Authors: Kenneth Sewell
The Golf and other diesel-electric submarines had limited space in which to store food for an extended mission. The normal stockpile was barely adequate for the regular crew. Just as supplies were limited, space to accommodate an acceptable level of living and working conditions was at a premium on a submarine of this type. Sanitation, not to mention health and adequate rest, would be jeopardized on a seventy-day mission with ninety-eight men aboard a submarine designed to accommodate eighty-three. During the mission, each man was allocated one liter of fresh water per day for drinking, bathing, and laundry. The submarine had only three toilets.
Sleeping arrangements were likewise carefully designed. Officers had small cabins forward of the control center, but regular crewmen were assigned sleeping space that was barely adequate to get the rest needed for the long mission. Some petty officers fashioned beds in their workstations, and others strung hammocks in whatever space they could find that would not interfere with operations.
There were twenty-seven fixed bunks in the aft torpedo room for approximately seventy sailors. This arrangement required what is known in the submarine service as “hot bunking.” The sailors slept in shifts, three each day, with most bunks shared by two or three sailors. The ordinary seaman had to take his turn in one of the bunks, stacked three-high in the uncomfortable rear of the submarine.
Witnesses to the preparations for sailing recalled that the regular K-129 crewmen had another complaint about these extra sailors—beyond the fact that they would consume precious resources. From the time they boarded, the unneeded newcomers kept to themselves and were oddly uncommunicative with the rest of the crew. Their aloofness was considered strange for submariners, normally known for their open embrace of other crew members who would be sharing their rations, cramped space, and often perilous life aboard a Soviet sub. On the other hand, their interaction with each other suggested there was a bond among them, an established order of command that transcended their official rank and duties.
Whatever the response Kobzar received in answer to his concerns about the additional crewmen, the orders came from an authority high enough to keep them on the mission. K-129 was completely fitted for sea and the anxious hour of sailing approached. Select crewmen and officers were allowed a few last hours of shore leave to say their goodbyes.
Captain Zhuravin had secured an Aeroflot ticket for his wife to fly home from the Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy civilian airport to Vladivostok, where their son was being cared for by Irina’s mother. Though there had been many such farewells, this one could have been a scene from an epic Russian novel.
The parting of the Soviet couple—he a dashing military officer and she a beautiful former dancer—took place against a backdrop of swirling snow on a Siberian winter night. Captain Zhuravin had been denied permission to board the Soviet airliner, but managed to find his wife seated by a window. He approached as close as he could to the side of the airplane to bid her farewell.
“Under the light from the plane I saw Sasha’s face, streaked with tears. I had never seen him cry before,” Irina recalled. “I thought to myself,
he must be afraid for me
—that I am flying in this snowstorm, that the plane might crash. He didn’t wave, he just stood there like a pillar under the light, crying. It was our last goodbye—a picture of him I have carried my whole life. Standing under the plane, snow falling on his dark uniform, his face wet with tears.”
But this was not a novel or a movie. Their parting, like the unusual circumstances of the sailing itself, was real.
The officers and sailors of K-129 reported back to the submarine and readied for departure. They would leave in the dark, as it maximized their chances of eluding detection by orbiting American spy satellites.
The sailing date fell during one of the most significant holiday periods for the Soviet military. The Bolsheviks celebrated the founding of the Red Army and Navy from February 23 through 25. Soviet Army and Fleet Day was a time for military parades and celebratory dinners at bases across the vast Eurasian empire.
There was no celebrating aboard K-129. Sometime during the night, Vice Admiral Rudolf Golosov, commander of the 15th Squadron, received permission from Captain First Rank Vladimir Kobzar to board the submarine. Kobzar, dressed in his great raglan sheepskin coat and fur hat, saluted the admiral. The admiral’s arrival was greeted by the traditional ringing of the ship’s bell, located behind the bridge in the conning tower. The bell was used only to announce that a high-ranking officer was coming aboard, or for tolling warnings when the submarine sailed on the surface in dense fog.
A bitter cold Siberian wind was blowing across Avachinskaya Bay in the early hours of February 24, 1968. The wind whipped the Soviet naval banner as a sailor lowered and carefully folded it. Another sailor removed the clapper from the submarine’s bell, an important last precaution to make sure it did not bang with the current and give away the boat’s location. The young sailors stowed the bell clapper and the folded flag in a locker in the action center where the periscopes were housed.
Admiral Golosov handed sealed orders to Captain Kobzar and
zampolit
Lobas. After reminding them that the orders were not to be opened until the submarine had cleared the bay and was in open sea, he wished them a safe and successful mission. The admiral saluted and returned alone to the icy pier and his waiting staff car.
S
OVIET SUBMARINE
K-129 sailed on the surface toward the mouth of Avachinskaya Bay under full diesel power, hidden by the darkness of the predawn hours of February 24, 1968. The boat used no running lights, to avoid visual detection of its departure by any American submarine that might be patrolling off the coast.
As the submarine approached the outlet from the bay into the open ocean, the first huge waves pounding through the narrows rocked the boat violently. The Golf’s rounded narrow hull, with a beam width of only twenty-seven feet, was not designed to sail comfortably on the surface, even in calm seas. And the seas of the wintry North Pacific were never calm.
The northerly winds off the ocean roared through the land gap, causing the eastbound submarine to shudder from their ferocity. Captain First Rank Vladimir Kobzar, commanding the submarine from the exposed bridge for the duration of the departure from Rybachiy Naval Base, was bundled against the subfreezing wind. The broad flap of his fur
ushanka
was turned down, covering much of his face, ears, and neck. Only the captain and two lookouts, also bundled in heavy storm gear, stood watch for the departure, while the officers and crewmen below busily prepared the boat for the open sea and the beginning of their extended mission.
The submarine bucked through the watery turmoil. From the bridge, Captain Kobzar and the enlisted men strained their eyes in the dark, searching for any sign of icebergs, a common threat to submarines and small ships along the coast of the Kamchatka Peninsula that time of year. The ice menace from bergs and growlers that calved from glaciers in the far northern reaches of the Bering Sea extended out as far as 160 miles from shore. Careful watch while operating on the surface was an important part of the departure of all submarines before reaching deeper water to submerge.
The veteran submarine captain assumed this cold duty of bridge watch himself, even though he could have assigned the unpleasant task to another officer. It was customary in the Soviet navy for the commander to take his boat to sea before turning over control to his first assistant for routine operations.
K-129 left the entrance narrows and plunged into the Pacific Ocean well before daylight. The boat entered the northwestern Pacific near where it merged with the even stormier Bering Sea. The winter winds in this part of the ocean blew straight out of Arctic Siberia, without any intervening landmass to temper them. Sea-force winds in gusts of more than thirty-five knots produced giant swells and crashing waves, leaving the men aboard in no doubt they were about to enter the domain of the open ocean.
Only a short distance out of the sheltering bay of the peninsula, waves pounded spume against the K-129 conning tower. In heavy seas even veteran submariners working to secure loose gear in the boat’s compartments had difficulty keeping their footing. Some among the crew were embarrassed by how quickly seasickness, caused by the violent rolling and the lingering stench of diesel engine fumes, sent them dashing for the closest head, sink, or receptacle. The old hands knew they would be living for the rest of the mission with whatever smells their sickness produced, mingled with the acrid mixture of diesel and body odors.
With fully charged batteries at his disposal, the captain would waste no time in switching from diesel to electric engines and diving beneath the storm-roiled ocean surface. Captain Kobzar sent the lookouts below, and then dropped into the manhole leading into the action center. The final duty of the commander before entering the open sea was to close the heavy steel hatch and give the locking wheel an extra hard twist, to assure the safety of the boat and crew. Back in the command center, the captain routinely turned the submarine over to his first assistant, Captain Second Rank Alexander Zhuravin, and ordered him to take the submarine down for commencement of the assigned mission.
On Zhuravin’s order to prepare to dive, sailors discharged sewage and dumped what little refuse had collected since departing the base. Diesel engines were stopped, and the snorkel and diesel exhaust valves were closed. Each compartment warden reported that his section was prepared to dive, and the dive alarm was sounded.
Captain Zhuravin gave orders to dive and instructed the helmsman to set the initial depth and course. He ordered the periscope up. Port and starboard electric motors were engaged for slow speed. With Captain Kobzar observing in the control room, his assistant climbed the ladder into the action center and went to the periscope. Exiting the narrow passage from the busy ports in the bay to the Pacific required extreme caution, to avoid colliding with other warships and commercial vessels.
Port and starboard motors slowly propelled the submarine, as the order was given to open bow and stern valves to flood the sub’s ballast tanks. Seawater rushed into the tanks. The submarine immediately plunged into the giant waves. When the bow and stern tanks flooded, the middle ballast tanks were opened and the submarine began to submerge. As the waters closed over the decks, the boat seemed to sigh, like the great whales it so resembled. Hissing sprays of air-blasted water spewed from ballast tanks, and the ship simply vanished beneath the angry sea.
The retractable bow diving planes were extended. Crew members in each compartment checked the interior hull, valves, flanges, and pipes to make sure there were no water leaks. Captain Zhuravin lowered the periscope and returned to the control room. He ordered all masts lowered.
The submarine continued its dive to 150 feet. All ventilation valves were closed and all ballast tanks sealed.
The crewmen, even those who had grumbled the loudest about having their shore time cut short, welcomed the news when an officer’s voice boomed over the internal address system that the dive had been completed. At last the boat had taken the crew into smooth underseas waters. K-129 had entered the natural realm of cold, silent darkness for which it was designed. They were now gliding quietly through a realm completely alien to human beings, and more hostile than outer space.
As a test of the fitness of the submarine, first officer Zhuravin put K-129 into a steep dive to its maximum operational depth, so the men could examine the seams and fittings for leaks. The submarine had been in continuous service for almost eight years, except for a period in 1966, when it was retrofitted with the Serb missile system and had a general overhaul. Over the years, the salty sea waters had eaten away at the welds that held the enormous steel plates in place, and corroded the plates, as well.
Despite creaks and groans, K-129 easily withstood the stress of the test dive. As the sub sank deeper, the sailors were aware that their already cramped quarters were compressing ever so slightly around them. This phenomenon, caused by the extreme pressure, was experienced by all submariners.
When the test dive was completed, Captain Zhuravin ordered the boat back up to a comfortable operating depth of two hundred feet. Though far below the turbulence of the ocean surface, the wild motion of the sea above still caused a gentle roll. The first officer conferred with the navigator, then ordered the helmsman to set a course bearing due east to clear the shoreline shallows. That course would take K-129 into the great void in the middle of the North Pacific, before heading for an assigned patrol area close enough to launch an attack on a coastal city or military base on the North American continent, Hawaii, or other American asset in the Pacific Ocean.
The officers were satisfied that the boat had been safely submerged and that the huge electric motors were operating efficiently. The commanders then ceremoniously prepared for one of the most exciting parts of any assignment, opening the sealed orders to discover where Supreme Soviet High Command was sending the men and boat on their mission.
Captain Kobzar, accompanied by the
zampolit,
Captain Third Rank Fedor Lobas, quickly walked from the control room to the captain’s cabin. From a safe, the commander took a sealed package of orders, and the men returned to the control room. Seals were broken on the packet and the mission orders retrieved. First officer Zhuravin and Captain-Lieutenant Nikolai Pikulik, the senior navigator, joined them at the cramped navigator’s station. Several other officers and sailors stood anxiously waiting to hear what mission Moscow had deemed so important that the K-129 had to return to sea on another seventy-day mission, months ahead of schedule.
The details of these patrol orders have never been publicly revealed. The orders were probably for the K-129 to proceed to one of its regular patrol stations in a mission box that extended from 650 miles to 850 miles northwest of Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands. The known course and performance of K-129 for the first days of the mission indicate that the submarine initially followed the regular protocol for any autonomous mission ordered by the Naval Main Staff through fleet headquarters in Vladivostok.
With the orders reviewed by the boat’s command staff, K-129 had passed the point of no return and the submarine headed out to the open ocean. Captain Zhuravin provided the mission plan to Senior Navigator Pikulik, who quickly worked out a preliminary course. The navigator plotted a course using a great circle route—the shortest distance between two points on a globe—to take the K-129 to the mission station in the fastest possible time.
Just as the wind blows on land, water moves in a similar fashion through the oceans in the form of currents, a phenomenon known to sailors as drift. Though the course to the mission box near Hawaii would have been southeast on a bearing of 133°, Captain-Lieutenant Pikulik compensated for the prevailing 0.6-knot current flowing from the northeast. In order to achieve its southeasterly heading, the submarine had to be steered slightly into the current. During the entire journey, he would be constantly adjusting his course, as the currents changed and pushed the boat first in one direction, then another.
The ocean surrounding K-129 was a chilly 33°F. Except for the engine room, where the heat from the propulsion machinery warmed the surrounding area, the inside of the sub was cold and damp. The men worked in their bulky sweaters, as the boat’s rudimentary heating system strained to keep living conditions tolerable. But at this busy time of departure, comfort was the last thing on the minds of the crew. They were chiefly preoccupied with avoiding detection.
The officers and sailors of K-129 were keenly aware that U.S. Navy intelligence had a formidable array of systems designed to track them when they left the relative security of Kamchatka Bay. The Americans had spy satellites orbiting overhead to photograph their departure, and fast-attack submarines lurking just offshore to monitor, and perhaps even follow them, as they began their mission. The Soviet navy suspected there was a hydroacoustical listening system strung along the course their ships took as they traveled to and from their home ports. But in 1968, they had no information on how extensive or how effective that system was. They knew the Americans listened to their radio transmissions, but did not know the Americans were able to pinpoint the exact location of their submarines every time they communicated with headquarters.
Captains Kobzar and Zhuravin, like all senior officers of Soviet missile submarines, spent a considerable part of each mission trying to keep their location secret. They had to achieve stealth if their covert mission was to be effective.
But stealth had to be balanced with speed, especially in the first part of their journey, where they were most likely to encounter American submarines.
In an effort to confuse any American sub that might be lurking nearby, Captain Zhuravin changed headings and depths several times in the first hours after leaving the peninsula. He may have come to a full stop, dead in the water, letting the submarine drift while he listened with K-129’s passive sonar for any American submarine that might be trailing behind. To determine if they were being followed, Zhuravin would maneuver from side to side in a butterfly pattern using the hydroacoustical equipment to listen to the surrounding water. At times, K-129 was driven by two of its electric motors; at other times it was switched to the small silent motor, to operate at a quieter speed of not more than two or three knots. Depths and direction were controlled using stern and bow diving planes.
The submarine had sailed at a time when Soviet intelligence knew no satellite was passing overhead to record their departure, but this window of opportunity did not allow them to escape unnoticed by the Americans. Neither the precisely timed sailing nor their evasive maneuvers were effective, because the U.S. Navy’s technical intelligence systems were multilayered and quite sophisticated.
The first surveillance system K-129 encountered was called SOSUS by the Americans, an acronym for Sound Surveillance System. This system was a vast array of passive hydroacoustical listening devices called hydrophones, placed strategically around the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. It consisted of cable-connected, underwater phones planted along the bottom of the oceans to collect sounds generated from any source. These sounds were transmitted to shore stations where they were recorded in lines on continuous rolls of graph paper. Acoustic experts were able to read these sound patterns to distinguish between natural ocean sounds, ships, and submarines. The hydrophones were so sensitive that even aircraft noise from planes flying above the ocean and the sound of falling rain could be monitored.
K-129, like all the Soviet Pacific Fleet submarines leaving the Kamchatka Peninsula in the 1960s, was tracked by the SOSUS on this specific mission, from the time it left the protective waters of the bay.