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The city of Colon is situated on a small peninsula that juts into Limon Bay on the eastern side of the Panama Canal. The bay and the town were once subject to fierce northers that rolled out of the Caribbean and smashed into the exposed city. The bay was more of an indentation on the north coast of Panama, six miles wide at the mouth and six miles long north and south. The major reason for Colon's existence was just that it served as the northern terminus for the Panama Railroad. It was where ships brought people and goods for transfer by railway to Panama City and the Pacific. Colon was also the gateway to the Old World from the Far East. When the Americans arrived to complete the construction of the Canal, they built solid breakwaters across Limon Bay. The entrance was wide enough for two ships to pass. The breakwaters neutralized the might of the northers and created a sanctuary for ships waiting to transit the Canal. As a result, Colon became the second-largest city in Panama.
There was no moon that night, but it was very clear and the glow from the lights of the city provided just enough illumination to silhouette the ships waiting their turn to proceed to the Gatun locks. Newton Waverly and Enrique Moore sat side-by-side on the deck of the little patrol boat, the Pereira, with their legs tucked under them in Indian fashion. Their eyes were well-adjusted to the dark and they could identify the merchant ships around them. Their patrol boat drifted innocently between two medium-sized tankers, rocking gently and quietly. A warm breeze blew in from the north, creating phosphorescent whitecaps that sparked against the hulls. They had chosen the location to be as inconspicuous as possible, just the other side of the shipping channel from Colon. It was no more than a mile from the docks, where they understood a diversionary thrust would come. Intelligence indicated that bombs would be set off in strategic locations to draw police and fire assistance. The rebels would isolate these two groups. Then they would move to control the town. This would attract the loyal Guardia troops waiting for movement from the south. But how much of this did the rebel forces know? The more he considered each factor, the more Waverly was bothered. There was too much rumor and too little regard for the VC.
"You got the time?"
"It is 10:42," Waverly answered, squinting at the luminous dial on his watch. During the flight over the mountains that afternoon, Moore and Waverly considered the details repeatedly. This was Newton Waverly's specialty, and something just wasn't right. He had planned and led similar raids before, and this one seemed too easy. There should have been more of a trap by the rebels.
"It was supposed to start twelve minutes ago," Moore remarked nervously.
"I guess that's part of their strategy....never do what's expected."
"Look, just to the left of the docks," Moore said, pointing to a light that flared, seemed to die, then flared again. The sound of the blast echoed across the water to them. Something near the explosion ignited and rapidly grew into a steady, bright fire. He whispered as if he could be heard across the water, even from that distance.
"Wait....just a little longer. Let's see what else happens." Then, as they watched, eyes straining to puncture the darkness around them, a second blast occurred, then a third. "Okay," Waverly nodded, "let's go."
Moore called in Spanish into the pilothouse and the captain of the boat tapped his quartermaster on the shoulder. The engines turned over with a deep cough, then sprang to life, the exhaust sputtering into foam at the stern. Waverly felt the thud reverberate through the hull as the gears engaged and the craft's screws bit into the water, dragging down the stern slightly. Then the wheel was over, the bow began to lift, and they surged ahead, banking sharply as the captain brought his craft to the direction of the flames.
Now for their surprise. Along with police and firemen, heavily armed National Guard troops would also appear. This would counteract the rebels' plans to move toward the city hall and post office. Waverly held tightly to a hand grip as the boat heeled sharply to one side to pass beneath the stern of a bigger ship. Looking up, he could see the freighter's crew gathering on the deck to watch what looked like an interesting evening of firefighting. They listened for the sporadic crack of small-arms fire.
But there was nothing, just the crackling of flames from an old wooden warehouse and the raw smell of burning, creosote-soaked pilings. It was strangely quiet about the piers as Pereira idled a few hundred yards off. Waverly imagined the uncertainty of the commander of the Guardia troops, that emptiness that comes to all men when they anticipate combat and are left hanging with sensations of both relief and incompleteness. He knew the feeling, knew that relaxation would follow---that was when a man was most vulnerable. Either the attack had been called off or the...
Then he heard it! Was it the sound of helicopters? He looked over his shoulder, searching the darkness for the familiar bulky contour of a helo. No, it was a deeper sound, a growling monotone, similar to the engines in their own Pereira. Then he saw the wakes. The phosphorescence in the water marked where they'd been, like the sound and vapor trail of a jet plane. It took a bit more time in the dark for the eyes to catch up with the boats themselves. The distinctive profiles of the Chinese-made Dragonflies were easier to identify. The Storm Serpents he recognized by the gun mount on the stern and their odd approach, with the stern in the water and the bow raised on foils.
They came at full speed out of the night like huge, graceful bats. They had been unexpected and there was no defense prepared for them. Even before their firing intensified, Waverly understood exactly how it all would end. The Guardia would be attracted by the firing down near the docks, likely assuming the rebel forces were finally attacking on the ground. They would get to the piers and then be trapped by the fire of the boats on one side and the rebel troops who would restrain their enthusiasm until the right moment before coming in from behind. It wasn't classic---it was just an intelligent strategy, a pincer movement utilizing surprise and maximizing limited forces by using the element of surprise. By Sea----it was such a simple, well-considered idea. It wasn't the product of a peasant, of a backward revolutionary's mind!
Waverly looked toward Pereira's captain. Like Enrique Moore, he seemed frozen in awe as the squadron bore down on them. But if they did not make a move shortly, none of them would be left to tell about it.
Waverly was at the controls in two fast steps, elbowing the helmsman to one side as he slammed the throttle forward to full power. With a roar that threw the others to the deck, the craft leaped forward at the incoming attack boats. He crammed the wheel full left. For an instant, the bow followed the direction of the rudder, and the boat's hull bit deeply into the water. But as the screw revolutions increased, it also skittered sideways. Now it was bouncing across the surface.
There was no question of facing the enemy, not with Moore aboard, and not if they had a choice. Pereira's armament---machine gun forward, deck gun aft----was pitiful compared to the firepower bearing down on them. To Waverly, his first choice seemed to be his only one---get the hell out! He hoped the rebels would concentrate on the piers and their main purpose of gaining control of the town.
The luminescence of their wake was like a signal fire. It stood out just as clearly as the attacking boats as their tracers did to Waverly when they opened fire on the fleeing Pereira. For a moment he was tempted to continue the flight---but it was a very brief temptation. His mind was made up as he saw tracers approaching his craft. Zigzagging was not the answer either. The gunners on those boats were well-trained, anticipating his moves.
The initial hit came as he was reversing direction. A shell whammed into the stern, shaking the boat. Thank God it had missed his stern gun, which was still futilely pumping out shells with little effect. Racing back at them was no solution to their main problem of being a target, but an oncoming craft was harder to hit than one running away. If Pereira could fire more effectively, the attackers would have to commence their evasive tactics, and that would limit the effectiveness of their gunners.
The rattle of machine gun bullets sweeping over the deck indicated that at least one enemy gun had adapted quickly to the change in tactic. Waverly watched as his forward gunner was knocked back from his gun and over the side. The helmsman, who had been huddling against the bulkhead since Waverly took the wheel, screamed and grabbed for his throat, blood spraying from between his fingers.
It was not out of a textbook, not even a movie, Waverly thought as he contemplated the tracers whipping by on either side. This was crazy! They were closing the enemy without firing a shot. "Enrique!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Enrique!" He had no idea where the Panamanian was.
A hand gripped his shoulder. A frightened voice shouted into his ear, "Right behind you my friend!"
Waverly grasped the hand on his shoulder, pulling Moore around beside him. "Take the wheel...I'm going to man the gun," he shouted, pointing at the weapon on the forward deck. He placed both of Moore's hands on the wheel. "Just aim in their direction. When you see me make a hand signal, turn in that direction....and don't worry about hitting anything...they'll avoid you." If there was any chance, it would be amid those boats, rather than remaining an inviting target.
As they neared the attack boats, it was apparent that only one was concentrating on them. The others were occupied off the piers, pouring heavy fire into the surrounded Guardia troops. Waverly found that their forward gunner had barely fired a round. A nearly full belt was in position for him as he swung it around to bear on his target.
Waverly located the pilothouse of the other boat with his tracers, twitching the gun just the slightest bit to rake his fire back and forth. Another shell slammed into their side Recovering from the impact in seconds, he had the gun back under his control again and resumed firing. Enrique was somehow keeping them on a steady course.
The thud of shells and bullets tearing into Periera reminded Waverly that Moore, in fear, was just aiming them at the other boat. His left arm shot out and he pointed it wildly in that direction. He wanted to pass across the other boat's bow. It'd give him a chance to concentrate his fire on their pilothouse. Just possibly, with a little bit of luck, he could knock out their controls. At this stage, he couldn't imagine sinking the other. But maybe they could escape if he disabled the other boat.
Waverly had fought with boats like Pereira before. He knew them well and knew how they reacted to any number of problems. And, as he sensed her slowing down, he could also feel the telltale shudder that indicated she was taking on water. It wouldn't be long now.
The other boat had to turn away, running down their side. As it did so, Waverly was shocked to once again hear the sharp cracking sound of the deck gun on their stern. Somehow, someone was still alive who knew how to operate it. He could see shells striking the other boat.
It turned toward them now, and Waverly indicated with his right arm for Moore to turn again. He wanted to get closer to the other boat. If he could get near enough, using both guns, maybe, just maybe, they might stand a chance. But before chance could become opportunity, they were bracketed by the other boat and shells once more were ripping Periera apart. The engine room was taking on water. Waverly could identify the sound of only one engine above the chatter of his gun.60Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmXbNNNSfzS
The rebel craft swung around and began to circle them, oblivious to the shells from the lone stern gun. Then it became obvious why they had maneuvered as they did----Pereira's stern gun and gunner disappeared in a sheet of flame. His little craft was now paralyzed!
Now comes the end, Waverly pondered, concentrating his fire on the pilot house of the other. But something had happened to prolong their survival. He had no idea when it had occurred, but there was no longer a gun on the forward deck of the other boat. Somehow, Periera's stern gun must have had one last, very lucky hit. And he could see flames near the other's stern. She had settled back into the water, off her foils.
Periera was aflame, sinking, dead in the water. Waverly could smell burning fuel oil and paint as thick black smoke momentarily blinded him. Yet he continued to fire until there was no more ammunition.60Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrDSkbbGZVe
Then he dodged back through the smoke and flames to the pilothouse. It was a shambles. Nothing was left of the once polished control panel, no radio, no compass, nor any of the other nautical instruments that always gave Waverly that comfortable feeling at sea. Slumped in a corner was Enrique Moore. He knew it was Enrique, though it was hard to identify the man through the blood that covered him. Waverly bent down to check for a pulse, anything that would convince him it would make sense to try to take Moore with him. But the jagged tear in the man's neck was all that was needed to know that it was better to let Enrique Moore go to the bottom with the boat.
Crawling cautiously from the pilothouse, Waverly saw only burning fuel covering the water. His one c hance was to head for the bow again, take a chance of exposing himself to the other boat's fire, then go over the side. As he crept into the open, he was aware of a deadly silence broken only by the crackling of flames.
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