Moments later, more of the bridge’s glass casements were shattered by gunfire. We could hear bullets slamming into the Comanche’s steel hull and hitting the capstan, bollards, cleats, and other deck fittings. I grabbed Katharina and pushed her to the floor next to Ruppert.
“Stay down,” I shouted. Shards of broken glass glinted in her hair. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going?” Katharina asked.
“Up top.” Before Katharina could ask why, I stepped out of the bridge compartment and climbed the short ladder to the top of the bridge, carrying my Springfield and Ruppert’s rifle slung over my back, along with a bag of cartridges and stripper clips.
From that vantage point I could see the Comanche was bearing down on the flotilla of pangas that were now barely 300 yards in fro
