by LeRoy Clary
Even a few kayaks were there. It appeared that every person had a weapon. Most were rifles, but not all.
Within another two hours, more and more joined our flotilla as the boats took up positions along the expected invasion route. I estimated over two hundred. Some had dozens of passengers. Radio operators kept us informed of the progress of the fleet.
The first ship was almost in sight.
“Now look what you’ve started,” Steve said to me.
It was not me. He and Sue were giving me all the credit and laughing about it. They believed it to be a big joke and every time my name was mentioned on the radio over the speaker that the radio operator had placed outside for us, they broke into ribald laughter. I decided to let them have their fun without comment.
People needed information. They called for Captain Bill. If they wanted to know where to position themselves, Captain Bill issued the orders, even when I hadn’t heard the questions. Captain Bill was the commander/commandant/commodore. My name was on everyone’s lips.
Instead of worrying, I kept my eyes on the vague outline of the approaching ship beginning to take shape on the horizon. When I looked around to see if others also saw the gray monster looming in the distance, my estimate of two hundred ships fell far short of the new number. A glance at the radar confirmed my eyesight. I couldn’t count the number.
The first ship came right at us. The second and third in the column came into view.
Ten minutes later, they were barreling down on us, perhaps two miles away. I could plainly see the white water at the bow as the ship’s screws pushed it ahead. Then it diminished. The white water became smaller.
Steve said, “Spotted us. They’re slowing.”
A few of our boats, perhaps ten, got impatient and headed their way. Most that left to attack were super-powered pleasure or fishing boats. They raced at well over twenty miles an hour to be the first to engage the ships. It was only a matter of minutes until the first shots rang out.
The radio operator called out to us, “Troops are all over the decks, wearing backpacks like they’re ready to disembark. Our people say you can’t miss if you shoot along the deck.”
I looked at Steve and Sue, not sure of what to say.
The radio operator shouted, “They’re shooting back.”
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.
“What’s that all about?” Steve asked.
Where to start. Words fell from my lips in no particular order. Steve had us racing for the port with both the engine and sails. We were outdistancing the first troopships, but not by much.
Steve seemed to understand what I told him and pointed. Ashore, there were cars, trucks, motorcycles, and men on foot arriving. Scurrying like ants after someone scuffed their hill. Instead of fighting each other, they now had a common enemy.
I saw no sign of the cannon, bazookas, or rocket launchers. Just men and women running to join in the fight. We pulled Truant up to a floating dock, leaped out and tied her, then ran to join the others.
A kid about sixteen reached us before we put a foot on land. He wore cutoff jeans and sneakers. His tee-shirt had the logo of a rock band from a previous era. He pulled to a stop and asked, “Is one of you, Captain Bill?”
Sue jabbed her thumb in my direction.
The boy straightened and saluted. I returned it as I’d seen in the movies, confused again, but that was becoming my normal state of being.
He said, “Please come with me, sir.”
“Where?”
“HQ. They need you.”
I glanced at Steve and Sue. “Come on, both of you. I’m not doing this alone.”
The four of us ran. Behind several cars and trucks piled together, were at least twenty people and open wooden crates that had contained military equipment. All were painted the same dull green. People were arguing, shouting, and trying to figure out the instructions.
Nobody was in uniform.
Two more tan trucks with army decals pulled up.
The driver of one jumped out, raced to the back and dropped the tailgate as he shouted, “I got the magnets. Found them at a hardware store.”
As others, all armed with automatic weapons climbed down from the two trucks, an older man with white hair and an unmistakable military bearing marched to examine them. He pulled one magnet the size of a shoe free from the magnetic grip of the others. He stuck it to the metal frame of the truck. It stuck firmly, with a solid twang. He seemed satisfied.
“Captain Bill,” the boy announced as he motioned to me.
A skinny man in his forties snarled, “Thank God.” He was dressed in baggy cargo shorts and wore a Dallas Cowboys ball cap. “Major Dundee. Retired. No relation.”
He must have heard a thousand references to the movie he may have been named after in his career, but it made it easy to remember his name. “You in charge?” I asked.
“Until you arrived. Tell me what you need, Captain, and I’ll get it done.”
Others turned to look at me, pausing in their activities to hear my instructions. I turned to look at the troopships and found they had slowed. It looked like the first two had dropped anchor. Others were taking up positions behind them.
Hooks that normally held lifeboats on the sides of the ships swung out and started lowering gunboats already filled with armed soldiers. There were large machineguns mounted on their bows and within seconds the first of them splashed into the water. Each odd appearing boat was surrounded by what looked like a huge inflated innertube.
Steve whispered to me, “Self-sealing and partitioned hulls. A hundred bullets won’t sink them.”
The older man holding the magnet strode in my direction. Without introductions or permission, he said, “Used to be a SEAL a long time ago. Maybe I can help?”
I looked at him blankly. I’d seen SEALs in video games. They were the baddest of the bad. “How?”
He gestured to a set of crates. “C4. Explosives. Detonators over there,” he pointed.
I didn’t understand much of what he said and less of why I needed to know.
He continued, “Mold some C4 around a magnet, insert a detonator, and slap it on the side of a hull of one of those ships, and . . . boom!”
“How do you get close enough to put them on the side of a ship that has hundreds of men with guns shooting at you?”
“I’d suggest you do it fast,” he said without smiling. “Before they can shoot your ass.”
Sue stepped in front of me as if protecting me, which she was probably doing. She said, “Why don’t you go ahead and put them on a few ships and show us how it’s done?”
He smiled. “I was thinking the same thing. In the old days, I’d scuba to the ships, but things are different. No tanks or trained men. We could use fast boats to approach, but it only takes one bullet to sink us and then those on the ships can shoot at us for practice while we’re swimming away. We need to find another way.”
She glanced my way, “Captain Bill used kayaks for his midnight raids,” she turned to me. “Didn’t you?”
I nodded as he snapped his fingers and said, “That will work, Captain. Their radar won’t see us, and we can dart in, plant the C4 and escape. Can you get me some men?”
My instinct was to explain I had no idea what to do, so they needed to stop asking for my advice. But his idea with the kayaks and explosives sounded good. I stepped up on the bumper of a car and called out as if I was actually in charge of something, “I need ten good men who are familiar with small boats.”
Several approached and I motioned for them to talk with the SEAL. I overheard one say that there were several kayaks in storage at the marina. They huddled together as we watched more of the invader’s gunboats from other ships join with the first group.
One took charge, and together, they sped in our direction. Each was loaded with soldiers in full battle-dress. Their upper bodies were disproportionate, which probably meant bulletproof vests or life jackets or both. All wore helmets.
Their first problem was that the surface of the pier was probably twenty feet higher than the water. A few metal ladders would let them climb up, one by one. The first gunboats cruised past the pier as the men aboard fired automatics and the machine guns on the bow in our direction. Everyone hit the ground, but I didn’t see any casualties.
A gunboat pulled up to each ladder as five ran aground on the beach to the south side of the pier and men piled out. We had men
positioned near there and a war broke out. As each invader reached the top of the ladders, he was met with a dozen shots, some of them fatal, despite the body-armor. After a few deaths at each ladder, no more appeared. The gunboats backed off and streaked past time after time, spraying a lot of bullets in our direction, with few hits.
At the edge of the pier, a man, one of ours stood up, a long green tube held to his shoulder. He peered through an eyepiece, steadied the unit, and pulled his trigger. A streak of flame shot from the rear, as well as another from the front. A spear of fire lanced a half-mile to the closest ship.
It hit ten feet above the waterline, blowing a hole large enough to drive a pickup through. A concussion loud enough to physically jar us came next. But it was too far above the waterline to let the sea rush inside. I hoped we had a hundred more rockets stored close to the waterfront.
Flames erupted inside the darkness within the ship and quickly spread. The black hole turned orange. Another small explosion told us the shell must have found something else to blow up or the flames reached explosives, fuel, or the like.
More flames licked the outer part of the hull and as the man reloaded his weapon, the first flames reached the main deck. The second shell entered the side of the next ship, entering below where the gunboats had emerged, very near the waterline. Cheering broke out behind me.
There was the initial explosion again, quickly followed by another, far larger. The side of the ship was torn open and water poured inside. In no time, the ship listed to one side, and men by the hundreds were leaping into the water from it.
The pier broke out in louder cheers and jeers. The fire on the first ship rose up the superstructure as men with firehoses fought to extinguish it and lost the battle. A few of them leaped off, then more.