Suddenly, all four PT boats veered away.
Bucher realized that if he kept turning right, he’d soon be heading back toward North Korea. As he contemplated what to do next, a blood-chilling sound rolled across the water:
Ba—ROOOM! Ba—ROOOM! Ba—ROOOM!
Cannon shells whistled over the Pueblo and cut harmlessly into the sea. But one round cracked into a radar mast, spraying Bucher and two sailors on the open flying bridge with shrapnel.
The skipper fell to the deck. A metal splinter had drilled into his rectum; white-hot pain stabbed his bowels. He almost fainted, but a surge of adrenaline mixed with rage revived him. Moments later, he heard the angry hammering of machine-gun bullets on the superstructure as the torpedo boats opened up.
“Commence emergency destruction!” Bucher shouted. Shrapnel had hit his signalman and his phone talker, too, but neither was seriously hurt. Law popped up on the bridge, checking for injuries. Assured that everyone was okay, he turned and unleashed a furious barrage of profanities at the communist boats.
Bucher resisted a powerful urge to shoot back. He figured that would be futile: The Pueblo’s paltry armaments were no match for six combat ships and two jets. Even one sub chaser, sitting beyond the range of the Pueblo’s weapons, could chop the spy boat into scrap metal with its deck cannon. In a firefight at closer quarters, American gunners would have to run across exposed decks, pry off frozen tarpaulins, and wrench open ammo boxes before they could bring the two .50-calibers into action. With no protective shields, the gun mounts were vulnerable to enemy fire from several directions. Ordering men to the machine guns in such circumstances, the captain believed, was tantamount to ordering them to their deaths.
“Set a modified general quarters!” Bucher yelled into the voice tube. “Nobody to expose themselves topside!” With any luck, his men would stay off the outside decks and no one would get killed needlessly.
In the crypto room, Steve Harris and CT Bailey searched frantically for the precut CRITIC tape. Another CT, Jim Layton, shoved Bailey out of his chair and banged out a message by hand:
SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SHIP POSITION 39-34N, 127-54E. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. SOS. OUR POSITION 39-34N, 127-54E. WE ARE HOLDING EMERGENCY DESTRUCTION. WE NEED HELP. WE ARE HOLDING EMERGENCY DESTRUCTION. WE NEED SUPPORT. SOS. SOS. SOS. PLEASE SEND ASSISTANCE PLEASE SEND ASSISTANCE PLEASE SEND ASSISTANCE PLEASE SEND ASSISTANCE SOS SOS SOS WE ARE BEING BOARDED.
In his haste Layton had gotten ahead of events; no one had boarded, at least not yet. The MiGs made another screaming pass. Whether as a warning or by accident, the lead pilot fired a missile that zipped into the sea several miles away. But it was clear the fighters were armed and ready to back up their comrades on the water.
No. 35 fired a second, more accurate cannon salvo. Shells ripped into the Pueblo’s masts and rigging, making peculiar popping sounds and producing another dangerous shower of shrapnel. Other projectiles slammed into the smokestack and superstructure. At the same time, the PT boats blasted away with machine guns, stitching the pilothouse and flying bridge from both sides.
“Clear the bridge!” Bucher shouted. Law, the signalman, and the phone talker jumped off the deck, landing in a heap outside the pilothouse. The captain attempted a more dignified descent on the ladder, but dropped down quickly when bullets spattered the steel walls just inches away. He noticed that the PT boat firing at him had uncovered one of its torpedo tubes and trained it out for a close-in shot.
The pilothouse was a shambles. Its portside windows were blown out; glass shards littered the floor. With the exception of Lacy, who was still standing, Bucher found the entire watch hugging the deck for protection against the deadly hail of shells and bullets. When the communist machine guns paused, the captain yelled, “Everybody on your feet!”
Ten or 12 men stood up. Helmsman Ron Berens, who’d been steering the ship from a crouch, was the first to his feet, muttering angrily. Tim Harris, who’d thrown himself out of the captain’s chair, got up and resumed writing his narrative. Bucher noticed that the only one who didn’t rise was Murphy. The executive officer stayed on his hands and knees, glasses askew. It looked like he’d been trying to stick his head under a radiator.
“But, sir, they’re still shooting at us!” he pleaded.
“No kidding, Ed!” Bucher rejoined angrily. “So get off your ass and start acting like my XO!”
When Murphy failed to move fast enough, the captain gave him a sharp kick in the rear end. (The executive officer later denied getting booted, saying that while he and others were crouched or prone for protection, they kept doing their jobs.)
With a ragged semblance of order restored in the pilothouse, Bucher decided to call Steve Harris to make sure emergency destruction was under way. The captain grabbed the secure phone to the SOD hut and vigorously cranked the growler. No one answered. Bucher cranked again—no response. “Goddamn it, answer the fucking phones!” he spat. Then he realized he’d picked up the wrong handset. The mistake rattled him. Was he cracking under pressure? He switched phones and Harris’s voice came on.
“Emergency destruct is in progress, Captain, and our communications are open with Kamiseya,” the lieutenant said. Despite his confident report, Harris sounded shaken.
That wasn’t surprising in view of the situation in the hut. Eight to ten CTs were desperately trying to annihilate classified electronics with sledgehammers and fire axes; the cramped compartment rang with the clang and crunch of metal striking metal. Just outside the security door, other sailors were hurriedly trying to burn secret papers in wastebaskets. But with the ship’s portholes dogged shut and its ventilation system turned off, smoke from the fires swirled into the hut. CTs coughed and gagged and dropped to the deck, gasping for air.
The electronic instruments were sensitive but solidly built; sledgehammers bounced off their steel cases. A sledge handle broke in one CT’s hands; another man nearly brained himself when his hammer ricocheted back from an unyielding metal box.
In the crypto room, Don Bailey asked another CT to relieve him so he could burn his code lists. Turning around, he found Lieutenant Harris on his knees, praying.
“I’m going to have to get busy and destroy this gear, sir,” Bailey said as evenly as he could. “You’re going to have to get out of the way.” Harris got to his feet and departed.
In the pilothouse, Bucher peered through blown-out windows. The Pueblo was still lumbering toward the open sea at top speed. But the gunboats matched its 13 knots effortlessly, almost mockingly. Schumacher and others were doing their best to torch classified documents in the small, pitifully inadequate incinerator behind the smokestack. Bucher told them to take cover under the nearby whaleboat if enemy gunners got too close. “But,” he added urgently, “keep that stuff burning, burning, burning!”
Lacy reappeared after conferring with damage-control parties below. His face was ashen, but he reported the ship intact except for some minor hits to the hull above the waterline.
“Okay, Gene,” Bucher said. “We’re still afloat and under way. We’ll keep trying to bull our way through.”
The sub chaser’s cannon boomed again. A shell flew through one empty window frame and out another, missing Lacy and Tim Harris by inches. Bucher and the others hit the deck. More shells burst around them. What happened next was to become the subject of bitter dispute between the captain and Lacy.
In Bucher’s telling, he struggled to his feet after the barrage ended and was met with “a wild-eyed look” from Lacy.