It should have been expected, but still came as a shock.
The radio operator broke into my thoughts again. “Our people are shooting at the bridge where their captain and helmsman are. The third ship turned aside and almost ran aground. Shoot for there, they say.”
Troop carriers were not actual combat ships. They were like busses for the sea. The bridges probably were not protected by heavy steel or bulletproof windows. If a ship couldn’t steer, it couldn’t dock. If the helmsman couldn’t stand at his station without being shot, the was in danger in a narrow passage. “Pass that information along over your radio—all channels.”
We heard the first announcement that went something like: Captain Bill wants concentrated gunfire at the bridges of each ship so they can’t steer.
We all laughed. The situation was dire, the danger present, the future of our country at stake, yet the mention of my “orders” to our “fleet” struck us as humorous and relieved some of the tension.
The small speedboats that had gone ahead were harassing the ships like angry bees circling bears while trying to steal their honey. The faster, more mobile small boats harassed the lead ships, darting and swerving as their passengers fired pistols and rifles. Pandemonium broke out on the main decks of the transports, and when the third ship turned aside and nearly ran aground because the helmsman was shot, both of the ships in the lead had also steered from one side to the other, then back on course again. Presumably, another crewman had taken over steering when the original had been shot, and all were dodging and ducking bullets.
As the main deck emptied of troops fleeing the sporadic shots, the small boats focused their firepower on the bridge. Hundreds of bullets had penetrated the glass and metal below the windows. Anyone on the bridge was in extreme danger.
The ships were proceeding more slowly and were still a mile away from us according to the radar. Shots from the transports rang out. More small boats raced to harass the ships. the mass of them still waited at what amounted to the crossroads. The fleet of invaders would either continue south down Puget Sound towards Seattle or turn east to Everett. I looked beyond our fleet and found a few more boats speeding to lend a hand.
The radio operator called from inside the cabin. “Captain, the first militia has arrived at the navy docks and are asking for your orders.”
Steve managed only a smirk instead of outright laughter. When I didn’t answer the radio operator, Steve called, “Captain Bill says to tell them to set up defensive positions. The troops on the ships are now firing back on us and you can expect the same. Don’t let them ashore, if possible.”
I rolled my eyes at Steve invoking my name again and turned back to watching the lead ship as Steve lowered the mail sail, furled the jib, and started the engine. Sue placed the last five gel-packs for repairing bullet holes on the seat between us. We were ready for battle.
The ships were huge when they came nearer. The bows rose fifty feet into the air and half-way back on the main deck rose a steel structure, not unlike a small apartment building. The soldiers that had been massed on the main decks of the first two ships had disappeared into the bowels. A few scrambled to the tops of the central structure, and others were positioned at the bows, hunkered down behind machinery or solid steel railings. They emerged long enough to take a shot or two, then disappeared again.
Steve eased us ahead on an intercept vector. I readied my rifle to join in the fight when my attention was drawn to plops in the water to my side. Bullets. They were shooting at us. That should not have been unexpected, but the reality gave me pause. As if to emphasize all I was thinking, another bullet struck the inside of the boat a foot from my leg. The fiberglass shattered around the hole, leaving a scab of a wound. Worse, the trajectory was downward. Forgetting my rifle, I bent over the side and found an even larger hole a few inches above the waterline.
A few more bullets would sink us.
“Turn around,” I screamed at Steve.
Like any good helmsman, he spun the wheel, shoved the throttle full ahead, and another bullet shattered the side of Truant. We felt it hit, like a baseball bat used to beat our hull. A few seconds later, the automatic pumps spit streams of water from our sides.
I ran into the cabin and screamed at the radio operator, “Send a message to all boats. Everyone wear lifejackets. All slow boats, like sailboats, withdraw and only attack from distance. One bullet can sink any of us.”
The man did as told; shouting into his microphones, changing radio channels, and repeating. I grabbed two repair patches and leaned over the side to apply the first. After squishing the sealant and hardener in the plastic container to mix it, I tore it open and used my bare hand to slap a palm-full to the first hole.
The second hole was underwater. It was the one that was sinking us. “What do I do?” I yelled at Steve. “I can’t get to it. It’s too far under the water.”
He spun the wheel and raised the mail sail. The Truant caught the wind and Steve used the helm and sail to lay the boat over to our left side, exposing a hole two-inches across. I used the glop left over but needed to mix more. I started to and looked up. Our boat turning was taking us closer to the ships.
I squeezed faster and tore the top off with my teeth. The stuff was supposed to be waterproof when ready to use, and it would be warm from a chemical reaction. We didn’t have time for all that nonsense. I smeared what I could and pushed myself back as I gave Steve a nod. He spun the wheel again, the mainmast swung from one side to the other with a jar that felt like it should have torn the boat in half.
A few shots struck the water around us, but within a minute we were out of range. I darted inside again and grabbed a towel that let me remove most, but not all the repair goo from my hand. It felt stiff and my fingers failed to move easily.
The radio operator gave me a curt update as I scraped the sealant from my skin. Slow boats were turning and heading for the navy docks, or nearby. Only the fastest of the small ones were still fighting, but it was like a few dozen mosquitoes attacking a herd of elephants.
The troopships continued on.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chaos ruled the seas. More small boats were arriving. The troop carriers had snipers or riflemen positioned around their ships and were keeping the smaller craft at bay. The sinking hulls of those of our fleet that had been hit floated like wreckage after a storm. Men and women in lifejackets swam for their lives. Other small speed boats risked sinking their own boats to rescue them.
Sue came to my side. “The radio operator wants to speak to you.”
I went below.
“Sir,” he began as if I deserved that sort of respect, “The army reserve unit has asked that you order all attacks to cease and all boats to land and everyone take up positions near the docks.”
“Why?”
He spoke into the microphone and listened to the headset he wore. He said, “He does not have enough men. More are coming, but not enough are there to defend the pier. I don’t understand it all, but there is a cannon that was in a museum, and powder. The leader also has two bazookas and shells. He also has a few rocket launchers and has men reading the instructions on how to fire them.”
Reading the instruction on how to fire them?
The radio operator listened to his headset again and said, “Since they don’t know how to use what they took from an armory, they want your permission to wait until the ships are almost tied up, so they don’t miss.”
“Tell him to do what he thinks is best. And order all the small boats ashore to reinforce our troops there.” I turned away and ran for the stern.