Empty shell cases roll clanking across the deck as the boat rocks in the turmoil it has itself created from my evasive maneuvers. A miracle, no one has been hit. Our Seaman relieves me at the helm. I am occupied in coordination with Stingray Control on the radio, and at the same time shouting across the water to the boats that have come to our aide, pointing out the location of the ambush site, and debating the route of retreat. We recon by fire with no result.
Boats nest together for consultation between captains.
And then we all resume normal patrol. It is almost morning. As the sun creeps over the horizon the fog settles down upon the river. A little light filters through. I tip the barrel of the after 50 to the sky, mount Old Glory upon the stern to catch the sunrise, and with a deep sense of relief order the helmsman to change course for home.