In addition to all the classified paper, the Pueblo carried several types of top secret code machines. One was the KW-7, a compact device that transmitted encrypted messages between Navy ships and shore stations at a rate of more than 50 words per minute. The KW-7 was the workhorse of U.S. military communications, widely used by Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine units from Vietnam to Germany. Another machine, the KWR-37, deciphered “fleet broadcast” messages sent to all U.S. warships around the clock. Each mechanism came with a special set of codes to operate it.
Bucher requested permission to offload part of this extraordinary cache, to make sure it never fell into enemy hands. Admiral Johnson consented, but the Pueblo still was left with a large quantity of classified documents and at least a dozen code machines—and no fast, reliable means of getting rid of them in an emergency.
Bucher began scouring Yokosuka for submarine-style dynamite canisters. The Naval Ordnance Facility on Azuma Island had none, so he contacted old friends at SUBFLOTSEVEN to see if he could take some TNT from a sub rotating back to the States. No luck. He talked to Chuck Clark, who opposed bringing explosives on the Banner. Bucher finally gave up, lest Admiral Johnson conclude he was more interested in blowing up his ship than in executing his mission.
Even as the captain grappled with these and other problems, his relationship with the man he should’ve been relying on most for help—Murphy—continued to deteriorate.
The executive officer’s pregnant wife and toddler son had arrived in Japan in mid-December, and Bucher thought he was attending to his duties even less diligently than usual. For one thing, the ship’s office, which Murphy oversaw, was a mess, with paperwork backing up despite the best efforts of the Pueblo’s affable yeoman, Armando “Army” Canales.
Bucher was tired of having to hunt down Murphy whenever he needed him, and had concluded that his deputy simply wasn’t up to the job. The captain thought about relieving Murphy of duty but procrastinated, knowing such a drastic move would destroy the younger man’s career. He felt he owed Murphy at least one trip to the Sea of Japan to prove himself. Nevertheless, Bucher drafted a letter requesting Murphy’s replacement. He showed it to the exec and told him to shape up, or else.
The tension between the two officers subsided somewhat in early January 1968, as the Pueblo’s departure date neared. Several new CTs came aboard at the last minute, as did two civilian oceanographers; they and their water-sampling equipment substantiated the cover story that the Pueblo was merely engaged in scientific surveys.
Among the late arrivals was Robert Hammond, a wiry 22-year-old Marine sergeant with piercing eyes who was supposed to serve as a Korean translator on the voyage.
He reported aboard along with another Marine sergeant trained in Korean, Bob Chicca. The two noncoms were to listen in on North Korean voice communications around the clock and tell Bucher if any aggressive moves were made against his ship. But both men had told superiors at the Kamiseya communication facility, their normal duty station, that they hadn’t used their Korean since 1965, had forgotten much of it, and would be of little use to Bucher. Chicca still understood a little of the language, but only when it was spoken slowly. The sergeants’ protests were to no avail, however. With the Pueblo scheduled to sail only a few days later, there was no time to replace them.
Scuttlebutt about the ostensible linguists spread quickly, with more and more crewmen figuring out their true destination.
On the morning of January 4, Bucher, Murphy, Steve Harris, and Schumacher caught a ride to Admiral Johnson’s headquarters for a presail briefing. The admiral’s intelligence staff provided a long-range weather report and pointed out North Korean coastal defenses on a map. They discussed recent clashes between communist and allied troops in the demilitarized zone separating the two Koreas, as well as North Korea’s aggressive harassment of South Korean fishing boats north of the seaward extension of the DMZ. North Korean patrol craft probably would pester the Pueblo, they said, but nothing more.
As he had in Hawaii, Bucher asked what kind of help he could expect if he was attacked. The briefers confirmed that no Navy warships would be close enough to bail him out. Should he use his new machine guns against a boarding party? Definitely, said Captain Thomas Dwyer, Johnson’s assistant chief of staff for intelligence. If the communists kept coming, should he destroy his classified materials? Yes again.
Admiral Johnson appeared toward the end of the briefing. He reiterated his opposition to arming the AGERs, telling Bucher such action “could lead to trouble for you for which you are not prepared.” He urged the skipper to “keep your guns covered and pointed down, or, better yet, stow them belowdecks.”
Bucher had invited Chuck Clark to the briefing, and the Banner skipper said he intended to keep his guns belowdecks. After the meeting, Bucher argued with Clark about hiding his weapons. If the Navy’s top leaders wanted spy boats armed, then so be it. Bucher said his guns would stay on their mounts, visible to the North Koreans and ready for action.
“If those bastards come out after me,” he pledged fiercely, “they’re not going to get me.”
The next morning, Johnson personally inspected the Pueblo. He cast a wary eye on Bucher’s .50-calibers, draped with heavy canvas tarpaulins.
“Remember, you’re not going out there to start a war, Captain,” he said. “Make sure you keep them covered and don’t use them in any provocative way at all. It doesn’t take much to set those damned communists off and start an international incident. That’s the last thing we want!”
CHAPTER 3
ALONG A DREAD COAST
The Pueblo began backing out of its berth shortly after nine a.m. on January 5, 1968.
Bucher perched proudly on the flying bridge; directly below him in the pilothouse, Schumacher called orders to the helmsman. Some of the skipper’s sub buddies had gathered in the wardroom earlier that morning to toast his departure with eggnog, and now they were waving good-bye from the dock. Bucher serenaded them with “The Lonely Bull.”
The captain had decided against taking the northern route, over the top of Hokkaido island, because of winter storms. Instead, the Pueblo would head southwest, sailing around Kyushu at the bottom of the Japanese archipelago. Bucher then would turn north, top off his tanks at the port of Sasebo, and continue through the Tsushima Strait toward North Korea.
Within hours of leaving Yokosuka, the Pueblo’s officers noticed the rapidly alternating swells and troughs of a “young sea,” the harbinger of a newborn storm. The weather deteriorated abruptly. The sun fled behind menacing dark clouds and the air temperature plummeted. Freezing salt spray whipped the faces of sailors mopping the open decks. The winds rose; the sea began to heave.
The Pueblo pitched and rolled madly as the storm overtook it. Over and over, the little ship staggered up the face of an oncoming wave, toppled over its crest, and slewed crazily down its back. Steering became so difficult that a second helmsman had to be summoned to help the first control the wheel. High winds and steep waves pushed the boat so far over that the railings on its main deck disappeared in the foaming water. The inclinometer recorded rolls of up to 57 degrees.