
A call to general quarters would bring helmeted and battle-jacketed sailors running on deck to man the machine guns. Bucher’s instructions were to avoid provoking the communists, to deny them any pretext for inciting an international incident. So far, they’d only tried to spook him. Bucher told Lacy he didn’t want to go to general quarters just yet, and watched as consternation spread across the engineering officer’s face. He also ordered Schumacher to draft a second SITREP.
No. 35 halted about 300 yards off the Pueblo’s starboard bow. One of the torpedo boats motored over to the larger craft to discuss matters. The two communist crews communicated by megaphone, their excited voices clearly audible across the slow swells. Then, to the alarm of the Pueblo officers, soldiers with AK-47 rifles began jumping from the sub chaser to the PT. The torpedo boat reversed its engines and began backing toward the American vessel. There was no mistaking the North Koreans’ intent to board the Pueblo.
It was about one p.m.
“I’ll be goddamned if they’re going to get away with that!” Bucher burst out.
He shouted at Schumacher to include the boarding attempt in his next SITREP.
The North Koreans obviously were prepared to go far beyond any harassment encountered by the Banner. Bucher yelled into the voice tube, “All ahead one-third!”
He called for Murphy to give him the best course for the open sea. “Zero-eight-zero, sir!” came the reply—away from the coast at an almost perpendicular angle.
“Build up speed to two-thirds, then full,” the captain ordered. The Pueblo would withdraw in a calm, dignified manner, not in panic.
Black smoke and a series of guttural coughs erupted from the stack. The Pueblo began to move. As it did so, an anguished cry arose from the bow.
“For God’s sake, stop!” shrieked Tuck. His Nansen bottles were still in the water. As the ship plowed forward, the containers came boiling to the surface in its wake.
“Friar,” Bucher yelled back, “get that damn gear up here, because I’m leavin’—now!”
The backing PT boat was nearly close enough for its soldiers to leap onto the Pueblo. But the intelligence ship, gathering speed, churned past the communist vessel, leaving the would-be boarding party behind. Two other torpedo boats began cutting back and forth directly in front of the Pueblo, trying to impede its escape.
For a few minutes it looked like Bucher might break free. No. 35 lowered its HEAVE TO flags and chugged along indecisively behind the Pueblo, gradually dropping back more than 2,000 yards. But Bucher wasn’t convinced he’d get away. He passed word to prepare for emergency destruction. Then he raised a new array of flags: THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION—I AM LEAVING THE AREA. The message struck Schumacher as a bit flippant.
The torpedo boats kept playing porpoise just ten yards ahead. Schumacher jotted down his new situation report, describing the boarding attempt. Bucher pounded the lieutenant’s back, shouting, “Get it going, get it going! Hurry up, goddamn it!”
Astern, the lagging sub chaser again ran up HEAVE TO OR I WILL FIRE. The gunboat sped up, rapidly regaining ground it had lost. Filled with dread, Schumacher departed again for the SOD hut to transmit his report.
“They saw us and they keep running away,” No. 35 radioed its base. “Shall I shoot them?”
Instinctively trying to present the smallest possible target, Bucher ordered his helmsman to come right ten degrees. The sub chaser easily countered that move, pouring on more speed and turning outside the Pueblo to give its gunners a broadside shot. Bucher called for another ten-degree turn to the right. No. 35 accelerated and angled farther outside. The MiGs made another pass, thundering low over the Pueblo.