UC-NRLF
B 4 450 139






SPYING ON THE U.S. SIXTH FLEET
THE FICTIONAL CRUISE OF THE W-7, September October 1958
1. Beirut Harbor, Lebanon, where the sub W-7 failed in its mission.
2. At this point, the W-7 intercepted two American destroyers and fol-
lowed them to a rendezvous with major units of the Sixth Fleet.
3. Piraeus Harbor, near Athens, Greece, where U.S. fleet units rendez-
voused under the watchful eye of the Soviet sub.
4. At this point, two destroyers picked up contact on the W-7 but failed
to maintain it.
5. Here the W-7 witnessed the crash at sea of a U.S. carrier-based air-
craft, as it was making its approach on the U.S.S. Forrestal.
6. Tailing of the Sixth Fleet ended here. The W-7 turned off to head for
Vlona, Albania.
7. Final destination of W-7, Vlona, Albania.
cyprus
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#25
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SHADOW
of PERIL


SHADOW
of PERIL
Aleksandr
1. Zhdanov
DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC.
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK, 1963


Univ. Library. UC Santa Cruz 1990
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 63-18033
Copyright © 1963 by Doubleday 6- Company, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition


Publisher's Note
A pseudonym has been used to veil the authorship of this
story, which has been written as if it were indeed the account of
a "defected Russian submarine commander."
Some of the incidents in the Zhdanov story are known to have
taken place. Many of the persons named in the book are well
known, either internationally or in the U. S. or Communist worlds.
A U. S. sailor was wounded by a mysterious bullet while on his
ship in the harbor at Beirut; Russian trawlers have brought "sick"
crewmen into American ports; the presence of Russian subma-
rines and trawlers in sensitive areas has been authenticated.
Russian activities on and under the sea are reported in news
dispatches almost daily.
Additionally, the presence and the activities of U. S. Navy ships
seem to be accurately reported, whether in the Mediterranean
in 1958 or in the Atlantic and Caribbean four years later. The
mechanics of submarine operation and details of life aboard are
authentically portrayed.
From this launching pad of fact, however, Shadow of Peril
takes off into the unlimited space of fiction. The cold war patrols
of the W-y and the F-68g are doubtless products of the author's
imagination. Whether they could happen or could have hap-
pened is left entirely to the reader's own imagination.





Acknowledgment
Credit is hereby extended to the various sources, na-
tional and foreign, including the U. S. Navy, which have made
possible the use of the photographs illustrating this story.





Contents
INTRODUCTION
PART I
MARE NOSTRUM:
Behind the Dim Unknown
FOR THE GOOD OR EVIL SIDE
SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE MOVIES
STALKING THE PREY
STRIKING IT RICH
& ಹw
PART II POWER PROJECTION WESTWARD:
Via the Red Underbelly, to the American Back-
yard
5
10
"RED SAIL NINE"—HOW IT BEGAN
AWAY THE TRAWLERS
"WHO'S WHO”
"WHO RULES THE HEARTLAND ..."
FROM WIRELESS, FOOD FOR THOUGHT
SOME FACTS ABOUT SUBMARINES
THE DEVIL I SAY! I
THE COMMISSAR'S LITTLE RED SCHOOL-
HOUSE
THE DRAMA YET TO BE UNFOLDED
SEALED ORDERS—AND BOGUCHAROVO'S OWN
DEVICES
110
12
115
121
129
CC
CAR-
FOR DRILL. INTC
ILL: INTERCEPTING A FAST
RIER”
136


Contents
142
148
156
163
176
A CURTAIN OF REPUGNANCE
THE GREATEST GIFT
PINK CHAMPAGNE AND RED REVOLUTION-
ARIES
MY OWN MOMENT TO DECIDE
THE AFFAIR AT THE MIDWINTER RESORT
THEN CAME THE SHOCKER
WHAT GUANTANAMO COULD BECOME
WE CANNOT COEXIST ETERNALLY
INTRODUCING CASTRO's Zangarillejas
THE FAVORS OF ELOISA
BIG BANANAS
196
207
222
227
242
252
27
259
PART III PERIL FROM THE SEA
“BACK IN OUR NATURAL HABITAT"
TO THE PRESIDENTIAL REVIEW: NAVAL
POWER ASSESSED
THE PENETRATION OF NEW YORK HARBOR
CONSUMMATE SATISFACTION AND PLEAS-
URE
DEATH HOLDS NO CHARMS
THE FINAL ACCOUNTING
267
277
288
302
309


Introduction
My name is Aleksandr Ivanovich Zhdanov.
Until just a few months ago, I was the most celebrated
young naval hero in the Soviet Navy. Today, largely through the
vindictiveness of one man and the workings of the Communist sys-
tem, I am a refugee from my beloved homeland—disgraced, and
in constant danger of assassination. The story I am about to unfold
has until now been one of the most closely guarded secrets of
Soviet Russia. It is the story of espionage against the United
States of America, from under the seas. By disclosing this infor-
mation, I acknowledge that I am guilty of treason in the eyes
of the government of the Soviet Union. But these disclosures,
however unbelievable, may serve to awaken others who may
someday, somehow, find a way to world peace and human under-
standing.
In preparing this detailed account, I have not relied upon
memory alone. Memory dims with the passage of time, no matter
how short. In support of all major operational events, all tactical
exercises and several until now unanswerable incidents (quite
probably enigmas to the United States Navy) I have referred to
not only my personal diary, but to copies of my own official sub-
marine patrol reports. For example, a most perfunctory type of
check by an American or Allied reader would corroborate the
stage settings in time and place, with all actors present—be they
people, or ships and units of war, except for one unseen entity:
that of the Soviet.


xU
Introduction
The now famous American astronaut, Marine Lieutenant Colo-
nel John H. Glenn, Jr., owes his life today not only to the skill of
American scientists and technical workers, but in part also to the
impact upon me of the words of a soul-searching Christian hymn
I had heard three years before in a Washington, D.C. cathedral.
On February 2o, 1962, at 2:38 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, on
board the Soviet submarine F-68g, which I commanded, I looked
through the cross hairs of the periscope and watched Colonel
Glenn's space capsule drift slowly down into the sea a few thou-
sand yards away. In obedience to most secbet instructions from
Moscow, I had maneuvered the submarine into the expected
orbital recovery area. Our mission was surveillance. But the bob-
bing space capsule very narrowly missed being destroyed at this
time. In truth, the violent obliteration of Friendship 7 would
have occurred had I yielded to the submarine's political commis-
sar, who urgently and almost hysterically demanded the firing of
a specially built electric homing torpedo at the capsule. Had that
torpedo from the V. I. Lenin Plant in Pilsen, Czechoslovakia ever
been triggered, the result would have been an explosion heard
round the world—a bolt of yellow flame, a cloud of white smoke,
and no Wall Street ticker-tape parade for a brave man, a new
American hero. He would have been oxidized in burning white
phosphurus.
But this disclosure is only a small part of my story. You must
know the full accounting, incredible as it may seem. Therefore,
I will take you back to the years 1959 and 1958.


SHADOW
of PERIL





PART I
MARE NOSTRUM:
Behind the Dim Unknown





I
For the Good or Evil Side
During the 1959 visit of Premier Khrushchev to the
United States, I was hustled into Washington in civilian clothes
as an extra interpreter for the special military-economic staff
accompanying the Number One World Communist. As an un-
publicized Russian guest of an intermediary staffer at the British
Embassy, I was one Sunday invited to attend divine worship
services at Washington's Anglican Cathedral. To have declined
at that time would not have been to the advantage of the Soviet
Union. This was a period when strong voices in England were
calling for more understanding with Russia and world Commu-
nism. It was the hour when peace lovers in the West were grop-
ing blindly for some signs that the Communist way was not
wholly reprehensible. It was the day when hope still sprang from
the idealists' breasts that co-existence between capitalist and
Communist worlds was possible. So, I went to church.
Could it have been a coincidence, the hymn that was sung as
the recessional that Sunday, when I and a mere handful of others
from the Soviet Embassy were a captive audience? As the ma-
jestic organ notes swelled and receded with the congregation's
chant, the words became etched in my memory:
"Once to every man and nation
Comes the moment to decide
In the strife of truth with falsehood
For the good or evil side;


4
Shadow of Peril
Some great cause, God's new Messiah,
Offering each the bloom or blight,
And the choice goes on forever
Twixt that darkness and the light."
Unaccountably and with no explanation or logic, I, Aleksandr
Ivanovich Zhdanov, a Soviet Navy officer, have often had occa-
sion to remember those meaningful words. As the sun irregularly
and fleetingly shines, now and again, in an otherwise cloud-
patched sky, so also have I thought of that Sunday morning when
the Cathedral choir marched behind the Cross under the Gothic
arches, with the vibrant voices singing:
"Then to side with truth is noble,
When we share her wretched crust,
Ere her cause bring fame and profit,
And 'tis prosperous to be just;
Then it is the brave man chooses,
While the coward stands aside
Till the multitude make virtue
Of the faith they had denied."
In lonely hours since that day, I have often reflected on my
early boyhood days in Aleksandrov, near Moscow, when my
mother and father still went to church in the tradition of our
ancestors—before it became expedient for us all to deny that
faith of the patriarchs.
If you look at this Anglican-American hymn of Christians, you
will come, finally, to those last lines which must have applied to
the American astronaut John H. Glenn, Jr.:
And, behind the dim unknown,
Standeth God within the shadow
Keeping watch above His own.
And so begins my story. It is a story of darkness and light, of
a quest for fame and profit, of my own moment to decide—in the
strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side.


2
Saturday Night at the Movies
Autumn 1958
On the evening of September 15, 1958, Captain Fedor
F. Presnakov, the Russian naval attache in Washington, walked
hurriedly into the Soviet Embassy on Sixteenth Street. In the
absence of the Ambassador, who was attending another of the
endless diplomatic functions on Embassy Row, the attache made
a direct report via coded short-wave wireless to Soviet Admiral
Sergey Gorshkov, the First Deputy Minister of Defense, in Mos-
cow. Simultaneously, via diplomatic pouch, he submitted an intel-
ligence report to that same officer. Both reports concerned two
American press accounts which he had dutifully clipped from
leading Atlantic seaboard newspapers in the United States.
As a direct result of this collection of information, I was later
to undergo an intensive investigation to determine my fitness for
command of a Soviet submarine assigned to a sensitive mission. I
was required to report personally to Admiral Gorshkov and also
to the Commander in Chief of the Black Sea Fleet, Admiral Vladi-
mir Kasatonov. Only by fervent appeals to them, during which I
preferred court-martial charges against my Third Officer, Lieu-
tenant Commander Igor Sverdlov, was I able to avoid adminis-
trative discipline depriving me of command of a newly built
submarine.
Of the pertinent American news articles one was noted by
Captain Presnakov as he glanced through the Washington Post
while relaxing late in the afternoon on the terrace of the Army
and Navy Country Club in Arlington; the other was read a half


6 Shadow of Peril
hour later in his study back in Washington, as he quickly scanned
the other American newspapers subscribed to by the diplomatic
staff. It appeared in the New York Herald Tribune.
Not very much later, Presnakov took the two clippings over
to the Embassy.
In Washington during the week of August 24, 1958, Captain
Presnakov and the Soviet Ambassador had been briefed by most
secret code that a "W" class submarine, Commander Aleksandr
Ivanovich Zhdanov commanding, had secretly and successfully
transited the Bosporus, passed without harm through the Darda-
nelles, and was heading for a secret point in the eastern Mediter-
ranean. It had been decided to alert the Russian diplomatic
representatives in the American capital to the fact that a sur-
prise action by a Soviet submarine was pending. However, no
further details were provided these emissaries until September 1o,
when a cryptic intelligence message was passed to the naval
attache in his Washington office on Belmont Road. It merely
said, "Molten coffin imminent. Note periodical cover August 4."
On receipt of this encoded message, which reflected an oft-
made declaration by Premier Khrushchev that the U. S. Sixth
Fleet could easily be turned into molten coffins, Presnakov and
his assistant, Captain Dmitri K. Ryazantsev, examined the major
American magazines published on August 4, to see which one
had a cover that might seem applicable to the message, "Molten
coffin imminent. Note periodical cover August 4." They found
it—the cover of Time magazine, for August 4, 1958. Splashed
across the cover was a portrait of United States Navy Admiral
James L. Holloway, Jr., the commander in chief of the thirteen
thousand American troops which had landed in Beirut, Lebanon.
To Presnakov this meant only one thing: The Soviet Union was
planning on making a molten coffin of the flagship of the Ameri-
can admiral, and the action was imminent. If we were lucky, the
admiral himself would be on board!
Armed with this exciting news of an international incident
about to take place, Presnakov nearly broke his neck rushing to
get the word to Ambassador Mikhail A. Menshikov. But as it


Saturday Night at the Movies y
developed, they both waited in vain for the explosion. In its
place, five days later (September 15) Presnakov found the Ameri-
can press articles revealing a mere pistol shot at the scene of the
"molten coffin." He sensed the submarine mission might have
aborted. He was correct, as I well know, for I commanded the
submarine.
Without doubt, I, Aleksandr Zhdanov, had fleetingly filled a
role of great power and awesome responsibility. Fulfillment of
my mission could have triggered a third world war. I was frus-
tratingly thwarted from achieving my goal—and perhaps a mem-
orable niche in naval history—by an infuriatingly incorrigible and
uncontrollable political commissar attached to my submarine.
Assigned to my command as Third Officer (but in no sense an-
swerable to me even though I was the captain), Lieutenant
Commander Igor Vladimirovich Sverdlov barred my role as a
Man of Destiny. Capricious, unpredictable, and wholly undisci-
plined, this man proved to be the unexpected foil to one of the
most daring Russian operations since World War II. My ship-
mates will verify the story.
In an effort to visibly unnerve the United States and to create
suspicion that perhaps the Egyptians or Israelis might be in-
volved, the main political administrator of the Soviet Navy,
Vice Admiral Vasily Grishanov, had managed to persuade both
Admiral Gorshkov and Premier Khrushchev that the Soviet Navy
should covertly move against the American forces in Lebanon.
Without being detected we could sink the U.S.S. Taconic, the
flagship and headquarters of the commander of the American
force. This ship was known to be tied up at a pier in the inner
harbor of Beirut. From it, the American Navy's Admiral Holloway
was able to maintain good communications with higher Allied
commands and with the United States. What greater depreda-
tion than to sink him in his soft bunk one night! How American
prestige would sink alsol And on whom would the finger of blame
be pointed? According to Grishanov world opinion would have
immediately, and vehemently, blamed either Egypt or Israel—


Saturday Night at the Movies g
administration of the W-7. The quartermaster petty officer of
the watch made it his business to make whatever notations he
could in the log. On the open bridge, he made quick calculations,
checked various instruments, and at 9 p.m., also noting sea con-
ditions and current, logged the true wind as coming from the
north at 2.6 meters per second (5.2 knots); barometer 1016.6
millibars (thirty inches); atmospheric temperature 19.5 Raeu-
murs (76°F.).
The myriad electric lights on the shore were dazzling. They
reminded me of thousands of sparkling diamonds, rubies, and
emeralds. Here, it seemed, was "business as usual," except that
as we crept closer, certain shapes in the harbor began forming
into identifiable naval craft. At about a mile from the inner har-
bor breakwater, I discerned the configuration of a destroyer,
lying anchored, some 750 yards to the west of the entrance to the
inner harbor. Within that mole, moored to a pier, was the United
States flagship. That the Americans would plant a destroyer so
close to the shore was something we had not counted upon.
Rather, I had anticipated that the enemy would have his sup-
porting ships cruising offshore, in maneuverable waters. Thus,
it was no little shock to suddenly note an anchored destroyer
practically blocking our penetration of the breakwater.
Nonetheless, we were not thwarted at this point. I looked at
the destroyer through my binoculars, and then swept around
with them in a nearly complete circular arc. To port I could see
what appeared to be a naval cargo-type ship, also anchored.
But the destroyer, three points on our starboard bow at a range
of about a thousand yards, claimed my major interest at the mo-
ment. The evening tide had begun to swing the ship at her an-
chorage, and she presented an aspect of about forty-five degrees
at this time. It appeared that the Americans had made no pro-
vision for a surprise attack. Through my binoculars, I could see a
large number of the destroyer crew congregated on the forecastle.
They were watching a movie. I peered then at the ship's radar
antennas, silhouetted against the sparkling white lights of the
city beyond. The larger air-search antenna was rotating; the


10 Shadow of Peril
smaller surface-search radar antenna was not—it was aligned fore
and aft as for a Saturday in-port inspection! That explained why
no radarscope operator on the destroyer had detected our ap-
proach. Probably in the other naval ships in the harbor, auxilia-
ries and noncombatant types, radar crews were only giving per-
functory attention to their equipment, preferring to believe that
the destroyer would, as a combatant ship, assume such guard
responsibilities. Of course, for several hours we had known,
merely through electronics listening, that there was an air-search-
type radar operating in the vicinity. But until now we had not
been able to link it with any specific ship.
Through the voice tube to the control room, I passed the word
(through cupped hands) to "make minimum slow speed turns"
in order to hold present depth and heading.
The commissar and my Second Officer, Lieutenant Commander
Vladimir Rurik, came up beside me. The former, uniquely stupid,
began to talk too loud. I told him to keep quiet. He stated that
the capitalist pigs couldn't hear him—they were too busy watch-
ing their decadent movie. He raised his binoculars in an attempt
to see what we were up against.
Looking through my own glasses, I could see the red truck
lights and white accommodation ladder lights of the Taconic
in the inner harbor. My pulse quickened. Excitement surged
within me. The grip of my fingers on the binoculars was vicelike.
Steady, calm, detached thinking was required . . .
Under the circumstances, the trick would be to maneuver
slowly and attempt to drift down to the entrance of the inner
harbor. We would be taking advantage of the current, and would
use motor speeds as necessary to quietly penetrate the opening
in the breakwater. Then, with our bow pointing at the target,
we would let go with four torpedoes. With continued luck, I could
then extricate myself from the inner harbor and, if necessary,
bring the stern torpedo tubes into line with the destroyer, fire
the after torpedoes, and then head for the open sea. Or, I could
gamble on the destroyer crew being unprepared for action, and
make good a fast escape in the excitement. At this point in plot-


Saturday Night at the Movies 11
ting my possible courses of action, I was aware that my unwanted
political commissar was still at my side.
Suddenly, this political spy who had been foisted upon me,
this blundering, ersatz "naval officer," Lieutenant Commander
Sverdlov, drew his .35-caliber revolver and, quickly aiming it in
the direction of the open-deck cinema watchers on the bow of
the destroyer, fired two shots in rapid succession. The second
bullet was deflected almost straight up in the air, as I, rushing to
stop him, grabbed his arm. With my left hand, I slapped his
thick, pale, flabby face. I would have liked to have picked him up
and thrown him overboard, but he was much too heavy for that.
He was, in fact, so grossly lardlike that he reminded me of his
boss, Vice Admiral Grishanov. Possibly it was thinking of Grish-
anov that made me try to control myself. So I merely hit Sverd-
lov again with the back of my hand, this time across his bulbous
Ukrainian nose. Rurik, a reliable submariner who at one time had
been a junior staff assistant to Commodore Tripolsky of World
War II fame, came to my assistance. Disarming Sverdlov, he
forced him from the bridge down the manhole.
I raised my binoculars in trepidation. My pounding fear was
that the shots had been heard and that we would be discovered.
Through the glasses, I saw that the showing of the film had been
stopped. The audience of sailors was clustered around what ap-
peared to be one man. Just below the level of the main deck, on
the destroyer's bow, and fit up by electric light bulbs, I could
now make out the huge white and black numerals 629. Above,
I saw three white-clad sailors run down the main deck toward
the amidships section. Here, I surmised, would be the officer of
the watch, standing his duty. Rurik, also peering through his
binoculars, confirmed my own opinion.
"Son of a Japanese mongrell They're going to sound an alarm!
That stupid oaf Sverdlov has shot one of them. We'll never get
it done tonight. Let's get out of here while we can!"
I concurred with Rurik. Sending him down the hatch, I twisted
the W-y around quickly and pointed her bow to the open sea and


12 Shadow of Peril
deep water, which beckoned from due north counterclockwise
to the west. With nothing but increasingly deep water now before
us, I jumped down from the open bridge with the order, "DIVE,
DIVE, DEPTH ONE HUNDRED FEET," shouted even as my
hands were slamming the watertight hatch cover into place.
On passing beyond the one hundred-fathom curve, I ordered
speed increased to twelve knots and told Rurik to take us down
to three hundred feet. At that depth, the sudden change of water
temperature was such that our detection by surface ship sonar
echo-ranging devices would have been most difficult.
Half an hour later, at 10:30 p.m. I directed that we slow to three
knots and rig for silent running, in order for the sonar operator
to listen better for any telltale sounds generated by American
warships' propellers. There were none.
It was apparent that we had not been detected. But in view
of the increased degree of alert to which I believed the Ameri-
cans would now resort, I decided to remain unobtrusive for a
few days before again attempting to sink the United States Head-
quarters flagship. Accordingly, I planned to spend the next few
days in random submerged cruising in waters from ten to twenty
miles north of Beirut, no further removed in that direction than
due west of Ras esh Shiga.
Every night we recharged our batteries by snorkeling, and dur-
ing the day remained deep enough to be unidentifiable visually
from an aircraft passing overhead. Occasionally, we would come
up to periscope depth for observation of the area.
On Monday morning, September 15, shortly after the forenoon
watch had relieved, we were suddenly alerted to possible danger
by the sonarmen reporting that our listening gear was receiving
propeller noises likely to be those of a distant warship. The range
was estimated to be several miles to the southward, bearing 185
degrees true. Rurik put on a pair of headphones and listened
attentively to the echoes. I again rigged the boat for silent run-
ning. Sonar reported the contact probably a destroyer type, and
estimated its speed to be about fifteen knots.


Saturday Night at the Movies 13
"Contact heading westward," Rurik announced. My next move
was to order the submarine to periscope depth, and maneuver the
boat to present a minimum target to the contact. In doing this,
I was conforming to standard submarine patrol doctrine. Sonar
now reported a sudden decrease in propeller turns, indicating
the contact was slowing to about five knots. Calling, "UP PERI-
SCOPE," I quickly sighted along the given bearing to the sonar
contact, then swiftly trained around to cover all directions, check-
ing for any other possible ships or aircraft in the immediate prox-
imity. There were none. The periscope was lowered.
What a beautiful day it was up there—bright and sunny, with
unlimited visibility, and small wavelets blanketing the sea sur-
face ... so excellent for hiding the periscope!
Rurik, who had been standing at my elbow to be of assistance
with the periscope, broke the silence:
"Shall I make the torpedo tubes fully ready for firing, sir?"
I did not want to alarm the crew. "No, wait."
"Captain!—"
It was the navigator, Vasili Petrovich Yukhnov, and he was
perfunctorily going ahead with his standard routine morning posi-
tion report.
"Captain," he continued in his distinct Kiev accent, "this is our
eight o'clock position report, Monday, September fifteenth."
The figures designating latitude and longitude meant little to
me by themselves. Turning to the right, over my shoulder, I
glanced down at the navigator's chart desk.
"Show me where we are now, Vasili Petrovich," I said, with ill-
concealed irritation. "Hmmmmm."
Navigator Yukhnov bit his lip. He was a conscientious fellow,
had been caught once in error by me, and was overly nervous
about making a similar mistake in his navigational calculations.
He now decided, I thought, to divert my attention away from the
chart.
"We have a full battery, Captain," he offered. Noting my smile
in answer to his revelation, he continued.


14 Shadow of Peril
"Yes, Captain, we completed recharging the battery just before
daybreak."
He appeared obviously relieved when the sonar operator in-
terrupted, changing the whole conversation.
"Contact appears to be increasing speed, bearing 190 degrees
true."
It was time for another look. Nothing had been visually de-
tected on the original bearing some minutes before.
"Up periscopel"
I peered through the cross hairs on a true bearing of 190 de-
grees. At an estimated ten-mile distance, I could now barely make
out two puffs of black smoke in the air. This confirmed my opinion
that the contact was an American destroyer. According to the
indoctrinational information disseminated at the Voroshilov Na-
val Academy, one or more puffs of dense black smoke are the
trademarks of American destroyer types as they suddenly accel-
erate their movement through the water.
Rurik removed the headphones, signaled for the watch to raise
a directional antenna, and spoke up again:
"It will be interesting to see what radars they have in use."
Reaching into his hip pocket, Rurik produced his huge red and
white polka-dot handkerchief, with which he then proceeded to
mop his perspiration-beaded brow. He had two such handker-
chiefs, one alternating each day with the other as his "duty brow
wiper." The other one was blue and white polka dot. Before the
cruise was over, he was to become enraged to learn that the crew
had begun circulating a rumor that on a previous cruise when the
submarine in which he was serving had run out of toilet paper, he
had used both of these handkerchiefs as substitutes. (He finally
suspected Sverdlov of having "planted" the rumor to discredit
him after the Beirut harbor incident.)
Presently, the radar intercept operator reported receiving U. S.
Navy air and surface-search radar emissions on the same bearing
as our destroyer contact. That they were destroyer radars was
calculated from our intelligence book showing the various fre-
quencies and types of radars installed in U. S. warships.


Saturday Night at the Movies 15
Then, at about 9 a.m., it was apparent that the American ship
was returning—eastward—to port, in Beirut harbor. At 9:20 a.m.,
all propeller noises from this source ceased.
My first thoughts were that the American destroyer had picked
up a possible contact in the immediate vicinity of the harbor, and
had moved over quickly to investigate it. But then very possibly,
it was just an "alert" training exercise in getting underway
quickly.
These possibilities didn't fully answer the question which be-
gan plaguing me: Why had the propellers suddenly slowed and
then returned to increased revolutions? I sought answers from
my several officers. Various explanations were forthcoming. One,
I thought, might have some solid foundation in fact. It was that
the destroyer had gone out to get a bathythermograph reading
of the water temperatures outside the harbor. This would be im-
portant in case of an action against a submarine, since the de-
stroyer would want to know what the sonar detection possibilities
would be.
My own reasoning was that he probably did take a reading of
the water temperatures at various levels, and I also suspect he
may have used the opportunity to dump a mounting accumula-
tion of garbage. Not all small ships can dispose of their garbage,
except by throwing it overboard. This is almost always done in
open sea beyond any territorial limits.
In any event, this sortie of the destroyer caused me to extend
our period of inactivity. I decided to wait for another three days
before attempting the attack.
But events were to overtake us. I was later to learn that Cap-
tain Fedor Presnakov's transmittal to Moscow of the American
press reports (concerning our abortive "Saturday night at the
movies" in Beirut harbor) had caused a re-evaluation of the basic
plan. A high-level decision was made to cancel the operation on
the basis of feeling that we might have been detected, or that we
might again fail to accomplish the goal. Very possibly, too, it was
reasoned, we might get caught in the act. And that was to be
avoided at all costs. Consequently, within twenty-four hours of


16 Shadow of Peril
Supreme Soviet Headquarters getting the news of the shooting of
the American sailor, Russian Navy wireless broadcasts began
sending out coded supplementary instructions to me.
On the night of the eighteenth of September, while snorkeling,
the message was received. Without explanation at the time, we
were directed to abandon the attack on the Taconic; I could not
help suspecting that Russian intelligence had learned of our ill-
starred and abortive venture of the previous Saturday night—
and I was correct.
At several minutes past midnight, the wireless operator on
watch had received the coded message addressed to W-y; he had
called it to the attention of the watch officer, who in turn had
ordered the commissary officer, Lieutenant Yuri Andreevich
Koslov, out of his bunk where he spent so much of his time. Tra-
ditionally, the commissary officer—not being a regular watch-
stander—is utilized on board Soviet men-of-war in whatever ways
the commanding officers feel appropriate. My instructions to the
watch had been that whenever a late-hour message was received,
commissary Lieutenant Koslov would decipher it.
When the drapes to my small but nonetheless private sleeping
space were swooshed forcefully aside by Yuri, unveiling a flood of
light from the passageway electric light bulbs, I sat upright in
my bunk and looked, blinking, at the luminous-dialed bulkhead
clock. It was nearly 2 a.m. Yuri, never one to give possible offense
if it could be avoided, pleaded forgiveness for arousing me, but
would the captain be pleased to look at his latest triumph—a mes-
sage marked "extraordinarily important"—which he had finally
succeeded in decoding, without the help of the watch or signals
officer. I reached out for the message, which Koslov had had
typed up from his penciled decoding. I had really not expected
this message, at least so soon. My eyes moved over the word-
ing .. .
CANCEL MY OPERATIONAL MESSAGE OF AUGUST 15. CEASE PRES-
ENT OPERATION. CONDUCT AREA SURVEILLANCE OBSERVING GEN-
ERAL FLEET OPERATIONS IN BEIRUT PROXIMITY UNTIL NO LATER


Saturday Night at the Movies
17
THAN SEPTEMBER 22. THENCE PROCEED OBSERVE MAJOR UNITS
SIXTH FLEET IN MIDDLE/WESTERN MEDITERRANEAN. REPORT NO
LATER THAN OCTOBER 18 TO VLONE ALBANIA.
(SIGNED) KASATONOV
I remembered Vlone had an airfield nearby. I wondered
whether upon my arrival there would be a plane there, with a
large red star emblazoned on the fuselage, waiting to fly me back
to the Soviet Union.


Stalking the Prey
(September 22-October 5, 1958)
Beautiful! Invigorating! That, on Monday, September 22,
1958, would have been a good description of the azure eastern
Mediterranean Sea. The warm, golden sun shone down brightly
from a fleckless blue sky overhead. The water was swept by a
mild sea breeze which produced small wavelets and occasional
whitecaps. Unfortunately, I could only see this delightful weather
when I raised the periscope occasionally to look around for any
telltale signs of shipping or of transiting aircraft.
This was the day that we departed the Beirut area, westward-
bound for surveillance of the major Sixth Fleet units under com-
mand of the American Vice Admiral Charles R. Brown, of whom
my superiors subsequently talked so disparagingly.
We were well on our way by 8 a.m. At a depth of one hundred
feet, moving out at four knots on a course of 275 degrees true, I
intended to come upon the American fleet units somewhere in
the central Mediterranean, and sometime within the next two
weeks. Word-of-mouth intelligence passed on to us some weeks
earlier had revealed that the Americans usually spent a week or
ten days in operations at sea. Then, the ships would depart for
various liberty ports for about the same period of time. At the
conclusion of each period, the various units of the American
fleet would rendezvous at sea and proceed with their pre-planned
exercises. I hoped to trail one such fleet unit from its in-port
merrymaking to the rendezvous with other units.
By midnight of September 23, while snorkeling and recharging


Stalking the Prey ig
the batteries, I ordered a course change to approach closer to the
southern coast of Cyprus. I wanted to take advantage of the
numerous known fishing vessels operating ten to fifteen miles off
the coast. Such action is often taken at night to cover a snorkeling
submarine during its transit. In a calm sea, such as it was on this
night, unfriendly naval search radars can pick up a snorkeler.
My action would reduce such a possibility, since the numerous
small radar contacts (or "pips," as the Americans call them) re-
flected by fishing vessels would be almost impossible to distin-
guish from those of a submarine.
Shortly after we had completed recharging the batteries, in the
early morning hours of Wednesday, September 24, an alert sonar-
man electrified the watch officer and me with a critical contact
report. Ears glued to his listening equipment, he relayed the word
that he had picked up the distant but definite fast, light propeller
noises of a possible warship astern of us. The oncoming vessel was
closing on us from the east. He was making an unchanging mod-
erate speed, such as would be employed in a routine transit. My
Second Officer, Rurik, determined that the ship was heading on a
course of 280 degrees true, at a speed of about five meters per
second (ten knots).
"Range closing, Captain."
This was Rurik's matter-of-fact, repeated observation. He ap-
plied himself to a maneuvering board solution of our respective
positions, and presently came up with his report: At our present
respective courses and speeds, the ship would overtake us, close
aboard, in two hours and ten minutes.
Since it was still before morning twilight, and would be suffi-
ciently dark for the next hour and forty-five minutes, I decided to
resume snorkeling at maximum speed to delay intercept until
daylight hours. My plan was to enable me to choose the time and
place of intercept, in order to insure positive identification and, if
possible, again take advantage of the fishing fleet as cover.
It was my hope that the contact, if indeed a warship, would be
en route to a possible rendezvous to the westward with other
fleet units. This, then, would present the wonderful opportunity


20 Shadow of Peril
for which I was looking—tagging along behind just such an in-
dependently cruising ship.
At length, as darkness began lifting and vision through the
early morning mists began to improve, I gave the order to termi-
nate snorkeling, and reduced speed to three knots. I purposely
delayed any course change until our contact was in sight. The
officer of the watch, in the conning station, was detailed to take
observations at intervals of every three to five minutes, and to
inform me immediately upon sighting the contact. He was also to
advise me upon any change noted in the contact's maneuvers.
Sonar still held the distant ship on the same bearing and esti-
mated range as closing. By our electronic listening equipment,
there was no indication that the stranger's radar had picked up
our snorkel. This was good. Our tactics were beginning to pay off.
At 7:02 a.m., the conning officer of the watch reported to me
that sonar now classified our stranger as a small warship, by na-
ture of sound. Also, range was still closing. A few minutes later I
received another report that sonar had just detected similar dis-
tant propeller noises to the westward. As I evaluated this intelli-
gence, a third report was passed to me. Sonar had gained contact
on the light, fluttery propeller noises of small fishing craft dead
ahead. How fortunate!
Rodion Trubetovski, commissary-porter who attended to the
eating requirements of the officers, had just supplied me with a
morning tonic of vodka and canned Italian tomato juice. With a
half-filled glass in one hand, I moved quickly from the wardroom
to the conning station. Nikolai Volkonski, officer-artilleryman on
board, was the watch officer. His steely gray, round little eyes
seemed to dominate his countenance even though they formed
but a small fraction of the larger expanse of his massive, jowled
face. His high cheekbone features were typically Cossack. From
his thin, almost imperceptible lips came a "Good morning, Cap-
tain," followed by his further rendering of a situation report to
me. According to the navigator's best calculations, he announced,
we were now in sight of the ancient gods of Mount Olympus, and
ought to watch our step! I turned to check the navigator's chart.


Stalking the Prey 21
Taking a pair of Soviet Navy nautical dividers, I measured our
dead-reckoned distance from the last known fix, and put a mark
on the chart track. Taking the rest of my morning tonic, I quickly
formulated my plan for immediate action.
"Lieutenant Volkonski," I said, unexpectedly fighting to sup-
press a sudden hiccup, "let me take a look through the peri-
scope."
Volkonski needed no prodding.
"Up periscope!" he shouted.
I grabbed the handles as they rose up from the deckplates, set
to take full advantage of the limited time practicable for scanning
the immediate area.
To the east, there was still nothing in sight. Just the propeller
noises reported by sonar. To the west, dead ahead, I could see
several fishing trawlers. The nearest one appeared to be moving
very slowly in our own direction, and was about forty-five hun-
dred yards away. The day was now sunny and the morning mists
were being burned off by the increasingly warmer temperature of
the air mass over the water. To the north, looming large and stark
against the sky, were the mountainous ranges of Cyprus.
"Down periscope!"
Backing away, my voice continued to crackle orders to the
watch.
"Get the navigator, the engineer, and the Second Officer," I
said firmly. Then, to Volkonski, who had not yet been relieved
from his duties of the watch, which he had assumed nearly three
and a half hours earlier, I said, "You may go get yourself some
breakfast. When you get to the pantry, tell your relief to awaken
Lieutenant Commander Sverdlov and inform him that we will
soon be maneuvering to intercept what we believe to be one or
more small warhips."
The jowls of Nikolai Volkonski flapped as his massive head
shook violently.
"Captain," he intoned, "after what that politico did at Beirut,
do you still want him around the control or conning areas when
we get into delicate situations?"


22 Shadow of Peril
Under the system, and additionally in order to restore some
semblance of discipline, it would not have been appropriate for
me to discuss Sverdlov with another officer, especially an officer
of inferior rank.
"Get going and do as I say!" was my answer to that imper-
tinence.
Volkonsld immediately saluted and made for the pantry. Per-
haps he would gorge himself on more potato salad and caviar,
which I knew he dearly loved. As he disappeared from sight, I
momentarily envisioned him at the wardroom table, acting the
part of the glutton—a natural role to him, and one which had not
endeared him to some of the other officers. But I agreed with his
judgment about Sverdlov and braced myself to deal with that
psychotic officer upon his arrival. I knew he would come. He did,
but not before the others.
Second Officer Rurik was the first to respond. Rushing up
swiftly, he reported that he had checked the ship contact infor-
mation on the way to the conning station, was apprised of the
situation from the sonar aspects, and had alerted the sonar tech-
nicians to make good tape recordings of the ship's propellers
when they were at close range.
Good. Good. We would want to get the actual noises of those
propellers so as to be able to identify the same ship at some future
time.
"What about the camera party, Captain, any special instruc-
tions?" It was Vasili Yukhnov, the navigator.
"Lieutenant Yukhnov," I replied, "I will want the camera
rigged to the periscope before using it. Do you have the Laika
35-millimeter? Ah, yes. Good. Ohol Yuri Andreevich! Good morn-
ing. We will want to take at least one good picture of the passing
warship or warships. There may be two."
Lieutenant Koslov had come from the wardroom, where he
had just had his breakfast. But he had forgotten to brush his teeth.
He stood there smiling at me in his usual good humor, his promi-
nent teeth now covered with a film of yellow egg yolk. Such resi-
due was not conducive to substantiate his well-known claim


Stalking the Prey 23
among W-7 officers that he was the handsomest lieutenant in the
Soviet Navy! I looked away from him and concentrated upon
Yukhnov.
"You must not leave the periscope raised for more than six sec-
onds. We cannot risk being seen."
The navigator frowned.
"How does the sun look?" he asked.
"It will be good. I will maneuver to a position south of the ship
as it goes by. The sun should be no trouble at this hour. It is a
bright sun; there is the usual morning haze which you must con-
sider."
"One more thing, Captain," intervened Rurik, who was now
flanked by Yukhnov, Koslov, and Makar Rostopchin, the engineer.
He looked alternately at all three of them, but addressed his re-
marks to me.
"How close do you intend to position our ship?"
Koslov now reached into a shirt pocket and produced a wooden
toothpick. After studying it a moment, he began to run it deli-
cately through the spaces between his large, egg-stained teeth.
Despite this, he was listening attentively.
"If all goes well," I said optimistically, "I intend to close the
range to about seven hundred yards. At that distance, either
Yukhnov or Koslov will take the picture. You must take the first
picture with the periscope set on low power, to get all of the ship
in your field of vision. Following that, if time and tactical situa-
tion permit, take a second picture of the bridge and radar an-
tennas with the periscope set on high power. For intelligence
reasons, this is important to have."
There was a sudden shuffling and then a silence. The commis-
sar had arrived. He broke the quiet.
"So we will be that close, Captain Zhdanov," he interposed.
"Perhaps I should wear my life-vest. You might want to shoot
me out the forward torpedo tubes at the enemy as they go by."
I could not afford the luxury of open altercation with Sverdlov.
What a misfortune to have such a man assigned to my command.
He was incorrigible. A man so potentially powerful ... a very


24 Shadow of Peril
real danger to any ship of war, in fact. No, I could ill afford to let
this situation get further out of hand. I ignored his uncalled-for
remarks. Attempting to change the deteriorating atmosphere
which he sponsored, I said to him in a detached voice, "Good
morning, Lieutenant Commander Sverdlov. Within the next half
hour, I anticipate that we will have fine pictures of at least one
American warship passing close aboard. I am certain that you
and Vice Admiral Grishanov will be much pleased with our
stealth."
Sverdlov condescended to nod and then withdrew.
The next quarter of an hour was consumed by listening to sonar
reports and taking repeated periscope observations at about
three-minute intervals. It became apparent that we could easily
maneuver astern of the nearby fishing boat and follow along in
its wake, a few hundred yards astern. The swift and unobtrusive
appearance of the periscope would go unnoticed on board the
fishing boat. And, with luck, American eyes on the passing de-
stroyer-type would be distracted from us to the fisherman close
aboard. The situation looked perfect.
Rurik, as the oncoming ship came within five thousand yards,
took a quick look at her and exclaimed, "Ho Ho! it is the Ameri-
can destroyer from Beirut!"
The announcement chilled everyone in the vicinity. Although
I had suspected that this small oncoming ship would be a de-
stroyer, I had preferred not to think that he was tailing us. It
seemed too remote. Why would he be cruising along, over a pe-
riod of several hours, on the same westerly course and at the
same moderate speed, unless he were merely in transit from one
point to another?
I listened to the amplified propeller echoes as they came closer.
Swswswswswswswstvs . . . Quite different from the slow, plod-
ding plop-plop-plop-plop-plop-plop of a merchant ship. The
noise was getting much louder. Range, two thousand yards.
Swswstoswswswsws. Range, seventeen hundred yards. Swswsw-
swsws. Range, fifteen hundred yards.


Stalking the Prey 25
"Stand by periscope!" Yukhnov and Koslov moving over swiftly
to their stations.
SwswswswswsSWSWSWSWS . . .
Range eight hundred, bearing 015 degrees.
"UP PERISCOPE!"
swswswswswswsws. . .
Contact passing across our bow, from starboard to port. . .
Bearing rate fast. . .
"DOWN PERISCOPE!"
"Rurik," I said, "any indication that his echo-ranging equip-
ment is still in operation?"
"Yes, Captain. He appears to be operating a typically old-type
American sonar. I'm sure of this. The frequencies and echo-rang-
ing intervals point to this. He is conducting a normal American
search from his port to starboard side, forward of his beam."
SWSWSWSWSWSWSWSisisisisishishishishswswsws.
"Danger area passed, his sonar search missed us," Rurik con-
tinued.
"Yes," I agreed, "but we must not fail to keep our bow pointed
in his direction."
The navigator spoke up now.
"I think we will have a good picture or two, Captain," he said
as he and Koslov wrestled momentarily to see who would take
the camera and its now important documentary evidence to the
makeshift darkroom.
"Good. See to it," I ordered. Then, to Second Officer Rurik,
"I will want to follow him at no closer range than three miles. If
the waves continue to increase we may be able to snorkel astern
of him this evening. We must be very careful. Keep a close eye
out for that second possible warship. I'll want a picture or two of
it, also."
Yuri could contain himself no longer.
"Captain," he blurted, "that destroyer! it was number 620V"
Aha! so the American fire-support ship in Beirut is now head-
ing to join some of her sisters elsewhere in the blue Mediter-
ranean! Well, well . . . Perhaps this indicates the end of the


26 Shadow of Peril
American occupation of Lebanon. No doubt Premier Khrushchev
has gotten tough with the warmonger general in their White
House, and the Americans have at last learned that we Russians
mean business!
Had the ancient gods of mythology looked down from Mount
Olympus at nine o'clock in the morning on this same day,
Wednesday, September 24, 1958, they would have been mute
witness to the commencement of one of the most interesting and
dramatic naval operations of modern times. From the seat of the
gods, high on that famous summit, and looking roughly south by
west at a distance of approximately forty-three miles, Zeus and
his followers could have witnessed the rendezvous of two Ameri-
can destroyers and noted, too, that they were being stalked by
an intermittently appearing periscope belonging to a dark green-
hulled Soviet submarine . . . that this rendezvous occurred within
an hour of the time that one of these destroyers passed close
aboard the momentarily exposed periscope of the lurking Soviet
underseas craft . . . and that this was the beginning of a period
of constant, intense action and observation by the W-7 sub-
mariners.
It had been Rurik who had informed me of the appearance on
the scene of the second destroyer. This was the intermittent small-
ship propeller noises originally coming from a westerly bearing
which we had picked up some time earlier. It had become lost
in the excitement of trying to concentrate on the westward-bound
destroyer 629 from Beirut. The sonar operators had earlier passed
it off as a fishing boat and failed to advise me. In any event, I
was both surprised and ashamed to find out from Rurik at a few
minutes after nine o'clock that two contacts, one of them the
destroyer 629, which we had been following now for a little time,
and another, had formed a column and were now steaming west-
ward together. I felt that we should have been able to better
apprise ourselves of this development as it was happening, rather
than conclude that such a rendezvous had occurred.
By noon, we had dropped back astern of the Americans by


Stalking the Prey 27
some four or five miles. Despite the daylight, the seas were now
favorable for snorkeling. I gave the order, therefore, to commence
snorkeling and to make ten knots. I also stipulated that in no case
were we to approach the destroyers ahead by any closer than four
miles. At the same time, I advised the watch officer to be alert
for any aircraft in the area. If he were to find himself in doubt as
to any action, he was to stop snorkeling. I would, of course, then
hear the noise and banging of the head valve shutting, and would
consequently—in a matter of seconds—be on my way up to the
conning station.
At about one-thirty o'clock in the afternoon, both ships ap-
peared to be maneuvering independently but within a few miles
of each other. The leading ship, with the hull number 629,
appeared to circle once or twice and at one point came to a com-
plete stop in the water. Perhaps they were conducting a ship-
handling drill of some sort; in any event, by midafternoon, both
ships were in column again, heading on a base course of roughly
west by north, making about twelve knots. It was my conclusion,
after looking at the assumed plots of the two ships made up for
me by navigator Vasili Yukhnov, that the other destroyer now
took the lead in the column formation.
As darkness came, I acted more boldly. Realizing that the
Americans were continuing their sonar search arcs from left to
right forward of their beams (apparently the custom in the U. S.
Navy), I audaciously increased snorkel speed to maximum to stay
up with the two destroyers. Their range from us had increased
to more than five miles, and they were still heading generally
westward in column. I ordered the antennas raised for electronics
listening.
At about eight-thirty in the evening, the officer of the watch,
while peering ahead through the periscope, noticed bright lights
on the sterns of both destroyers. He passed the word to me in
the wardroom, where I was sitting talking to Second Officer Rurik,
navigator Yukhnov, and engineer Rostopchin. I did not have to
inquire further from the watch officer as to what he thought was
causing the illumination. At the Voroshilov Naval Academy, one


28 Shadow of Peril
of the more interesting facts brought up concerning the Ameri-
can Navy is that United States naval units when underway at
sea customarily show movies on the fantails (or sterns) of ships,
in mild weather after the sun has set. Normally, this means that
the crews of the American ships are busily watching Marilyn
Monroe or presumably a cowboy picture with Tom Mix or Buck
Jones every evening from about eight o'clock until about ten
o'clock. During this period of time, too, the instructors at the
Academy in Moscow pointed out, most American ships of war
attempt to (and in most cases do) remain on a steady course
proceeding at moderate speed. Since I was the only officer in
W-y who knew this intelligence, I repeated it for the education
of the other officers sitting with me.
Makar Rostopchin, a Ukrainian Jew as was Yukhnov, laughed
boisterously. "Maybe they are showing another one of their
Mickey Mouse cartoons. Have you ever seen one of those? Once
when I was invited to the American Zone at the old German
naval base at Wilhelmshaven, I saw an after-dinner cinema show.
Everyone was there, including the American admiral and the
High Commissioner who was visiting at the time. What do you
suppose they showed us? Cartoon after cartoon of Mickey Mouse.
Mickey Mouse and some cra2y ducks. Don't remember exactly.
But you should have seen how that High Commissioner was
laughing. I thought he would become hysterical. Frankly, I
thought it was just indicative of the intelligence level of the au-
dience. Those Americans are really nothing but big overgrown
children."
Yukhnov could hardly wait to jump into the conversation and
did so with unrestrained fervor. "Overgrown children! But they
are living in a man's world, and it shall not be too much longer
before they realize it!"
Rostopchin reached into his shirt pocket and pulled forth his
heavily ornamented silver snuff box, a little packet his grand-
mother had given him as a present marking his nineteenth year.
It had once belonged to her father, the Count Nicholas Alexandre
Rostopchin, court chamberlain to the Romanovs in the late nine-


Stalking the Prey
29
teenth century. He had married Princess Catherine Maria Ouru-
sov upon the death of his first wife, Magda Nataly Trubobetzkoi;
her mother, the Princess Catherine Maria, had been killed in the
Bolshevik storming of the Winter Palace after World War I. The
snuff habit was perhaps the last idiosyncrasy of the old regime's
hierarchy that had been passed down intact to the new genera-
tion as personified by young engineer Lieutenant Rostopchin.
Yet Rostopchin, for all his noble ancestry in the days of Holy
Russia, was a Jew. This, insofar as his religious worship practices
were concerned, was a matter largely of his own choice. His
mother, from a prominent Ukrainian Jewish family, had only been
married to his father a few years when the Bolshevik's mid-thirties
purge liquidated him. Thenceforth his widowed mother lived in
Kiev with her mother-in-law, who had managed to escape penury
by drawing on the financial reserves that old Count Rostopchin
had stashed away in Switzerland prior to World War I.
Unfortunately, when the Germans overran Kiev in World War
II, they captured young Rostopchin's mother and grandmother.
A special SS battalion whose mission was the final solution to the
Jewish problem” took his Jewish mother and sent her off to a gas
chamber. His grandmother, a stolid and defiant communicant of
the Russian Orthodox Church, was spared. And, upon the death
of this grandmother two years ago, the Soviet State claimed all
property rights to the family fortune, leaving Makar Rostopchin
wholly dependent upon his naval pay for income. The silver
snuff box was one of the few family heirlooms to which young
Makar had finally come into ownership.
“Yes. Da-da. Overgrown children,” said Soviet Navy engineer
Lieutenant Rostopchin, as he opened the box, tapped it, and then
took a whiff of snuff.
"Ahhhhh-CHEW!”
Unlike Yukhnov, Rostopchin was devoid of any physiological
features which might tend to publicize his half-Hebrew blood.
In fact, his gently wavy blond hair and blue eyes, set off by a
most unusual ruddy complexion, reminded one of the Teutonic
or Scandinavian mold.


30 Shadow of Peril
Yukhnov resumed his part in the conversation. He apparently
decided to change the subject. Taking one last large bite into his
specially concocted sandwich of garlic cloves, carp eyes, and
mayonnaise loosely compressed between thick slices of dark pum-
pernickel, he offered his evaluation of where we were being led.
"Captain," he began, maneuvering most of the mouthful over
to one side of his large, liver-lipped mouth, "this present course
of 283 degrees true will take us into the Greek island kingdom.
We will pass the northeastern edge of Crete during the night,
and should be in well-enough traveled waters to allow us to sur-
face, charge our batteries, and at the same time stay up with the
destroyers. There are many fishing boats in and among these is-
lands which I believe we will pass tonight. If this is true, it will
present no problem merely to follow in the wake of the Ameri-
cans, just steering toward their stern lights. I have anticipated
our track for the first part of the evening assuming the Americans
will not alter course during the showing of their movies. I have
also provided the officer of the watch with the characteristics of
the lights on the shore that we may encounter tonight—at least,
if this course is not changed."
Vasili Yukhnov, I was happy to see, was using his head—and
being every bit as conscientious as I would have wanted him to
be.
Rodion Trubetovski, the commissary-porter, approached the ta-
ble with a bottle of port wine and a cake of cheese. Opening a
nearby cupboard, he produced several aluminum cups. Pouring a
little wine into one, he deftly raised it to his lips and announced,
"Good wine for the captain and the officers, certified to be health-
ful and lacking in harmful ingredients."
He then bowed slightly and made his exit into the pantry,
leaving the bottle and several cups on the table. No one had
bothered much in listening to his message; he was only repeating
what he was supposed to—the standard procedure ordered by
Vice Admiral Grishanov for all fleet units. This procedure was
set in motion immediately following a mysterious poisoning some
years ago of half the wardroom officers on board one of the old-


Stalking the Prey 31
style cruisers. Rumor had indicated that one or two dissatisfied
commissary-porters had been culpable; Grishanov, fearing fur-
ther poisonings, had caused this ridiculous procedure to be intro-
duced whenever wines were served in officers' messes. Somehow,
Grishanov had not thought of the possibilities of officers being
poisoned by additives in other kinds of foods or beverages be-
sides wine. But no one had taken issue with him. Hence, it had
become almost traditional now—certainly routine—for the commis-
sary-porters to act out this ceremony whenever dispensing wines.
The other officers followed my lead in pouring themselves some
of the ruby-red beverage. When everyone had provided himself
with a full cup, I raised mine and, saying "To the Motherland,"
drank thirstily.
I had nearly finished my drink when the watch officer sent
word that there seemed to be some confusion in one of the de-
stroyers ahead of us. Range was closing; one destroyer had
slowed down. Additionally, he observed that two vertical red
lights blazed from the masthead of one of the destroyers. It would
seem, then, that one of the ships had had a breakdown—if they
were adhering to the international "rules of the road" regulations
concerning the making of visual signals in the event of a sailing
casualty.
This revelation was of sufficient import for me to take a look
myself. So, together with Rurik, who was equally anxious to see
what was going on, 1 went up to the conning station and made
my own personal investigation. It corroborated the watch officer's
information. But strangely enough, I had no sooner seen the two
red lights through the periscope than they were both extin-
guished. Soon after, it was apparent that the ship in question had
resumed her normal speed and was moving along now in tandem
with the other destroyer. Nothing of further interest transpired
during the remainder of the night. Apparently, this had just been
an engineering or mechanical failure, quickly repaired. Not un-
usual for the Americans to have such casualties, I thought. After
all, if the Voroshilov Naval Academy instruction was correct,
most of the American destroyers had been built during the war


3«
Shadow of Peril
years prior to 1945. Consequently, they had long since passed
through their most efficient years, structurally and materially, at
least. And, of course, most of them (and this was so reassuring)
were not even equipped with up-to-date weapons for antisub-
marine usel
All the next day, we shadowed the two American destroyers
as they weaved northwestward among the islands north of Crete.
At nine o'clock on the evening of Thursday, the twenty-fifth, we
passed Nisoi Khristiana Lighthouse abeam to starboard at a range
of about ten miles. I worked a stopwatch in my hand as I looked
at the light through the periscope—for we were still snorkeling
astern of the destroyers. An hour later, I sighted the lume of a
light which the navigator identified as North Folegandros Light-
house, bearing almost due north, and at a range of about twenty-
five miles—or possibly more. It was close to midnight when we
passed it directly abeam to starboard. Finally, well after one
o'clock on the morning of the twenty-sixth, I sighted Paximdhi
Light ahead of us at a range of about ten miles.
For some little time now, it had been more or less obvious
where the Americans were leading us. The Soviet submarine
W-7 was trailing unsuspecting Sixth Fleet destroyers into the
nest of Pericles.
And it was quite a nest.
The Americans had entered the ancient harbor of Piraeus, gate-
way to Athens, shortly after eight o'clock in the morning on the
twenty-sixth. The Soviet submarine W-7 brought up the rear and
stood off the harbor entrance at ten-thirty in the morning, with
periscope up and the commanding officer observing the situa-
tion. Here indeed was a good segment of the fleet . . . several
large and small ships congregated near that ancient battleground
of Salamis, all anchored and, I thought reflectively, waiting mag-
nificently for Russian torpedoes! Alas! That was not my mission.
Yet it would be so easy . . .


Stalking the Prey 33
With the periscope in high power, I could identify the large
destroyer tender AD-28, which our publications listed as the
U.S.S. Grand Canyon, one of the U. S. Atlantic Fleet's large aux-
iliaries. Another large ship, the tanker U.S.S. Nantahala (identi-
fied after I read off her side identification, AO-16), was anchored
in the harbor. Tied up alongside the Grand Canyon were the two
destroyers we had been pursuing.
The confines of Saronikos Kolpos and the adjacent waters in
the immediate vicinity of Piraeus are not designed to conceal a
submarine for any length of time. Therefore, the W-7 was ma-
neuvered in those sheltered waters on but one day, and then
only for a few hours. Otherwise, I kept the boat to the southward
of the island of Nisi Aiyina, which lies about fifteen miles south-
southwest of Piraeus. On Sunday night, September 28, we were
snorkeling while at the same time conducting a visual and elec-
tronics barrier search south of Piraeus. I was hoping to pick up
contact with any shipping which might enter or leave the harbor.
Our listening for electronic signals from other ships in the vicinity
paid good dividends.
At about four o'clock in the morning, September 29, we identi-
fied many American radars approaching the vicinity from the
south. Promptly, we terminated snorkeling and recharging of the
batteries, in order to move over quickly to a vantage point near
the rocks of North Eleousai. Here, there was deep water, and it
certainly was a position unlikely for our detection.
From this location immediately adjacent to the rock ledges of
North Eleousai, I observed three more American destroyers en-
ter the harbor, all mooring alongside the Grand Canyon in a large
nest of ships. The hull numbers painted in the typically large,
black and white block numerals common to American destroyers,
were, in order of entry, the 883, 831, and 713. Following them,
and anchoring further to the east in Phaleron Bay, was a cruiser
flying the two-star flag of an American rear admiral. The large
lettering on the cruiser's bow enabled us to check her off by
name, using the Soviet list of major U. S. fleet units as a guide.


34 Shadow of Peril
CA-148, according to the Soviet publication, was the U.S.S. New-
port News, presently serving as flagship to the American Atlantic
Fleet Cruiser Force Commander. Following the Newport News
into Phaleron Bay, and about a mile astern, came the large attack
aircraft carrier identified as U.S.S. Randolph (CVA-15). She an-
chored across the harbor from us, in water about twenty fathoms
deep.
Here indeed, to this sheltered, island-abounding harbor, had
come mighty elements of the United States Mediterranean Fleet.
They would, I estimated, be here in port for about a week before
leaving to conduct fleet exercises. Under this assumption, I then
took the W-y to seaward from Piraeus, where I could continue a
barrier patrol designed to intercept—for surveillance purposes—
the American fleet as it moved out for maneuvers.
The Soviet submarine barrier patrol which we activated lasted
an irritatingly long period of time—until Sunday, October 5. It
was not pleasant to have to patrol back and forth across the ap-
proaches to Piraeus, for over a week, waiting for an enemy to
move out. And it was especially annoying to realize that while
we patrolled, these American sailors were enjoying their privi-
leges ashore as tourists. The surprise came when they suddenly
started to sortie from the harbor—first the destroyers, which
formed a typically ineffective screen to shield the major ships—
and then the heavy units. This movement on a Sunday was some-
thing I had not expected. The Voroshilov Naval Academy had
for many years taught that the American Navy's regulations for-
bade ships from getting underway on Sundays . . . thus my
amazement when the sortie of the Sixth Fleet ships was first ob-
served. But that is another story for another chapter. Suffice it to
say that we had now stalked the prey—and, if we could stay with
him during the next period of operations at sea, we would in-
deed be "striking it rich."


4
Striking It Rich
(October 5-12, 1958)
It was shortly after breakfast and not yet eight o'clock
that Sunday morning, when W-7, patrolling leisurely off the
southernmost tip of Nisi Aiyina, became alerted to the sortie of
the United States fleet units from Piraeus. Assuming conning con-
trol of the submarine, I maneuvered over to an excellent pre-
planned position off the southeast corner of the island. From this
vantage point, and without fear of detection, I was able to ob-
serve the American fleet departure from Greece.
As I logged in my written report to Admiral Gorshkov, United
States destroyers emerged from the harbor first, all of them soon
maneuvering around in obviously pre-positioned stations. The
pattern of their maneuvers appeared to be the same kind of
unimaginative submarine searches which the American Navy
used in World War II against the German U-boats (so much in-
ferior, of course, to the present-day Soviet submarines). I could
see them through my periscope, as they plowed through the wa-
ter, lurching and rolling while they alternately turned first left
and then right, executing their customary "figure eights" at an
average speed through the water of about sixteen knots. By ten
o'clock, after fully clearing the southern approaches to Piraeus,
the American destroyers had formed what appeared to be a cir-
cular sort of screen around the heavy ships, and the whole force
was proceeding to the southward at about twelve knots.
From under the cover of the choppy blue sea, the W-y had
lurked in waiting for this fleet and, with stealth befitting sub-


36 Shadow of Peril
mariners whose captain (myself) would later receive citations
for this "extraordinary service," we now stalked the Americans as
their ships moved out for extended tactical operations.
Shortly before two o'clock in the afternoon, during one of our
quick but frequent looks through the periscope, the large Ameri-
can attack aircraft carrier Randolph was observed to show from
her signal hoist the blue and gold striped international signal flag
for the alphabetical letter "G." This word was duly passed to me.
I can recall the professional satisfaction I felt at being able to
relay back to the watch officer the significance of what he had
reported.
Over the sound-powered telephone from the crew's galley,
where I was inspecting the eating utensils in company with Sec-
ond Officer Rurik and commissary Lieutenant Koslov, I spoke to
the watch officer, Rostopchin. Because he was the chief engineer,
he had not had any extensive experience with international or
Allied naval signals.
"Makar," I said with enlightenment gleaned from considerable
schooling in military intelligence seminars at the Voroshilov Naval
Academy, "what you have just witnessed is the assumption by
the aircraft carrier of the role as pilot for the rest of the ships.
Henceforth, all other ships will take their maneuvering cues from
the carrier."
Second Officer Rurik, at one time a passenger on an Allied
military transport vessel, corroborated this for the benefit of
Koslov.
"Da, Yuri," he said smugly. "I myself have witnessed it many
times from the surface while in convoys."
Other than officer-artilleryman Nikolai Volkonski, none of the
other officers besides Rurik and myself were old enough to have
had any experience in World War II, or in any subsequent Allied
fleet exercises.
Impromptu class over, we continued our inspection of the
crew's messing space.
Within a half hour, Watch Officer Rostopchin sent word down
to me that the pilot flag had been hauled down from the aircraft


Striking It Rich 37
carrier and that he had seen it hauled up on the cruiser Newport
News.
By midafternoon, we were trailing lazily behind the Americans
as they commenced refueling operations. The first indication we
had that they were about to conduct such an exercise was when
the sonar operator announced widespread increases of propeller
revolutions and quickly changing bearing rates from all surface
noise sources. A check through the periscope at the ships ahead
confirmed that the U. S. ships were maneuvering at high speeds,
apparently moving to form some kind of special refueling forma-
tion. By late afternoon, I had personally observed the refueling
technique of the Americans, to the extent that I was able to log
the tanker Nantahala as refueling both the aircraft carrier and a
destroyer simultaneously, an amazing feat of superb seamanship.
All the ships in the formation had refueled underway, and the
three interchangeable screening destroyers ahead of the refuel-
ing ships were—as usual—obviously ineffective in detecting our
stalking submarine. I could not help but think how useless would
be the most skillful seamanship techniques of the Yankees, if we
had been under orders to sink the carrier, cruiser, and tanker—
all major targets.
By early evening, the Americans had apparently completed
refueling operations and then went into another circular-type
formation with six destroyers positioned around the heavy ships
and at a range from them of about two miles.
The weather conditions for the refueling, I noted in my special
report to Supreme Soviet Naval Headquarters, had been excel-
lent for our purposes of observation while remaining undetected.
The wind had been from the southwest, and the formation of
ships had been heading in that direction. The wind velocity of
about ten knots, in conjunction with waves of about two feet in
height, contributed materially to our ability to follow astern and
remain unseen despite our frequent periscope glimpses of what
was going on.
At eight o'clock Sunday night, as Vasili Yukhnov was indicat-
ing our position to me on the navigational chart, the watch officer


38 Shadow of Peril
informed me that he could not account for the whereabouts of
the tanker. At some time following the refueling operations, prob-
ably during our changeover of the watch, the Nantahala must
have left the other ships in the formation, and we had not noticed
it. I was furious.
"Captain," Yukhnov went on to say, "our location at this time
should be about here on the chart."
He took his gold dividers, which his father had given him in
1956 when he graduated from the Frunze Higher Naval School,
and pointed to the chart.
"We will probably be passing to the west of Crete by to-
morrow."
"And then?" I quizzed.
Yukhnov frowned and twisted the dividers around, tapping
them quickly against the palm of his left hand as he groped for
an answer. None forthcoming, I volunteered my guess.
"It is my thinking that the Americans are leading us to the
south of Crete for their fleet exercises."
Yukhnov's eyebrows moved higher, and an even larger frown
came across his forehead as he sighed. He must have been think-
ing that at the least, he could have ventured such a prognostica-
tion, rather than let his captain say something now seemingly so
obvious.
During the night, the concentration of American naval power
passed to the west of Crete, and at two-thirty o'clock in the morn-
ing (it was now Monday, October 6) this formation turned to-
ward the east—first on a course I estimated to be about 145
degrees true, and then, about an hour later, to a course of about
105 degrees true. We were still following the aircraft carrier
Randolph, the cruiser Newport News, and several destroyers.
Speed of the American ships had increased to sixteen knots dur-
ing the night, but this did not interfere with our surveillance of
the formation. On several occasions, we had to get up on the sur-
face briefly and run at high speed, accepting the chance pos-
sibility of being spotted. This action was necessary so as not to
drop too far behind. For the greater part of the night, however,


/fo Shadow of Peril
By 9 p.m., we found the sea around us had been vacated by
the Americans. Boldly, we probed the atmosphere with an elec-
tronics receiving antenna, and picked up a rash of signals. From
these, my signals officer was able to determine that the cruiser
Des Moines was somewhere in the area, together with many
other new ships. But until the following morning, we were to have
no particular excitement. The battery was fully recharged dur-
ing the darkness and when dawn came on Tuesday, October 7,
we were still moving eastward at slow speed.
Not much after 9 a.m., sonar informed me that there were now
echoes being received from many ships on a wide range of bear-
ings. However, neither the operator nor Rurik could tell what
speeds these ships were making. It appeared obvious to me,
then, that they were attempting to conceal the true revolution
count of their propellers. Could this be taken to mean that some-
how we had been sighted? Or perhaps that our presence was
suspected? I gave the orders to go deeper and rig for silent run-
ning, so that we might possibly hear better—maybe find a good
sound channel.
By ten-thirty o'clock, there seemed no danger still existing. I
therefore brought the submarine back up to periscope depth for
a visual check of the area. I could see nothing around us, though
I searched several times in a complete circular arc. The sea was
dead calm, not good for submarine close-in periscope observa-
tion because of the probability of detection. Our position was
roughly south-southwest of the southeastern tip of Crete, at a
range of just about a hundred miles. I decided that we had lost
the Americans. I ordered the radar intercept antenna raised.
From it, this time, we received nothing of any help.
But at a few minutes before eleven o'clock, having returned
to below periscope depth for better listening, sonar abruptly
reported hearing loud screw noises and echo-ranging. W-y was
brought up quickly to periscope depth again. I looked along
the bearing of the screw noises and echo-ranging. Less than
eight thousand yards away, and heading straight at us, was a
destroyer!


Striking It Rich 41
"Down scope! Take me down to 275 feetl Will that be under
the thermal layer?"
Rurik answered me. "Yes, Captain, the layer is at 175 feet."
The noises from the approaching destroyer grew louder. We
now leveled off at 275 feet and were rigged for silent running
again. The echo-ranging pulses were growing more rapid and
frequent. Surely we must have been detected. It now appeared
certain that the destroyer's sound beam had found us.
"Estimated range to contact, fifteen hundred yards," Rurik
reported, "closing fast."
"Very well, fire a false target decoy from the after-torpedo
room," I responded.
Twenty seconds passed.
"Away decoy!" a report flashed back to me.
I turned up the listening equipment noise amplifier.
swswswswswswsSWSWSWSWSWSWSWSswswswswsws . . .
"He just passed down our port side, close aboard," said Rurik,
frowning tensely. His heavy, straggly black eyebrows were dis-
torted in a reflection of anxiety matched only by the nervous
worry etched in the face of Lieutenant Commander Sverdlov,
who had now stationed himself close to the navigational chart
desk.
"Why do we put up with this role of the hunted when we could
so easily destroy this American? How better for us to teach them
a lesson! How I hate this cringing, this evasiveness, this hiding
from the pursuer! It is so unnecessary! How do we know that he
will not dump some depth charges upon us? He could do so, and
report only that he was involved in a so-called 'training exer-
cise.' I say, when something like this occurs, let us assume the
initiative and take the offensive. Captain, I am giving you my
professional opinion!"
It was the political commissar, offering his armchair strategy
once more. I decided to ignore him in this latest effrontery to
the concept of strict obedience to military, as opposed to Com-
munist Party orders and authority. We now all waited for indica-
tions that the destroyer was circling. This would have meant she


42 Shadow of Peril
was preparing for a reinvestigation of her contact. But now,
by some miracle, the destroyer's echo-ranging ceased. Was the
American now listening for our propeller noises? We continued
our course, away from the previous action spot. And, for some
unaccountable reason, the American lost us. Instead of circling
around to come in overhead of us again, the destroyer moved
further and further away. Perhaps he was confused by the de-
coy. I suppose I shall never know.
I glanced at the chart. Yukhnov's gold dividers dangled from
a makeshift cradle. I lifted them and measured off our estimated
navigational position. It was latitude 33°35' north, longitude
26°02' east, roughly halfway between Crete and the Mediter-
ranean coast of Egypt.
It was much later in the afternoon—close to supper time, when
the unexpected smell of frying onions, liver, and bacon first be-
gan to permeate the submarine—that I took a long look through
the periscope and saw the Forrestal wheel around toward the
northwest and pick up speed. Her track placed her on our star-
board bow at a range of about seven thousand yards. The old
destroyer which had been with her the previous day appeared
to be still in company. I watched one aircraft take off, as the
mammoth moving airfield plowed through the sea looking very
much like a gray dachshund with a bone in her mouth. We slowed
to three knots and maneuvered to present as small a target as
possible to both the carrier and the destroyer by keeping our bow
pointed in their direction.
Presently, the carrier and her escorting destroyer turned and
headed eastward. In case they intended to conduct further flight
operations later, I decided to turn northward so as to intercept
them. The wind direction was still from the northwest and the
carrier would have to head that way if she were to operate more
aircraft. Leaving the conning station in the hands of the watch,
I made my way back to the galley. It annoyed me that the cook
had obviously disobeyed my orders of long standing, about fry-
ing greasy foods while we were submerged. To my consternation,


Striking It Rich 43
commissary Lieutenant Koslov intervened before I could repri-
mand the cook.
"Captain," he said apologetically, "I am sorry about this. I
know your orders, but Lieutenant Commander Sverdlov came
in here this afternoon and gave orders that we would have fried
liver, onions, and bacon tonight. He said it was an irrepressible
desire on his part and that the crew would appreciate his innova-
tion in the menu."
Sverdlov himself now appeared, his pallid features dominated
by a look of obvious contempt for my authority.
"Lieutenant Commander Sverdlov," I seethed, "perhaps you
are unaware of my reasons for not wanting food fried except
by my express permission. The odors and small grease nodules
which erupt from greasy food frying can cause undue discomfort
to the crew when submerged."
The contemptuous expression on Commissar Sverdlovs face
became fuller, sensuous, and more apparent. The insolent eyes
stared; the equally insolent lips moved, and their contumely
convulsions introduced such arrogance that I was motivated to
strike him physically.
"In my opinion," he said, "the morale of the crew demands a
significant change in the bill of fare. As the officer specifically
charged by the Supreme Soviet with the morale and well-being
of the men, I have decided that onions, liver, and bacon would
be most appropriate for supper tonight."
"Mr. Sverdlov," I retorted firmly, "you are aware that you are
the political administrator on board this boat. I am the command-
ing officer and it is my duty and responsibility to ensure the good
morale and well-being of the crew. I will not have you or anyone
else interfere with the menus once I have approved them."
The commissar's wan features colored somewhat. He raised
one of his thick, pudgy forefingers and, waving it vigorously at
me, issued a humiliating warning: "Captain, when I return
to Moscow, you may be certain that your indecorous wording
to me will be the subject of a special report to Vice Admiral
Grishanov."


44
Shadow of Peril
While this conversation was going on, Rurik, sitting in the
wardroom and bothered by the greasy odors, which had been
sifting into the wardroom through the fan duct, had decided he
could stand it no longer. Eyes watering from the onions, he had
pulled out one of his polka-dot handkerchiefs and was busily
wiping his eyes when he appeared at the forward end of the
galley.
Sverdlov, climaxing his defiance, had just taken a plate filled
with sizzling onions, liver, and bacon, and was shoveling food
into his mouth when Rurik stepped into the small compartment.
Through watery, running eyes, the Second Officer glowered at
the commissar. The latter returned his gaze. As he munched a
thick piece of liver covered with greasy, fried onions, Sverdlov's
pale blue eyes focused on Rurik's polka-dot handkerchief. To
his mind as he watched that handkerchief mop up the tears
streaming down the Second Officer's face, came the vision he
had fostered of Rurik's use of that handkerchief on a previous
cruise.
The thought was so hilarious to Sverdlov that he wanted to
tell everyone how funny it was. Yet his mouth was so stuffed that
he could not, and furthermore, the whole thing seemed so ludi-
crous to him that he was unable to swallow. When he finally
burst into explosive laughter, the contents of his mouth-the
half-chewed onion, liver, and bacon-catapulted across the nar-
row space and splattered over Vladimir Rurik's face and chest.
The unintended victim of this spontaneous development did not
see the humor of the situation. In a flash of surging rage, he took a
step forward and thrust his thoroughly soaked handkerchief into
the wide open mouth of the laughing Sverdlov. The force with
which Rurik shoved the polka-dot rag between the teeth of the
commissar was so violent that Sverdlov gagged. A trickle of
blood appeared on his upper lip. The soggy handkerchief was
too much for the suddenly squeamish stomach of the commissar.
As he staggered back, he coughed convulsively, and then vom-
ited. The already odious atmosphere became unbearably sick-
ening.


Striking It Rich 45
Koslov, his stomach notably delicate anyway, fell first victim
to the combined odors of the food being prepared and the vomit.
His eyes bulging, Yuri paled, clapped his hand to his mouth,
and rushed headlong to the galley sink.
The convulsive eruptions, together with the malodorous and
steadily increasing odor, were too much for poor Rurik. With a
groan he rushed to join Koslov at the galley sink.
The situation was untenable even for the captain. I turned
quickly and fairly ran to the conning station, where I hoped to
forget the mess in the officers' galley. I would leave the offender,
Sverdlov, to his "fellow officers." Sverdlov, I felt uneasily, would
add this to his grievances when he returned to Moscow.
At about 7:30 p.m., I was still standing at the conning station.
The W-7 was at periscope depth and heading on course north.
I was hopefully awaiting some indication that we would soon
come upon the carrier or other fleet units again. Presently sonar
passed the word of loud propeller noises to the east, all becom-
ing rapidly louder. I gave the order, "Up periscope!" and then
quickly trained the periscope around to the noise bearings.
Over the horizon and at a distance of about five miles, I could
see the red truck lights of a large ship. With her appeared to be
two smaller vessels, one on the port beam and the other astern.
It was the carrier again—no doubt the Forrestal. My maneuvering
for another interception had worked! The enemy's movement
was steady and positive. As the carrier came steadily closer, I
quickly changed the course of W-7 to present a small target
aspect, in order to reduce the possibility of our being detected.
One thing which had always intrigued me was the rumor that
the Americans actually launched and recovered high-speed air-
craft from their huge carriers at nighttime. Frankly, neither I
nor most Soviet officers believed that this was done other than
as an emergency measure. It was, then, a great surprise for me
to stare through my periscope at these extended night flight
operations being conducted. All the more amazing to me was the
fact that although I could see no lights on the carrier decks, I


46 Shadow of Peril
could see the seemingly endless assembly-line landings of jet
aircraft. Each plane's exhaust burned bright and yellow against
the dark sky as it circled and then came in to roost on the For-
restaTs deck. Finally, the carrier with her escorts turned and
headed away to the eastward again. Flight operations were over
for the night. I was elated and satisfied at the success of our
surveillance.
The navigator, hearing me state this, invited me to check our
estimated position as of nine-thirty o'clock. I did so. According
to his calculations, we had been at 34°o6'o3" north latitude,
and 26°i3'o2" east longitude. A glance at the chart showed this
to be most credible. We were still between Africa and Crete,
churning up waters through which the fleet had been moving
since the exercises had begun.
For the rest of the evening, we snorkeled and charged our
batteries—until two o'clock in the morning. That was when radar
intercept as well as sonar informed us that all fleet units were
again converging. Since nothing was visually apparent, I decided
to risk using radar to find out the range and disposition of the
Americans. Several quick rotations of the radar antenna, and I
saw all I needed to know. The American fleet was formirig up
some seventeen miles away, in what appeared to be another
refueling disposition. We in W-7 watched silently.
At four o'clock that morning, carrier flight operations resumed.
This time, I could see the blinking red lights on the aircraft as
they zoomed off in the distant sky. And all the following day,
W-7 witnessed full-scale fleet aircraft operations. These lasted
until nearly nine-fifteen o'clock in the evening! I marveled at
the stamina of the American flyers.
But the U. S. Navy does not maintain its amazing air superior-
ity at sea without paying a price. I was witness to one payment.
It occurred at eight o'clock that Wednesday morning.
As the huge, powerful-looking Forrestal steamed by us at high
speed, through fairly calm seas, I was peering at her through our
unobtrusive periscope, watching her conduct further flight opera-
tions. They fascinated me.


Striking It Rich d7
Suddenly, without warning, one aircraft—it looked like one of
the U. S. Navy's A4D-2 types—crashed off the stern of the fast-
moving carrier. When this happened, I realized that all eyes on
the Forrestal would be on the downed plane. Therefore, I con-
tinued looking at the accident—from about three thousand yards
away. Great clouds of white steam billowed forth from the car-
rier's funnel as she came to an amazingly rapid stop in the water.
Finally, she lay to within a half mile of the crash scene, while
one of her helicopters maneuvered over the partially floating
wreckage. About ten minutes later, the plane sank—and I am
certain that the helicopter did not rescue the crashed flyer. He
went to the bottom in his cockpit.
The high-speed approach of a rescue destroyer cut short my
spying on this scene, and we went down quickly to 290 feet—well
below the thermal layer.
This incident occurred about sixty miles north of the African
coast, and approximately 115 miles south of Crete. In passing,
I might mention that when Commissar Sverdlov relayed the
news of this plane crash to the crew, he told them that "it oc-
curred some 780 miles due south of the Transylvanian Alps, one
of the last strongholds of superstitious simple-minded Christian
native-folk."
When flight operations had been completed on Wednesday
night, the Yankees steamed along in a formation using what
might be described as a semicircular destroyer screen for protec-
tion against submarines. Their base course was now westward
and their speed about twelve knots.
The wind, at one time from the northwest at about ten knots,
increased as the night wore on. By daylight, a stiff wind from the
southwest had combined with ten-foot waves. These made it
possible for us to maintain contact with the Americans by cruising
on the surface, yet with little chance of detection.
On Thursday, October 9, we were witness to the largest fleet
replenishment exercise that I had ever seen. The surprising point
to me was that it appeared to be the entire Sixth Fleet refueling
and reprovisioning at seal I had not expected that my surveil-


48 Shadow of Peril
lance of the American fleet would bring before my eyes such a
tremendous concentration of power.
During the night preceding the dawn on Thursday, the fleet
had been slipping farther and farther away from us. Despite the
fact that the high waves permitted us to pursue the Americans
by cruising on the surface at fifteen knots, they were steaming at
an even greater speed and it was possible only to maintain elec-
tronic rather than visual contact as the night advanced. Shortly
before noon on the ninth, however, the fleet turned to the south-
southwest. This resulted in my intercepting the entire armada
—in fact, the W-y was caught in the middle of this logistics for-
mation as it plowed southward.
Penetrating the formation's destroyer antisubmarine screen
proved to be no problem. Sonar conditions were poor for sur-
face ships' underwater echo-ranging equipment, and we merely
moved in under a protective layer of cold water until I knew
that we were well inside the destroyer screen. Then I came to
periscope depth and maneuvered through and between some of
the major elements of the fleet. As I spotted hull numbers or
ships' names, I called them out to the quartermaster, who logged
them while Rurik stood close by with his intelligence folder,
identifying by name those ships whose numbers I called out.
When we had disentangled ourselves from within this maze of
naval tonnage, the logged names of ships I had peered at through
periscope cross hairs made up the bulk of power in the American
Mediterranean Fleet.
When I wrote my report to Admiral Gorshkov, I stated that
had this been wartime, the Soviet Navy could have rejoiced in
the certain sinking of the United States ships Forrestal, Ran-
dolph, Des Moines, Newport News, Rigel, Altair, Wrangel, Mis-
sissinewa, Waccamaw, Du Pont, Benham, and Abbot. Although
I was aware that other ships were present besides these, none
came directly dead center into my vision through the periscope
other than those mentioned above.
Prior to six-thirty in the evening, the great armada dispersed


Striking It Rich 49
in several directions. W-7 now moved northwestward at six knots
and spent the night fully recharging batteries.
By breakfast time on Friday, October 1o, we had moved into
the southern Ionian Sea, still maintaining electronics contact with
the Forrestal and the Des Moines. We were able to intercept
several uncoded messages from COMSIXTHFLEET (Vice Ad-
miral "Cat" Brown, whom Admiral Gorshkov was later to men-
tion as a potentially good candidate for sinking), as well as from
minor commanders and unit officers. By midmorning, it had
become obvious to me that the Americans were involved in a
large-scale aerial strike exercise. Their carriers were conducting
constant launchings and landings of aircraft, and all ships in the
fleet were widely dispersed. Perhaps this was one of Admiral
Brown's "dry runs" in preparation for an assault on Russia! I be-
came worried. The United States was demonstrating such fine
seamanship and such excellent aerial assault capability that I
knew we would have to knock out the Sixth Fleet at the very
first, if relations with America degenerated into war. Otherwise,
Russia would suffer from the cold efficiency of this fleet's tre-
mendous aerial striking force. These thoughts were included in
our final cruise report to Naval Headquarters.
The brightest spot in my entire report centered on the U. S.
Navy's obvious nakedness in submarine countermeasures. The
very fact that the Soviet submarine W-7 had been able to oper-
ate at such close quarters to the American fleet, and had re-
mained in such proximity undetected for so long, was ample
proof that the Americans are weak in antisubmarine capability.
Fortunately for Soviet Russia, not much has been done to improve
America's readiness for antisubmarine warfare since that 1958
Mediterranean cruise of the W-7. However, since 1958, Soviet
progress in submarine development has been accelerated. Again,
it is probably to Russia's advantage that the American naval
hierarchy has chosen to publicly disbelieve the statements of
Premier Khrushchev and others on the new advances in Soviet
submarine capability. In fact, when the American Navy's Penta-
gon chief refused a large amount of money in i960 that the repre-


50 Shadow of Peril
sentatives in Congress wanted to appropriate for antisubmarine
research and development, the Soviet naval headquarters were
delighted. At the time, Admiral Gorshkov and his principal fleet
commanders had met to discuss the American shipbuilding pro-
gram. Gorshkov is alleged to have said to Kasatonov and his
other commanders, 'The United States Navy cannot be explained.
They know well enough that our large underseas fleet is several
times as huge as the U-boat forces with which the Germans al-
most won the war in 1942. Yet their admirals oblige us by ignor-
ing our most significant weapon. They went to the American
Senate and dissuaded them from appropriating funds for im-
proving American antisubmarine readiness. In fact, these ad-
mirals rejected three brand-new destroyer escorts and some
nuclear attack submarines. And why? To make sure that the
Congress of the United States would let the American Navy
have another big aircraft carrier. Let's drink a toast to their num-
ber one admiral, Old Walrus Butt!"
By Saturday, October 11, 1958, I had witnessed enough of the
American fleet's Mediterranean operations to set course for
Vlone. Our last contact with the American ships was when we
intercepted one of their uncoded wireless tactical messages on
Sunday morning. Apparently, they were forming up into a col-
umn for transit of the Strait of Messina, and the Forrestal was to
lead the procession.
We entered the Albanian harbor of Vlone four days prior to
our operational deadline for doing so. It had been a most memo-
rable cruise. We had—as the Americans say—"struck it rich." And
now I was to discover that my premonitions about my immedi-
ate future were accurate.
No crystal ball could have predicted the events surround-
ing my arrival any better. Five weeks after Admiral Vladimir
Afanasyevich Kasatonov, the Black Sea Fleet Commander, had
relayed the word from Moscow that I was to quit the Beirut
operation, I was back in the Motherland reporting to the Navy
Commander in Chief himself, Admiral Gorshkov. With him in
his nautically decorated office in the Soviet capital was Kasato-


Striking It Rich 51
nov. Together, they sat impassively as I tried to explain how it
was that the W-y had aborted in the attempt to embarrass the
United States.
Gorshkov, although a Party man to the marrow, is nonetheless
a good naval officer. He was quick to excuse the failure in Beirut
upon my statement of the facts in the case. My presentation to
both him and Kasatonov decried the presence of the bungling
commissar, and I told them that only a court-martial of my erst-
while Third Officer would satisfy me. Gorshkov's reaction was
noncommittal, but it was noteworthy that neither he nor his im-
mediate subordinate condemned me personally for the failure
of the expedition. Instead, Gorshkov sat amiably listening to my
entire account of the cruise—from beginning to end—and when
I had finished, he ignored Soviet military protocol by offering me
a Chesterfield cigarette.
"Captain Zhdanov," said the Navy chief thoughtfully between
contemplative puffs on one of his American cigarettes (which
since World War II he has had supplied to him regularly by
diplomatic couriers), "I must tell you that on the basis of your
failure to accomplish your original mission, I had been prevailed
upon to remove you from the list of officers qualified for com-
mand at sea. In the absence of amplifying news reflecting on the
incident as reported by the American papers, we here at Head-
quarters did not see how you could have avoided detection."
Admiral Kasatonov, a delegate to the 20th Party Congress and
ever mindful of his status, saw an opening and joined in the con-
versation:
"We felt that you would compromise the position of the Moth-
erland!"
Gorshkov, holding his cigarette between the thumb and index
finger of his right hand, now caressed his dangling array of medals
with the other hand. His groping fingers ferreted out the decora-
tion of which he was known to be most proud, the Order of
Kutuzov, First Class.
Stroking the medal slowly, he continued his talk.


52 Shadow of Peril
"Luckily, there was no detection and no compromise. That is
to your advantage. However, it is because of your outstanding
operations later, in spying on the American Sixth Fleet during
their war gaming exercises, that I am disposed to ignore the most
pressing demands of others, who have conducted an investiga-
tion into your treatment of Lieutenant Commander Sverdlov . . .
as well as into all aspects of your performance."
Kasatonov leaned forward in his chair.
"You must surely know," he confided, "that Lieutenant Com-
mander Commissar Sverdlov, upon his arrival back in Moscow,
wasted no time in branding you unfit for command of an attack
submarine."
Although I had known that he would complain about me, I
had not fully realized the extent to which he would go to ruin me.
"According to Sverdlov," interrupted Gorshkov, "you should
have responded to his pistol firing in the manner a good Cossack
would respond to a bugler sounding the Charge!"
I knew that Admiral Gorshkov had never personally liked the
idea of having political commissars attached to men-of-war. But
Gorshkov's easy, unassuming outlook on life precluded his fight-
ing the problem. He recognized that his own rise in the Navy,
under Stalin, had resulted largely through his own acceptance
of Communist doctrine; he also recognized that Vice Admiral
Vasily Grishanov, the Supreme Navy Commissar for Communist
Administration, was a power to be dealt with. Grishanov, as a
matter of fact, was not even answerable to Gorshkov, despite his
inferior rank. The divorcement of commissars from normal naval
discipline extended even up to the highest levels.
"My dear comrade," whispered the Commander in Chief of
the Soviet Navy as he blew a great cloud of smoke through his
large nostrils, "by your exploits against the United States Sixth
Fleet, you have done our cause the greatest of good. Now that
we know more about the American methods of operation in the
Mediterranean—thanks to you—we shall better know how to deal
with their stupid Admiral Brown, the one they call 'The Cat.'
One day while he is reading his archaic Bible in that nice, big,


Striking It Rich 53
comfortable bed of his aboard that cruiser you so often watched
through your periscope, we may deliver to him the shock of his
useless life!"
Admiral Gorshkov's friendly eyes opened wide.
"And you, Aleksandr Ivanovich," he chortled, "may be just
the man to someday give him such a present!"
The lump in my throat prevented me from even saying thank
you to this man who held my future in the palm of his hand.
Gorshkov took one last inhalation on the remaining inch of his
American cigarette and, as he squashed the stub against an ash-
tray with an unnecessary display of power from his thick, pudgy
fingers, he added thoughtfully, "By the way, did you know that
the big comfortable bed that Bible reader curls up in every night
is made up for him every day by black men?"
"I thought they were indentured Filipinos," interjected Ad-
miral Kasatonov, raising his eyebrows.
"Well, no matter, one way or the other, it makes no difference,"
concluded the highest-ranking officer in the Soviet Navy. "When
the time of truth comes, they'll die right alongside of their cap-
italist masters. What a shame . . . what a damned shame!"





PART II
POWER PROJECTION WESTWARD:
Via the Red Underbelly, to the American
Backyard





5
RED SAIL NINE"—How It Began
The rendezvous with Glenn occurred during the longest
cruise ever undertaken by a Soviet submarine. It started on the
bitterly cold night of January 29, 1962, from the Russian ice-free
port of Murmansk, which is nestled in the northern reaches of
continental Europe.
In the weeks prior to our deployment from the submarine base
at Saida Guba, I had been subjected to an intensive briefing by
Soviet intelligence officers, regarding American as well as Allied
naval strength in the North Atlantic. Considerable emphasis was
devoted to the operations of the U. S. Atlantic Fleet carrier-
based antisubmarine forces. These were known to be conducting
almost constant exercises on the high seas. Aside from a brief
commentary on shipping volume around the British Isles, and a
discussion of international traffic likely to be using the sea lanes
of the Atlantic during the ensuing months, there was no indica-
tion at the time that we would have anything to do with the
American astronaut.
On the last day in port, during the forenoon, Captain Georgy
Novgorod, Chief of Staff for Political Administration (i.e., Com-
missar) to Admiral Andrei Trofimovich Chabanenko, escorted
me to Submarine Headquarters. Awaiting me was iron-faced
Admiral Chabanenko himself, Commander in Chief of the North-
ern Fleet, together with several of his staff. After a succinct and
most humorless introduction, the admiral stated that on the rec-
ommendation of the Navy over-all Commander in Chief (Ad-


58 Shadow of Peril
miral Gorshkov) I had been selected to conduct this most secret
operation. The code name was to be "RED SAIL NINE."
"Captain Zhdanov," declared the Northern Fleet chieftain,
"you have of course already received the first part of your instruc-
tions for 'RED SAIL NINE.' I understand that the loading of all
supplies and equipments, including special armaments, has al-
ready been carried out. You know the geographical oceanic
points through which you will pass on the first phase of your
cruise. Captain Anatole Chichagov, my staff operations officer,
will point out to you the refinements of the situation. What I de-
sire to emphasize is that you do not open your sealed orders until
you have fully complied with the provisions of your presently
effective instructions."
He nodded to one of his staff officers. A stocky, balding Mongol
bowed slightly from the waist. I presumed that this was Captain
Chichagov. I had not previously known him, and gave little more
than momentary thought to the fact that the new staff operations
officer was a Mongol. I knew that hundreds of years of inter-
marriage between Slavs and Mongols had resulted in Asiatic
facial characteristics in many Russians bearing Slavic names.
Chichagov, between tightly compressed gold-plated teeth, an-
nounced that the dark red sealed envelope which he handed me
was most secret. I would now be pleased, he rasped, to follow
him on the chart as he outlined the first part of the forthcoming
cruise. Taking a wooden, bullet-tipped pointer from an assistant,
the speaker then moved across the room to a huge wall map of
the North Atlantic and Baltic Sea regions.
After bowing once more Chichagov tapped the colored chart
on the wall and began:
"As orders have indicated to you, the F-68g will depart tonight
from Kola Inlet for an extended deployment. Ostensibly, you
will be prepared for a ninety-day patrol. This information you
may disseminate to your officers and crew. Just prior to getting
underway tonight at about 10:45 p.m. (which is the time that
seven fishing trawlers will also be standing out of the inlet head-
ing in the direction that you will be going), be prepared to


"RED SAIL NINET—How It Began 59
embark two passengers. They will be very important to your ulti-
mate assignment. But they have been instructed to say nothing
about their roles until after you have opened your sealed orders.
For your information now, they are civilians, and are considered
to be experts in the fields of agriculture and economics. Perhaps
you have heard of them. Professor Boris Bogucharovo, from the
University of Moscow, perhaps the world's foremost authority on
improved mass farming techniques; and Professor Stepan Alexo-
vich Pozdeev, formerly head of Moscow University's Economics
Department, who is more recently identified as one of the brains
behind the new science research city of Naukograd, in western
Siberia, near Novosibirsk."
So! I was to have two very important civilians—intellectuals—
on my boat! As I focused my attention on the large, colorful chart
to which the briefing officer was now pointing with his stick, I
wondered what the mission was of these two top scientists. I
reached into my coat pocket for a Turkish cigarette, but remem-
bering that Admiral Chabanenko loathes smoking, diverted my
movements so that it appeared that I was merely looking for a
handkerchief. Captain Chichagov was now outlining the pro-
jected track I would be taking.
"You will use a speed of advance of ten knots. At this point
here, on the chart," and he tapped the place on the map, "you
will rendezvous with a second group of Soviet trawlers. The
first group of trawlers escorting you out of Murmansk tonight
will merely be doing this to conceal your movements; you will,
of course, cruise on the surface tonight in their midst. No one
other than friendly eyes will suspect that you are underway. But
later tomorrow, you will be on your own until you meet up with
the other trawlers at Point 'A.' Needless to say, you will stay sub-
merged during daylight hours in order to avoid possible detec-
tion."
The wooden pointer was now tapping the chart at the place
the Mongol had said was Point "A." I noted that it was approxi-
mately forty-five miles due northeast of North Cape, Norway, in
the Barents Sea.


60 Shadow of Peril
"The F-68g" said this balding near-image of Yul Brynner, the
American actor, "will then proceed to Points 'B' and then 'C.'"
The wooden pointer flashed laterally across the wall chart,
stopping at points marked "B" and "C."
"Your mission during this phase of the cruise will be to conduct
undetected training operations. You will test the practicability
of trawler escorts for covert military operations, and you will col-
lect general intelligence data on British and American naval units
if opportune. Unless you are otherwise advised, you will open
your sealed orders when you arrive here."
The bullet-tipped stick struck the wall chart a vigorous blow
at a point about two hundred miles northwest of Ireland. It was
marked "C."
Admiral Chabanenko now arose, nodded to his staff operations
captain, and then, facing me, said: "I am hopeful that you will
do as well as you did in the Mediterranean in 1958. If you have
no questions, may I say good luck?"
The briefing was over. Along with the other staff assistants to
Admiral Chabanenko, I was on my feet. Since neither the admiral
nor the others moved, I recognized that the withdrawal from
the scene was left to me to accomplish. With a small, stiff bow,
I took the red envelope and, backing away two paces, thanked
the admiral for his kindness. Then, turning toward the door, I
strode out. A staff car was waiting to take me to the submarine
piers where the F-68g rode to her mooring lines.
As the F-68g splashed gently through the mild swells and small
wavelets of the cold, black Barents Sea north of Murmansk, I
pulled the fur protective pads of my parka up around my cheeks
to shield my face from the cold night sea breeze. I was on the
small open bridge with the officer of the watch. The submarine
was proceeding according to plan, now on course 315 degrees
true, on a track which would take us along the northern tip of
Europe toward the Norwegian Sea. We were maintaining our
station in the vicinity of the trawlers which had left port with us,
and which would "escort" us for the next few hours. Then, with


"RED SAIL NINE”-How It Began
61
an entirely recharged battery, we would continue the first leg of
the voyage by ourselves. I scanned the dark sea around us. The
fishing trawlers were carrying their usual lights-and so were we,
as a night-camouflaged member of this little group, displaying
identical illumination. Little chance, I thought to myself, that
we would ever be suspected to be what we really were.
In fact, the Second Officer had made sure that the submarine's
side numbers had been removed, shortly after getting underway.
Now, without the large white block letters 689 gleaming on the
side, it would be most difficult for anyone to identify the dark
green hull.


Away the Trawlers 63
flaged as trawlers, to outstrip the United States of America in
seapower. It is therefore necessary to consider this new breed to
better understand the concurrent role they play with the Soviet
submarine fleet in espionage from oceanic environments.
Many of the thirty-five-hundred or so oceangoing trawlers are
active against the United States, and are manned by Soviet naval
officers, seamen and technicians. Their numbers have been multi-
plying steadily since the end of the Stalin era. Yet fortunately
for the men who dominate the Kremlin, most Americans are
either blissfully unaware of the espionage which these vessels
conduct, or uninterested. Russian intelligence believes that even
when the press of the Western world has spotlighted "incidents"
involving Soviet trawlers, the American people themselves have
shown little more than passing interest in the matter. The Ameri-
can Congress seems to be apathetic, the American State Depart-
ment indecisive, and apparently, even the American Navy itself
does not seem worried about the possibilities that these trawlers
and other "peaceful" ships are primarily concerned with military
operations.
The Soviet ambassador to the United States has told Premier
Khrushchev that he and his military staff believe that the Ameri-
can naval authorities are cognizant of Russian activities in this
field. But at the same time, the ambassador has told Khrushchev
that the U. S. Navy probably will not take any countermeas-
ures. Perhaps the overriding reason, at least in the minds of the
observant Soviet staff in Washington, is that drawing attention to
areas of naval weakness associated with oceanography, sea ex-
ploration for military purposes, and antisubmarine warfare, might
detract from the congressional readiness to appropriate huge
expenditures for such programs as super aircraft carriers. This,
according to the ambassador and his advisers, the air-minded
Pentagon admirals would not want.
Of course, when one of our Soviet trawlers erupts into inter-
national newsprint, the American naval authorities do have state-
ments to make to the press.


64 Shadow of Peril
For instance, back in the last days of April i96o, the Soviet
trawler Vega maneuvered into a position approximately sixty
miles south of Long Island, under orders from Soviet Naval Head-
quarters. The mission was twofold: to spy on the new United
States nuclear Polaris submarine George Washington, which was
slated to test-fire her consignment of practice ballistic missiles;
and to pick up and record the characteristic sounds of that sub-
marine—which presumably would later be operational in waters
near the Soviet homeland.
The 230-foot-long Vega, equipped with the latest electronics
devices in use (radar, electronics intercept and radio-direction-
finding equipments, sonar, portable hydrophones for under-
water listening, and high-powered radio sets) succeeded in her
mission. At the time of the test-firings, she was less than two thou-
sand yards from the nuclear submarine! Since our trawlers osten-
sibly are out after schools of fish, the fact that they are equipped
with new long-range underwater listening and electronics video
consoles can be justified. It would not necessarily mean that they
are out after submarines. Nor would it prove that they do not use
their equipment as aids in better understanding the sea and its
environment (bottom, water temperature gradient, etc.) in the
areas in which they operate. However, Russian trawlers do oper-
ate in and near the large U. S. Navy exercise locales and con-
sistently extract invaluable information from the Americans. For
instance, the Vega has been credited with determining the pre-
cise frequencies of many U. S. electronics equipments. Such
knowledge would be necessary for many wartime applications.
After successfully spying on the George Washington, the Vega
moved southward, and the following day was off the main U. S.
Atlantic base at Norfolk, Virginia. There, several merchantmen
recognized her and (presumably) advised the American Coast
Guard of her presence in the area. With the word thus publi-
cized, the American Navy apparently decided to reveal the earlier
part of the story, and released news bulletins describing the pres-
ence of the trawler in the Polaris test-firing area the previous day.
The news services of the world were then treated to the word


Away the Trawlers 65
that the Soviets could have measured the time it took for the
ejected projectiles to reach air re-entry, the firing interval, and
the identifying sounds emitted from that particular submarine.
It is of interest, too, that the vehicle discovering the trawler's
presence was a blimp, of the type used in World War II for
antisubmarine patrol work. But very recently, and not very un-
derstandably, the American Navy decided to dispense with
lighter-than-air craft. Such additional good fortune for the
Soviets!
At an earlier date, there was considerable publicity over
an American boarding party which inspected another Russian
trawler, the suspected culprit in the breaks of the transatlantic
cables off Newfoundland. Actually, the trawler the American
sailors boarded was not culpable. She was a mere decoy. The
perpetrator of the deed was a friend and classmate of mine from
the Frunze Higher Naval School, Vladimir Romanov. As com-
manding officer of a Soviet submarine operating in concert with
five trawlers off the St. Georges and Grand Banks, Romanov
was attempting to plant various special electronics devices near
the cables when his equipment became fouled. The ensuing dif-
ficulties experienced by Romanov in trying to extricate himself
resulted in the cables being cut. This was done without malice,
however, although the American press suggested that perhaps the
Soviet Union had intentionally cut the cables. It may be of in-
terest, nonetheless, to know that the devices he was planting
were for future use against America in the event of war.
Another incident involved the Soviet trawler Poexobo. She was
part of a twelve-ship squadron leaving Murmansk in April i960.
Their job was to conduct surveillance of the American submarine
operating areas off New London, Connecticut. However, Poexobo
was ordered detoured via the north coast of Iceland. Her mission
was to evaluate the radar efficiency and effectiveness of U. S.
radar stations in the vicinity. But on May 19, an Icelandic patrol
boat discovered the trawler at anchor in a cove near the radar
station, and sent a boarding party to her. The Poexobo skipper
claimed engine trouble as an excuse for being there, and nothing


66 Shadow of Peril
further developed—other than widespread publicity. The trawler
subsequently proceeded to join her sister vessels along the Ameri-
can continental shelf.
Apparently, the American Air Force, ever alert to embarrass
the Navy, has been responsible for fairly widespread publicity
covering the Soviet trawlers which have operated near the Air
Force's Texas Towers. These mammoth radar warning towers,
rising out of the sea near the edge of the American continental
shelf, have indeed been the focal point of attention of Soviet
maritime observers ever since they were emplanted. Other Soviet
craft have operated near the island of Nantucket, and some
twenty miles off Chatham, on the "elbow" of Cape Cod.
Many of the squadrons of Soviet trawlers at sea operate under
the definite control and command of task force commanders, who
utilize each of their ships for specific primary purposes. Of course,
in order to preclude the exposure of their cardinal purposes, most
of the trawlers actually engage in bona fide fishing activity. Thus,
the Soviet Union's vast fishing armada has returned to Russian
canneries with probably more fish than the Americans and Ca-
nadians combined have brought back in identical periods to their
own shores.
Sometimes, however, the position of our Soviet vessels, intent
on obtaining intelligence, or in laying false bottom reflectors, or
other devices in vital areas along America's continental shelf,
cannot be supported by the excuse that the trawlers involved
are only "fishing." For instance the Vega, when spying on the
George Washington, was in waters which are most seldom, if
ever, used by foreign flag commercial fishermen. That area off
Long Island is almost constantly used for maneuvers of U. S. sub-
marines and hunter-killer destroyer forces from nearby Newport.
Additionally, the milking of vital information from the Texas
Towers, one of which is located about no miles east of Cape
Cod and the remaining one more nearly east of Nantucket island,
has provided the Soviet Union with enough data to make it pos-
sible to negate the effectiveness of those towers in the event of
hostilities between Russia and America.


Away the Trawlers 67
On June 11, 1961, a Soviet trawler entered Boston Harbor of-
ficially bent on procuring medical treatment for her captain,
Artsev V. Grigorievich, who supposedly was suffering from gas-
tritis. Also brought ashore for medical treatment was a seaman,
Nicolai I. Kulakov, who reportedly had sprained his back when
the trawler dropped anchor in lower Boston Harbor. Actually,
the "seaman" was Lieutenant Ivan Nicolai Kulakov, special in-
telligence officer whose basic mission was acquiring graphic
knowledge of the approaches to and confines of Boston Harbor.
For the Soviet master naval plan calls for the penetration of all
important American bases by Soviet underseas craft in the event
of a war. There is nothing Soviet submariners would rather do
than surpass the great submarine exploits of World War II—the
penetration of Scapa Flow by the German U-boat or the depreda-
tions of American submarines in Japanese home waters. Boston
Harbor, of course, is militarily important in that it houses the
United States Naval Shipworks, and is also the home port of at
least one missile cruiser.
In one other notable case, a Soviet trawler—in this case the
Mosalsk—had been engaged in surveying the ocean beds off the
New Jersey coast, when one of her junior officers became ill.
Rather than seek American help for an officer of the Soviet Navy,
it was decided to say that he was a mere fisherman. True enough,
Ivan Baliuk was a fisherman—but he was fishing for more than
menhaden. As a specially trained hydroelectronics engineer, he
was aboard to fish for some clues concerning America's antisub-
marine defense capabilities. (As a matter of fact, the annual fish-
ing run on menhaden had not yet commenced in these waters.)
The mother tender, a larger Soviet ship, radioed Argentia, New-
foundland, to request permission for the trawler to put in at
Atlantic City in order to get medical attention for an ailing sea-
man. Thus, on May 21, i96o, the Soviet Navy "trawler" Mosalsk
entered port at a well-known American resort and procured
medical services for a sick "crewman." An interesting sidelight
on the news articles appearing all over the world at the time, con-
cerning this incident, is that the two women reportedly serving


68 Shadow of Peril
on board the vessel as marine biologists were, in fact, what the
news reports claimed they were. However, they were also on
board because new prevalent thinking in maritime and naval
circles in the Soviet Union suggests that male seamen will per-
form better with a biological incentive at hand!


7
"Who's Who
January 3o, 1962
It was past midnight. The sleek, dark green, long-range
underseas craft responded gently to the mild sea swells coming
down from the north. Occasionally, the bow would emerge head-
long from the recesses of one of these swells, and a swiftly passing
image of white foam would swish along the sides of the sub-
marine. The lookouts and watch officer frequently turned their
parka-protected faces away from the wind and sought what re-
lief they could from the cold salt-air blasts. The escorting trawlers
and my new streamlined three-engined diesel craft were cruising
effortlessly along a set course of 315 degrees true for the rest of
the night. There was no further need for my presence on the open
bridge.
Taking the watch officer's elbow, I nudged him and indicated
my intention to go below.
"Keep a sharp lookout for any other shipping, and let us have
no collisions with the 'fishermen,'" I bellowed.
The man I left in charge needed no such admonitions. He was
an officer I had previously trained in the Mediterranean. Officer-
artilleryman Nikolai Volkonski, now Lieutenant Commander and
Second Officer for this cruise, acknowledged my warning with a
cheery, "Aye, aye, Captain," delivered through teeth whose chat-
tering revealed the cold chill of his body.
"Send one of the lookouts down to the wardroom to get a ra-
tion of brandy for each of you," I said, fully aware of how frigidly
cold and hence inefficient a watch crew can be when exposed


7o Shadow of Peril
to the wintry winds. And then I jumped down, out of the freez-
ing outside, into the warm inside of a Soviet submarine whose
crew had not gone to sleep, but who, significantly, were up and
talking. Some were joking. Others played games. Generally, all
seemed to be in high good spirits, befitting a seagoing group just
commencing a voyage which promised considerable adventure
and excitement.
In the small, cramped conning station under the open bridge
from which I had jumped, the navigator was bent over his charts.
The only light came from the dim, red-coated fluorescent bulbs.
Removing my heavy-weather outer garments, I threw them into
my specially constructed personal locker, adjacent to the navi-
gator's chart table.
"I have provided a list of navigational lights for the watch of-
ficers," the navigator broke the silence.
He was fresh from the Voroshilov Naval Academy's junior
course in submarine navigation, and had been the beneficiary of
a previous trawler cruise to Newfoundland and the Grand Banks.
He was thoroughly familiar with Soviet naval activity in that
region, and had even become familiar with Halifax . . . Halifax!
wartime assembly point for American convoys in two world wars!
His shock of wavy blond hair, like Rostopchin's, was comple-
mented by Scandinavian-like blue eyes and a ruddy complexion.
His name was Sergei Nikolovich Mikhailoff, and his forebears
came from Moscow. His father had been a minor nobleman and
Army officer under the Czar's regime, and his mother had been
the only daughter of a Moscow gold merchant of the Second
Guild. Mikhailoff was well connected, even in Soviet Russia, for
his childhood nurse was married to a man who had become a
personage in the Communist Party hierarchy. Hence, Mikhailoff
was able to bend the ears of several key members of the Party.
Doubtless this partially accounted for his demand as an aide to
flag officers in the Navy, several of whom repeatedly sought his
services. He had been assigned to me for this cruise at the direct
order of Admiral Gorshkov, who let it be known that he wanted
his best officers to have roots at sea.


"Who's Who" 7i
"Thank you, Lieutenant Mikhailoff," I said, unbuttoning my
shirt collar and smiling. "By the way, I will want to dive before
daylight—then we can snorkel along."
"Aye, aye, Captain." It was the cheerful response of a man
happy to be off on his first important submarine cruise, and cog-
nizant of his considerable responsibility for its success.
"By the way, Nick," I said, "in case the watch officer forgets,
I'd like you to see to it that every other hour commencing now,
the exposed watch personnel get a ration of brandy."
Mikhailoff smacked his lips approvingly.
"Perhaps I should go up to make sure they comply, too," he
said expectantly.
"Very well, Mr. Navigator," I said soothingly, "but whatever
you do, please be sure not to expose yourself. It's much too cold
up there and you'd be so unnecessarily uncomfortable!"
My frown gave way to a broad grin and Sergei Nikolovich Mik-
hailoff threw his head back, chuckling.
In reflection, I suppose that this interchange was indicative of
the tone set throughout the F-68g during this cruise. It was a
good crew, a happy crew. The men were well trained, and daily
became even better trained. Constant drills in casualty control
and battle stations brought our team efficiency to its highest pos-
sible levels.
Only two officers in the submarine gave me any cause for con-
cern at any time. One was my new gunnery and torpedo assist-
ant, Officer-artilleryman Lieutenant Nesvitski Igorovich Glinka.
He was a tremendously personable young officer, with a ready
wit and glowingly delightful sense of humor. His jet black hair
and expressive brown eyes, combined with his flashing white
teeth, made him the object of much feminine attention in Mur-
mansk, as had been the case when he was a cadet at the Frunze
Higher Naval School. There, he was an extremely popular under-
graduate and in great demand by the mothers of daughters sired
by the more important Communist Party members. That he might
marry one of their daughters was an obvious hope held by many
such mothers. But he managed to graduate without committing


"Who's Who" 73
to the Commander in Chief to inaugurate a ten-year program of
sound surveillance for ultimate use of the Soviet underwater
squadrons. Part of this program called for a continuing report
and logging of all foreign and friendly ships, both merchant and
naval, relating to their sound characteristics in water. Such an
aid as Dedusko now had, therefore, could be attributed to no
little forward thinking and imagination on the part of the new
generation of naval officers defending the Soviet Bloc.
"Good. Good, Lieutenant Dedusko," I acknowledged, and then
added, "Better get acquainted with the sound characteristics of
some of the British destroyer classes. We may have some need
to identify them shortly. As you know, we shall be passing down
the west coast of Norway, and continue southwest past the United
Kingdom. The British fleet still conducts some exercises around
their islands—and while I'm thinking about it, don't forget we
may run headlong into that new American antisubmarine group
which I understand is stationed somewhere in the area between
Iceland and Norway. That outfit is assigned the specific job of
discovering any of us who may be conducting what they call an
'egress' from our Northern and Baltic Fleet bases into the At-
lantic."
This last remark sent the sonarmen and Dedusko into up-
roarious laughter. This was good. Morale was excellent. I left
them and proceeded on a tour of the submarine; I wanted to
see that everything was battened down for sea and that the ship
was in good shape for all eventualities. Walking through the after
crew's berthing space, I observed a group of sailors playing one
of the more popular Bussian card games. A chess game was also
going on in another section of the compartment. One of the
players was a young lad with bushy, strawlike hair, whose large
blue eyes and friendly smile were to make him a favorite of the
commissar as well as some of the other officers as time went on.
He was originally designated as special clerk to the Second Of-
ficer, but before long, Commissar Lvov requested that he be as-
signed to him exclusively to help with the manifold political


74 Shadow of Peril
reports and training which the latter had to make. The young
lad's name was Alexei Kryzhanovski.
Chief Petty Officer Igor Novikov walked up.
"Good evening, Captain," he said, in the firm tones which
showed his self-confidence and that middle-aged matter-of-fact-
ness which can come only from having arrived securely at a pre-
determined goal in life. He was a man who knew submarines;
they were his whole life—besides women and vodka when ashore.
He enjoyed an outstanding reputation within the Soviet subma-
rine fleet as a top-notch chief petty officer at sea. Unfortunately,
he suffered from an unenviable reputation as a man whose pro-
clivity to vices ashore kept him in continual hot water.
"I want to make sure that the boat is ready in all respects for
rough seas," I said.
"The boat has been fully checked by me personally," an-
nounced this heavy-set human study in contrasts.
"Fine, Chief. I wouldn't want any of the new men to see us go
to sea in any but tiptop shape."
"No sir, and tomorrow, I'm starting basic submarine orienta-
tion courses for the brand new ones," Novikov volunteered.
"Yes, and I shall make sure you are well supported, Chief,"
I said, adding somewhat thoughtfully, "and not a day shall pass
without us going through every conceivable kind of simulated
casualty drill for the entire crew."
I moved on back to the engine room. My eyes were beginning
to water from the exhaust fumes. Combining with the smell of
lube oil and human bodies confined to warm, limited spaces, the
air seemed rank and oppressive. This, of course, was typical—
and my sensitivity to it would pass with the next few days. Al-
ways, the initial hours inside a submarine underway prove to
be somewhat unpleasant. But the human structure is such that
it can accustom itself to unusual conditions and even unpleasant
environments. All that is needed is the passage of time.
The first man I saw inside the engine room was a young diesel
engineer, whom the obnoxious fumes had obviously defeated. He
was squatting in a corner, red-rimmed eyes glistening in an abun-


"Who's Who" 75
dance of tears, which were streaming down his cheeks. In his
hands he held a galvanized iron bucket; the gastronomical up-
set he was experiencing demanded such a receptacle.
Watching a battery of engine performance dials was the en-
gineering officer, Makar Rostopchin. Nikolai Volkonski and he
were the only officers from my previous association in the Medi-
terranean episode whom I had requested be assigned to me for
this cruise. Rostopchin had done such an extremely good job with
the W-7, in keeping her engineering plant in superior material
readiness, that I wanted to have him with me on this longer and
perhaps more important voyage. I had seen to it that for his out-
standing performance in the W-7, he was given appropriate
recognition. This took the forms of promotion to lieutenant com-
mander, and award of a fleet citation signed by Admiral Gorshkov
himself. (I had been responsible for Volkonski receiving the same
honors; my old Second Officer, Rurik, had been promoted also—
to commander—and now had his own W-class submarine in the
Pacific.)
"Makar," I called out, raising my voice high enough to over-
come the resoundingly noisy pulsations and throbbings of the
engineering plant, "as usual, I will want to snorkel whenever
there is no danger of detection by unfriendly eyes. Until we move
into congested waters, I plan to snorkel in the daytime. Be ready
to cease snorkeling at any time when so ordered by the conning
station, however. On this first leg of the cruise, feel free to con-
duct all types of engineering casualty drills, but request my per-
mission before doing so."
Makar Rostopchin touched the visor to his grease-blotched old
"steaming" cap. His blue eyes sparkled. He was in his element.
He spoke up.
"We're in good shape, Captain. Good shape."
I questioned him. "We've got all our spares and extras in case
of breakdowns?"
Rostopchin's smile eased a trifle, and he frowned slightly.
"The supply officer managed to get us more than a full supply
of spares in most cases, but Base Supply only had a limited num-


76 Shadow of Peril
ber of engine injectors for us. That's the only item we may be
short in."
The chief engineer sensed my concern. His face cleared.
"But don't worry, Captain," he roared, "we're going to take care
of this plant just as if it were a newborn baby." He walked over
to a centrifugal lube oil pump, threw his head over his shoulder
so he could watch me, and then embraced the pump, patting it
and stroking it in a histrionic play for laughter.
"Mother love will take care of everything," he yelled, his bois-
terous voice rising high above the engine-room noise. He was
amusing to me sometimes, this half-Jewish descendant of Rus-
sian nobility, but more importantly, I valued his engineering skill.
Satisfied that his attention to the engineering plant would indeed
be not unlike mother love, I turned and left. I moved forward
through the crew's spaces, bound for the "officers' country." En
route, I engaged in small talk with various enlisted men. Such
procedure was habitual with me (but not so with most other cap-
tains). I believe a commander can best command who "has his
ear to the mess decks," so to speak.
It was close to 2 a.m. when I collapsed into my chair in
the wardroom and accepted a cup of hot brandied coffee from the
only enlisted man I had sought for this cruise from among the
old complement of the W-y. Rodion Trubetovski, my old com-
missary-porter, had been ordered to my continued service at my
special request. He had reported aboard with considerable emo-
tion, feeling it one of the greatest possible honors in his life, to
have been especially sought after by his former commander and
master.
His father having formerly been a butler in the home of one of
the Cantacuzene princes, Trubetovski had been well schooled in
the traditional relationship between servant and master. The fact
was that he enjoyed his role in life, and often said that his father
had always regretted the abolition of the old system in Russia.
Some of his father's philosophy had filtered down to Rodion. He
never tired of repeating it to anyone who would listen—but only


"Who's Who" 77
when he was sure the commissar wasn't listening. Obviously
proud of his family heritage, he would lift his head proudly and
say, "If it weren't for the fact that there are men who have power
and wealth, think how many people working for them would
have no jobs!"
Professor Boris Bogucharovo was already seated at the ward-
room table. He was pale and perspiring, the little beads of sweat
on his forehead now and again mushrooming into droplets which
sloshed down his sick-looking face. His bald pate glistened; his
large black eyes, scarlet-ringed and watery, gave him a ghoulishly
offensive, if not frightening, look. His bulbous, peasant type pro-
boscis, featuring huge, cavernous nostrils from which reeled
strands of unusually long black hairs, dominated his countenance.
On my entrance, he looked up and said, "If this is what the whole
trip will be like, I don't think I can make it!"
I restrained my impulse to laugh. It was obvious that the Pro-
fessor of Agriculture was miserable. Doubtless, this was his first
voyage at sea—and if that weren't bad enough, it was in a sub-
marine. Even senior and experienced submariners feel miserable
sometimes, especially in the first few days of each cruise. The
combination of fumes from battery gassing, cooking, fuel oil, and
plain lack of fresh oxygen, is normally sufficient to induce strong
headaches in most men; to a man alien to the rolling and pitching
of a surfaced boat at sea, the complete combination can be over-
powering.
I suggested to him that he might feel better if he went up to
the open bridge and got some fresh air. After that, he could go to
bed and try to sleep. He needed no further encouragement.
When he had left, I smiled at the other officers present. Baliuk,
the intelligence and underwater sound expert, had been talking
to another officer whose previous experience had exposed him to
cold-war spying against the United States. This was Ivan Nicolai
Kulakov, now my operations officer. It may be recalled that he
had surveyed Boston Harbor in June 1961 under the pretext of
having a back sprain.


78 Shadow of Peril
To both of them, I voiced my hope that they would find sub-
marine operations on this, their first submarine cruise, to be at
least as exciting as had been their previous trawler experiences.
"We are glad to have such experts in American harbor intel-
ligence with us," I said rather jokingly to them.
My remarks seemed to embarrass them both, so I decided to
pass on to them some of my more definite and sincere thoughts.
"The Soviet Union," I observed, "owes a debt of gratitude to
the trawler navy. They are the unsung heroes. You who were on
board such ships know what I mean."
Kulakov blushed. I had previously heard that he was an ex-
tremely ambitious young man, and it was his most prized dream
to some day command a Soviet submarine in a move against ship-
ping and the naval shipworks in Boston.
"One day, perhaps I shall not be just another 'unsung hero,'"
he bleated.
"I am sure you will not," I replied quickly.
"But what I wanted to say was that without the magnificent
efforts of the trawlers, we would probably be as far behind in
oceanographic research as is the United States."
Kulakov smirked.
"The United States! The United States! To mention them when
we talk about oceanography is most humorous. Did you know
that last summer," he continued, with words becoming faster
and more mouthed, in his obvious excitement in expressing him-
self on a matter with which he felt strongly identified, "last sum-
mer, yes, right after I returned from that trawler expedition off
the Boston area . . ."
"By the way, how were the beans over there?" It was Lieuten-
ant Nesvitski Igorovich Glinka, his white teeth flashing in a broad
grin as he stood at the compartment door.
Kulakov gave no indication he had heard anything, and pressed
his delivery.
". . . right after I came back from Boston, I was sent to Paris
as an aide to the senior Soviet representative at the international
oceanography conference. The Americans there . . ."


80 Shadow of Peril
"Frankly, if it hadn't been for a few of his staff and advisers,"
said the man who had been there, "I don't think the Americans
would have known if we had laid claim to most of the American
continental shelf."
"You might have done so, just to see what their reaction would
have been," chimed in Glinka. "After all, you could have said
that since we were the first nation to explore the underseas areas
off North America, the geographical areas could properly be con-
sidered ours."
'The point is," said Kulakov, "the Americans had no firm lead-
ership at that conference. No one to protect the Yankees' basic
interests. Except minor advisers, and of course they could only
advise. But it was almost unbelievable. Here they were, those
Americans, with . . ."
"Let's be glad," I interrupted. I thought the discussion had
become repetitious. "Let's be glad we have firm leadership when
we deal with the complacent representatives of the imperialists."


8
"Who Rules the Heartland . . .
It was dawn, and the date was January 3o, 1962. The
oncoming watch officer sent word down to me that the trawlers
had now veered off to the northward as planned, leaving us to
proceed independently along our predetermined track heading
northwest. He requested permission to submerge to snorkel depth
within the next fifteen minutes. I was slightly irritated that the
watch officer had not merely indicated his immediate intention
to submerge, for my night orders had been to submerge for snor-
keling at daybreak. However, Lieutenant Dedusko was not a fully
qualified submariner and this was his first turn on the bridge as
my officer of the watch. With more time and training, I was sure
he and the others would grow into a first-rate team who knew
just what to do. I gave the necessary permission to the messenger,
for relay to the open bridge. Then I went to the control station
to watch.
It was shortly after leveling off at the desired depth for snor-
keling that I called a meeting of all officers to the wardroom. Lieu-
tenant Commander Lvov seated himself at the opposite end of
the table from me; Second Officer Volkonski pulled himself up
alongside me and to the right; Makar Rostopchin, still sweaty
and grease-splotched, decided to stand against the bulkhead,
leaning against the open door frame; navigator Mikhailoff sat
to my left, flanked on his own left by Baliuk, Glinka, and my
new supply and commissary officer, Lieutenant Georgy Rodzi-
anko—formerly the pay and accounts officer of the cruiser Kirov.
Rodzianko, perhaps the youngest of the wardroom officers, had


82 Shadow of Peril
already been taken in tow by Volkonski. The latter, now that
he was number two man, and as such traditionally responsible
for internal administration of the submarine, had told the fledg-
ling commissary officer that he, Volkonski, would prepare the
menus for all meals. Volkonski, as may be recalled, was not only
a glutton, but in truth a gourmet of exquisite refinement in taste
when it came to culinary preparations.
"Gentlemen," I began, "this morning, we are at last independ-
ent of all outside friendly contacts—at least, for the time being.
Before midnight tonight, we will have passed North Cape to the
south, but before that time, we will have been exposed to the
possibility of detection by Norwegian fishermen. That is why it
is important that for our security, the watch must be alert for
contacts from now on. At about evening twilight tonight, we will
rendezvous with a squadron of trawlers which will then escort
us around the northern coast of Norway and then southwest to a
point northward of the Shetland Islands, where they will leave
us. After that, we will be by ourselves again for good. We should
be at Point 'C,' where I will open our sealed orders, around noon-
time on February 6. As you know, Point 'C is roughly 190 miles
northwest of Londonderry, Ireland. I have not the slightest idea
what is in those sealed orders, so that I am afraid I cannot even
hint at what we may expect."
There was an audible sigh and some shuffling of feet.
"As you all know," I continued, "this cruise is one of great na-
tional importance, and I expect every man will perform to his
utmost to insure our singular success. For such results, we can
expect the very highest encomiums to devolve upon us. From my
past personal experience, I can tell you that Admiral Gorshkov
himself will not be unmindful of your contributions. We shall not
even talk of failure in our mission."
I looked searchingly at each officer. I wanted each man to con-
sider himself the personal object of my talk. The eyes of each
man, in turn, met mine—and I was satisfied that they understood
me.
Looking at Volkonski, I bade the officers commit to memory


"Who Rules the Heartland . . ." 83
my special patrol instructions. He, in turn, asked for permission
to make a statement, and upon my nod of approval, declared
that the chief clerk would provide all officers with copies imme-
diately after the conference. This written document, covering all
actions foreseeably applicable to us, was prepared so that there
would be no doubt about proper action for watch officers to take
in various situations.
"Our mission from now until we join the trawlers at Point 'A,'
just this side of North Cape," I said, "will be to remain unde-
tected. I expect that today we will go through all major drills.
The Second Officer has prepared a list of those drills and will
disclose them in a moment."
Volkonski shifted his weight from one buttock to the other,
and reached into a pocket for his memo book. This he carefully
paged until he came to the place holding his list. Expectantly, he
leaned forward, waiting for me to give him the floor. But I wasn't
yet ready. I wanted to emphasize the movement southward with
the trawlers.
"Please do not forget that this escort by trawlers," I warned,
"is designed to determine the feasibility—rather, the advisability
—of joining submarines to trawler squadrons for all operations in
alien waters. We are to decide the practicability of mutual sup-
port in joint operations. The stage that is set for us will be one in
which we will cruise together into heavily traversed enemy wa-
ters. We can expect to meet enemy warships, even antisubmarine
groups. They will cast a most suspicious eye in our direction. Our
job will be to avoid detection at all costs. We may expect the
trawlers to assist us if necessary by resorting to diversionary tac-
tics, slowing down or stopping, for instance, and moving about
to stir up the water—if we are actually closely investigated by
antisubmarine forces."
Volkonski cleared his throat. It was his way of letting me know,
in case I had forgotten, that he was ready to give his list of daily
drills. Still, I was not yet ready to turn the conference over to
him. There was one more thing I wanted to discuss. That had to
do with the meals.


"Who Rules the Heartland ..." 85
"But we will have one thing that they get on board the cruis-
ers," I quickly added, watching a slight smile force itself across
Georgy Rodzianko's mouth, "and that is freshly baked bread. Let
us have fresh bread for breakfast tonight!"
I turned to Volkonski with uplifted palms. He accepted the
motion for what it was worth, and donated his piece. His little
eyes sweeping the table, he again cleared his throat and waded
into his subject.
"As the captain has said, we will have daily drills in all con-
ceivable casualties. Today, commencing at 9 a.m., and thereafter
when directed, we will have the following exercises: fire drill in
the forward battery room, simulated emergency destruction of
secret publications, steering casualty, manual working of the bow
and stern planes, loss of auxiliary power, and . . ."
"And by then," I interjected, "it will be nearly noontime, so
that if we are going to shift to our regular cruising schedule, I
think we had best defer the rest of the drills until tonight. That
will leave the afternoon, at least, for the crew to get some sleep."
To avoid embarrassment to Volkonski, I added, "But the Sec-
ond Officer and I will stand for nothing less than full and deter-
mined participation in these drills. He will see to it that they
are conducted, and all due reports made to me."
"There will be one group who will be given an orientation
briefing this afternoon, however," Volkonski went on. "That
group will be the lookouts for the twilight and early morning
watches. Lieutenant Baliuk will provide the instruction, and the
subject will be recognition of the types of unfriendly aircraft and
surface ships which we may encounter."
Balding, wide-eyed Ivan Baliuk spoke up, perhaps out of
place. But then, this was an informal atmosphere, and I actually
wanted it that way. Said he:
"With your concurrence, sir, I think it would be profitable for
all watch officers to be present for at least the major areas that
I will cover."
I saw Glinka roll his eyes. Under the table, he kicked the com-
missary officer, and then winked. This disturbed me.


86 Shadow of Peril
"Nevitski Igorovich," I asked, "would you, as officer-artillery-
man on board, prefer to give these briefings yourself? Perhaps
they more properly belong in your sphere of responsibility . . ."
The Russian Don Juan looked sheepish and colored visibly.
"This business of recognition is no laughing matter; nor is it
something we can afford to regard lightly," I continued. "Our
mission—or at least part of it—will be to conduct surveillance
operations, of that I am sure. You know it. But we will be worth-
less unless we can identify what we see. Let none of us see alien
craft, and not be able to identify it as to type or class."
Nikolai Volkonski spoke up thoughtfully.
"Let me remind you all," he boomed, "that even the Germans,
who always style themselves as so efficient, lost a great engage-
ment in World War II because their lookouts and their watch
officers couldn't tell the difference between British destroyers
and cruisers at long range."
"The Graf Spee fight with the three English cruisers!" it was
Rostopchin, who had been lounging against the bulkhead, and
who now sought to enter the conversation.
"That," said Volkonski, "was inexcusable, for the German ship
was needlessly committed to battle, and through error in contact
evaluation!"
Makar Rostopchin pushed his "steamer" to the back side of his
head and then reached into his shirt pocket, drawing forth his
heavily ornamented silver snuff box. Opening it, he raised it to
his nostrils and took a whiff.
"AhhhhhHHHH-CHEEW!"
The silver box was closed and returned to Makar's shirt pocket.
Volkonski, who never had really approved of this habit, which
he regarded as wholly unnecessary, focused his beady eyes at
Rostopchin. The object of such a withering gaze merely closed
his eyes.
There was one more item I wanted to talk about, and I now
brought it up.
"Just before we left port," I confided, "I read an article in a
British newspaper which had been flown to Naval Headquarters.
The British were playing up the counting of over three hundred


"Who Rules the Heartland ..." 87
of our trawlers in the waters around the Shetland Islands. This
article said that more than forty Soviet trawlers were taking shel-
ter in the lee of the Muckle Skerry—wherever that is—and that
they were recovering from a fierce storm. The important thing is
that all those trawlers are being kept under sharp vigil by the
British. They seem to think, and of course rightly so, that these
ships of ours are spying on them to find out how much progress
they are making in antisubmarine measures. We know the British
are experimenting with detection devices in the area, and that
their ships signal results of their tests to the shore stations nearby.
That's where some of our trawlers come in. They are intercepting
these messages, so that we can find out what the British are up to.
Of course, what they don't know is that our ships are not only
doing this, and catching fish, but some of them are laying special
devices to negate the effectiveness of their surveillance equip-
ment. You know, in case of war . . . I'm sorry, but I can't tell you
anything more about this, because it's very sensitive information."
The commissar, who until now had been silent, leaned forward
and, pounding the table, attracted attention to himself.
"We have the most powerful navy in the world," he told the
eager ears that reveled in hearing such optimistic news, "and
every day we grow stronger. When our trawlers get through,
what with their hydrographic and other oceanographic work, the
American Polaris submarines will be viewable no matter where
they may be," he said in confident tones.
"If I may say a word or so more," asked the commissar, and
upon my nodding acquiescence, he enthusiastically continued,
"Do you all know that the Western nations of the capitalists can-
not—I repeat—cannot survive more than just a few months with-
out using the sea lanes for the transport of vital materials and
supplies? They have an actual lifeline' of more than sixty thou-
sand miles of oceanic routes. It is a fact," he now lowered his
voice to give the effect of a secret disclosure, "that over 90 per
cent of all strategic materials used by the capitalist nations in
war must be transported by seal"
Rodzianko looked at the commissar in disbelief. He could not
understand what Lvov was saying. After all, Soviet Russia did not


88 Shadow of Peril
depend this heavily on the sea. Why, therefore, did the nations
of the West?
The commissar looked around the wardroom. He spotted the
commissary officer's mystic look, frozen in doubt. He pursued his
offensive with facts.
"For your information, gentlemen, the Soviet Union is a land
mass almost unique in that within our borders or land adjacent
thereto, we have practically everything we need for our own
survival. We have been referred to as the great European Heart-
land, and a foreigner has told the world that 'who rules the
Heartland rules the world.' Let us face facts, gentlemen . . . we
are unique in this respect. We are truly quite independent. It is
our good fortune that the United States of America is not. They
will always have to depend upon sea transportation for their very
life in peace or war—and that is where the great Soviet Navy will
hold the keys to the world's future."
It was I who now put the teeth in what Commissar Lvov had
been saying to my officers.
"You and I and all submariners will in wartime have the re-
sponsibility of seeing to it that America cannot use the seas. We
must—and of course, we will—see to it that she chokes to death.
It will be economic strangulation. A war at sea. Not necessarily
a nuclear war against the big metropolitan complexes. But a war
of steady and deadly attrition of the Western Alliance's merchant
marine. And then where will they be? They will be crawling to
us for mercy and for terms."
"But," interjected the commissar, "if it is to be a nuclear war,
we are ready. The ocean survey ships and the trawlers have al-
ready paved the way for our own missile-launching submarines."
And so the discussion went. It was typical of the daily ward-
room sessions over which I presided, together with the commis-
sar, in an effort to properly and most thoroughly indoctrinate all
officers with Soviet naval and political thinking. Each day, Lvov
would also talk formally to the crew in its mess, telling them
what the Party line was on practically all matters, even involving
life itself.


"Who Rules the Heartland . . ." 8g
At about two o'clock in the afternoon on January 3o, the watch
officer called me to the conning station and asked me to look
through the periscope. Sonar had picked up the light, fast pro-
peller noises of a contact they classified as probable warship, and
the watch officer had trained the periscope around on the ap-
propriate bearing. What he saw gave him a thrill—and he had
wanted me to share that thrill with him. So I took a look.
Through the cross hairs of the periscope I viewed a fast, on-
rushing destroyer. She was sleek and powerful-looking, with two
large tripod masts and short, low-slung funnels. Her bow ap-
peared to literally tear the water apart with a tremendous white
surge of foamy brine. I recognized her immediately as one of our
own Kotlin class destroyers—one of more than two dozen of this
type now spearheading Soviet antiair and antisubmarine ship-
building programs in destroyers. I congratulated ourselves for
having such modern, speedy ships. And I could not help but
think that the destroyer I was watching was faster, more power-
ful, and more sleek than America's new oversized light cruisers
which they are calling "destroyers."
I faced the watch officer. It was Dedusko again.
"Lieutenant," I said, "too bad you aren't rigged to take a photo-
graph of her as she goes by."
Then I went aft to check the engineering spaces and to see
whether any additional personnel were feeling sick. Before I had
completed my tour of those spaces, however, I received word
from the watch officer that they had picked up another Kotlin
class destroyer, which appeared to be following the first. Both
were headed eastward, and they no doubt were returning to
port. This second destroyer, according to Lieutenant Dedusko,
would be duly recorded by periscope photograph as she came by
the closest point of approach. I was delighted with the watch
officer's action. His acuity pleased me. It omened well for the
future, I thought.
At exactly 8:05 p.m. we rendezvoused with eight Soviet trawl-
ers. The join-up completed, we headed west-southwest, now
moving from the Barents to the Norwegian Sea.


From Wireless, Food for Thought
On joining up with the trawlers, I had sent out by wire-
less on our whip-antenna a message to the escort leader. The mes-
sage was, I thought, particularly appropriate for the occasion:
"Westward Ho!" This was really Glinka's contribution. He had
offered it while we were in the wardroom earlier that day, as a
possible smile-catcher. Most of the officers present, although tired,
readily responded to his offering of wit.
From the leading trawler, a ship named Dobrinya, came the
reply: "On against the foe."
It was obvious that the officer in command of these trawlers
was in no mood for humor; the response he gave was decidedly
belligerent and determined—which actually could be expected
of a dedicated Soviet naval officer. For there is little amusement
in Russian military minds concerning the current cold war. The
fact that Soviet Russia is committed to world conquest by every
conceivable means, inclusive of war of any magnitude, is suffi-
cient and compelling enough for Soviet naval and military men
to view their job most seriously; after the reply from the trawler,
I had misgivings about whether I had been too light and airy
about the whole business. Perhaps I should have offered a toast
to the final victory of the Cause. I'm glad now that I didn't. But
at the time, I brooded about it. I didn't want anyone to consider
me facetious about anything as grave as our pressing homeward
to the Americans this important spearhead of Communist power.
A day and a half later, we would be heading southwest—
straight for the Faeroes and the Shetland Islands, the home wa-


From Wireless, Food for Thought gi
ters of the United Kingdom. I remember looking carefully at the
navigator's charts and feeling intense satisfaction at my command
of this independent unit of Soviet striking power. We would
move stealthily but surely against the one-time center of capital-
ist imperialism. Closer and closer to the island realm which for
centuries has dominated and enslaved so many peoples. These
were my thoughts. I pictured the Queen of that once-giant Em-
pire, standing as the news pictures so often depicted her, on the
balcony at Buckingham Palace, waving to the crowds. For a mo-
ment I was unexplainably seized with a small doubt, though.
Where I had routinely thought the British people themselves
probably were begging for release from their capitalist masters
in the famous "Establishment," I now tried to reconcile this sup-
posed desire of the English masses with the strangely incon-
gruous sight of the milling mobs of cheering peasantry who
invariably are pictured below the Queen as she stands there on
the balcony waving her handkerchief. I didn't understand it.
Why would those fools be cheering her? Didn't she represent a
decadent and rotten system which the masses resented? How
could oppressed people support her? Involuntarily, I shrugged.
Those British! How could anyone ever understand them?
Januaby 31, 1962
The afternoon wireless receipts came in while I was taking
a nap. Although we were submerged and snorkeling, our wireless
antenna had been raised at the properly appointed hour for in-
terception of Soviet naval messages to all our ships in the area. I
was particularly interested in the news stories. They were all edi-
torialized versions, to be sure, of news reports from worldwide
sources. But they served a vital purpose in getting our people
motivated for the great class struggle in which we daily are be-
coming more deeply involved.
I sat in my stateroom musing over the news stories. The more
important ones I remember . . .
There was the one about Alexei Adzhubei, Khrushchev's son-
in-law, who is the Soviet's latest propaganda weapon against the


Q2 Shadow of Peril
capitalist society. The story was datelined Tuesday (the day be-
fore), and said that Adzhubei had broken bread with President
Kennedy in the White House. This was his second visit to the
United States, the first one being in the fall of 1961. Tass de-
scribed the January luncheon in the White House as a definite
evidence of America's change of attitude within the past several
weeks—and offered the thought that "with Adzhubei in the
White House, all's well with the world."
Another news story from Tass concerned the United States
nuclear cruiser Long Beach, which was then visiting Le Havre,
France. The account seemed amusing to me. It went something
like this:
"Suddenly into the dreary provincial port of backward France
called Le Havre, a nuclear ship has become a reality. For here
in this medievally unprogressive French gateway to the sea, amid
the mud and sand of the still uncompleted Quai Floride, near
the center of the town, a crowd of excited Frenchmen have been
appraising the unfamiliar shape of the U.S.S. Long Beach, Ameri-
ca's belligerent contribution to the world and the first nuclear-
powered cruiser in the world, on her first visit to Europe.
"'Like a python that's swallowed a goat,' as one intimidated
French peasant described this mammoth American war machine
come to frighten the French masses into backing up American
imperialist dreams.
"The interior of this leviathan of atomic horror is like a palace.
Perhaps it is only fitting that the capitalist drones who serve in
her, who will train to deal death and mutilation to many, are
ensconced in palatial living accommodations. They probably re-
quire such surroundings in order to forget their criminal mission
in life."
The same news story then went on to discuss the British
nuclear project of two submarines abuilding, the French idea for
a nuclear-powered oceanographic research ship, a Norwegian
plan for construction of a twenty-thousand-ton bulk carrier for
ore or wheat (apparently a project being worked on in Sweden),


From Wireless, Food for Thought 93
and a sixty-five-thousand-ton Dutch tanker being built in Hol-
land.
Another news item, which I recall reading on the message file
at the time, was a translation of an English "intelligence report,"
which had supposedly been printed in the British newspaper, the
London Daily Express, on January 30. It went something like this:
"A system of filling stations around the world, at places such
as Ascension Island, Gough Island, Masirah, Guam, Christmas
Island, Labuan, etc. . . .
"These filling stations on a chain of islands will be the key to
Britain's new defense strategy. It will enable thousands of troops
to be brought home from overseas. It will allow troops to fly from
Britain to anywhere in the world if trouble brews . . .
"In this way, defense chiefs are confident they will be able to
fulfill their military commitments to the Commonwealth."
Then the news account editorialized, saying that at long last,
the British economy, hounded as it was by greed and corruption
of the privileged classes, was finding it mandatory to remove her
imperialist troops from the oppressed parts of the world. Her
reliance on airborne "filling stations" and airborne transport of her
troops for future action was, according to the Tass editorial
write-up, "good news for peoples' armies everywhere. After all,"
the account read, "with capitalist strength evacuated from the
actual scene, it will be hard if not impossible to bring it back in
force against a determined opposition from the people."
I thought about this for a while. I was certain that Tass was
correct. And, when the airlift failed to bring the troops and sup-
plies needed by these capitalists to defeat the increasingly surg-
ing peoples' armies, then what? They would have to fall back
upon the traditional carriers—sea transports, in order to bring
their strength to bear where Red inroads are made. Tactically,
this will be impossible for the Western capitalist allies to do in
any future test of strength. The Communist world is prepared to
use the great resources at her disposal . . . and the powerful
underseas fleets of Soviet Russia, Red China, and lesser peoples'
navies will surely block Western use of the seas.


g4 Shadow of Peril
Of especial concern to me was one dispatch saying that the
American Navy was considering formation of an Indian Ocean
fleet. Apparently, this has stemmed from the British failure to
maintain a warship squadron in eastern waters; a gap therefore
exists between the American Sixth and Seventh fleets. This, the
admirals of the United States would like to have corrected. They
would like to have a fleet in those waters so that the U.S. can
"show the flag" on what they call "good will" trips to under-
privileged ports in the area. This would not be in Russia's best
interests, of course, as it would mean the current Soviet effort in
this same field would have to be increased. One of the last really
beneficial Soviet cruises where Red ships of war made "good will"
calls in the East was back in November 1959, when a Soviet
cruiser and two destroyers went heavily laden to Indonesia. On
board were models of sputniks, luniks, and other Soviet technical
gadgetry, all designed to prove to foreigners the great impor-
tance of Soviet friendship.
Still another news story was a secret analysis of a then current
British article by an English writer, appearing in the Manchester
Guardian. This article had said that "as generators of influence,
strategic air forces are peculiarly useless."
I thought about this for a bit. It seemed true. For I am certain
that the strategic bombers of the American cigar-smasher, Gen-
eral LeMay, will never have a chance to deliver their cargoes
of death and agony to Soviet Russia. The missiles of which
Khrushchev has so often spoken are not believed to be in exist-
ence by the Americans, however. Yet I have seen the antimissile
complexes in Soviet Russia, and I have seen our capability for
handling manned bombers of the famous American Strategic Air
Command. I am convinced that the day of effective bombing by
manned aircraft, against such a power as Soviet Russia, is gone
forever.
The article went on to quote something from this English pa-
per which I thought most thought-provoking.
"'One of the really disturbing aspects of American defence pol-
icy is its tendency to assume that theirs is the classic line of mili-


From Wireless, Food for Thought 95
tary development and that others must inevitably be following it.
They are now prepared to acknowledge that the Russians might
be somewhat ahead in certain categories; but they are so big, so
wealthy, and so ambitious in their own military development that
they cannot believe that anything really fundamental can be go-
ing on in the Soviet Union which has not crossed their minds.
They appear to dismiss, for example, the possibilities of the verti-
cal take-off transport which might very soon give a nation the
ability to put troops on any point it chose on the surface of the
earth. Many other possibilities exist which, like the atomic sub-
marine, might confer entirely new or predominant forms of mili-
tary power."'
The Tass release on this British news article then went into
the secret analysis prepared for Soviet command readership. As
best I can recall, it pointed to the fact that the Englishman was
certainly correct in his argument that American military planners
are loath to give Soviet Russia any credit for new fundamental
advances in armaments or weapons technology. It mentioned the
fact that although Soviet Russia has long been embarked on hy-
drofoil design and employment of such vehicles in coastal and
now oceanic waters, the United States has equally long looked
upon this Soviet interest with a most condescending eye.
Finally, the analysis went on, the United States is following
the Soviet lead in hydrofoil development. Luckily for the Soviet
Navy submarine fleet, it continued, the American effort is still in
low, low gear, and will not be anything to worry about for several
years. Big American vested interests are responsible for the fail-
ure of the Americans, the commentary said, to get into anything
as revolutionary as hydrofoils for antisubmarine purposes. An in-
sight into U. S. Navy reluctance to move ahead vigorously into
this field was provided by the word that the American Navy was
actually prodded into large-scale experimentation in hydrofoils
by the recent American Commerce Department's introduction of
a large oceangoing hydrofoil which may be used for trans-Carib-
bean crossings. However, the Tass editor wrote, the Russian
hydrofoil designs and capabilities are far ahead of the Americans.


g6 Shadow of Peril
It is our good luck, the analysis said, that the American Navy
refuses to face the facts.
On this comforting thought, I folded the news releases back
on the clipboard and lay down to catch some sleep before break-
fast. It was past midafternoon, and evening twilight was only a
couple of hours off.


20
Some Facts about Submarines
Seven o'clock in the evening came around much too soon.
It seemed impossible that commissary-porter Trubetovski could
already be going around waking the wardroom officers for their
first meal of a new working day, but that was what I could hear
him doing. I felt exhausted and most unlike moving, much less
getting up. My eyes glanced at the bulkhead clock. It was nearly
"breakfast" time, all right. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. Still
January 31, 1962! What a long day. And it was not yet over. The
actual working day would commence directly after eating.
With a massive and determined effort, I rolled over and up.
Quickly tucking my shirt in and rearranging my over-all appear-
ance, I stepped over to the washbasin and went through my rit-
ual for inducing thorough wakefulness. In a matter of a couple
of minutes, I had splashed cold water on my face, dried, brushed
my teeth with a peppermint-flavored toothpowder, combed my
hair, and patted some lotion on my cheeks. Normally, I would
have used the lotion after shaving, but the previous morning's
shave would be sufficient for the remainder of the day. Besides,
I was considering letting the crew grow beards to help conserve
fresh water. If I did that, I would certainly want to set the pace
for the men.
At the wardroom table, I was joined by all except Mikhailoff.
He was on watch. The economist, Stepan Alexovich Pozdeev, was
there but said he wasn't feeling very hungry. As a matter of fact,
he looked pale and depressed. It was obvious that the combina-
tion of fumes and lack of fresh air had caused him unusual dis-


g8 Shadow of Peril
comfort. But he was bravely trying to join in the wardroom meal
hour, which served also as a social break for everyone, and I
tried to encourage him.
"Professor Pozdeev, the secret of our success is that we eat
well. You look as if you could be one of the most successful econo-
mists in the Soviet Union!"
"Certainly in the Submarine Force," interposed Volkonski.
The first course had been served and it was obviously some-
thing Volkonski had relished dreaming up. Earlier, he had prom-
ised the wardroom that under his personal direction and guid-
ance, the menus would reflect the greatest, loftiest achievements
in international cuisine. It was therefore interesting to assess this
first meal specifically resulting from his culinary guidance. I
looked at Volkonski, the Gourmet's Pride. He was toying with
the hot-pitted prunes, each stuffed with a small, oyster-like carp
eye; and his teaspoon was busily probing each prune as if the
connoisseur himself wanted to personally insure the presence of
the seafood delicacy in each prune.
"Tell me, Nikolai," I said, my fork still toying with my own first
prune, "when on earth did you manage to get such a delicacy as
carp eyes?"
"Only the afternoon of our departure," beamed the Second Offi-
cer, obviously feeling a pride-in-accomplishment.
This course is something I would think my grandfather would
have rather relished," volunteered Rostopchin.
"Your grandfather?" It was Bogucharovo, still looking indis-
posed, with eyes now underscored by dark circles. The agrarian
professor, of course, could not have known of Makar Rostopchin's
grandfather and his association with the royal court of Nicholas II.
Commissar Lvov, reflecting the Party line that even references
to the old regime, made in public, should be curtailed, traumati-
cally severed any possible elucidation.
"Professor Bogucharovo," he cut in, "it is good to see you up
and about. Within a few days, you will feel like an old-timer at
sea. Did you sleep well today?"


Some Facts about Submarines 99
The large black eyes of the farmer's teacher met the twinkling
gaze of the commissar. He could only manage a polite and very
fleeting grin.
"Poor chap," said Pozdeev, perhaps trying to concentrate at-
tention elsewhere than on himself, in his misery, "my very good
friend and respected associate, Professor Bogucharovo has not
only been troubled with the fumes and the rank air, but he has
also had a terrible case of collywobbles."
"Collywobbles! Impossible, for he hasn't had this delectable
course until now," said Glinka with a flashing grin.
Immediately, the entire wardroom—save for myself and Bo-
gucharovo—was in an uproar of laughter. To a point, it became
infectious, for I found myself laughing along with them even
though I had no idea what the joke was. Only Bogucharovo sat
wooden-faced, no trace of mirth discernible in his rough-forged
peasant features. Volkonski bent over and whispered into my
right ear, "Remind me later, Captain, to tell you what the joke is
really about."
When the uproar had finally subsided, Trubetovski was bring-
ing in the main dish for this, our first evening breakfast. It was
smoked salmon on freshly baked bread slices, with poached egg,
fried apples, and goat's-milk cheese. On sight of this imposing
assemblage of differing foods, Bogucharovo excused himself, and
withdrew from the wardroom. Apparently, international cuisine
was too great a step for the agrarian to take. Or at least, this is
what Volkonski mumbled to me half-defensively as the profes-
sor's footsteps faded down the passageway.
Pozdeev, unlike his fellow educator, was more inclined to re-
gard the meal as one of simple economics. This was good food,
which in the Soviet Union would be quite expensive. Why not,
therefore, take fullest advantage of it? He did. Before I had fin-
ished half of what was on my plate, Trubetovski was serving him
another helping of everything. Between mouthfuls, the economist
sought information.
"You know, gentlemen," he began, "never having been in one
of our submarines before, I am really quite thrilled. Even if my


ioo Shadow of Peril
eyes do have a difficult time getting accustomed to all these
gases, and even if I have gotten a pretty good headache from
the lack of fresh air, still it is a privilege for me to be here with
you. But I had read in Izvestia a couple of years ago about a very
large Soviet submarine that had big windows in it, with steel shut-
ters protecting those windows when the submarine was under-
way at high speed. I understand that we use this submarine for
underwater research. Could you tell me more about it?"
"Professor Pozdeev," came back my reply, "the submarine you
refer to was really not a very large submarine at all, considering
our present shipbuilding trends. It is probable that you were
reading about an oceangoing patrol-type submarine of the 'W
class, especially converted for scientific research purposes."
The professor's interest was contagious. Two of the officers
started to ask questions. They came concurrently with a more
pressing interrogation by the professor.
"But another article I read, in a magazine—let me see, I think
it was the one called Union Sovietica, said this large research-
type submarine with its big picture windows was Jules Verne's
Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea' come true! And did
not a submarine like this, with scientists sitting at work tables
next to the big windows, make a sweeping cruise recently, cover-
ing about ten thousand miles?"
"We have made many long voyages under the surface of the
seas," intervened the commissar. "These cruises provide us with
important military as well as biological data. For instance, not
too long ago, one of our modified "W' class was operating off the
South American coast. Actually, it was off Brazil. . ."
"Let me explain," I said, thinking that after all, it was I who
had begun to answer the basic question, and as a professional
submariner by profession rather than a political officer, I was
doubtless better informed than anyone else to give accurate
answers.
"Off Brazil, one of our research submarines was recently highly
successful in charting areas where water temperatures differ dras-
tically from surface to ocean bottom. This information is of great


Some Facts about Submarines
101
military value. As you may know, underwater sound waves—that
is, sonar waves—which are used to detect submarines, are
bounced back or bent when they pierce a level of warm water
and strike a layer of cold water beneath. All a submarine has to
do is to find an area where the underwater temperatures vary
sharply, and then just dive beneath this cold layer, in order to
avoid detection.
"The importance of finding such areas off the South American
coast is evident when one considers that submarine action against
shipping in that quarter of the world would be a necessity if a
general war breaks out against the West. Also, our submarines
may even find it advantageous to bombard some South American
countries with missiles, if a general war came. And, of course, it
is useful in landing guerrilla forces of the peoples' liberation
movements there. In any event, we will be prepared in advance.
Our submarines will be well placed and we will know where
they can best hide.
"From your point of view as an economist," I continued, "it is
particularly interesting to note that with the world exploding
with such a mushrooming growth in population, finding food to
feed everyone is going to be a major task. More and more, na-
tions will have to turn to the sea for sustenance. Plant life as well
as fish from the sea will become increasingly important as staples
for mankind. Thus far, man has tapped only a small fraction of
the resources of the oceans. We are at the beginning of a new era
in science, wherein we must exploit the seas for everything avail-
able to us. It follows that the nation which leads in underwater
technology, in underwater fish-farming, in scientific methods for
cultivation and harvesting of marine life suitable to the nourish-
ment of mankind, this nation, Professor, will inevitably move to
the forefront in world dominion."
"And we are way ahead nowl" It was the commissar again.
"Yes, we are far, far ahead of the United States—and they are
the only ones even capable of competing with us at present in
this race. With the help of such submarine laboratories as the one
you have mentioned," I went on, "men of science will be able to


102 Shadow of Peril
understand the phenomena linked to fish life. We will be able to
find the most natural fishing methods."
Volkonski, ever mindful of epicurean delights, ventured forth.
"Perhaps ultimately, we shall know the main whereabouts of the
sturgeon. Now that really intrigues me. Do you know that the
sturgeon population appears to be either dying off or moving
somewhere, somewhere we don't know about? This is critical. If
we can't find out what's happening, there won't be any more
caviar!" That said, Nikolai Volkonski looked depressed.
"But we'll always have carp eyes," sighed Glinka, his own eyes
rolling pitifully.
"In any event, Professor," I hastened to continue, "the type of
submarine which we use today for underwater research is the
same basic type which I commanded in the Mediterranean Sea
a few years ago. They definitely are not what one would classify
as really large. Just medium. Our long-range 'Z' class submarines,
and this type in which you now cruise—the 'F' class—constitute
most of our large diesel-driven oceangoing types. Some are oilers,
some are guided missile carriers. Most all can be used as mine-
layers. This one of ours is an offensive or attack type armed with
torpedoes. We have diesel-electric, missile-firing submarines, too,
of the 'G' class. These are the ones which will threaten American
coastal cities if hostilities develop. Our last word in submarine
development, of course, is the nuclear-powered submarine. Many
of these are equipped to launch powerful missile attacks. And I
may say, proudly too, that these submarines—high-speed, deep-
diving, and deadly—are the finest in the world. The Soviet Navy
of the future will depend almost entirely on its submarine force
for combatant offensive operations."
"How many submarines do we have now?" The professor of
economics was entranced.
"In view of constantly shifting operational requirements, that
is difficult to say," broke in the commissar. "But we can count on
about four hundred effective subs. More than half of these are
capable of conducting patrols in American waters, or operating in
Allied waters against merchant or naval shipping. There's no


Some Facts about Submarines 103
doubt about it, well rule the seas—all seven of them—in the near
future!"
"In the near future?" It was Commissar Lvov's voice, and it
had taken on a quizzical tone. I got the message.
"Actually," my own tone became positive, decisive, "we have
already challenged the United States on the high seas, and they
have had the trident wrested from their grip. Our submarines
are able to operate under their very noses, right next to their
coast, and they have not been able to detect us."
I was talking of specific instances wherein I knew of Soviet
boats, commanded in some cases by personal friends, which had
indeed moved into the waters over the North American conti-
nental shelf. Their missions had varied from antisubmarine in-
telligence probing to navigational updating of our charts. And,
of course, there were always the scientific research subs, such as
the Severyanya and Slavyanka.
Volkonski looked at his watch, then exclaimed, "Captain, our
first scheduled drill today is due to commence in ten minutes. I
want to run an exercise at battle stations."
The time had passed by quickly. Nearly everyone had finished
breakfast for some while and had merely been sitting there lis-
tening to the conversation. With a nod and a hand gesticulation,
I signaled that everyone was excused. Then, turning around to
Second Officer Volkonski, I asked what he had meant by the
promise to tell me what the earlier laughter had been about
concerning Professor Bogucharovo's "collywobbles."
My reminder sent Volkonski off into another fit of near-hysteri-
cal laughter. Tears flooded his eyes as each time he started to
talk, emotional instability would overcome him and, vibrating
from wholly uncontrollable laughter, he would just shake his
massive head apologetically and with a pleading gesture of his
hand try to start his story over again. Finally, between gasps of
hard-to-control eruptions of laughter, he managed to paint the
picture.
Professor Boris Bogucharovo, after his first two meals on board
the boat, had gone to the pharmacist's locker and asked the medi-


104 Shadow of Peril
cal corpsman for something to ease his stomach cramps. He
complained of constipation. Lieutenant Glinka had overheard
his request and had decided to have some fun at the expense
of the hapless agrarian expert. Walking up to Bogucharovo,
Glinka had courteously offered to demonstrate to his victim how
the toilet facilities worked in a submarine.
Confiding to the big, heavy-set man that it would be necessary
for him to be fully checked out in toilet operation before he
utilized such facilities, the fun-loving Glinka led the unsuspecting
professor to the compact, closed-closet type of accommodation
serving the officers' needs. It was located in the forward section
of the wardroom country. Glinka reached out and grabbed the
indented latch to the compartment door. Twisting it, he pulled
the narrow door open. What Professor Bogucharovo's black
eyes saw was an unimpressive, cold, metallic-looking functional
throne, surrounded by a maze of valves, levers, and piping.
"Notice all the valves, Professor?"
"What else besides the damned toilet stool is there to look at?"
"Well, Professor, you will have to know how to manipulate
some of these valves."
The professor surveyed the various connecting links in the
plumbing, and sighed.
"To think it would require an engineering mind just to relieve
one's self in a submarine," he half-whispered to himself.
Glinka heard him and was spurred on.
"Well, now, it's really not too complicated, sir. But you must
remember that one little mistake could be disastrous."
The professor's already wide eyes widened some more.
"Yes sir," Glinka went on, "on board every submarine, there are
at least two valves for almost every system. This is particularly
true of our many systems which are subjected to pressure. In
case one valve fails or leaks, there is a standby or inner valve to
prevent further damage within the submarine. Systems exposed
to sea pressure are particularly vulnerable, since for every one
hundred feet of depth, we have an equivalent of about forty-four
pounds per square inch."


Some Facts about Submarines 105
Glinka looked closely at the professor. It was obvious he was
not following the line of thought.
"Yes, yes, my dear lieutenant, but to the point, to the point.
I may have to use this contraption at any minute. At any minute,
do you understand? Don't forget, I have just taken a cathartic!
I must know the facts! Not the theory, but the facts! When I get
in here, what the hell do I have to do?"
"Well, I'm getting to it, Professor. But I did want you to know
that a mis-move on your part could, well, maybe it could sink the
ship!"
Bogucharovo pulled out a handkerchief and started mopping
his forehead.
"My God!"
"What did you say, Professor?"
"I said, well, I was just exclaiming . . . why? You don't mean
. . . well, I didn't mean it that way, because obviously there is
no God. So don't get any funny ideas about my beliefs. I am a
stanch believer in the Marxist theory."
"Professor," cooed Glinka, enjoying every moment of the big
man's discomfiture, "I would never deign to question your ideo-
logical beliefs. Of course," he went on, raising his eyebrows and
pretending great concern for poor Bogucharovo, "I can't say
what the commissar will say or do when or if he hears of this . . ."
The already uncomfortable and now half-distraught professor
of agriculture looked pleadingly at the serious-looking Glinka,
who was having a most difficult time restraining himself from
laughing and giving the whole little joke away.
"But don't worry," Glinka's voice was now confidential, "I don't
think anyone else overheard you, and you may count on me, I
shall never tell a soul!"
Bogucharovo's tension-lined face could be seen to visibly relax.
But his mind returned to the basic problem at hand. How to use
the toilet.
"Please, Lieutenant," he asked beseechingly, "get to the point
now on this contraption. The medical corpsman told me I


106 Shadow of Peril
wouldn't have long to wait, the dose he gave me was so big,
and . . ."
"I understand the problem," interrupted Glinka, much enter-
tained by his own understatement of the case. Then he continued
his indoctrination of the Moscow professor.
"You see, sir, it is really mandatory that we have so many
valves. If there were only a single one for each system, and it
should fail, do you know what might happen?"
"Yes, yes, you've already said it could be disastrous and that
I might sink the ship if I didn't know what to do . . ."
"That is correct, sir. You could flood the entire submarine."
"Well, quick, quick, tell me exactly what I should do!!"
"All right, sir, now take this iVi-inch pipe you see here. It is
connected to the back side of the toilet, and it extends out
through the pressure hull, to the sea. Note it has two valves.
When the two valves are open, sea water rushes in and flushes
the waste in the toilet bowl down into the sanitary tank below.
This is providing that you at the same time throw open the flap-
per valve operated by this lever here ... no, no, over here, Pro-
fessor. This lever here. See? This one over here on the left. That's
itl Well, now, that's all there is to it."
The professor wasn't sure he understood, and at his request,
Glinka delightedly retold him the procedure for flushing the
toilet, emphasizing that the professor must forcefully throw the
flapper valve lever at the right moment.
"Just be sure to reverse the procedure and close all valves
securely when you are finished with everything," Glinka warned.
"Well, I think I understand the problem now," said the profes-
sor, regaining his composure for the moment, at least.
"Perhaps," said Glinka as an afterthought, but himself know-
ingly providing the next tidbit of information, "perhaps you
ought to know that if there is a slight amount of air in the sanitary
tank, which was not vented off after blowing the tank dry, and
you then pull open the flapper lever, the results would be hor-
rible."


Some Facts about Submarines io7
"Horrible?" The professor stood there, gaping at the toilet, the
piping, and the valves.
"Yes sir. It would be a terrible experience. Ghastly."
Glinka made himself shake for a moment in feigned revul-
sion. The effect on Bogucharovo was predictable. His black, red-
rimmed eyes again widened.
"What would happen, what would happen?"
Glinka shook his head sympathetically.
"Professor, if that ever happened, everything would blow
back with violent force, right into your face!"
Glinka enjoyed watching the expression on the face of the
now fully intimidated agrarian instructor. And now, he took
steps to insure the complete success of his plan.
"Professor, I think perhaps the best thing for you to do is to
come running to me first, just as soon as you have to go this time.
Then I will check the valves out for you before you go in, and if
you just do as I said and remember to pull that lever when you
get up, you ought to be all right. But one more word of caution.
When you pull the lever, look right into the toilet bowl to try and
notice if anything seems to be going wrong. You know, like es-
caping air."
The stage was now set, but the unsuspecting professor felt
comfortably assured that all would be well with the world. He
asked Glinka where he would be when he needed him, and the
lieutenant obligingly said he would be in the wardroom looking
at the daily news bulletins.
A half hour later, Bogucharovo could be heard yelling, "Lieu-
tenant Glinka, Lieutenant Glinka!" And a few seconds later, the
portly professor came bouncing into the wardroom, much ex-
cited. "Lieutenant Glinka, now is the time. Quick!"
It was obvious he was anxious and quite concerned.
Glinka jumped up, and said loudly, "Follow me, Professor!" as
he strode quickly to the forward part of the officers' country.
Getting to the toilet space several steps ahead of Bogucharovo,
Glinka stood half-blocking the professor's entry while with a
quick movement of one hand he turned the air valve slightly,


108 Shadow of Peril
holding it open just long enough to permit a slight pressure to
build up in the sanitary tank. Then, with a deft twist, he closed
the valve. As a result, any quick opening of the flapper lever
would cause the "reverse flush."
Bogucharovo, standing behind Glinka at the entry to the little
space, was now suffering acute discomfort. He was standing
first on one leg and then the other in his desperate effort to con-
trol himself.
"Quick, quick, I've got to get in there," exclaimed the anxious
professor, who was now throwing off his suspenders and un-
bottoning his pants.
"Whatever you do, now, Professor, don't forget what I told
you," said Glinka, quickly stepping aside now so that the big
man could arrive at his goal.
The door banged shut and Glinka stood facing most of the
wardroom officers, whom he had forewarned not to miss being
present for the occasion.
A few minutes passed. All eyes were trained on the door be-
yond which Professor Bogucharovo sat in solitary splendor amidst
his unfamiliar valves, levers, and piping fixtures. At length, a
contented sigh was heard to come from behind the door, and the
suspense of the audience outside heightened perceptibly. Glinka
rubbed his hands in playful glee.
Suddenly, there was a loud hissing, then a resoundingly ex-
plosive noise punctuated by reverberations of water and air en-
gulfing the interior of the professor's little world. There was a
loud shuffle, too, and it sounded exactly like the reflex motion of
a heavy man falling back against the side of the door. It occurred
simultaneously with an audible grunt and was followed immedi-
ately by a loud shout of horror and revulsion. Then came a wail-
ing groan.
Glinka's eyes were sparkling. His, above all others, was the
most delighted and satisfied of grins. He walked a couple of
steps over to the door of the compartment and, with a wink at
his audience, opened the door.
"Professorl" Glinka managed a tone of shock.


Some Facts about Submarines log
The sight confronting the peering eyes of the wardroom officers
who had come to witness the spectacle was every bit the show
they had anticipated. Standing dejected and besplotched before
them was the inconceivably revolting image of a man who had
met disaster and knew it.
It was some moments before the professor was able to speak
and when he did he uttered the pathetic words:
"At least, gentlemen, I didn't sink the ship!"


22
The Devil I Say!!
The following day, we changed course to the southwest,
on a course which would take us down the west coast (though
well offshore) of Norway, between the Faeroes and the Shetland
Islands, down to Point "C," some 190 miles northwest of London-
derry, Ireland. Point "C was where I would open the sealed red
colored envelope, containing the secret instructions pertinent to
the remainder of the cruise.
As each day progressed, the tension and anxiety built up mark-
edly. The crew began placing bets on where our orders would
take us, what adventures lay ahead, what important mission was
to be ours. Conjecture was wild. Perhaps it was wildest in the
wardroom, where all the officers—well aware of my previous
exploits against the Sixth Fleet—felt reasonably well assured that
I had been selected for a mission of supreme importance.
I had decided to institute a beard-growing contest and, to
make sure that everyone would have a good growing model to
look at, waited until I had let my own face go unshaven for four
days before I announced the project. It is perhaps indicative of
the tactfulness or perhaps general awe of commanding officers
and their prerogatives which brought about not a single word
from any officer, during those initial four days, about my failure
to shave. All beards, when just starting, have a slovenly looking
appearance, and cause the wearer to look most unmilitary.
There were perhaps two officers who were not particularly
pleased to get caught in such a contest. One was Second Officer
Volkonski, whose flabby jowls seemed to have only a slight tend-


The Devil I Say!! m
ency to produce whiskers, although he had no difficulty at all in
raising a luxuriously huge black handlebar-type mustache. The
other was Commissar Lvov, who was wholly unable to raise any
kind of beard or facial growth anywhere. Upon my announce-
ment of the contest at dinner one night, an expression of displeas-
ure was definitely registered on the commissar's face. However,
he never said anything about the matter, although a few of the
officers occasionally asked him, later on, whether he was still
shaving every day and thus using necessary fresh water—which
in a submarine is hard sometimes to come by.
Lieutenant Dedusko was doubtless the weirdest-looking of all
the officers, once his beard-growing took shape in earnest. He
artfully contrived a goatee type of affair which soon earned him
the greatly apropos nickname of "The Devil." With his long
black sideburns and cultivated Vandyke, he indeed did defi-
nitely resemble the cold, scoffing, relentless fiend whom Goethe
in Faust called Mephistopheles. To the crew, and moreover es-
pecially to the electronics personnel on board, Dedusko was
actually a devil. He was the type who could dream nothing save
electronics, and constantly, his one-track mind invented ways
and means to introduce synthetic casualties to the electronics
equipment in the submarine. At one point, he went overboard
in his peculiar concentration on technical problems which he
generated for the electronics crewmen. The situation came to
my attention through the chief petty officer, Igor Novikov, who
one day while I was sauntering through the boat came up to me
and complained that the electronics technicians were irate over
the most recent "trick" perpetrated against them by Dedusko.
This officer, according to Novikov, wasn't satisfied that all the
electronics equipment was in tiptop working condition. He still
wanted to exercise the crew. Thus, he had intentionally placed
black tape across four relays in our major communications trans-
mitter. The electronics technicians, called upon by the watch
officer that morning to check into the supposed casualty in the
wireless transmitting equipment, had worked long and hard in
troubleshooting to determine the cause of the failure. Finally,


112 Shadow of Peril
they had discovered the tapes—and had become furious. Feeling
it was useless to complain to "The Devil," who they knew had
placed the tape there to foul the equipment, they had sought
chief Novikov. He in turn had wondered what he could do about
it and, finally feeling that it was a matter of morale of the tech-
nicians, had decided to apprise me of the situation. After all, he
reasoned, I was the officer responsible for morale of the crew,
and furthermore this intentional fouling of the communications
equipment might endanger our mission.
I thanked the chief but told him that Lieutenant Dedusko was
a brilliant electronics expert whose training program for his men
had previously been generally approved by the Second Officer
and myself. But, I added, I would see to it that the technicians
would have no such further cause for irritation.
"Go tell them 1 was happy to see that they managed to solve
the problem as expeditiously as they did," I ordered the chief.
"And while you're at it, tell the men who worked on the equip-
ment in question that they did such a fine job that I want each
of them to have an extra-large choice steak for dinner tonight."
I thus succeeded in averting an unhappy ending to this par-
ticular problem. But I then called Dedusko into my cabin and
upbraided him for playing games with the crew. That type of
thing, I warned him, was not proper when I was sure the tech-
nicians realized fully their responsibilities in maintaining the
electronics equipment in peak performance condition. Dedusko
seemed a little hurt. He looked crestfallen as he sat listening to
me reprimand him, and as he listened, his right hand toyed with
the handle of a screwdriver which he was carrying with a few
other electronics tools in a holster-like scabbard attached to his
belt.
"Lieutenant Dedusko," I said, terminating my session with
him, "one other thing. You are an officer in the Soviet Navy, and
you are not a technician crew member. Your job is to supervise,
not to get into the actual tinkering with the electronics equip-
ment. Therefore," and I now glanced at his imposing array of
tools, "it will be quite unnecessary for you to continue arming
yourself with the accessories of electronics crewmen!"


The Devil I Say!! 113
Dedusko's mouth dropped. His face colored. I was knocking
out the bottom from his narrowly oriented world of electrons,
resistors, capacitors, and circuitry. With him, using the screw-
driver on complicated electronics equipment was more than just
his conception of his job; it was his whole life. It was all he could
ever usually talk about. But I could not allow him to further
demoralize the technicians upon whom I relied so heavily.
Finally, in an effort to utilize his talents to the maximum, I
said, thoughtfully, that he might do well to think up new ways
for electronics detection of underwater craft. By such positive
approaches, I told him, he might contribute most to the Soviet
Navy. Although this advice took some of the brunt off the casti-
gation he had received, Dedusko left my quarters looking very
much like a shattered man. His head no longer held high, the
goatee now rested on his chest—because for him, the "fun" and
joy of his life could only be achieved as stolen fruit.
The two professors declined to join in the beard-cultivation
marathon. In the words of Professor Pozdeev, who spoke for
both of them, it had taken many years to get mankind to give
up beards, and as men of science and as representatives of a
forward-looking Soviet economy, they could not in full justice to
their concepts of progress become involved in such retrogression.
I merely shrugged when Second Officer Volkonski told me, ver-
batim, of Pozdeev's statement. After all, these gentlemen were
guests, and it behooved us to respect their beliefs. Besides, I
thought, it would make the commissar feel better to have clean-
shaven company with him, in view of his own inadequacy.
Sergei Nikolovich Mikhailoff, the navigator, blossomed forth
after a period of time with a magnificent, full-grown, meticu-
lously attended golden beard which reached halfway down his
chest. His appearance was striking, and he looked every inch a
Scandinavian or northern German freshly stepped out of a time
machine from the Middle Ages. However, it was not long before
his golden masterpiece became slightly besmirched around the
mouth. This was brought about by his constant addiction to hot,
black coffee, which of course stained the blond whiskers quite
appreciably. A wardroom joke was that Sergei had better desist


H4 Shadow of Peril
from using so much vodka in his coffee, as it was certain that the
alcoholic effects of the vodka and not the coffee was to blame for
such tarnishing of his beard.
Glinka was able to sprout a handsome accumulation of jet
black whiskers which he brushed tirelessly, as one might a favor-
ite horse in preparation for a prize showing. Makar Rostopchin,
too, grew a large beard which he also was careful to brush several
times a day. Knowing his background, I often thought of him in
terms of his ancestors' gracing the royal palaces, huge beards
establishing their lineage and stamping them as of the upper
classes. The other beards were nondescript and mostly unimagi-
native.
My own beard was—fortunately—a flourishing one. It was
streaked with silver, a curious situation because my hair is almost
wholly dark brown. However, the silver and brown, I was told,
added to the dashing appearance which my blue eyes suggested
to the viewer. Rostopchin, scion of nobility and Russian high
society in the days of the czars, used to tell me that I looked like
his family's portraits of Russia's last imperial Grand Duke. Grand
Duke, I used to chide him, why only the Grand Duke? Well,
then, the Czar, he would say. This would ostensibly appease my
vanity, and 1 would call to Rodion Trubetovski to bring me an-
other Havana cigar. Fortunately for us, and thanks to Castro,
there is no shortage of Havana cigars in Russia.
But it was not as "The Czar" or even as "The Grand Duke" that
I became known to the crew. Other than being called The Cap-
tain, I had no idea that I was called anything else until one day
Volkonski confided to me that I was widely referred to as "The
Beard."
Somehow, such an appellation seemed to have unfavorable
overtones; it was, I believed, slightly suggestive of something
or someone unscrupulous, something fearsome, something awe-
some, and something unwholesomely dominant or dominating.
I loathed the name and what it implied.


12
The Commissar's Little Red Schoolhouse
February 4, 1962
The commissar sat at his usual place at the end of the
wardroom table facing me, and began his customary daily in-
doctrination of the wardroom officers, usually carried out (as
the cruise progressed) directly after the 11:15 P,M- meal. This
normally resulted in the wardroom officers getting involved in
serious discussions shortly after midnight—when, with their after-
dinner brandies or choice liqueurs, they could reflect warmly
on what the commissar had had to say in sparking off the discus-
sion. This routine is widely carried out in most Soviet subma-
rines, as it affords the officers a pleasant atmosphere in which to
consider some of the material the commissar delivers throughout
his indoctrinational lectures.
"Today," said Commissar Lvov, "we have just received some
news by the wireless which points up our steadily increasing
position of power and prestige in the world. In the next decade,
certainly within the next fifteen years, most of the world will be
under the direct influence of Communism. We will achieve this
with or without force."
Lvov was giving the officers the routine dose of homespun
propaganda. Now he got into specifics.
"One way the Soviet Union will dominate the globe will be
through our exploration and exploitation of the remaining fron-
tiers of the earth. For instance, we have today again reinforced
our Arctic Fleet, and starting next spring, we will have five more
research stations activated at the North Pole. At present, the two


Shadow of Peril
research expeditions we sent to the polar environs in i960 are
providing us with invaluable data and know-how in combating
the problems of that region.
"We are primarily interested in controlling a new traffic route
linking the Atlantic and Pacific, through the polar regions. Our
station at Novosibirskiye Island has accumulated enough note-
worthy information as to make control of the traffic routes there
inviolately ours within the next seven years. We rely on fifteen
automatic radio weather stations on ice floes in the Arctic basin,
and have over a hundred polar weather and radio stations on
firm moorings which are serviced by our Northern Fleet. What
other country has the know-how that we do for true control of
shipping in these latitudes? Only Soviet Russia!" The commissar
beamed and, taking a quick swig of brandy from his glass, went
on.
"While we of the Soviet Union are probing deeper and further
into the mysteries of such frontiers as the Arctic and indeed, the
oceans of the world and their bottoms, the United States still
manages to contribute a little now and then. Today, Tass informs
us that the Americans will this year inaugurate a five-day weather
forecasting system to reduce shipping hazards. One of two cen-
ters operates on the east coast and the other on the west coast of
North America. What the Americans plan on doing is plotting
best courses for individual ships, so that they will avoid severe
storms. We understand that the American centers are located at
Norfolk, Virginia, and Alameda, California."
Glinka broke into the commissar's monologue.
"But if the Americans know so much about the weather, then
why is it that they didn't know enough not to schedule this first
spaceman they have, what's his name, Glenn, on a day when
there would be good weather? The news bulletins I read a couple
of nights before we left port said that their spaceman—what do
they call him?—"
"You mean their astronaut," Lvov said in a superior tone.
"Yes, their astronaut, Colonel Glenn, I think that was his name,
he sat on top of his booster rocket for a long time waiting to be


The Commissar's Little Red Schoolhouse n7
blasted off, and he never was, either. All because of bad weather,
and wouldn't you think if their weather predictor station on the
east coast was any good, they would have known better?"
"That's the point I want to make, Lieutenant Glinka," said
Commissar Lvov, looking every bit the wounded instructor, hurt
because one of his pupils came up with a question that would
have been answered anyway had not the pupil been so impatient.
"Our reports have indicated that the Americans erringly planned
to launch their first man into orbit on December 2o, 1961, Janu-
ary 16, January 23, and January 27 of this year. But the weather
was quite unpredictable for them. This means that their tech-
nology isn't what it ought to be. Now in our case, we have largely
solved the weather problem, as you know. From our stations and
system, we derive enough information to be able to plan ahead
intelligently."
Ivan Baliuk spoke up.
"Commissar," he began, "has there been any further news that
we may be unaware of, concerning when exactly the Americans
now plan on launching their first man into orbit?"
"No," came back the quick reply, "but we have trawlers and
other craft distributed across the expanses of the oceans—includ-
ing in the Americans' own backyard—to intercept critical scien-
tific data should the launch prove successful enough to get the
capsule into space."
"Commissar," asked "Devil" Dedusko, obviously having pre-
viously read the news bulletins of the day as they came in on the
communications receiver, "I understand that the British aircraft
carrier Eagle is now undergoing an intensive investigation to
ascertain why or how electrical circuits in the ship's heating and
lighting system were cut recently. Was this cable cutting some
kind of sabotage for which our boys can claim credit?"
Lieutenant Commander Lvov smiled delightedly.
"Yes, I can now tell you, and with pleasure, without having
to worry about undue disclosure of sensitive information, that
the work on board the English ship in Devonport was in fact done
by our boys. Of course, they were British, but they were oriented


n8 Shadow of Peril
to our thinking in the larger scheme of things. And the Queen's
detectives will never find out who did it, either. Not out of the
thousands of workmen working on the refit job for that ship. No,
but what our boys will continue to do will be to harass and hold
up the repair and conversion work. With their exchequer in the
shape it's in, if we keep up this sort of thing, they'll be bankrupt
before long. Their economy really can't stand anything extra, you
know."
"And that's where we move in?" Kulakov now talking.
"Not quite. But that's where the average English taxpayer
moves in. That's how the regime will ultimately be overthrown,
perhaps. Through discontent, inability to meet financial obliga-
tions, and all that. . ."
Mikhailoff intervened.
"But this sort of thing involving sabotage to one aircraft car-
rier seems rather minor in the over-all scheme of things, and I
don't think there'll be any huge upheaval as a result," said the
navigator with more sarcasm than anything else in his voice.
"Perhaps not. But don't you see," said the commissar, "the
damage to the aircraft carrier is but a part of the whole. There
are many other, and there will continue to be many other, even
more telling blows struck at the British Establishment. The old
Empire is no more, and what remains isn't long for this world!
Each of these individual blows is nothing in itself, but collec-
tively, they will unseat the capitalist masters!"
The commissar brought his fist down on the wardroom table,
causing a thump which nearly upset his nearby glass of brandy.
Then he brought up another subject, quite unrelated, but amazed
even me by relating the two.
"The United States economy cannot stand an endless drain
upon its reserves, isn't that right, Professor Pozdeev?" He didn't
wait for an answer, but kept talking.
"Spain is now asking the U. S. Government for a fantastically
huge naval buildup, at American expense, in return for the Amer-
ican privilege of maintaining strategic bases in Spain. It has al-
ready cost the American taxpayer over one hundred million


The Commissar's Little Red Schoolhouse ng
dollars to buy and outfit the Spaniards with a halfway modern
navy. If Franco gets his way, the Americans will pay another
three hundred million dollars for the purpose of presenting a
guided-missile warship navy to Spain. This will be quite a con-
tribution, and one the United States taxpayers probably don't
even know much about."
"You mean," said Volkonski incredulously, "that America is
going to give Spain a whole new fleet of brand new warships
just to get some missile bases on Spanish soil?"
"Well, bases, anyway, let's not say what kind of bases," smiled
the commissar.
"Imagine that! How stupid of them," shot in Glinka, who then,
suddenly flashing his white teeth in a big smile, said, "For that
kind of money the Americans would do better to buy more of
their Polaris submarines or maybe even concentrate on how to
destroy our submarines!"
Volkonski looked at the clock.
"Well, gentlemen," he roared, "one last sip of your favorite
beverage and we're off to our daily drills. By the way, no one
has commented on the menu for this evening. Didn't anyone
think the food unusually well prepared?"
"Well prepared, yes," offered Glinka, never at a loss for words,
"but frankly, much as I enjoy some of your delicacies, I can't say
as I enjoyed the tapioca pudding tonight."
Ivan Dedusko's eyes lit up.
"I'll second that, sir," he cried out almost spontaneously.
Volkonski threw up his hands in a defensive gesture.
"Tapioca! Who said anything about tapioca?" His tone of voice
was incredulous.
"Well," I said, entering the conversation, "we are all aware
of your skill in devising courses, Commander, but it was tapioca,
wasn't it, that we had for dessert tonight?"
"No, Captain, as a matter of fact, it was not," said the Great
Innovator, obviously relishing his role as a meal planner. "What
else did it look like, gentlemen?"
"Do you really want to know, sir?" It was Glinka flashing his


120 Shadow of Peril
snow-white grin. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he said, "It was
really fish eyes and pus, wasn't it?"
I looked quickly at Volkonski. He received the blow with
magnificent aplomb.
"No, young man," said he, "but you might regard yourself as
close." His eyes shot across the table to meet those of Professor
Bogucharovo. "Professor," he continued, "you are a learned
scholar of plant life. As such, you no doubt are well acquainted
with certain forms of animal life which depend for their suste-
nance on your agrarian produce. Would you tell the others what
type of metamorphosis is involved in the transition from one
stage to the pupa or chrysalis stage?"
Bogucharovo knew full well what Volkonski was talking about.
He decided to level with his interrogator and the others.
"What you refer to," he said icily, "is that life which is both im-
mature, wingless, and often wormlike in form. It is colorless in
most instances, and when cut up into pieces, retains life and
forms in a globular shape. I believe what we are discussing are
often called larva, or larvae; recent experiments in the biology
department at Moscow University indicate that . . . that . . ."
Bogucharovo grimaced, haltingly managing somehow to pro-
ceed.
". . . that such form of life is very nutritional to human beings."
Volkonski stood up, smiling broadly.
"Yes, that is correct, Professor," he breathed, "but what else
can you tell us?"
The professor sighed heavily.
"Some people," he said, swallowing hard, "call this form of
life underdeveloped grubs. Others . . ." He raised his hand to
his mouth, and said softly, "—others . . ."
"Yes, yes," interrupted Volkonski impatiently, "tell them!"
Lvov took another quick drink of his brandy, but kept his eyes
glued to the professor, as if waiting for his lips to disgorge some
kind of resoundingly horrible news. This they did.
The professorial nose twitched, and the lips parted.
"Maggots," he said.


*3
The Drama Yet To Be Unfolded
February 5, 1962
Right after the navigator had given me the morning posi-
tion report, I had sauntered up to the conning station and glanced
down at the track on the chart. Leaning heavily on the chart
desk, I studied the area. Trondheim, Kristiansund, Alesund, Ber-
gen—these were the Norwegian seaports whose printed names
on the chart seemed to drill themselves into my mind. We had
left them all well to the eastward, and were about to transit be-
tween the Faeroes and the Shetlands.
"Don't forget," I said, turning around to face the watch officer,
"the trawlers which have been with us will shortly depart, and
we shall be alone. This places even greater responsibility on the
watch to be carefully alert. I trust that all contact reports will
be made to me promptly. If in doubt, I want to be called!"
The operations officer, Ivan Nicolai Kulakov, was the man to
whom I addressed my remarks. He would be on watch for the
next four hours, and it would be—presumably—bright daylight.
Of course, at this time of year, there might well be snow or sleet
or even rain.
The seas had been getting noticeably rougher, and some of
the newer sailors in the crew, as well as our star passengers,
Pozdeev and Bogucharovo, had decided they couldn't fight it.
Thus, they had elected to withdraw to the confines of their bunks.
At about noontime, the escorting trawlers turned away to the
southeast, heading for a point near the Orkneys. We sent them
the wireless message, "Good fishing," to which they replied,


122 Shadow of Peril
"Good hunting." With the weather in this area becoming progres-
sively worse, I decided to take a look through the periscope at
the departing trawlers and anything else which might be in the
vicinity. Intelligence reports coming to us had indicated that the
British were getting touchy about all the Russian trawlers ap-
parently congregating in their home waters, and I wanted to
spot-check to see if there were any British eyes visible near us. All
I saw through the periscope was rough water. Then, since one
hundred feet was determined to be best for transiting, I took the
boat down to that depth, though giving the watch officer in-
structions to come up to periscope depth at regular intervals to
check everything in the surrounding area.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon when the watch officer
called to me and said that he had just spotted a distant patrol
aircraft crossing our path, heading in the direction of the trawler
fleet which had left us. I ran up to the conning station and spun
the periscope around to the approximate location of the aircraft.
In a few moments, I could pick him up on the long-range glass.
It was a British Shackleton patrol bomber—doubtless one of those
they have running routine antisubmarine flights around their is-
land kingdom, now that the power of Soviet underseas craft has
been recognized in Great Britain. But in any event, I didn't care
to wait around up there for him to spot us. We dived to a safe
depth again.
However, within an hour, I received a chilling report from
the conning station. It was Baliuk, now on watch. His message
was clipped and to the point:
"Captain, are you there? This is watch officer Baliuk. Sighted
ship contact bearing 180 degrees true, range three miles, on
course 060 degrees true at ten knots. Evaluated as British de-
stroyer type. Believed heading eastward to intercept trawlers."
"Good," I said, with what I am sure was no display of emotion,
"they're off on a wild-goose chase."
Inwardly, I was intensely relieved that this combination of
destroyer and aircraft had not somehow discovered the F-68g.
We were a big sub, some i960 tons of steel, forged and molded


The Drama Yet To Be Unfolded 123
into one of the most effective fighting instruments ever to ply the
seas. With a bow-placed sonar hydrophone featured, the sub-
marine was capable of about fifteen miles' worth of underwater
detection capability (much more than most American ships are
given credit for having). Under mild sea conditions, visibility
through the periscope was attainable to about ten miles; we had
approximately twenty conventionally powered torpedoes, which
I was always prepared to fire on a moment's notice; we had three
propellers, and three diesel engines and electric motors. Our cen-
ter propeller generally was used for deep escape. The maximum
depth to which I should have wanted to venture would have
been about seven hundred feet, but this would have been more
than enough to escape the then—and I think now—standard anti-
submarine torpedoes carried by the United States and Allied
navies.
Then, too, we were carrying a load of special electric homing
torpedoes. Presumably, these had been provided to us for this
cruise in order to secure a much higher capability for effective-
ness over a wide range of belligerent actions.
By "breakfast" time, at seven-fifteen in the evening, our snor-
keling sub had been pitching and rolling to such an extent, in
what were becoming increasingly rough seas, that few officers
showed up for anything to eat. Certainly, the two professors never
even gave any consideration to getting up; the heaving and roll-
ing boat made their self-imposed confinement to their bunks
assured. As if things weren't depressing enough, Rodion Tru-
betovsld tripped or slid in stepping over to the wardroom table,
and dropped a large platter of soft Spanish omelet and salt mack-
erel, hot chocolate, freshly baked popovers and warmed syrup—
most of it landing or splashing against Volkonski and Rostopchin.
Dazed, the Second Officer looked ruefully at the mess, and
shrugged.
"Let us hope we don't get dashed up onto one of the Hebrides,"
he said dolefully. Then, he gave orders to cancel the engineer-
ing casualty drills we had planned for the ensuing four hours,
and told me he intended to let the crew remain in their bunks


124 Shadow of Peril
as idlers until the seas abated. I had no objection. One thing I
did not want, above all else, was a submarine full of sick, vomiting
sailors.
I now went back up to the conning station, to the naviga-
tor's desk, and looked searchingly at the chart. Within the next
twenty-four hours we would arrive at Point "C," where I would
open up our red-enveloped sealed orders. It was difficult for me to
wait. My impatience was getting nearly uncontrollable. Where
would we be going? What was our mission?
Sergei Nikolovich Mikhailoff stepped up beside me.
'The coastal shipping would probably be heavier right now if
it weren't for the heavy seas," he began. "Do you know, Captain,
that those British still operate so much small stuff around these
waters that actually, it's not too healthy for us to be coming down
on this track . . ."
"Sergei Nikolovich," I remember replying, "you make the mis-
take of equating all their fishing craft and small coastal vessels
with ours. As far as I know, Soviet Russia is the only country of
any major importance which outfits not only its naval ships but
many oceangoing types in the so-called merchant marine, too,
with underwater sound and attack capabilities. I'm sure none of
the Englishmen we come up against will have any sonar or depth
charges in addition to their trawling nets or cargoes of coal."
Mikhailoff raised his eyebrows and colored slightly.
"Captain," he said, "I wasn't referring to their underwater war-
fare capabilities. I was only thinking of the movement down this
track in the light of all the other ships at sea in this area at the
same time. Navigationally was what I was concerned about . . ."
"Of course, Sergei, of course. As navigator, that is your natural
prime concern. And I concur. Think of it: Every single day, there
are over three thousand ships at sea every minute of the day.
Right here in the Atlantic sea lanes!"
"Yes sir, and as the commissar says, 99.8 per cent of all ma-
terials must be moved by sea. Not by land or air. By sea!"
"And our most solemn obligation is to deny the United States


The Drama Yet To Be Unfolded 125
and her allies the use of these seas. One day, perhaps not too far
away—"
MikhailofFs eyes sparkled.
"When that time arrives, let us hope I will have my own sub-
marine command. That is what I would like!"
"Sergei, I am sure you would do a most efficient job, too," I
said, lightly patting him on the shoulder.
"By the way, Captain," the navigator now said thoughtfully,
"do you know, if we proceed the way we are going, we will be in
the commercial shipping lanes for the North Atlantic runs to and
from the Western Hemisphere."
"Yes," I said, "and believe me, there are really some big ships
we might intercept. There is nothing quite so beautiful as watch-
ing a large ocean liner, her decks and portholes ablaze with light,
as she glides silently and majestically across the seas at night.
Sergei, where are the international shipping tables? You ought
to look through them once we find out where we are going, and
then see what shipping we should be most alert to intercept!"
Mikhailoff reached above the chart desk and pulled down from
one of the overhanging shelves a volume in which were tabulated
the timetables of the major international shipping firms on the
North Atlantic runs.
The information which Sergei Nikolovich Mikhailoff thus made
available to us was subsequently used in my watch instructions
for the ensuing several days. It was, as we shall later see, of con-
siderable value to us in keeping informed about shipping in our
immediate vicinity, while not divulging our own presence.
Although laid out in calendar sequence, Mikhailoff s researched
listings of at least seven giant ocean liners which would pass
through our then general area, bound to or from Europe, prom-
ised to be of value quite dependent upon where our secret orders
would be taking us.
Perhaps sinking one of these goliaths of the deep would turn
out to be our secret orders! After all, the thought flashed through
my mind, wasn't it known that America was bringing arms and
munitions into England, into France and Germany? And why


126 Shadow of Peril
should the Soviet Union allow this buildup in supply to happen
—considering that the ultimate use of such armaments would
obviously be against the Russian people? We would shortly be
in the same waters, or pretty close thereto, where the Germans in
1915 had sunk the Cunard liner Lusitania, as a result of that ship
carrying ammunition to England; and weren't we in a war even
today? Call it a "cold war" or anything else, it is still a pitting of
one national power, one political concept, against another, and
the struggle grows more taxing as each day passes.
Wasn't it Von Clausewitz, the famous German General Staff
planner and military theoretician, who once wrote that armed
hostilities (i.e., war) are a natural resort as an extension of diplo-
macy when negotiations themselves fail to deliver to the parties
concerned their sought-after objectives? Right now, both Amer-
ica and the Soviet Union are desperately trying to outshine the
other through every means short of armed hostilities, to achieve
their nationalistic aims. Who is to say when one or the other side
will believe that diplomacy can achieve no more in a given situa-
tion? That such a time could be immediate, or tomorrow, or the
next day, or a month from now, is something all of us must con-
sider. After listening to former American Secretary of State Dulles
(a man who took the U.S. to the brink of war all too many times,
and who probably never fully realized just how close he came!)
preach that America must defeat Communism, how could a Rus-
sian patriot think otherwise than that the Soviet Union and world
Communism must ultimately fight? For that matter, how can the
Americans think other than that Soviet Russia and her Com-
munist-bloc nations will ultimately have to come to blows with
the West? Hasn't Premier Khrushchev often said that the Soviets
will some day "bury" America? And to carry this one step fur-
ther, perhaps I should mention that the Voroshilov Naval Acad-
emy carries as required reading in its course on international
relations a "white" paper written over one hundred years ago
by the famous American naval officer, Commodore Matthew C.
Perry, in which that prophetic gentleman said that he could see
in the distance "the giants that are growing up for that fierce and


The Drama Yet To Be Unfolded 127
final encounter; in the progress of events, that battle must sooner
or later be fought." Commodore Perry was talking about the bat-
tle ultimately to be fought by the United States and Russia. The
exact wording of his prophecy went something like this:
"It requires no sage to predict events so strongly foreshadowed
to us all; still Westward' will 'the course of empire take its way.'
But the last act of the drama is yet to be unfolded; and notwith-
standing the reasoning of political empirics, Westward, North-
ward, and Southward, to me it seems that the people of America
will, in some form or other extend their dominion and their
power, until they have brought within their mighty embrace
multitudes of the Islands of the great Pacific, and placed the
Saxon race upon the eastern shores of Asia. And I think, too, that
eastward and southward will her great rival in future aggrandize-
ment [Russia] stretch forth her power to the coasts of China and
Siam; and thus the Saxon and the Cossack will meet once more,
in strife or in friendship, on another field. Will it be friendship?
I fear not. The antagonistic exponents of freedom and absolutism
must meet at last, and then will be fought that mighty battle on
which the world will look with breathless interest; for on its issue
will depend the freedom or the slavery of the world,—despotism
or rational liberty must be the fate of civilized man . . ."
Thus, I thought, it might indeed be possible that the top leaders
in the Soviet had specified in my sealed orders that I sink one,
or even a number of large ocean liners or even tankers, so that
the West would have no means left for ferrying large bodies of
troops to a contemplated scene of action. And if I were to sink
one or more such liners, who would be able to say that it was a
Russian submarine which did the foul deed? There are far too
many independent countries today possessing submarines, to be
able to attribute such a belligerent action to Soviet submarine
operationl Perhaps this was to be the beginning of a war at sea,
a war of attrition in shipping, a war of starvation. Starvation,
that is, for America and her allies. For, I recalled, America relies
entirely upon shipping to bring her the raw materials and sup-


14
Sealed Orders—
and Bogucharovo's Own Devices
February 6, 1962
The latitude was 56°3o' north, the longitude i2°3o' west.
In a calmer sea and with all wardroom officers as well as our
professorial guests present, I tore open the red envelope, ruptur-
ing with difficulty the wax seals and then placing the envelope
down on the wardroom table before me.
Commissar Lvov leaned forward from the other end of the long
rectangular table, expectantly waiting for me to read the most
secret instructions which would disclose our primary mission.
All eyes were fixed upon me and upon the thin binder which I
now inspected. Lvov had a bottle of vodka on the table in front
of him, and took a swig directly from the bottle itself.
"Gentlemen," I began, "at last we are at Point 'C I will read
our most secret instructions."
Then, pausing momentarily to scan the material privately so
that I could be the first to actually see the orders, I read aloud.
The orders were as follows:
HEADQUARTERS NORTHERN FLEET
Kola Inlet
January 25, 1962
To: Commanding Officer, F-68g
This is my Operation Order RED SAIL NINE.
From Point "C" proceed southward at 6 meters/second
speed of advance, passing through seas westward of the
Azores, to Point "D," latitude 29 north, longitude 48-30 west.


130 Shadow of Peril
In this vicinity on February 15 in early morning hours, make
rendezvous with Soviet tanker GRODNO, which will be
headed for Havana from Ventspils, Latvia, Soviet Union, at
speed of advance of 6.5 meters/second.
Under cover of darkness, refuel and take on fresh provi-
sions if required. Receive six Communist revolutionary work-
ers from tanker, whom you will subsequently off-load by
rubber boat (under cover of darkness again) in a cove to
be designated by Seiior Juan Marcos y Olivie, the leader of
the special agents, somewhere along the northwestern coast
of the Dominican Republic.
Thence proceed via direct route and Windward Passage,
to area off U. S. Naval Base, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, for
general surveillance not to exceed ten days.
Upon departure from Guantanamo Bay proceed via Yu-
catan Channel to arrive Havana, Cuba, during darkness. You
will be advised by February 16 of special instructions per-
taining to this visit. Arrangements pending for transfer of
Professors Bogucharovo and Pozdeev, and for extended pe-
riod in port for minor repairs and military liaison conferences
with local government.
On completion stay in Havana, proceed at discretion
northward along the U. S. east coast for planting of 20 special
beacons (instructions enclosed). Rendezvous with USSR
trawler fleet in Grand Banks at latitude 45 north, longitude
50 west, for further instructions, if any, prior to return. Re-
provision as necessary.
Priority of military missions assigned after disembarkation
of revolutionary agents in Dominican Republic:
1. Lay special navigational beacons.
2. Test U. S. antisubmarine defenses and collect intel-
ligence on U. S. fleet equipment and tactics.
3. Obtain photography of significant U. S. combatant
ships and strategic coastal areas.
4. Impress Cuban Government with our joint mutual
need for them to hasten completion of submarine


Sealed Orders—and Bogucharovo's Own Devices 131
bases and ballistic missile complexes for employment
in case of a war with imperialistic aggrandizers from
the north.
Remain undetected at all times. Unless under unusual
circumstances, do not approach U. S. mainland closer than
the three-mile territorial limit. Strike only if attacked. Return
Kola Inlet no later than May 3o,1962. Amplifying instructions
will follow periodically.
(Signed)
Chabanenko
"That," I said in conclusion, "is what we will be doing!"
Lvov took another drink and passed the bottle down the table
to Volkonski, who had extended his right arm in anticipation.
Professor Bogucharovo was the first to speak.
"Captain, Commander Lvov, gentlemen," he began, somewhat
pompously, "the time has come to tell you precisely what our
mission is, beyond the sketchy information that has just been
revealed to you. Professor Pozdeev and I are embarked on a cru-
sade, a veritable crusade. One that would have made the ex-
peditions of the early Christian knights look pale and insignificant
by comparison."
His dark black eyes darted from officer to officer. He was ob-
viously relishing his role now as orator. At long last, he had an
opportunity to lecture to us. Once more, he was back in form,
with a captive audience. And besides, the submarine was cruis-
ing in mild seas, and the conditions for human comfort were good
—at least for the moment.
"Now that Senor Castro has announced his fullest devotion
to the Marxist ideology, Soviet Russia is going to embrace him to
the very fullest. We can ill afford not to do so. We are going to
exploit this Red nest in the Caribbean for every single ruble it's
worth. Or maybe I should say, we are going to exploit this rela-
tionship right down to the last Cuban peso. With our resources,
our machinery, our industrial and engineering know-how, we are
going to bolster Senor Castro's regime until it is a most awesome


Shadow of Peril
monument to Communism in the Western Hemisphere. It will
be a Cuba fresh from the bonds of corrupt capitalist exploitation,
fresh from the bonds and shackles of American dominance, eager
to take her place in the vanguard of nations which increasingly
will stand to profit from breaking away from North American
thralldom. Cuba will henceforth be a nation among nations, the
very hub of Communist organization and enterprise in the West-
ern Hemisphere against the Wall Street connivers. Mr. Volkonski,
let me have a bit of that French brandy Rodion just brought you.
Although I hate to say it—" (yet it was so obvious he didn't hate
to at all) "I regard myself somewhat of a connoisseur, too."
He took a nip; then, raising his left hand to wipe his lips, he
continued.
"Professor Pozdeev and I are going to Cuba as Special Ad-
visers to the Cuban Government. As you may know, their farm
problems are almost as bad as one would find in the United
States. It will be my job to reorganize their farms into collective
blocs which will yield massive produce for the betterment of the
peoples. And when I have finished there in Cuba, I may be as-
signed elsewhere, to some other ripe South American country, to
deliver it from the chains of economic servitude to the United
States and the capitalist interests which have made these coun-
tries 'Banana countries.' Professor Pozdeev is going to offer his
services as economic brains behind the Castro regime. Together,
we will pull up the country by its bootstraps. We will have a
strong Red bastion there before long, one which will be so power-
ful that the more belligerent of the avaricious North Americans
would even themselves have to think twice before advocating
action under cover of their old Monroe Doctrine in an effort to
overthrow Castro."
"Monroe Doctrine?" It was Lvov, sensing that the conversation
had developed into one of international politics, which was his
field.
"Monroe Doctrine!" he repeated. "Let me tell you all that the
era of potency for that doctrine has long since gone by the board.
The American State Department, I have heard it said, is well-


Sealed Orders—and Bogucharovo's Own Devices 133
enough saturated with some of our admirers, and is, in fact, so
fortunately riddled with what they call real liberals, that any
kind of unilateral action by the United States against Castro, or
any other South American nation going our way, would be quite
unlikely. No, we won't have to worry about the Americans' Mon-
roe Doctrine. The day of presidents like Theodore Roosevelt is
over and done with. It would be horrible to think what we would
be up against if a man like that were in power today!"
Glinka, a grin on his face, interrupted the commissar.
"Theodore Roosevelt!" His voice was incredulous. "But wasn't
he the American president who won the Nobel Peace Prize?"
Volkonski joined in, his jowls flapping as he twisted his head
quickly to look over at Glinka.
"Peace Prize? Nobel? I don't even think there was any Peace
Prize back in those days! But I always thought Roosevelt was
the big cowboy fighter who ran up that fortified hill in Cuba back
around 1898!!"
Glinka continued, unabated.
"Yes, he did, but he was also the American president, as I re-
call, who was the arbitrator for us at the height of our unsuccess-
ful war with Japan back in 1906."
The commissar poured himself a glass of brandy, and Volkon-
ski, noticing it, asked, "Say, don't you think it wiser to stick to
vodka?"
"Don't you think you might better stick to your own business?"
replied Lvov tartly, as he raised the glass to his lips and downed
the brandy. Then, realizing the caustic tone of his reply, he
added, pleasantly, "For alcoholic consumption, I am my own best
chooser. For superior delicacies on the daily bill of fare, how-
ever, I shall ever be in your debt for masterful cuisine!"
The compliment, backhanded or not, was a salve for Volkonski.
He loved it. And the look of consternation on his face quickly
disappeared.
"What we have to worry about," the commissar went on, "is
not the American State Department, for they are now dominated


134 Shadow of Peril
by a new kind of thinking, one which in effect says, 'Go slow,
Mr. President, and let's not exacerbate the Soviets.'"
"Exacerbate? What does that mean?" It was Volkonski.
"That," responded Lvov, "is an English word, peculiar to our
times. It is frequently used by the underlings in the U. S. State
Department to indicate their determined desire not to irritate
us, not to do anything which we wouldn't like, sort of like ap-
peasing us, in fact."
Glinka now re-entered the conversation.
"But the American presidents don't seem to be soft like that,"
he said quizzically. "Eisenhower certainly was tough on Com-
munism, and Truman before him sent troops into Korea, didn't
he? And President Kennedy we must admit is a rabid anti-Com-
munist, a fighter, and a private capitalist to boot. Look how he
talks about possibly moving U. S. troops into Laos. That man's no
cream puff, no pushover for us. Even their old Vice President un-
der General Eisenhower came over to our country and argued
with Premier Khrushchev. Don't you remember?"
The commissar looked at Glinka condescendingly.
"Lieutenant Glinka," he said slowly, "you miss the point. Of
course the Chiefs of State are opposed to our inroads. But it is
some of their aides who help us. Stop a minute and think! Back in
1961 when the attempt to invade Castro's Cuba was pulled off,
why do you suppose the American president didn't use the naval
air power available on that carrier they had down off the Bay of
Pigs? I'll tell you. He was advised against it by some of these
aides! Good thing for us, too, because if those aircraft had been
used, Castro probably wouldn't be in power today . . . Now my
point was that Theodore Boosevelt would never have listened to
some of those advisers whom Kennedy listened to. He would have
doubtless wanted to be on the scene himself, right on that car-
rier, maybe even in one of the airplanes . . ."
I listened to this diatribe with reservations. To my mind, Ken-
nedy was a tough customer; a former combat naval officer, and
one who knew how to fight and whose war record as a younger
man spoke convincingly of his strong character and will to win.


Sealed Orders—and Bogucharovo's Own Devices 135
But what the commissar was saying about some of the American
presidential aides or advisers seemed only too plausible. Not all
of them, of course. But, some of them . . . and not just in Ken-
nedy's administration, either!
Lvov now raised the vodka bottle to his lips, first waving it
freely and with a smile toward Volkonski.
"Well, anyway," Professor Bogucharovo observed, "we are on
our way to the Caribbean! How delightful! And while I am en-
joying the sunshine and basking on the beaches with the palm
trees overhead, you people will still be sweating along in this
thing, down with all the fishes and the seaweed!"
He sat back in his chair, obviously dreaming of sunshine, sand,
and palm trees.
"But Professor," the commissar asked, "how do you know you
won't be out in the cactus wastelands somewhere, with just the
arid, sun-baked, sun-scorched, frizzling heat and sand and no-
where near the beaches? That to me sounds more like what you
are going to be in for. Hal"
And with a derisive slap on the table with his right hand, he
again eyed the vodka bottle. This was much to the enjoyment of
the other officers who, looking at Bogucharovo, burst out laughing.
"One thing, Professor," said Glinka devilishly, "if you do hap-
pen to get lost on some Cuban wasteland, with all that sand and
dry earth and everything, if you get caught with your pants down,
let me tell you how best to handle the situation. After all, there
might not be any toilet paper there for you!"
"Young man," the professor responded hastily, "let me tell you
right now that although I am sure you are an expert in these mat-
ters on board a submarine, I would prefer to be left to my own
devices when ashore!"
Instantaneous laughter, in which Bogucharovo himself joined
heartily, resounded through the officers' country.


*5
For Drill: Intercepting a Fast "Carrier"
February 7, 1962
Navigator Sergei Nikolovich Mikhailoff, his blond hair
together with his blossoming beard now growing into a true
"new look," was working over his chart table at the conning sta-
tion. The quartermaster of the watch had just taken his evening
position report to me, and Sergei had appended a note to the
slip, advising that tonight we might well be alerted to encounter
our first large ocean finer in a transatlantic run. His research list-
ing designated all the major leviathans of the seas which might
normally be expected in the waters around the British Isles dur-
ing the present two-week period.
I left my berth and went up to join the navigator. I found him
poring through the Soviet Merchant Marine Manual of Inter-
national Shipping, a large and comprehensive volume adorned
with the photographs and characteristics of all the world's regis-
tered merchant ships. As he thumbed through the pages, I caught
glimpses of everything from old pre-World War I freighters and
colliers (still plying the seas, of course) to the Queen Mary. But
the glimpses of these were short. Mikhailoff was searching for a
specific ship. Finally, he found it.
Turning to me, as I eased up to the chart table, the Teutonic-
looking officer smiled and declared that by his best calculations,
we might well have a chance to sight the large American pas-
senger finer SS America this night. His best figuring put an inter-
ception somewhere before midnight.
The America, one of the world's most famous Atlantic Ocean


For Drill: Intercepting a Fast "Carrier" 137
transports, and a luxurious floating palace, would be westward-
bound from Bremerhaven, Le Havre, and Southampton. Her
destination: New York. This huge 26,000-gross ton ship of the
United States Lines would probably be making about thirty
knots and, due to her size, would present a large trace on a radar-
scope. Furthermore, she herself would be using a surface-search
radar, and doubtless would be active in sending out wireless
messages. Thus she would offer a good target for passive listen-
ing by our electronics operators. It would be interesting to alert
the watch to this ship, and perhaps, on the basis of our own intel-
ligence, endeavor to make the interception, rather than to leave
it to chance. As a matter of fact, this could serve as an excellent
war training drill in ferreting out and intercepting an enemy
ship of comparable size.
"Sergei," I said, resting my hand on his shoulder, "you have
done a good piece of work here. Tell me, what other kind of
ship, for the purposes of an interception drill, might we assume
to have similar size and speed characteristics to this big ocean
liner? Eh?"
MikhailofFs lips parted in a handsome grin.
Glancing quickly at the quartermaster, and winking (which
I observed), he went into a bit of histrionic mimicry to answer
my question. "Captain," he said, "on what kind of ship would you
be most likely to hear something like this . . ."
And, imitating a boatswain's mate piping a short, shrill blast
on his sea whistle (bosun's pipe), he sounded off:
"TWWWeeeeeeeeeeWWWWTTTTT! Now hear this! All pi-
lots lay to the ready room for briefing, all pilots lay to the ready
room for briefing, on the double, on the double, I say again, all
pilots lay to the ready room for briefing!"
MikhailofFs performance was handled with just the right
amount of nasal quality to make it seem identifiable with the
sounds a man's voice would make over a public address system.
It was a masterful imitation.
"Captain," our newly discovered vaudevillian concluded, "tell
us, do you think I answered your question?"


138 Shadow of Peril
The humor of the reply appealed to me, and I laughed. It
never occurred to me at the time that perhaps MikhailofFs answer
was not really in good taste, considering that I was the captain.
But, as I have said before, I wanted a "happy" ship, and above
all, I wanted true camaraderie in the wardroom.
"Sergei, your comparison of the characteristics of the passenger
liner America with an aircraft carrier remind me that we should
consider ourselves peculiarly fortunate in not having encoun-
tered that newly formed American antisubmarine group which
has been operating in these waters lately. You know, the ASW
outfit that is supposed to block the passage of Soviet subs from
the Northern and Baltic Fleet bases?"
"Yes, Captain," the navigator responded, "I know. The carrier
they have with them is supposed to be the Wasp, isn't it?"
"Don't know for sure, Sergei, it may be the Essex."
My information was that the Americans had decided to place
a submarine hunter-killer group in the waters between Iceland
and Britain. The purpose in peacetime could be considered one
of training; in event of sudden hostilities, the forces would al-
ready be on the scene and ready for action. Actually, when the
Soviet High Command learned of this deployment of American
naval strength to these waters, there was mixed feeling. The
more belligerent of the hierarchy demanded counteraction, ad-
vocating a public show of Soviet submarine strength off New
York Harbor. The Chief of Staff to Admiral Chabanenko, as a
matter of fact, urged his chief to persuade Premier Khrushchev
to let a Soviet wolf pack of submarines put on a target practice
demonstration just outside the three-mile limit at New York City,
in full view of transiting ocean liners—preferably the SS United
States or the Queen Mary or Queen Elizabeth. The other, and
prevailing group, felt that we should bide our time, and with
our modern equipment not even worry about the Americans,
with their World War II techniques and equipment.
In any event, I felt that this possibility for an interception
would be good to capitalize upon. With a messenger sent off to
get the Second Officer, I walked over to the watch officer, at the


For Drill: Intercepting a Fast "Carrier" 139
time on the sound-powered interior telephone to the forward
torpedo room. It was Kulakov, the operations officer, who was
calling to speak to Glinka. Ever alert for all eventualities, the
former explorer of Boston Harbor wanted to make sure that our
torpedoes were all ready for action.
When he had finished his call, I told him to watch for signs of
the huge liner, which I wanted to observe personally at close
range. Meanwhile, the navigator had called the electronics officer
and advised him of the situation. This subsequently brought
Dedusko running up to the electronics spaces, where he quickly
inaugurated steps to insure our detection of the America at the
earliest possible time. One of the things Dedusko did was orient
the passive electronics operator to the presumed bearing limits
in which we would probably find the liner, together with the
presumed frequencies that that ship might be using as it em-
ployed its radar and sent its wireless messages.
On my approval, also, the submarine was brought up to such
shallow depth that not only the whip and loop-antennas were
able to be flipped up for use above the surface, but also, the sur-
face-search radar antenna was raised now for periodic sweeps to
try and find the quarry.
At about ten o'clock in the evening, the electronics listening
station reported intercepting signals evaluated as possibly those
likely to come from the America. The frequency of the signals
intercepted were identical to those issued by that ship. For con-
firmation, I ordered the radar antenna raised higher and asked
for two full sweeps over a thirty-mile radius. The results were
good. A large blotch appeared on the radarscope, about twenty-
two miles to the south-southeast. Presently, Lieutenant Ivan
Baliuk, in the underwater sound room, came up with a report
establishing loud, heavy propeller noises, presumably those of a
large, fast ship, coming from the same direction as our direc-
tional antenna and radar target.
"That's her, then," I said to the watch officer. "Let's take a good
look through the periscope in the right direction. Do this every
three minutes from now on."


140 Shadow of Peril
Navigator Mikhailoff had started plotting the contact on a
relative-motion circle sheet. "For best interception, assuming that
contact is making thirty knots—"
"Good show, there, Sergei," I exclaimed. "Let's try her at thirty
knots and see what course we should come to at best underwater
speed to come within a mile of her!"
Mikhailoffs pencil and parallel rulers worked quickly across
the paper. Hmmm. He bit his lip.
"What's the matter?"
"Well, Captain, we'll have to change course fifteen degrees to
the right . . ."
"Good enough. Make it so," I interrupted.
The watch officer responded with alacrity. Within seconds,
the long-range Soviet attack submarine F-68g was shifted to a
course at highest underwater speed, in order to make the inter-
ception.
There were still about ten miles separating the Soviet and
American sailors when I first saw the maze of glittering lights
identifying the America through the periscope. Huge ocean lin-
ers always are visible from afar, especially at night, when their
massive configuration, all ablaze with electric fights, provides a
unique relief from an otherwise dark and vacant oceanic scene.
With continued maneuvering, we were able finally to position
ourselves such that the great passenger ship did indeed pass
across our bow—directly in line with six bristling torpedo tubes—
and as a training exercise, I had each officer in turn come up and
peer through the periscope at the wonderful sight.
"Think of the champagne that's being guzzled on that tub to-
night," I remember Lieutenant Glinka saying with a loud sigh.
"Yes," I told him, "but you know, I think most of them would
be switching to whiskey-on-the-rocks if they knew we were here,
less than a mile away, looking down their throats with six ready-
to-go torpedoes pointed at them!"
The navigator smiled.
"Captain," he said, "do you know, I'd bet most of them would
rather switch to vodka than face those torpedoes!"


For Drill: Intercepting a Fast "Carrier" 141
"Yes," the commissar added, as he, the last man to look through
the periscope, gave the handle braces over to the watch officer
again, "but don't forget—there might still be some who'd stick
by their beliefs. There's that crazy group who keep telling people
they'd 'rather be dead than Red.' That kind, we've got to liqui-
date, if for no other reason, just that they would rather have it
that way . . ."


A Curtain of Repugnance 143
area wherein the American astronaut Glenn would be expected
to land; if possible to do so, I was to observe and record pertinent
technical data associated with the re-entry and recovery of the
capsule; if the opportunity presented itself, I was to utilize what-
ever means available to me to recover scientific data otherwise
exclusively the gain of the United States! Additionally, I was
authorized to take such measures as I deemed necessary, to deny
to the Americans what telemetry I could without being detected,
and to insure my own safety. However, we were to embark on
this project only after effecting the previously scheduled rendez-
vous with the tanker Grodno.
I shall never forget the first few words of that urgent message
as it appeared on the tape:
MOST SECRET . . . EXTRAOBDINARILY IMPORTANT . . .
COMMANDING OFFICER F-689 FROM SUPREME NAVAL HEADQUAR-
TERS . . . UPON COMPLETION YOUR RENDEZVOUS WITH GRODNO
PROCEED BEST SPEED TO EXPECTED RE-ENTRY AREA U. S. ORBITAL
FLIGHT OF MANNED CAPSULE . . .
And then, in detail, the message told me my job:
YOU WILL AUGMENT SOVIET SUBMARINES F-7OO AND Z-52I AL-
READY ON STATION POSITIONED IN OVAL SHAPED AREA APPROX
200 MILES LONG AND 50 MILES WIDE, CENTER OF AREA 0.00
MILES DUE SOUTHEAST OF CAPE CANAVERAL FLORIDA USA AND
250 MILES DUE NORTHWEST OF SAN JUAN PUERTO RICO. SPACE
FLIGHT DELAYS IN LAUNCHING EXPECTED TO CONTINUE UNTIL
AFTER FEBRUARY 19 DUE TO ADVERSE WEATHER. UPON ARRIVAL
TAKE STATION WESTERN SECTOR ABOVE DESCRIBED OVAL AREA.
EXERT EVERY EFFORT TO LOG TECHNICAL RE-ENTRY DATA AND
OBSERVE OPERATION. WHERE POSSIBLE, DENY TO U.S. SUCH GAIN-
FUL DATA OTHERWISE EXCLUSIVELY AMERICAN. INITIATE SUCH
MEASURES AS NECESSARY TO DENY TELEMETRY TO U.S. AND TO
INSURE YOUR OWN SAFETY. REMAIN UNDETECTED. INTELLIGENCE
INDICATES AMERICANS WILL TRY FOR THREE ORBITS WHICH IF
SO WILL RESULT IN CAPSULE LANDING IN ABOVE DESCRIBED AREA.


144 Shadow of Peril
BE ALERT FOR U. S. RECOVERY FORCES AS FOLLOWS: CARRIER
RANDOLPH, DESTROYERS SEVERAL IN NUMBER, POSSIBLY AIDED
BY CARRIER ANTIETAM AND CONSTELLATION. U. S. AERIAL RE-
COVERY FORCES EXPECTED TO NUMBER IN EXCESS 60 PLANES AND
HELICOPTERS. GOOD HUNTING FROM GORSHKOV.
I must confess that my studied reaction was one of perplexity.
It was obvious that I was being accorded a wide berth of free-
dom in carrying out my mission, and as a matter of fact, that I
was being given several missions, some of which, though not
wholly named, might be implied. Commissar Lvov was the first
to openly impress this upon me.
"Captain," Lvov said, "our mission is clear, at least to me. How
do you expect to 'deny to America such gainful data otherwise
exclusively American'? How do you propose to deny all that
invaluable technical data to the United States? And with all
those ships in the recovery area, how do you propose to 'insure
your own safety'?"
By a raise of my eyebrows and a canting of my head I signaled
him to answer his own question for me. This he did.
"If the American is successful in completing an orbital flight
around the world, we must either claim him ourselves, or . .
and with a wave of his hand, Lvov signified an extension of in-
tent. Slowly, his voice projected a curtain of repugnance around
the whole operation.
"Or, Captain," he concluded, "we must destroy him."
This callous statement was made with no show of emotion. It
was simply another illustration of Lvov's fundamental lack of
concern for morals, ethics, and human life.
"You will have no choice, Captain," continued the commissar,
aware, probably, of the shock he had succeeded in inducing by
his cold-blooded opinion, and now willfully desirous of making
the most of it. My controlled response was an expression of dis-
belief that Supreme Headquarters could have meant me to do
what Lvov now suggested.
After all, here was a bold man, this Colonel Glenn. He, along


A Curtain of Repugnance 145
with Gagarin and the other Soviet cosmonauts, was among the
bravest of the brave, and I was repelled by the thought of de-
stroying him. The suggestion was indeed so repugnant to me
that I began, even then, to feel like a coward. A bemedaled cow-
ard, to be sure, but still—a coward. What Lvov said I must do
did not seem honorable. And I had been schooled to think that
the profession of arms was honorable! This would be murdering
a helpless man, a space explorer who had risen high above into
the heavens and joined with the realm of the infinite universe.
He would be one who might even have come closer to a Divinity,
if by chance such exists.
I shuddered, for to abide by the commissar's interpretation of
my new orders would be inherently repulsive to me. To make
war on a strong enemy, to sink an American admiral in his bunk
some night while he might be sleeping in his flagship—yes! That
would be within the rules of my own private ethics. But this man,
this American space explorer, would be a man of science; per-
haps a man whose exploit if successful might serve to advance
all mankind further along the road to understanding our larger
universe. I recoiled from the idea that I was to hunt for this brave
man's space capsule and then destroy him in it. I didn't agree
with the commissar that my orders meant that I should commit
this crime.
I made the mistake of expressing my qualms about this mission
to young Makar Rostopchin. Not that he did not agree with me,
in fact quite the contrary. His vows to his God included the an-
cient Hebrew commandment, "Thou shalt not kill." And Lieu-
tenant Commander Rostopchin took his religion seriously.
One night it was his misfortune to discuss openly this new mis-
sion assigned us, and he did so by questioning our moral rectitude
in obeying the order as interpreted by the commissar. Unfortu-
nately, Lvov was present, and from this moment, the two be-
came bitterly resentful each of the other. Worse for me, this was
the start of my own real difficulty with the commissar. The climax
of the conversation went something like this . . .


146 Shadow of Peril
Rostopchin: Commissar, if we destroyed Glenn, the wrath of
Jehovah would be upon our heads. It would be murder! I am
opposed to killing a defenseless human being. After all, we're not
at war.
Commissar: Not at war! Apparently, you haven't listened very
carefully to my lectures. We're up to our necks in war with the
capitalist society. We have to prevent them from catching up to
us in our conquest of space. Don't forget, whoever captures
space captures a unique way to control the rest of the world!
Soviet Russia is ahead, and we must keep it that way.
Rostopchin: But not at the expense of losing our sense of values.
Commissar: Values? The important thing is not values, but only
a matter of whether we are finally effective. Are we contributing
to the ultimate triumph of the People over the moneylenders and
the international bankers?
Rostopchin: You can say all this, Commissar, because you're
the representative of the Party. But I'm first a Russian, then a
Jew, and I have to live according to my conscience. I have God
to fear.
Commissar: What a pity that such a fine specimen of manhood
as you is a Jew. No, Makar Rostopchin, you are not truly a Rus-
sian. You are a Jew, yes. But Jews are international people, they
are a race and they live wherever they are. You nor your people
cannot claim to have roots in Russia any more than you could
claim it in Germany under the Nazis. It is a good thing that we
are closing down the synagogues.
Rostopchin: I won't hear any more such abuse from you.
Commissar: Hush, or we may start the pogroms again.
Rostopchin: You forget to whom you talk. Remember, Commis-
sar, that my family were important in Holy Russia, when your
ancestors were nonentities.
Commissar: Ah, but that is all changed now. The Czars have
passed into oblivion, as you will, too, Makar Rostopchin, unless
you desist from arguing with me about what you call your cher-
ished morality!
Rostopchin: I'm not the only one who thinks that we'd be wrong


A Curtain of Repugnance 147
to do as you suggest. The Captain himself has told me he views
the order with consternation.
Commissar: The Captain? He does, does he? That, my friend,
is very, very interesting . . . [and then, turning to face me] Is
this true, Captain?"
We were sitting at the wardroom table, and several of the
officers were present. Most were embarrassed by the commissar's
words with Makar, who was well liked. My first reaction was to
dismiss the subject, yet I knew that this I could not do. I had told
Makar my sentiments, and this was the time I would be bound
to back him up. I swallowed hard, for I could sense that this
would be the beginning of a rift between me and another rep-
resentative of that insidious political administrator, Vice Admiral
Grishanov. I had hoped that my scrape with Sverdlov would be
chalked up to a personality conflict, and I was certainly not at
all eager to have myself regarded as a chronic antagonist of com-
missars. But my convictions were stronger than my desire for
professional self-preservation.
"Yes, Commissar," I said slowly, fingers tapping the table in
front of me, "what the chief engineer says is true. I am loath to
believe this order implies that I am to destroy the American
space-explorer. I agree it would be murder. Yet I can understand
our need to prevent the Americans from gaining the informa-
tion the capsule will contain . .
"Captain," Lvov hissed, "forget your morals. This is not a chil-
dren's game of good or evil or anything like that. This is our
chance to help insure our dominance in the world."
Good or evil! the words struck home.
My mind recalled the associated words in the Christian hymn.
Shaken, I rose and went to my berth. But I could not clear the
words from my mind.
. . . And the submarine continued on course as planned.


17
The Greatest Gift
It was early morning on February 14, the traditional St.
Valentine's Day of the Christian Churches. The F-68g was cruis-
ing at 16.5 knots on the surface, en route to the rendezvous with
the tanker. We were passing through what is sometimes called
the Sargasso Sea—a massive area of seaweed in the middle of the
Atlantic Ocean.
I came up on the bridge just before morning twilight to get a
bit of fresh air before diving. Most of our daily drills had been
completed and the preceding hours of darkness, wherein we had
been up and about with considerable activity, had as usual re-
sulted in an accumulation of stale air sufficient to give me a slight
headache. Lieutenant Mikhailoff, who was navigating in the
conning station when I came up to the bridge, was now stand-
ing at the foot of the ladder connecting the bridge to the conning
station.
Through cupped hands, he yelled up to me, "Captain, it's just
about morning twilight—it should be getting light pretty quickly
now!"
Looking then instinctively to the east, I could see faint ribbons
of daylight beginning to reflect on an unusually glassy-calm sea.
It was a beautifully refreshing sight. The air was moist and salty,
but, I thought, so fresh. Fresh! I took several deep breaths and
then gazed transfixed at the faintly breaking dawn and the sea.
For me it was exhilarating, and I am sure it has stirred in other
men a like love of this expansive environment.
Presently, I was aware that the veil of darkness had indeed


The Greatest Gift 149
all but evaporated—the full light of a new day had suddenly
come from the east. I sighted 360 degrees around and then
quickly scanned the sky above. The dark shape of the magnifi-
cent F-68g might be accidentally spotted, I thought, by an in-
truding aircraft. It was time to dive.
Before going below to the conning station, I turned to Lieu-
tenant Glinka, the bridge watch officer, and said, "Dive her to
periscope depth for a trim. Then we'll take her down to four
hundred feet for a bathythermograph reading to see how the
water temperature looks."
Glinka's white teeth flashed in his customary grin. "Aye, aye,
Captain," he called out after me as I disappeared down the man-
hole to the conning station.
The next orders I heard came from Glinka, who shouted,
"Dive, dive," and immediately I heard the heavy but rapid
scurrying of feet of the trained crewmen executing his command.
In quick succession they jumped down the ladder into the con-
ning station, thence to the control station to man the wheels
which control the diving evolution. The conning station hatch
leading to the bridge was slammed shut and dogged tightly as
Glinka, en route to the control station to take over the task of
diving officer, excitedly shouted to me, "Conning hatch shut and
secured, sir."
I nodded my acknowledgment.
It was a routine dive, but as always, I felt a bit squeamish.
I watched the depth gauge and inclinometer.
—Passing 35 feet; down angle 5 degrees.
I ordered the boat slowed.
—Passing 45 feet; down angle 10 degrees.
The negative, or heavy ballast water, was blown out as usual.
This would help the submarine to level off at desired depth with
a neutral state of buoyancy. Everything seemed normal.
—Passing 57 feet, now at periscope depth . . .
—Down angle 15 degrees and increasing!
... 16 ... 17 ... 18 degrees, and still increasing!
Something was wrongl


150 Shadow of Peril
Just then, Glinka shouted up, yelling frantically to me, "I think
the stern planes are jammed on full dive! I've lost all control!!"
The urgency and obvious fear in his voice were contagious.
I glanced at the navigator, Mikhailoff, whose face also registered
disbelief mixed with trepidation.
But why hadn't Glinka caught this malfunction before this, I
wondered. He should have. But there was no time to reprimand
him now. His incompetency would have to be dealt with later.
My eyes looked up again at the depth gauge and inclinometer,
as I roared, "Blow all ballast tanks! Emergency astern!"
—Depth 125 feet; down angle 28 degrees.
I could hardly hold on to the railing which partially extended
around the hatch to the control station. The noises of the as-
sorted equipment breaking loose from their moorings, and the
sounds of unfixed gear crashing forward to the deck, was deafen-
ing. And then, there came loud screams from men in the galley.
Could it be too late, I thought?
The momentum of this huge sinking craft was tremendous, I
knew.
—Depth 350 feet; down angle 35 degrees.
Still going down, and fast.
I remember the yell of the quartermaster as he slipped and
flew headlong past me, crashing finally into the forward end of
the conning station.
Too late! Too late! The words were etched in my thoughts . . .
For a brief instant, a thought now flashed through my mind
of that Sunday back in 1959 when I sat in the Washington, D.C.
Cathedral and listened to the words of that haunting hymn.
Was there a God for me, and was he standing near within the
shadows, keeping watch over us? God!! DO SOMETHING!!
Was it a prayer? It was not; the time it took to think these things
was but momentary. But, I later reflected, how strange to have
had such thoughts pass through my mind at such a time of anxiety
and impending disaster.
—Depth 500 feet; down angle 40 degrees, still dropping!
The bow of the F-68g was now almost hanging at test depth,


The Greatest Gift 151
beyond which the hull would crush. Perhaps it was too late. Too
late . . . too late . . . too late . . . too late . . . the words rang
out so clearly in my mind.
In the wardroom, Professor Bogucharovo had been sipping a
cup of coffee when suddenly he was thrown backward out of his
seat, against the wardroom lockers. Books fell out of the high
cabinets and bombarded him almost into unconsciousness. Un-
fortunately, the coffee urn broke loose and dumped its fresh
contents over his right upper chest and right forearm. Already
in a near state of shock, his cries of anguish and pain were heard
only by Rodion Trubetovski and by his fellow professor, Poz-
deev, who had simultaneously been catapulted out of the toilet
compartment where he had been sitting, clear across the passage-
way and into the bulkhead.
Bogucharovo was badly scalded, and, save for his clothing
protection, would have been burned severely.
In the galley, the cooks had been preparing dinner. The crew's
tables had been set with plates and cups, forks, knives, and
spoons. The canned peas and carrots had just been slipped into
a cauldron of hot water; the boiling potatoes were just about
done, and the Polish ham was ready for the pineapple sauce
dressing. What happened in this compartment is indescribable.
I saw the aftermath. That aftermath was also seen in all com-
partments and spaces throughout the submarine, except for the
conning station which is one deck above the others.
Food and debris was sloshed and thrown throughout the boat.
Hot potatoes, peas and carrots, sizzling Polish ham and bits and
pieces of earthenware plates and cups, knives, forks, and spoons,
all hopelessly mixed with spare engine and electrical parts broken
loose from other compartments, lube oil, hot coffee, and human
bodies all made up a massively incredible sight.
I gave the order, "Stop all propellers!"
This was in an effort to help control the perilous angle of the
submarine.
I waited, tense, perspiring.
I guess I finally did pray, quickly, after a sort.


152 Shadow of Peril
And then, suddenly, the down angle lessened to 35 degrees
again. I looked at the depth gauge. It read 640 feet, but the bow
was far below that. Several more feet might mean our being
physically crushed. The dials were now stopped.
"We caught it," I shouted. "Thank God!"
I breathed easier.
But we were still not out of danger. I ordered "Ahead speed"
as the F-689 now quickly leveled off to zero degrees angle, then
started slowly upward.
—Passing 550 feet. Up angle 10 degrees . . .
We were still out of control, only now we were rising, and
with increasing rapidity. The F-68g was grossly light due to the
blowing, earlier, of all ballast tanks. My next command was al-
most coincidental with the thought itself going through my head
about the ballast.
"Flood all ballast tanks, flood all ballast tanks!"
This action would slow down the ascent. Already, all the loose
gear and rubble were beginning to fly back in the opposite direc-
tion, toward the stern. I could hear the onrushing seas now pour-
ing into the ballast tanks. It was a frightening roar, but most
welcome.
—Depth 475 feet. Up angle 15 degrees and increasing. . .
—Depth 400 feet. Up angle 20 degrees . . .
The ship's upward momentum now was too great—we would
crash through to the surface, I was positive. The explosive burst
of the submarine up through the water into daylight would be
almost at a 45-degree angle—enough to perhaps break the ship's
back upon the bow's return to the water! The thought was
terrifying.
In the forward torpedo room, the compartment nearest the
bow, a torpedo which was lashed to a loading rack broke loose
from its holding clamps and slammed backwards with a crash
against the sound room. I could hear the tremendous impact,
and hoped that no men were in its path. They would surely be
crushed by its sheer force of collision with the stationary im-
pediment, man or materiel. . .


The Greatest Gift 153
—Passing 200 feet. Up angle 30 degrees and increasing!
—Passing 125 feetl Up angle now 35 degreesl
I yelled, "Blow all ballast tanks!!"
If I did not do this now, I feared we would sink again—still
out of control. At best, I could expect the F-68g, after breaking
through the surface, to sink back down again by its sheer mo-
mentum, to a deep depth. By making the boat light once more,
at least I could prevent us from returning to dangerously deep
depths out of control.
—Passing 50 feet. . . Up angle 35 degrees . . .
The bow was probably just breaking the water's surface.
It could be worse, I imagined . . .
At least, we were still alive—most of us, anyway, I thought.
And then, the ship went dark.
We had lost all lighting. Automatically, however, the battery-
powered emergency lights were turned on by trained and alert
sailors. Daily training in the event of such a casualty had paid
great dividends.
And now, with a roar and a rumbling swoosh of tons of salt
water, we exploded to the surface at the horrible up angle of 39
degrees. I recall glancing at the depth gauge. It read "o." The
F-68g must have porpoised half a length into the atmosphere.
Then, with a terrific bang, the forward section slapped back
against the water's surface. For a moment I imagined the ship
had broken its back. The Soviet ship designers certainly are to
be commended for a sturdily built ship, I reflected a few minutes
later, for miraculously, the submarine escaped unscathed.
Once again, the F-68g slipped back beneath the sea. It was
sternways this time, but with the bow at a 20 degree up angle.
The situation was still not in hand, but at least my morale was
improving. And my composure had returned. I ordered the pro-
pellers stopped.
At 125 feet depth again, with the propellers now going ahead,
the up angle decreased and the ship began to rise slowly to the
surface. At 50 feet, rising moderately due to the lightness of the
boat, it began to level off. I knew now that the submarine was


154 Shadow of Peril
at last under control. We popped to the surface for the final time.
And now it was a glorious feeling, for we stayed there. Stayed
there, that is, until order, confidence, and morale could be re-
stored throughout the submarine.
Luckily, for the next one and a half hours that we were on the
surface effecting repairs, our presence was not detected. But the
"routine" dive had taken its toll—and made me realize fully that
casualties do occur, often when most unexpected.
Examination of the stern planes by our underwater diver re-
vealed that a block of wood, entangled in heavy seaweed, had
lodged between the port plane and the hull. Eventually, through
superb workmanship by seamen under the watchful eye of Chief
Petty Officer Igor Novikov, the wooden block and entwined
seaweed were extricated.
As for Lieutenant Glinka, I felt that his failure to take prompt
corrective action in blowing the ballast tanks and reversing the
propellers soon enough was unforgivable. His error, therefore,
was duly noted in my patrol report covering the individual effi-
ciency of each officer assigned to my command.
But more important, perhaps, the casualty list was dishearten-
ing. In the case of my Second Officer, Volkonski, the injury
sustained was a direct result of his efforts to correct the initial
damage done by the torpedo which had crashed loose. Shortly
after the sub had surfaced for repairs, Volkonski, as a trained offi-
cer-artilleryman, had gone forward to help reposition the heavy
torpedo now awkwardly resting diagonally across the forward
torpedo room. On one of the attempts to lift it into place, the rig
slipped and Volkonski, pushing his own body weight against the
tremendous onslaught of the heavy torpedo, was smashed down
to the deck, bruised and bleeding. Worse, the strenuous physi-
cal effort on his part produced a pronounced rupture of his ab-
dominal wall, and he lay in agonizing pain while the medical
corpsman administered morphine and first aid. It was obvious
that he would be of no further use to us on this cruise, and I real-
ized that when we rendezvoused with the Grodno, we would
have to transfer him for appropriate medical care.



Long-range Russian submarines prowl the seven seas.



OSEBLEBEELDO
VA
2. The U.S.S. Taconic (AGC 17), which was the command flagship of U. S. Ad-
miral Holloway at Beirut, Lebanon in 1958. (Official U. S. Navy photo)



13
201
Port of Beirut
3. Port of Beirut. In Zhdanov's story: (1) The approximate position of the American
destroyer U.S.S. Abbot (DD 629) in Beirut Harbor, Lebanon, on the night of
September 13, 1958, when the W-7 made its approach; (2) The moored (pierside)
position of the U.S.S. Taconic; (3) The approximate position of the Soviet sub-
marine W-7 when Lieutenant Commander Sverdlov fired two wild pistol shots in
the direction of the U.S. destroyer and wounded a sailor.



4. The destroyer U.S.S. Abbot. Scene showing how the Abbot would look in a
periscope photo (enlarged for detailed examination) taken on high-power setting at
seven hundred to eight hundred yards range.



5. Replenishment operations in the Mediterranean. Mobility, versatilty—inde-
structibility?



6. The fast-moving cruiser U.S. S. Des Moines.



7. This official U. S. Navy photograph of the Soviet trawler Vega was taken by a
U. S. Navy patrol blimp on April 26, 1960. At the time, the Vega was keeping tabs
on the U. S. nuclear-powered submarine George Washington, the first Polaris sub,
which was then test-firing dummy projectiles. The Vega's presence in the area was
ostensibly for "fishing"; actually, she was fishing for information concerning the
submarine and its missile-firing capability.



I!!!
T
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--
-
.
LAUTURION
8. The U.S.S. Alcor (AK 259), a Navy supply ship, “lined up in the periscope” off
Guantánamo in 1962.



LIT
9. 2:38 P.M., February 20, 1962. Had Zhdanov actually taken this photo, the cap-
sule would have been at his mercy.



O Red missile sites manned by
Soviets
* Red sub bases under construction
10. The Pearl of the Antilles-Cuba- showing the Soviet-manned missile sites
under construction in March 1962 and the planned Soviet submarine base facilities.


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11. Russian-built rockets and vehicles move over rough Cuban terrain to launching
sites. (Red Star photo)
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TITIL
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!!!!
13. The Statue of Liberty. A picture of this kind would have been taken with peri-
scope optical setting on high power.



Bull's eye: New York.



15. A Dealey-class antisubmarine vessel "caught" not far from Newport, Rhode
Island.



16. This Soviet tanker, fully equipped with a wide variety of electronics instru-
mentation, is similar to the type which sometimes operates with the trawler fleet—
and on other special missions. In addition to being on hand to supply fuel, this type
of ship is well equipped to conduct electronics probes into American defense and
flight systems. Note the bursting array of antennas, radars, and signal equipment.
High-capacity wireless transmitters and receivers also enable ships of this type to
act as command relay stations afloat for trawlers and submarines operating in con-
junction with them. (Official U. S. Navy photo )


The Greatest Gift 155
Professor Bogucharovo's scalding was not too serious, but one
of the cooks, a commissary petty officer named Ivan K. Isachen-
kov, and a seaman named Peter Gehgrenko, were burned raw
by scalding water in the galley. The latter, to make matters
worse, had also suffered a compound fracture of the right fore-
arm when a cauldron overturned on him, pinning him beneath it.
A torpedoman, named Golovkoff, had slipped from a ladder
and broken an ankle. And then a drawer full of electronics spare
parts had come crashing into him, tearing his face into a pulp on
the left-hand side. The navigator, Mikhailoff, was accidentally
stabbed by a loose and flying pair of navigational dividers. They
punctured the fleshy part of his throat; a quartermaster had had
to withdraw the spiked prong from his neck, and the medical
corpsman had immediately administered an injection of tetanus
antitoxin. Besides these injured men, there were seventeen others
suffering varying degrees of bruises, cuts, sprains, and minor
ailments resulting from the episode.
This had been St. Valentine's Day, 1962!
I shall never forget it—for on this day, we had received the
greatest gift of all: our lives.


i8
Pink Champagne and Red Revolutionaries
February 14, 1962
This was the day that Second Officer Volkonski began
to show signs of deterioration physically in the area of his ab-
dominal rupture. There now appeared great bluish coloration
of the outer surface of the abdominal wall, and Volkonski lay
writhing on his bunk. The medical corpsman did what he could
by placing ice packs on the sore regions, and by attempting to
console the injured man with the oft-stated observation that he
was sure he wouldn't have to operate. Unfortunately, this made
Volkonski feel even worse, as he had not too much confidence
in the surgical competency of a naval hospital attendant. Further-
more, what insignificant degree of confidence he did have was
additionally undermined when the corpsman, on taking Volkon-
ski's temperature about midday, said matter-of-factly, "Well, I
guess I'd better read up on what I might have to do, just in case
I have to do it, you know . . ."
And then, an hour or so later, poor Volkonski was nearly terri-
fied when the corpsman approached him, stroking a freshly
shaved face completely devoid of the heavy beard which he had
had but a short time before.
"How come the shave, corpsman?"
"The whiskers might get in the way when . . . er . . . if I have
to operate, sir," came back the informative reply of the man
upon whom devolved the responsibility for deciding the actual
necessity of undertaking such surgery, as well as the operation
labor itself.


Pink Champagne and Red Revolutionaries 157
Volkonski's little eyes stared vacantly in abject horror, and
then closed as if in deathlike resignation to the ghastly inevitable.
But the surgical knife never penetrated his skin aboard the
F-68g. The ice packs brought about an improvement in the con-
dition, so that no action was necessary until after he had been
transferred to the tanker the next day.
The "midday" meal (served close to midnight) was a time of
great anticipation. Although writhing in agony with what had
developed as a double hernia, acute, Volkonski had managed to
alter the menu as his last contribution to the sumptuous fare
served in the wardroom. From his bunk, he had ordered the
commissary-porter, Rodion Trubetovski, to write down his dic-
tated ideas as to what this "last supper" (so to speak) would
consist of. Rodion was sworn to secrecy, so that none of the offi-
cers knew what the menu would be prior to actually sitting down
to the meal. However, care was taken to advertise the fact that
for this last occasion, Volkonski was outdoing himself. For the
Final Meal, he had himself brought in, flat on his back, and put
down that way on the wardroom couch. He wanted to be present
during the consuming of this, his ultimate dietary triumph.
When 1 got the word that this last meal was to be a flourish, I
myself got into the act and sent for Rodion Trubetovski.
"Rodion, please see to it that the special wine cabinet is utilized
tonight," I said, passing the key to this liquid treasure chest to
him.
"And by the way, I shall want to make a toast tonight to the
Second Officer," I went on. "So, for the occasion—and I shall make
it directly after the first toast following the main course—I will
want to have pink champagne."
"Aye, aye, Captain, so then I shall have two champagne glasses
at each place," observed the thoughtful Rodion, whose efficient
service I am convinced at least equaled that of his father in the
household of the Cantacuzenes.
Thus was set up the stage for the Momumental Tribute to
Gastronomical Indulgers.


160 Shadow of Peril
golden champagne from his other glass, now looked up quickly
at Rostopchin. It was obvious that fireworks were in the offing.
For Makar Rostopchin had again offended the commissar, this
time by assailing a directive authored by his (Lvov's) immediate
chief and head boss man, Vice Admiral Grishanov.
"Are you questioning the judgment of Admiral Grishanov, Mr.
Rostopchin?"
The words were slow and deliberate, and it was as though the
prosecutor were moving in for the kill.
I moved—and none too soon. Makar Rostopchin was already
on his feet, a blush of anger coming across his features, already
well flushed by the fermented grapes of France and Germany.
In that second, I too was standing, newly filled glass of bubbling
pink champagne held outstretched in a steady hand. My toast
was predetermined, of course, but it also now came up at a fortu-
nate time, when it would serve to forestall any new outbreak be-
tween the commissar and the engineer officer.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Arise all! and let us toast that in-
trepid, fearless experimenter in the exploitation of international
cuisine, that master of exciting and ravishing new delicacies, he
that has diligently sought our gastronomical satisfaction, the man
behind the menu this evening, our own Lieutenant Commander
Nikolai Volkonski, perhaps the most rare of epicurean masters in
all of Soviet Russia! And while we toast this shipmate of ours,
let us express our sorrow at his most unfortunate plight. To you,
Nikolai Volkonski, who have been so efficient a Second Officer,
and for whom the entire boat has felt a true respect, may I offer
this toast in sadness at your having to leave us tomorrow, but
with the hope that soon, you will be with us again!"
Volkonski smiled happily, pain or no. And the glasses were
drained. The rest of the dinner was anticlimactic.
February 15, 1962
It was no more than three hours later when Sergei Nikolo-
vich Mikhailoff reported to me that we were, as close as he
could determine, on station for the ordered rendezvous with the


Pink Champagne and Red Revolutionaries 161
tanker Grodno. Coming up to periscope depth, the watch officer
searched the area. The electronic direction-finding antenna was
raised, and we exerted all efforts to find our friends. But due to
our lack of success visually, via electronics listening, or by under-
water sound—at first—I decided to take a brief moment to look
at the surrounding scene on a radarscope.
The reward was there. Some twenty miles to the northeast,
there loomed the radar splotch which must surely be the tanker.
The navigator worked out a maneuvering solution, and in short
order, we were committed to a course at best speed for inter-
ception.
It was in the murky gray-black of early morning, not much
before morning twilight, when we surfaced, bow pointed at the
large shape no more than a thousand yards away. We had al-
ready established that she was the Grodno; first by identification
of her propeller noises at a good distance before actually closing
in at close quarters; then by observing her send off some mast-
head-light signals of positive identification, interceptable and
understandable by anyone able to read Morse code in the im-
mediate area.
The sea was mild and black; the air warm and damp.
Up on the open bridge, I looked painstakingly through my
binoculars at the large ship, searching for some signs of deck
activity. The tanker had stopped dead in the water, and was
lying to. Presently, a bridge signal lamp was pointed in our direc-
tion, and a signalman on the tanker banged away on his shutter
lever—a noise easily heard on the sub bridge, a thousand yards
away—transmitting a query. Simply put, it was whether we were
ready to receive designated passengers. My reply, affirmative,
also alerted the tanker to take on board for medical attention
my erstwhile Second Officer and the other men who had sus-
tained serious injuries.
A boat from the tanker made three trips over to the starboard
side of the F-68g. The first unloading disgorged three revolu-
tionary agents, headed by Senor Juan Marcos y Olivie, a Latin-
American type with considerable property in storaged firearms


162 Shadow of Peril
for his mission. The second load brought three more. All were
dressed in campesino style; all were armed. The third trip
brought fresh provisions, including lemons.
And on the final return trip of the boat, Lieutenant Com-
mander Nikolai Volkonski was transferred from the submarine
to the tanker, along with the other three seriously injured men,
Isachenkov, Gehgrenko, and Golovkoff.
The F-68g had lost an effective Second Officer and three well-
trained submarine crewmen. In their place had come, for how-
ever short a time, six dark and swarthy Latins—forerunners of
Communist revolution in the Caribbean islands near Cuba.


*9
My Own Moment to Decide
February 16, 1962
The Grodno, following the transfers of personnel and pro-
visions, had churned away on a divergent course from our own,
heading her directly toward Havana. Her expected time of ar-
rival there would be February 22. Our rendezvous with her,
according to Navigator Mikhailoff, had been at 20,°io' north,
49° 55' west. In view of his "feat" of successful navigational po-
sitioning of the F-68g in mid-ocean for the rendezvous, Lieu-
tenant Glinka, still unabashed despite his recent slovenly, un-
professional performance in diving the sub, wrote up a citation
(in jest) which he posted on the wardroom bulletin board. It
read as follows:
From: Peter, Father of the Russian Navy and Chief of Staff
to Father Neptune, Admiral of the Ocean Seas
To :Lieutenant Sergei Mikhailoff
Topic: Citation for Extraordinary Performance
1. Lieutenant Mikhailoff, you have demonstrated a devo-
tion to duty and a professional ability beyond the call of
submarine navigation. Despite a severe head cold, a wharped
zhooeyovich and a crooked quartermaster assistant, you have
daily, in fact hourly, overcome the above-mentioned obsta-
cles and have known down to a palm's breadth, the position
of the Soviet submarine F-68g. Never in all the history of
submarining have men owed so much as to you, he that has
left us in so dire a state of medical need. That specific feat


164 Shadow of Peril
for which you deserve such credit must be alluded to, but
in conjunction with it, you are to be commended for the en-
tire operation, to wit:
(a) Getting underway from Kola Inlet before you knew
which chart to use, and still not grounding us all.
(b) Entering the North Atlantic Ocean with no mis-
haps, without ever actually knowing it at the time.
(c) Passing successfully between the Faeroes and the
Shetlands without realizing it.
(d) Causing your position reports to coincide daily with
the dead-reckoned positions previously laid out on
your charts.
(e) And finally, in bringing this submarine to the pre-
determined rendezvous with the GRODNO, a feat
of true Soviet expertise.
2. In view of these feats, you are hereby awarded the Pend-
ant of Peter the Great, with Ribbon and Rubies, and are to
be accorded the full privileges attendant to the Gold and
Red Order of the Three-Point-Fix.
(Signed)
Peter
By Order of the Admiral
. . . And the F-68g plunged southwestward, at maximum sus-
tained cruising speed, her objective the anticipated sea recovery
area for the space capsule of America's first orbiting astronaut.
A message received from the Grodno indicated that intelligence
estimates placed Lieutenant Colonel Glenn in the space capsule
almost continuously at this time, awaiting good weather. But,
according to Soviet weather predictors (much further advanced
than the Americans) the earliest probable time for the launch
would be about February 19. By then, we ought to be on station.
Also of interest was another message received. It came in dur-
ing the snorkeling hours of darkness on the sixteenth, and was
from Admiral Gorshkov. It suggested that the six passengers
bound for Santo Domingo (their ultimate destination) not be


My Own Moment to Decide 165
made aware of the effort to rendezvous with the space capsule;
it went on to give some specific information on the United States
men-of-war believed to be operating in the Caribbean Sea, and
especially those temporarily based at the training station at
Guantanamo Bay.
Then, Gorshkov laid out the project we were to accomplish
in Havana. He specified that I was to prompt Sefior Castro to
move immediately in expediting the construction of the Soviet
submarine pens in certain Cuban ports and inlets, that I was to
visit the ballistic missile sites that Castro was building, to bring
back a detailed report on their progress, and to see generally
that Soviet objectives were being met in Cuba. In particular,
Gorshkov wanted to make sure that at least one wing of missiles
was pointed at the American naval base at Charleston, South
Carolina, where it is known that the U. S. Navy is basing its Pola-
ris stockpile.
Of course, the Americans normally would not think that our
missiles sent to Cuba were capable of hitting such U. S. coastal
cities as Charleston. But the truth is that they would be capable
of bringing destruction and annihilation to such other cities as
Miami, Jacksonville, St. Petersburg, Tallahassee, New Orleans,
Mobile, Columbus, Georgia (where the U. S. Army has its most
effective training post), and of course other cities within com-
parable range. Furthermore, within a short period of time, even
longer range missiles may be sent from Russia to Cuba. As a mat-
ter of fact, this has amused most Russian leaders, because Amer-
ica seems so excited about what happens in Laos and South
Vietnam, but hasn't appeared too much concerned, at least until
now, with what goes on right under her nose!
In any event, the F-68g received up-to-the-minute instructions
pertaining to the Cuban visit, and I was warned not to let the
Latin-American Communists on board know what we were going
to be doing prior to their own landing on the shores of the Do-
minican Republic.
This last matter was rather difficult to do, because Sefior Juan
Marcos y Olivie was a shrewd customer. He was, perhaps more


168 Shadow of Peril
there throughout the critical period of action against the Ameri-
can space effort.
Sergei MikhailofFs voice thundered through the cramped con-
ning station with the navigational position.
"One hundred fifty miles east of Grand Turk Island," came
the voice of the man Glinka had decided was eligible for the
Pendant of Peter the Great.
"Make a notation in your log," I yelled out. "American space
vehicle descending on bearing 020 degrees. Range five thousand
yards. Horizon clear. Making all speed to close."
Then I shouted out, "Give me all the propeller turns you can
for this shallow depth!"
To the commissar opposite me, in a more subdued tone, I
said, "I want to get in there before any rescue aircraft comes
near."
Baliuk now moved in quickly to take a photograph of the de-
scending capsule.
Then, to the watch officer nearby, I heard the commissar say,
"Make ready a forward torpedo tube for firing; we shall want
the special electric homing torpedo. Set it on fast speed."
My mind whirred, not in confusion, but in a steady sifting of
information, facts, orders, apprehensions, possible actions, and
final judgments concerning the action taking place. The capsule
had just landed in the water, and I could see it, bobbing gently
in a wavy but mild sea. Underwater sound now announced that
they had just picked up very fast, light propeller noises off our
starboard bow.
In a split second, I had wheeled the periscope around to the
danger bearing. The sight I saw nearly terrorized me. It was in-
credible! Bearing down upon us at full speed was a U. S. de-
stroyer. I recognized her immediately as an old one, hence
nothing to worry about under normal conditions. But these
weren't normal conditions. The commissar still wanted to un-
leash a torpedo at the space capsule, now about thirty-five hun-
dred yards away; there was an American destroyer bearing down
on us rapidly; and I was under strict orders to avoid detection!


i7o Shadow of Peril
"I tell you, Captain, we have no choice but to fire at both the
capsule and the oncoming destroyer," Lvov persisted, his face
becoming colored in what must have been a combination of an-
ger and frustration.
I raised my hand in a gesture of restraint.
"Commissar," I yelled back at him, "if we are attacked, yes!
Then I shall shootl Why else do you suppose I'm taking the pre-
caution of making ready all torpedo tubes for firing?"
My voice had risen to parade-ground volume: I desired all
others who had been listening to Lvov's exhortations to also hear
my reaction. It made no impression on Lvov, however. He con-
tinued his argument.
"Captain, if that destroyer picks us up, we may be dead geese
within the hour! I demand that you not ruin the whole situation!
We can sink that destroyer before they ever know what's hap-
pening! And then we can deal with the capsulel!"
The commissar's voice was loud, belligerent, and derisive. I
seethed. Who was he, anyway, to tell the captain of a Soviet sub-
marine what his business was? After all, Lvov was a political
officer!
"You will kindly confine your remarks to other than the de-
cision I have made," I blurted out. Actually, I had made no de-
cision. At that point, I had only a foggy idea of what I would do.
Basically, of course, it was that I would close the range a bit
more to the capsule in order to see firsthand its immediate re-
entry state. I was, naturally, very much aware that the Soviet
High Command was interested in obtaining specific data re-
corded by the capsule's instruments. But I had been unable to
determine how, precisely, I could succeed in this mission while
maintaining secrecy relative to our presence in the area.
"The decision you have made?" It was Lvov, his voice abusive.
"What decision, Captain?" His eyes, flashing with contempt, were
riveted on me.
"Tell me," he went on, pressing the attack, "is your decision
to repeat your failure in Beirut Harbor?"


My Own Moment to Decide 171
The words stung like a dagger thrust into my side and twisted
for ultimate agony. I could not let this commissar get away with
such talk any more than I could have let Sverdlov talk back to
me on the old W-7 in the Mediterranean, back in 1958.
I trained the periscope around to the submarine's heading. We
were pointed directly at the tilting, gently rocking space vehicle.
I could read the lettering on the side—UNITED STATES. The
words were vertically stacked, and it was only now and again
that I could make out the word "STATES"—but they were there,
and seeing them sent a chill through me. Was I wrong in hesitat-
ing to do what the commissar was urging me to do? Should I
undertake the precipitate action that might possibly lead to a
third world war? But were we not already in World War III—
at least, in the cold war phase? Wasn't it my duty to think only
of my country, and to serve her without thought of anything else?
Shouldn't the United States quite properly be denied the secrets
of space flight, at least until the USSR had put a man on the
moon? The commissar might be right. I began to hedge.
"Now is the time! Now is the time! Now or neverl" It was Lvov,
bellowing infuriatingly.
Surely this was the moment to decide. I couldn't wait much
longer. A hostile, or at least potentially hostile, submarine-killer
—the destroyer—was bearing down on us fast. I looked over at
Lvov. His cold eyes blazed in anger; his mouth was twisted into
a vicious, petulant contortion. I glanced at my watch. It was
2:43 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.
The watch officer sang out word relayed from the forward tor-
pedo room. "Special torpedo ready, speed setting fast. All other
tubes ready."
I am sure my forehead was sweating. But I couldn't be sure.
The salt water, mingled with hydraulic oil droplets, had been
dripping down upon my head. I peered through the periscope
again. The cross hairs were lined up precisely on the bouncing
capsule. This, I thought, was a sight I would carry with me to
my grave . . . and I was repulsed by the thought of the impend-
ing liquidation of America's first globe-encircling astronaut.


172 Shadow of Peril
Again the voice of the commissar:
"What are you waiting for? We won't have this chance again!!"
And then, the thought suddenly flashed through my mind that
indeed, the chance would not come again. Spontaneously, there
came before me the words of the Anglican Church's hymn:
"Once to every man and nation
Comes the moment to decide . . ."
My heart was beating so violently that I was sure everyone
in the submarine could hear it. Cold sweat dampened the palms
of my hands, making it slippery holding onto the periscope han-
dle braces.
"What are you waiting for?" It was Lvov, his impatience be-
yond control, his voice a disparaging mockery of my competence.
"Shut up, you fool! Shut up!" My retort was instantaneous, and
it was thunderous.
I took my eyes away from the lenses and glanced at my wrist
watch again. It was 2:44 p.m.
Another look through the scope . . .
There it was ... a dark little can, sort of like an oddly shaped
bell, bobbing idly, and dead-centered in the cross hairs of my
periscope.
The sight froze me momentarily in an illusion. In my mind's
throbbing backdrop, where the hypnosis of compelling thought
often sires visions, I was carried away trance-like to live a grim
and grueling experience . . .
Hollowly, as if sounded in a cavern and reverberated through
endless mountain gorges, I could hear myself give the com-
mand . . .
"Fire!"
I heard the watch officer too, in this moment of unreality, re-
lay the word through the intercommunications system, and I
watched the bright blue water, the azure, cloudless sky, and
the helpless capsule of the intrepid American colonel.
"Kphoomph!"


174 Shadow of Peril
I glared at Lvov. I was deeply antagonized by his publicly
"charging" me with anything. Instinctively, I linked him with an
oppressive evil force. The words of the hymn, "For the good or
evil side," somehow flashed across my mind's eye. In that flick
of an instant, I think, I made my decision.
"Commissar," 1 remember saying, "the responsibility is mine,
not yours. I know my duty. That duty is primarily to remain un-
detected on this cruise and to carry out the original orders upon
which we were committed."
Then, in a voice ringing with authority and no doubt bolstered
by my subconscious realization that I had just reasserted my own
rights as commanding officer, I called out, "Down periscope!"
To the watch officer I said, "Take us down to two hundred
feet."
The periscope handle braces were slapped up vertically and
the chain reaction was set in motion. I moved out from the spot to
which I had been almost fastened for the past forty-five minutes
or so, and came face to face at close quarters with Commissar
Lvov. His countenance was a study in unmanageable rage. His
beardless face was almost livid, contrasting remarkably with the
bewhiskered appearances of all others in his vicinity.
Mikhailoff and Kulakov were standing by, looking somewhat
helpless and embarrassed in the face of the tension between
their commanding officer and the commissar, with whom they
both had been most friendly. It was indeed an awkward position.
Fortunately, Lvov decided to leave the scene and go to his bunk.
For all intents and purposes, this was the end of the Glenn
episode. The F-68q was able to move away undetected by the
destroyer (later to become world-famous as the U.S.S. Noa, re-
covery ship of America's first orbital flight astronaut). Silently,
we headed for the northwestern shores of the Dominican Re-
public.
Glenn was safe. Glenn was a hero. Glenn deserved to be a
hero. But Glenn had been in more danger than even he, I am
sure, ever imagined. In fact, I have come to feel that for this


20
The Affair at the Midwinter Resort
MlDAFTERNOON, FEBRUARY 2o, I962
For the past hour, the submarine had been cruising sub-
merged and rigged for silent running, heading generally south-
ward from the Glenn recovery area. Our depth was four hun-
dred feet, our speed perhaps three knots. I was now certain that
we were in no danger of detection. After its fast approach on the
capsule, we heard the Noa's propellers stop and then go full-
speed astern (or so it sounded). We listened to the noises of
those propellers as they maneuvered the ship gently in the prox-
imity of the capsule, and it was not long before the underwater
listening equipment picked up the accelerating propeller turn
counts which to us indicated that the destroyer had made the
actual capsule recovery and was now headed back to join the
rest of the American units or, at least, the aircraft carrier with
which she had been operating.
Satisfied now, in my own mind, that we were in a position to
move out from the general area with no attendant risks, I leaned
over the navigator's chart and surveyed the cartographer's in-
terpretation of this section of the world in which we found our-
selves. To the southeast was the Brownson Deep, an incredibly
fathomless area of the ocean and a favorite locale for deep-sea
oceanographers.
To our south lay the eastern edge of Hispaniola; and, between
us and that island, coral reefs and jagged, abruptly rising sea
mounts to make submerged navigation hazardous save through
one of the many "passages" which struck my eye. Which one


The Affair at the Midurinter Resort 177
would we take? Until now, I had not discussed the matter with
anyone, and did not even know exactly where Senor Juan Mar-
cos y Olivie desired to be cast ashore. It was time to find out.
"Come, Sergei Nikolovich," I said, my right hand coming down
with a slap on the chart, "let's go find the Latin and find out
where he wants us to take him."
The navigator untaped the area chart, picked up a pencil
and pair of dividers, and nodded for me to precede him to the
wardroom.
Senor Juan Marcos y Olivie was seated at the wardroom table
with "Devil" Dedusko and Commissar Lvov when we entered
the compartment. Fascinated by what he was doing, Lvov and
Olivie were intently watching Dedusko as he violently shook a
small bottle of Italian dressing preparatory to spreading some on
a small salad which Rodion apparently had just prepared for all
of them. What fascinated them was the method which Dedusko
used. At a glance, I could see why they sat looking at him the
way they did. On the table was the top to the salad dressing bot-
tle. What, then, was being used to seal the bottle as Dedusko
shook it violently back and forth to insure his homogenization
of the contents? It was at once obvious. Dedusko's right hand
sported only four and a half fingers. Somewhere, quite a while
ago, doubtless while dabbling with some mechanical device, the
fourth finger of his right hand had been amputated. Only a small
stub remained; it was this stub which, inserted in the bottle open-
ing, now sealed the salad dressing in the bottle as Dedusko shook
it back and forth.
Apparently, both Lvov and Olivie were too gentlemanly to
comment on this boorishness; they said nothing, but merely con-
tinued to watch in speechless shock. It therefore fell upon me
to end this disgusting act. I did so by calling out, "Very well,
gentlemen, shall we put away the victuals and get down to busi-
ness? Rodion! Bring on some fresh hot coffee, if you please. I
will take my usual small cup."
As though lightning had struck, the dexterous manipulation
of the bottle suddenly ceased, the finger stub was extricated, and


178
Shadow of Peril
the table made clear for Sergei Nikolovich to set down his navi-
gational chart in front of the Latin.
Drawing up a chair opposite Olivié, I asked Dedusko if he
would mind letting the navigator sit in his place next to the
leader of the revolutionary agents. The seat was instantly made
available to Sergei, who sat down and proceeded to tape the
four corners of the chart to the flat surface of the table. Lvov,
on Olivié's left, watched the proceedings in silence. It was clear
that he was still angry over our having aborted what he con-
sidered was our mission-sinking the Glenn space capsule.
Rodion brought in the coffee on a tray. Steaming and deli-
cious in its aroma, it was, I thought, even more satisfying in the
anticipatory moments of inhaling its vapors than in actually
drinking it.
Olivié's black eyes focused on my small cup-a demitasse-and
then glanced furtively at the large Navy mugs with which the
others had been served. I could detect a slight frown on his brow.
The navigator was now smoothing out the chart and studying
it. Presently, he nudged Olivié and said, “Where do you want
to be taken to?”
Olivié's dancing dark eyes switched from my demitasse cup
to the chart before him. Quickly, they scanned the areas denoting
the large island of Hispaniola and its surrounding waters to the
north. I could see his interest in the various northern approaches
to the island. Finally, his right index finger moved over the chart
until it stopped at a point between the promontories of Monte
Cristo and Cape Isabella.
“On this northern coastline, I think probably right here, we
will choose to make our landing,” he said slowly, looking up to
ascertain any reaction from his listeners. Seeing none, he con-
tinued, “The one hundred fathom curve approaches the mainland
of Hispaniola within three-quarters of a mile at this point here."
His finger tapped a point midway between Rucia Point and
Brimball Point, a place well inside Isabella Bay. I reached over,
took a pencil and ruler which the navigator had put down on the
|


The Affair at the Midwinter Resort
179
table, and drew a track which would take us from our present
position to the desired location.
From the Glenn recovery area, it was 110 miles on a generally
west-southwest course to Silver Bank Passage, a natural channel
of very deep water (averaging twenty-one hundred fathoms)
lying between the Mouchoir and Silver Banks. (The Silver Bank
Passage is but one of several navigationally acceptable ap-
proaches from the north to Hispaniola, through an area of end-
less coral reefs and small islands.)
Mikhailoff now took his dividers and measured the length of
the two principal directional legs which I had laid out for the
voyage to Isabella Bay. To Silver Bank Passage it was 110 miles;
from there to the disembarkation point three-quarters of a mile
off the Dominican shore, it was seventy-five miles.
“At a speed of advance of 2.6 meters per second,” the navigator
said crisply, "we would be able to land you by 4 A.M. two days
hence. Right where you want to be.” He turned to look at Olivié,
who was entranced. “This would give you about 242 hours at
least until daylight. You want to have it early morning light
shortly after your arrival on the beach, don't you?”
The Latin looked at his Swiss Rolex watch.
“Hmmmmm. By tomorrow around noon, where will we be?”
His dark eyes skirted the faces of the others and came to rest on
mine. I again leaned over, examining the chart. I would indeed
want to transit the Silver Bank Passage in broad daylight-navi-
gationally, it would be easier. My answer to Olivié was directed
to the navigator.
“I should like you to get us to the Silver Bank Passage by
around noontime tomorrow, and then, as you have suggested,
we can arrive where the señor desires by no later than 4 A.M. the
day after tomorrow.”
Then, addressing Olivié, I said, “But why did you want to know
where we would be tomorrow at noon?”
Olivie's lips parted in a wide smile.
“Because this is the last noontime at sea that I may ever spend,
and I have been fascinated by reading in sea stories and reports


180 Shadow of Peril
of how seamen like the Englishman Captain Bligh always took
their high noon sun lines to find out where they were. I should
like to have someone show me how to do it, and it will be inter-
esting for me to know in advance where you think we will be."
I am sure I must have frowned. Who could be certain that it
would be possible, in the light of shipping which might be in
that area at that time, to surface sufficiently to take such a read-
ing? I smiled at the salt-water enthusiast and promised to provide
him with a lesson in navigation.
"Lieutenant Dedusko," I called out, turning to the electronics
brain now seated on the wardroom couch behind me, "I should
like you to give Sefior Olivie a lesson in nautical navigation. Get
a sextant and explain to him exactly what we do . . . no, no, not
just now, later, whenever convenient. . ."
Dedusko probably needed a day's work in navigation—at least,
celestial navigation. I was sure that all he knew about navigation
centered on his knowledge of the operating characteristics of our
electronics navigational equipment. It was therefore not surpris-
ing to note his face take on a look of near despair.
I faced Olivie again, smiling, and reached for my demitasse.
It was empty. Pressing the wardroom pantry buzzer, I summoned
Rodion to the table from his waiting station behind the sliding
panel shielding the wardroom from the food preparation area.
He refilled the cup.
"Now, gentlemen," I remarked with a broad smile, "let me
teach you a lesson. Look into your big coffee mugs. All of you
have at least a half a cup left, don't you?"
Senor Olivie looked down warily into his once steaming, three-
quarters-full cup of choice Brazilian coffee. He nodded, per-
plexed. Lvov shrugged his shoulders. "So?"
And the navigator, looking into his cup, merely frowned.
"Gentlemen," I went on, "the secret I pass on to you is this: If
you like good hot coffee, never take it in big cups. For you will
never be able to drink more than half before the rest becomes
tepid—or worse, plain cold."


182 Shadow of Peril
example of a society free from the small manifestations of privi-
leged minorities, free from the stigmas of—"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" It was Rostopchin, chiming
in. "To my mind, your bringing up such personal habits as my
use of snuff, or the Captain's personal preference for a demitasse,
and your condemnation of them, on the grounds that they remind
you of the eccentricities of a social class dead or dying, is quite
farfetched!"
Commissar Lvov turned crimson again. One thing he loathed
was being criticized, especially before others. After all, he was
the direct representative of Vice Admiral Grishanov! Surely, he
thought, that was sufficient reason to immunize him from the
counterarguments of others!
But in any event, I was beginning to find the session in the
wardroom to be in increasingly bad taste, and consequently
ended the discussion with, for Lvov, cruel finality. To him and
the others, I merely said, "Gentlemen, as far as I am concerned,
pressing this particular discussion could serve no useful purpose.
Therefore, I will thank you to consider it at an end."
The reaction of Commissar Lvov was priceless to watch. Ob-
viously, I had just cut him off when he was about to launch into
another one of his incessant political-social-economic harangues.
Face now scarlet, he arose, went over to the wine cabinet,
opened it, and drew forth a bottle of vodka. Without comment,
he poured himself a small glassful and in one uninterrupted
motion tilted the contents into his upturned mouth. Then, with
a loud clearing of the throat, he waved and stepped out of the
wardroom.
Meanwhile, paying him no heed, Senor Olivie had reached
into a pocket and produced a silver pocket-type humidor, from
which he removed two Cuban cigars.
"To think that we are within almost shouting distance of Cuba,"
he murmured. "To get these cigars I had to buy them in the
GUM Department Store in Moscow, and now they're being
brought practically halfway around the world again!"
He smiled his widest possible gold-revealing smile. One could


The Affair at the Midwinter Resort 183
not help noticing the row on row—or so it seemed—of gold fillings
planted around the perimeter of his gum lines. He offered me
one of the cigars, and I took it.
"Senor," said Rostopchin, who had moved around and seated
himself in Lvov's former chair, "where do you come from?"
Olivie turned his dark, leathery face toward the man on his
left. "My blood," he said, "is the good blood of old Spanish no-
bility, exquisitely mixed with Haitian French and offered in my
flesh and humble person as the best common denominator for
leadership in the Latin America of the future. For what could
be more representative of the stock of these countries than one
in whose veins flows the blood of the mingled masses? Indian?
Spaniard? Frenchman? African? In my forebears, in what some
might call baseness, is the very base itself of human culture from
a true blend of many cultures. I am the product of the races of
man. And in the forthcoming world of joint ownership by each
man and his neighbor, in the common possession of all property
by all peoples in a controlled State, where the State is the People,
who could better serve all people than one such as myself? I am
the People!"
I could think only of the French King Louis XIV, the Sun King,
whose words, "L'4tat, c'est moi," seemed no worse than Olivie's
interpretation of himself.
"But where do you come from senor?"
"On the Isle of Hispaniola, near the little village of San Pedro
de Macoris, I was born," Olivie said reflectively. "My father and
his father before him were planters, and they had done well.
The fascist Trujillo assassinated him many years ago—my father,
that is. I have known poverty, but I should never have had to
know it. I have seen the greedy norteamericanos come down
and exploit my homeland, as they have most of the countries in
la America Latina. Thanks to the training and to the understand-
ing of the great Russian people, however, we may still save our
lands for our own peoples."
"And what of the other five in your party?" It was Dedusko,
opening up after a long silence.


184 Shadow of Peril
"They are all hand-picked, former neighbors and associates of
mine; two were former foremen on sugar cane plantations in
Haiti. I got to know them when the Party sent me on a good-will
trip throughout the island last year."
"But how could you go on a good-will trip when Trujillo was
in power?"
"Well, naturally, it had to be done in secrecy. What happened
was that ostensibly, I had the papers purporting to make me a
field supervisor for an American farm equipment company. Sup-
posedly, I was going around speaking to the workers about the
efficiency of their farm equipment, and the like. As a matter of
fact, it was so well handled that even big fruit companies wel-
comed me and my 'delegation* to their plantations."
'And no one in the government knew you were really talking
Communism to all those workers?"
"No, senor. They would never think so, because, in true norte-
americano tradition, I always was careful to leave big tips—you
know, gold-lined gratuities—in the hands of the people I thought
could do us the most good. They all naturally supposed that here
was just another vulgar display of American business bribery.
And they took it, as usual."
"What then?"
"Well," said Olivie, puffing on his Havana cigar, "that is how
I got the invitation to go to the Soviet Union and learn how to
become truly efficient. For ten months, I have been in Moscow,
learning all there is to know about how to organize a successful
revolution. That is our mission here in the Dominican Republic to
which you take us. And," Olivie chomped down unmercifully on
his cigar, "I have at my disposal enough weapons, enough muni-
tions, enough bayonets, to make my quest for upheaval more
than a mere success. It will be like a volcanic eruption, changing
the complexion of everything that these peoples have ever known.
Yes, they will need a leader. And it shall be I who will point the
way for them. You know ... I am no longer a man of no means!"
Makar Rostopchin drew him forth even more.
"You have an independent fortune?"


The Affair at the Midwinter Resort 187
"Give me Dignity, every time," he blabbed, apparently for the
moment forgetting his own one-time nudity in that commodity.
Pozdeev, too, had come up for air. The last three miles of the
way in toward shore had been with the submarine fully surfaced.
The opening of the submarine proved tantalizing. Crewmen
swore up and down that they could recognize land nearby just
from the offshore smell. Perhaps they could. Certainly, most mari-
ners will agree that to the salt-air sensitive nostrils of the average
mariner, there is a definite change in odor, a specific alteration
in the smell, even a strong offensiveness, to the proximity of land
as a seaman might become acquainted with it, through the sense
of smell. For the odors of land from offshore bring to the pure
nostrils of the seaman all the smoke, the burned residues, the
rotting seaweed and tidal flotsam, the stinks of dead fish thrashed
ashore upon the beaches; and the stench of river outflows into
the sea itself. The amusing part about it all is that most land-
lubbers, when they stand on the shore near the sea, take sizable
breaths and gasp their pleasure at the opportunity to stand there
and breathe in "fresh salt air."
There is, in truth, no opportunity for a land inhabitant to smell
true "fresh salt air," unless he takes himself at least ten miles to
seal
And now, no later than four-thirty in the morning, the Soviet
submarine F-68g twisted around and nosed seaward once more.
Our course was west-northwest; our destination the United
States Naval Operating Base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. It
would be 115 miles to the Windward Passage, and then 135 miles
down to the southwestward into the American Navy's training
grounds. The thoughts of tangling once more with U. S. Navy
warships was invigorating. It was an excitement not unlike that
which I experienced back in 1958, on operations against the fa-
mous U. S. Sixth Fleet.
It was still George Washington's birthday, February 22, 1962.
But it was now four o'clock in the afternoon, just twelve hours
after we had left Senor Olivie to his own devices. We had been


188 Shadow of Peril
pushing generally westward at 5.2 knots, at varying depths, de-
pendent upon the best underwater levels to move in for success
in avoiding detection. Every hour, the watch officer would move
through a range of depths to ascertain the temperatures; this in-
formation led to the cruising level for the ensuing hour. Actually,
the track I had laid out with the navigator was planned for a
bare minimum of meeting with coastal shipping. Most of this
commerce would be conducted well inshore of us, I felt sure.
Thus, by 4 p.m., we had not come in contact with any other
shipping; our navigational position, as determined by radio di-
rection-finding and radar observations, was thirty miles due north
of Cap Haitien. Looking at the chart, I recalled a past cruise,
many years ago, when I went into that harbor aboard a Soviet
freighter, and in the overlay there in port had taken the tradi-
tional touristic donkey ride up the tortuous and precipitous
mountain trail leading to the Napoleonic-era brick and mortar
fortress of that mad, black Haitien Emperor, Jacques I (Jean
Jacques Dessalines), who for more than a decade defied the
troops of Imperial France. One who has ridden up that winding,
dangerous, incredibly steep mountain trail to the castle-fortress
high atop the loftiest peak on the cloud-level ridgeline never can
forget the experience. And so, my own thoughts reverted to that
day long ago when I made my buttocks so sore on a jolting, wob-
bling, cavorting old four-legged donkey that carried me on that
adventurous visit.
Tortuga Island lay some thirty-five miles to the southwest;
neither our electronics snooper equipment nor our underwater
sound gear indicated strangers anywhere near us. The watch of-
ficer reported that visual sweeps through the periscope deter-
mined the horizons and the skies above us to be uniformly clear.
I went up to the conning station and looked through the peri-
scope at the wonderfully blue water. Not since my cruise in the
Mediterranean had I seen such thoroughly enticing blue water
through the periscope. And the sun was there, bright and golden.
The sea was gently choppy, with little wavelets and occasional
whitecaps—but nothing more than a foot in height.


The Affair at the Midwinter Resort i8g
"Beautiful sight, isn't it, Captain?" It was the watch officer,
Ivan Nicolai Kulakov. He continued.
"Captain, you know, when I was on board the trawlers, we
used to take advantage sometimes of the sunshine and warm wa-
ter, and go swimming over the side. I don't suppose you might
consider us lying-to up on the surface for about a twenty-minute
swim call, would you?"
The thought gave impetus to my own private consideration of
just such a move. Why not? Turning to the watch officer, I said
with deliberate slowness, as though for the first time pondering
the question, "Well, Lieutenant, you are the operations officer. Tell
me, how much danger is there that we might be seen if we sur-
faced for thirty minutes?"
A look of delighted surprise came over the features of the
swimming enthusiast. "Not thirty minutes, Captain. That might
indeed be too risky. But twenty minutes . . . that would proba-
bly be all right. I might suggest that since the Americans don't
expect foreign submarines in this area, it might be all right for us
to guard against the possible surprise flight of a commercial air-
craft over us by activating our air-search radar. Then we could
insure ourselves against being inadvertently seen."
"What, though," I said, "might the Americans think if one of
their ships spots our radar beacons from this location?"
"I'd say unlikely, Captain. Most of them are so delirious over
the successful recovery of that damned space capsule that they
aren't even thinking about Soviet submarines at this time," re-
sponded the man who had set foot ashore in the United States
not too many months before, as a "sick" Soviet seaman. I was
compelled to believe him. Not the least of my reasons for accept-
ing his counsel was my own inclination to give the crew an op-
portunity for pleasant recreation.
"Mr. Officer of the Watch," I intoned, "you may pass the word
that we will have a swimming party over the side in about ten
minutes. In preparation, please see to it that before fully surfac-
ing, we have a complete intelligence roundup from all electronics
aids, regarding any contacts, surface or aerial, within detection


The Affair at the Midwinter Resort igi
"Yes?"
"I thought we were going out to seaward from Hispaniola, far
enough so that there wouldn't be any danger of anyone acciden-
tally seeing us."
"Yes, Professor, that is correct. That's what we did after we left
the agents ashore at Cape Isabella. We headed far out beyond
the limits of the coastal traders and fishermen."
The agrarian professor's eyes widened. Slowly, furrows rolled
up across his forehead. Pozdeev, opposite him, looked up at me
quizzically.
"But," Bogucharovo said, "how come we have land only two
miles away?"
"Simple, Professor," I grinned. "It's straight down."
The vertical movement, up and then down, of Bogucharovo's
Adam's apple, did not go unnoticed. But I did not capitalize on
the man's discomfiture. Just then, the word was passed on the
public address system, "Stand by to surface, stand by to surface,"
and within a moment I could hear the ballast tanks being blown,
followed by sensing the up-angle resulting therefrom.
Commissar Lvov entered the wardroom.
"Captain," he began, "I am surprised that you are doing this.
What if we are spotted? What if something goes wrong?"
"Nothing to really worry about, my dear Lvov," I replied. "Bet-
ter hasten into your swimsuit, or you will be the last man to avail
himself of the new tropical resort which I have just opened for
your midwinter pleasure!"
Lvov persisted. "Captain, I hope you know what you are
doing."
His warning irritated me; as the master of this submarine, his
pursuance of this line of questioning was offensive. It wouldn't
have been so bad had he been a real naval officer, but that is
what submarine-assigned commissars universally are not; he, of
course, was no exception.
"Well, Commissar," I answered, "I don't know about you, but
as for me, I am going up topside to see how the crew enjoys this
little outing."


i Q2 Shadow of Peril
So saying, I proceeded up to the conning station and thence
to the bridge. The sunshine was brilliant, and it blinded me. The
sun, warm and delightful, was truly a tonic. Now, with increasing
numbers of the crew climbing up topside and moving back to the
after main deck, I turned to the watch officer and said, "Lieu-
tenant Kulakov, you may pass the word to jump in as soon as I
see some extra lifelines and at least one heaving light-line up
here."
Rapid orders shot forth from the watch officer to the other
members of his watch, and within a few seconds, my request had
been complied with. The quartermaster of the watch was ordered
to sound the bell for swim call and, with the submarine lying-to
in a leisurely slow roll with the gentle ocean swells, the now
crawling deck suddenly cleared as bodies—most of them marbly
white and nude—jumped, dived, or fell over the side.
I had decided not to abandon my ship, but to remain topside
on the open bridge where the crew could see me. There would
be plenty of time for me to enjoy the blue waters of the Antilles
after I had made port safely in Havana.
The milling about of the swimmers, and the skylarking which
the crew engaged in, could not have been going on for more than
five minutes before the thought suddenly struck me that it might
be wise to have a rifleman or two up on the open bridge, for pro-
tection against possible shark attack.
Seeing the gunnery officer about to climb down to the lower
deck from the starboard side of the bridge, I reached over and
grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Going in for a swim, eh, Glinka?"
"Oh, why, yes, sir. Why, sir, isn't it all right?"
"Quite all right, Lieutenant. But it might be a good idea if you
had a couple of your men come up here with some rifles, just in
case we get caught short here by a shark or two . . ."
Glinka's jaw dropped noticeably.
"Sharks?'
"Why, yes. We are in the southern part of the North Atlantic,
you know ... or had you forgotten this is where the old Spanish


The Affair at the Midwinter Resort 193
pirates made the Englishmen walk the plank into the schools of
waiting maneaters?"
Glinka gulped.
"Better get a couple of riflemen up here on the double," I said,
slapping him nonchalantly on the back as he turned to go down
into the submarine again.
But it was too late.
Above the normally loud skylarking and gay laughter, the bois-
terous shouts of playful sailors indulging in good sport, and the
raucous yells of cooped-up men giving vent to their pent-up emo-
tions by extraordinary heights of noisy roughhouse, both on the
weather deck and in the water, there suddenly came a blood-
curdling shriek of agonized terror and pain. Following hard on
the heels of the horrifying scream came the shout which froze me
on the bridge.
"Sharks!!"
The cry was repeated, wildly and in terror. It came now as
a chorus of anguished, frightened, fearful voices. The chant was
punctuated by more shrieks and cries of "Help!" The scene in
the water by the sides of the submarine was a sight never to be
forgotten. There was a tremendous wild thrashing of human arms
and legs, as men tried desperately to heave, catapult, drag,
climb, or be pulled back on board the boat—back to safety. The
great splashing in the water prevented me from finding out where
the shark or sharks were attacking. The shouts not only contin-
ued—they rose in volume and in pitch. It was the nearest thing
to bedlam that one might imagine. Then I saw it—just off the port
quarter, a momentary view, but I saw it. A sudden swish, a dark,
blade-like dorsal fin, and, among the splashing, thrashing human
arms and legs hell-bent on removing their owners from the sea, a
swirl of crimson. Not much, but definitely the bright red scarlet
color of blood.
Where was the gunnery officer? GodDAMN that man, where
were the riflemen? Rifles, RIFLES! I was shouting, desperate. My
arms were flailing in great circular sweeps of unavailing entice-
ment to the men to get back on board. It was useless. I was abso-


The Affair at the Midwinter Resort 195
oh, my God! what had happened to me? Almighty Godl Why
had this happened? Why? why? why?
As though listening to an echo from the past, or from another
world, I heard the word passed over the public address system,
"Now stand by to dive, stand by to dive," and listened hollowly
as the Atlantic Ocean flooded into the ballast tanks with the cus-
tomary roar associated with diving.
Faithful, conscientious Rodion Trubetovski would never hear
that word passed again. Nor would handsome young Alexei. And
the horror of what had happened to my two officers! God! I cried
aloud, Oh, GOD!
There was a sudden swish of my stateroom curtains, and I knew
someone had stepped inside my quarters.
The voice was cold and unfriendly. The words I heard were
pointed. I looked up, slowly, and turned to see the silhouette of
a heavy-set man blocking the entrance to my room, his body be-
tween my line of sight and the electric light bulb in the passage-
way.
"What did you say? Who is that?"
The phlegmatic voice repeated slowly the same unmistakable
but almost unbelievable words.
"This, today, Captain, you will pay for, believe me," I heard
the commissar say bitterly . . .


21
Then Came the Shocker
Commissar Lvov turned and swept out past the still
swinging dark green curtains, hanging somewhat bunched-up
now to the side of the rack over the entrance to my cabin. The
unshielded light bulb from the passageway was blinding. I
rubbed my eyes, and looked down at the deck. The whole busi-
ness was so freshly imprinted in my mind, the actions that had
occurred were so irrevocable, there was so little I felt I could do.
I just sat there, slumped, unbelieving. A glance at my bulk-
head clock—it was only five-twenty in the afternoon—it was only
about an hour before that my crew had been intact, lively, fun-
loving! And now the blight; now, the cloud. Presently, rapid
strides coming down the passageway alerted me to receive an-
other visitor . . .
A figure loomed once more at the entrance to my room.
"Yes, who is it?"
"Why, it is I, sir, Lieutenant Kulakov."
"Yes?"
"Captain, the watch has been relieved properly, we are at de-
sired depth on course 285 degrees true and are making three
knots. The navigator informs me that we shall be at the northern
end of Windward Passage at the time you desire . . ."
Kulakov made no move to depart, nor to say anything else . . .
I broke an extended silence.
"What else, Lieutenant?"
"Well, sir, I wanted to apologize to you for my lack of foresight
in taking precautionary measures."


ig8 Shadow of Peril
tions officer, to recommend that we comply with basic directives
for emergencies at sea, and send a dispatch both to Admiral
Gorshkov and to the Northern Fleet Commander, advising in
general terms of our casualties; also I recommend that we seek
assistance from the Cuban authorities just as soon as we can get
over there in Cuban waters. I'd say we ought to ask them to take
both Rodzianko and Dedusko ashore for hospitalization just as
soon as we arrive at a convenient place off the coast."
He was right, and what he was recommending, I had known
we must do. I had just been deferring such a decision, knowing
that however necessary it would be to unleash the bad news, as
long as I avoided the ugly task, I was immune to outside criticism
and retribution, if any might be forthcoming. However, Lvov's
writing up his own personal report changed things somewhat. It
would now be mandatory that I use the wireless first, to get my
own version into Headquarters before his arrived to discredit me.
I faced Kulakov, and gave him his orders.
He was to go to the radio-wireless room and insure that no
messages were transmitted from the ship before I had sent my
own official dispatches. Meanwhile, he, Kulakov, was to draw up
recommended messages for me to send, both to higher naval
headquarters and to the Cuban authorities.
With Kulakov thus occupied, I proceeded to the wardroom,
where the commissary officer was lying on the wardroom table,
resting his bleeding and bandaged body on crimson-smeared
sheets. The medical corpsman was there, hovering over him, and,
with a needle and catgut, seemed to be well along in mending the
man. Mikhailoff, assisting the corpsman, looked over at me and
said, "He's out. We've given him some ether and a lot of mor-
phine. Pulse is weak, but that's understandable, considering his
gouges."
Ugly was the only word to describe the scene. And over on the
couch, Dedusko lay, sweating and half-covered with blood-
stained sheets. I glanced at Mikhailoff.
"He's already been sewed up," he volunteered. "Real good job,
too, Captain. Don't think he ever felt it. Of course, he was out,


Then Came the Shocker 1gg
too. Ether . . . that's what we gave him. Some sulfa, too. Same
for this one—" he nodded to Rodzianko.
"Well," I said, clearing my throat, "we will be putting them
both ashore within the next twenty-four hours. I am sending a
message to get assistance."
I walked past the pantry. It was empty. Rodion had left it, and
he would never be back. My feelings of guilt were overwhelming.
But there was little I could do. I returned to my own room, and,
sinking into a chair by my desk, grabbed a Japanese ball-point
pen, a piece of paper, and a stray cigar I saw lying atop the desk.
Placing the cigar in my mouth without lighting it, I chomped
down viciously as with the pen I now drafted my own ideas for
the messages that I would shortly send out by wireless.
By six o'clock, I had sent one encoded message to Northern
Fleet Headquarters, the same to Supreme Headquarters, and
another one via specified short-wave frequency, and also in code,
to the Soviet consulate in Havana. The former reported the two
missing sailors, and attributed their loss to shark attack while en-
gaged in aquatic recreation; also, the injuries to the officers were
duly recorded, but the dispatches made plain that the incident
in no way affected the capability of the submarine to pursue its
mission. The dispatch to the Soviet consulate in Havana merely
requested instructions for the covert transfer of two critically in-
jured officers, victims of shark bites, and stipulated that the trans-
fers to Cuban medical authorities must be made within the next
twenty-four hours. I asked for the exercise of extreme secrecy in
handling the matter.
And, when this had all been done, the commissar sent out his
lengthy encoded message. However curious I was concerning its
contents, as a mere line naval officer I was not privileged to know
what he released to his higher headquarters. But I could guess.
I walked up to the conning station, to look at the navigational
chart. Taking dividers, I measured off the distance to Wind-
ward Passage. It was about forty miles. Did I really want to wait


200 Shadow of Peril
until eight o'clock the next morning before arriving there? If I
increased our speed to ten knots, we could be there in four hours.
That would mean a midnight transit of the passage . . . but
perhaps this would be even betterl Yes, I thought, that's what we
would do. There certainly were ample navigational lights and
beacons on shore to pilot by. And if the messages from the con-
sulate and higher headquarters came back this night, I would be
able to proceed, if necessary, at perhaps seventeen knots on the
surface to move prior to daylight into whatever east Cuban port
was designated.
The orders were written down for the watch. We would in-
crease speed to ten knots and proceed toward the Passage. I
would want to pick up replies to those messages we had sent,
and this meant that we'd have to leave the whip-antenna raised
while snorkeling along at high speed. These instructions were
also written into my orders for the next few hours.
Having thus changed our plans, I went back to the wardroom,
where I found Makar Rostopchin had taken over and, after the
sewing jobs on Rodzianko and Dedusko, had caused both those
officers to be carried to their bunks. He had also supervised the
cleaning up of the wardroom, and had seen to it that one of the
crew's commissaries now reported to the wardroom for duty in
Rodion's stead. The new man's name was Usoupoff. Casually,
Makar in an aside informed me that prior to the Revolution,
Usoupoff's family had been extremely high on the social ladder
of old Czarist Russia. "And now," he sighed, "look what has hap-
pened to him."
By ten o'clock that evening no messages had been received.
There was little to do, in this event, other than to continue the
voyage as previously planned. Hence, we turned to the south-
westward, entering the Windward Passage for transit between
Haiti and Cuba, into the Caribbean.
It was while we were snorkeling at ten knots, proceeding on
course as planned, and at nearly 2 a.m. on February 23, that the
wireless operator jumped up from his chair in the radio-wireless


Then Came the Shocker
201
room and shouted out the fact that he was receiving encoded
dispatches from Supreme Naval Headquarters. The watch noti-
fied me and I rushed into the radio-wireless room. Mikhailoff,
alerted, reported that we were now about ten miles westward
of Cape St. Nicholas, on the western tip of Haiti. It still would not
be too late to turn back to the northward and head under cover
of darkness and at high speed for some place on the northeastern
coast of Cuba.
But we were lucky. Admiral Gorshkov's staff operations officer,
who signed the message for the admiral, merely directed that
we head for Santiago de Cuba at best speed and, while remain-
ing undetected, contact the Soviet consul directly for local in-
structions. The dispatch ended on the curious note, "Do nothing
to reveal your presence in locality to unfriendly sources. Continue
on mission assigned." I noted that a copy of this message was
also addressed to Northern Fleet Headquarters. This no doubt
accounted for the fact that we never received a direct reply
from that headquarters to the message sent there some hours
earlier.
With Mikhailoff, I went over the chart of the approaches to
Santiago. However I did it, I would have first to skirt the U. S.
fleet operating area just south of the Naval Base at Guantanamo
Bay. I did not know what or how many U. S. warships would be
cruising around down there during this period, in daylight or in
darkness, and thus I was compelled to draw out a track which
would take us far to the south of Guantanamo, by at least sixty
miles. Then, we could swing back to the northwest and make it
to Santiago de Cuba with less chance of detection by U. S. sur-
face or subsurface craft. As a matter of fact, it was the subsurface
craft which I frankly feared the most. And, although I knew, of
course, that American men-of-war of all types train in those wa-
ters, I still did not know how many or what types of submarines
the United States would have operating down there. The thought
of running into one of them, unsuspectingly, chilled me thor-
oughly.


202 Shadow of Peril
Mikhailoff calculated the distance over the tracks I had laid
out. He frowned, and, turning to me, said, "Captain, if we pro-
ceed at best speed, we will be there in the bright sunny daylight.
What an unfortunate time! Know what? I recommend we just
decide on what time we want to get there off Santiago, and then
adjust our speed accordingly."
"Right as far as I'm concerned. We just can't afford to go along
at best speed. That's out. It'll have to be a damned slow speed,
I'm afraid. What do you recommend?"
The navigator took his dividers and, elongating the arc from
the first leg, added the remainder of the distance to the first arc
formed. It came out to be about 170 miles. The bulkhead clock
said 2:45 a.m.
"I'd say let's try to get them to receive us when practically
everyone who shouldn't be up isn't up," Mikhailoff suggested.
Seeing me nod, he asked, "How about us being there at mid-
night tomorrow night? I don't think that either Rodzianko or
Dedusko will die if we don't get them ashore before then. And
we certainly don't want to reveal ourselves, do we? Let's see,
now, Captain . . . that would be . . . ummm . . . ohh, about 4.5
meters per second speed of advance for us to use . . . say, per-
haps, eight knots or so?"
I stroked my neatly trimmed Castroite beard, and replied
firmly after a moment's hesitation, "Very well, make it so." Thus
decided, I slapped the navigator on the back and turned around
to the watch officer. It was Glinka.
"Lieutenant," I said, "I guess you've heard the plan. Now, let's
kick up no American destroyers in our wake or anything like
that! I'd like to make about eight knots now. Keep a sharp look-
out, and be sure we stop snorkeling before morning twilight.
Notify me, of course, of any contacts which may be critical. You
understand."
I wasn't so sure he did understand, but I had no alternative
except to try to make him believe I had continued confidence
in him, despite his previous fiasco. In truth, I must admit, it was
gratifying to see his response was no longer one of lighthearted


Then Came the Shocker 203
indifference, washed along by an all-too-present grin. From him,
I now got a smile, but a more military "Aye, aye, Captain."
Returning to my stateroom, I collapsed once more into my
armchair. What to do now? With a sigh and a heavy heart, I
knew what must be done. The accident with Volkonski, and now
this most recent mishap, had wrought havoc with the internal
administration of the submarine. Key people were out of the
picture. I had to have a reorganization. The ship's routine must
continue, and now, as never before, perhaps, since we were en-
tering the stamping grounds of American fleet units, I would
have to demand complete and abiding loyalty and extra effort
from all hands to insure our success.
My ultimate plan was to give to Makar Rostopchin the new
Second Officer's hat; that is, I decided to devolve upon him all
the duties of the Second Officer. Since he was the only officer
well enough acquainted with the engineering plant, he would,
of course, have to continue to supervise the engineering person-
nel. To take Dedusko's place as electronics officer, I decided to
assign Ivan Baliuk his post as an additional responsibility. After
all, Baliuk was already the intelligence and underwater sound
officer; he could easily enough take on the responsibility for the
other electronics equipment.
Finding another clerk for the commissar would be something
else again, however. Alexei had been, in truth, a fair-haired boy
with him; a young, blossoming, pink-cheeked lad of handsome
features and pleasant disposition—one whom I think Lvov
wanted ultimately to channel into the commissioned officer train-
ing programs for political administration. One could never be
sure, however. I recall overhearing one of the crew, beyond sight
of me across a galley range, once intimate to another that Lvov's
unabashed fondness for Alexei had more to it than just the pa-
ternal interest of a teacher or political leader toward a protege.
The remark stuck with me, and the more I thought about it, the
more it mollified my feelings. If Lvov were now out to ruin me,
as Sverdlov had been . . . then, to fight fire with fire might be
the best solution. And I sat there, continuing to think of every


204 Shadow of Peril
little last glance, every smile, every demonstrative action I had
ever observed from Lvov in his dealings with the young lad who
had passed now forever out of his reach. And I preferred to think
of that reach as a lecherous one.
Not much before the morning twilight, Makar Rostopchin
chose to stop by my room. I motioned for him to be seated on
my bunk; when he had done so, I wheeled around in my chair
and, tilting back and yawning (for I had only caught small bits
of dozing rest in my chair during the preceding few hours),
said casually, "What is it, Mr. Second Officer?"
Rostopchin's blue eyes sparkled, and his face flushed. Throw-
ing his head back spontaneously, he erupted into his usual bois-
terous laughter. "Captain," he managed to say finally, "that's
what we need, a good joke!" And then he shook his head slowly
in an amused manner. "I just left the conning station," he went
on, "and do you know what? The commissar is up there, for the
first time checking the navigational charts and all as though he
were responsible for our safety or something. Can you imagine?"
"That is his privilege," I countered, but then, seeing Rostopchin
shrug wondrously at my seeming unconcern, I ventured further.
"Makar," I said, hesitatingly, "you are in fact now Second Offi-
cer. As such, I will have to depend upon you, starting now, for
additional information to aid me in keeping a tight rein on this
command. You understand that, of course. At the same time, I
shall expect you, and not me, to run the internal administration
of this submarine. You may count on my unqualified support,
for I have every confidence in your capability."
Rostopchin leaned back on the bunk, and propped himself
up on a crooked elbow jutting into the foam rubber mattress,
over which the red bedspread was draped.
"I shall tell you frankly," I now admitted, "that the commissar
and I are finding life quite difficult together. I am quite sure he
would rather have had me lost over the side than young Alexei."
I watched Makar's facial expressions most carefully, for any
clue as to some kind of intimate knowledge about Lvov which


206 Shadow of Peril
run the show for a while. If you don't mind, I'm going to hit that
bunk for a few minutes."
Sleep I did. The stress and the tension of the past day had
been too taxing, and I slept soundly for a good uninterrupted
eight hours. Makar Rostopchin had taken me at my word. He
had reorganized the wardroom officers in their duties, had for the
time acted as a buffer to preclude my getting non-critical reports
and calls when I needed some heavy sleep, and perhaps more
than anything else, had started his tour as my new Second Officer
by seizing the initiative just as I wanted him to. Much later, I
found out that he had politely congratulated the commissar on
his promotion, and then had courteously but firmly announced
that henceforth, he, Rostopchin, would act as intermediary be-
tween all other officers on board this submarine, and the com-
manding officer. Lvov did not press the point.


22
What Guantdnamo Could Become
In view of the message from Supreme Headquarters
directing me to Santiago de Cuba, and at the same time telling
me to make the final arrangements locally through the Havana
consulate, it was necessary for the F-689 to cruise for several
hours during the evening of the twenty-third of February with
the whip-antenna protruding above the water. Since the Soviet
consul in Cuba had already been sent a message request for as-
sistance, it now remained for him to respond. Naturally, I grew
more and more anxious as the hours went by. We had done our
part fully, including sending an amplifying report to the con-
sulate, advising that midnight on the night of February 23-24
would be convenient as an expected time of arrival off the en-
trance to Santiago.
Finally, around eight o'clock in the evening, we received a
short-wave wireless encoded message from the Soviet consul,
stating that all shore arrangements had been made for our ar-
rival at the time specified. The dispatch went on to state that
when all was clear for surfacing, a red blinker light would flash
alternately at seven-second intervals from the top of the old
Spanish fortress which stands atop the cliffs rising up vertically
from the outer harbor entrance. A motor launch would then come
out to us, once we returned the signal by aiming an infrared
signal lamp at the fortress blinker light.
The message concluded by saying that two high-ranking Cuban
officials would embark in the launch for transportation to the


210 Shadow of Peril
"Ah, well, gentlemen, so! It is good to be here!!" It was the
colonel, stepping into the wardroom, escorted by Mikhailoff. "I
have been looking for a moment at the navigational chart, and
wondering where we are going next. I have some information
for you on the Yankee ships in the area . . ."
"Yes, Colonel," went on Lvov, "that is good, would you not
think so, Captain?" and then, turning to Castro once more, he
continued where he had been cut off.
"Seiior Castro—"
"Please, just say, Haul.'"
The commissar smiled unctuously, and, acknowledging this
bid for informal relations, said, "Thank you, Raul. Everyone calls
me 'Commissar,' but my name is Georgy. Georgy Mikhailovich
Lvov, and you would honor me by just addressing me by my first
name if you desire."
Castro glanced at Guevara, who fidgeted and then spoke up.
"We would really prefer to simply address you as 'Commissar,'
if you don't mind. I say this because it is important that those
who are with us later on in your visit to Cuba—and you will be
our guests, I hope, for several weeks—should learn to associate
you more fully with the work you do in political orientation. To
be less formal might damage the image which we want to pro-
ject, of one of the Soviet Union's top-notch commissars being
here with us. You understand, I am sure."
Lvov beamed. He was in his glory.
"Well, anyway, you may call me just plain Raul, if you want
to," said Castro indifferently. "Of course," he went on, cigarette
now dangling from the corner of his lips, "everyone knows who
I am anyway, and that I am the over-all Commander in Chief
in substance of the Cuban Armed Forces. But I really need not
be talked of by title every time someone talks with or about me."
The Soviet colonel, well acquainted with Castro and Guevara,
interposed and settled what might have degenerated into an
unpleasant series of continued remarks.
"It is so, es verdad, es verdad," he soothed. "Caballeros grandes
no desean las palabras bonitas o las references a los grados."


What Guantdnamo Could Become
211
Though his Spanish may have been doubtful in its grammatical
perfection, it did nonetheless have the soothing effect needed at
the time.
I now spoke up, and asked whether Castro and Guevara partic-
ularly wanted to do or see anything specifically. They replied
that they had never before been on a Soviet submarine—any kind
of submarine, as a matter of fact—and that when they had
learned of our proximity, and that we would shortly be coming
into Havana itself, they sought the necessary approval from
Fidel. He had given them his blessings in their request to go
aboard and sail around the western tip of Cuba.
"One thing we would like," said Castro, "would be to go up
off Guantanamo and surface right in the center of the Naval
Base Bay. What else would better teach those norteamericanos
that the land and waters of Cuba are ours to do with as we see
fit?"
It was then necessary to tell Castro and Guevara that our mis-
sion was really so sensitive that we could never do anything of
the sort—at least, not on this cruise. Perhaps at some later time.
But, I told them, we still had to move up into the waters south
of Guantanamo, perhaps move in quite close to the base itself,
and observe the American fleet units at close quarters. They—
Castro and Guevara—could then have a pride of accomplish-
ment, in the realization that they were on board a submarine
hostile to the United States which they so thoroughly loathed,
and that that submarine was able to encroach upon the training
grounds of the U. S. Navy!
The idea appealed to both Cubans, and gave Colonel Ourusov
the opportunity to again bring up the matter of information con-
cerning U. S. ships in the Guantanamo area.
Ourusov reached into one of his pockets and drew forth a
black notebook. From it, he began reading the names of U. S.
ships which he said our best intelligence revealed were either in
Guantanamo, would be there soon, or were in nearby waters.
From this list, it was evident that the Americans would have
plenty of naval strength in the area during the next few days,


212 Shadow of Peril
and that our mission in spying on them would probably be most
successful.
"This weekend," said the colonel, "we have cause to think that
many of the ships normally in training at the Guantanamo Base
will be visiting in various ports in the Caribbean. Most of them
will return to the Guantanamo training waters early Monday
morning. For instance, the Forrestal—"
"Yes, that's one of their biggest aircraft carriers, isn't it?" It
was Raul Castro, interrupting.
"Well, if you don't include the nuclear-powered carrier Enter-
prise," I said.
The colonel didn't wait. He kept right on.
"The Forrestal is supposed to be visiting in Port-au-Prince,
Haiti, this weekend. She should be back off Guantanamo, or at
least in the area, early Monday morning."
"The Forrestal," I interjected, "is quite a ship. I'm happy to say
that this won't be the first time I've looked at her through a peri-
scope."
Guevara was astounded.
"You mean, senor, that you have been in a position to sink that
big ship before? And you didn't do it? Santa Maria!"
Post-Captain Commissar Lvov's icy words punctuated the as-
tonishment of the number one Cuban Communist.
"Tut-tut, mis amigos," he intoned. "Not only that, but our good
captain of this most powerful submarine has looked through his
periscope at many objects which he could easily have damaged
or sunk!" Lvov glanced at me with a penetrating, hateful gaze.
I chose to ignore him.
"What other ships will the Americans have in Guantanamo
for training next week?" I asked.
The Air Force colonel smiled. He was beginning to feel like a
Very Important Person, perhaps someone on whom the success
of the submarine's mission might fatefully depend. He was about
to open his mouth to read more from his little black book when I
decided to put an end to his fanciful delusions of naval impor-
tance.


What Guantdnamo Could Become 213
"Of course, you know that the Forrestal is but one of the many
ships of the Americans which we already know to be in these
waters, and although we didn't know she'd be in Haiti this week-
end, we aren't at all surprised. Northern Fleet Headquarters
have already apprised us that the Enterprise, the Forrestal, the
new American destroyers Dewey, Decatur, Sampson, and some
others will probably be operating down here in a training status."
I was rattling off from memory the names of the ships which our
previous intelligence had supplied.
Colonel Ourusov blinked. He hadn't expected, I am sure, that
a submarine nearly a month out of the remote port of Murmansk
would have such up-to-the-minute appreciation of what was go-
ing on in the world—especially in his own immediate military
world right there in Cuba. But, I reflected quickly, it probably
wasn't at all unusual for an Air Force type to have little if any
true appreciation of sea power or naval capabilities.
Colonel Ourusov's eyes looked down into his little black book
once again, and he recommenced reading from his notes:
"The big new American destroyer Sampson, which you have
mentioned, Captain, will be due in these waters Monday morning
from a visit to Montego Bay. They're probably going there to
pitch a good Jamaican rum party."
Guevara threw back his black-haired head and downed the
remnants of dark rum in his glass, then gasped, "Ahhh!" as the
new commissary-porter, Usoupoff, glided unobtrusively over
and refilled the glass.
The Soviet Air Force colonel went on with his reading, speak-
ing somewhat louder now.
"The American submarine Sennet will be at Ocho Rios this
weekend, but will be back off Guantanamo late in the after-
noon of the twenty-sixth—Monday—and, say! Captain," he asked
slowly, "is there any danger you might get discovered by this
American sub?"
I replied quickly that of course there was always that chance,
that submariners have the greatest of fear about interception
from an enemy submarine; however, I told him, perhaps the


What Guantdnamo Could Become 215
think we're going to be in a tough scrape, we'll take appropriate
action to alleviate the situation."
"What do you mean, alleviate the situation?" spoke up Castro,
nodding appreciatively to Usoupoff for the fresh glass of rum
which the latter had brought to him.
"He means," I interceded, "that whenever in my opinion, as
commanding officer, I believe it necessary to do so in order to
avoid being detected and having subsequent embarrassment
brought upon the Soviet Union, I will take offensive action
against the aggressor."
Raul Castro's beady eyes blazed with astonishment and won-
der. "/Por dios!" he murmured.
"That is the answer I think the commissar wanted," I said,
"but in truth, I feel that before that time comes, I would resort
to other, more stealthy, more fox-like techniques to insure our
withdrawal from the scene unscathed and still unexposed."
Mikhailoff now spoke up. "We might just go down to maximum
depth and sit there. Way down there below the depth the Ameri-
can subs of this vintage can move to!" He referred to the U. S.
subs previously mentioned by name. "And way down there, we'd
be able to slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y, creep out . . ." His right hand
moved horizontally across his front, fingers purposefully waver-
ing. Guevara's eyes focused on the wavering fingers and he
looked quite transfixed. Perhaps the rum he had imbibed had
something to do with it.
The Air Force colonel now pulled up a chair opposite me and,
clearing his throat, proceeded to announce that there were many
more ships on his list. But Baliuk had now found what he was
searching for, and cut him off.
"These subs, the Chivo and the Picuda," he said, reading from
the large blue volume which he now spread out atop the ward-
room table, "are Balao class submarines." Looking up at the
colonel, he said simply, "They're like the Sennet after a fashion
but are somewhat better. Same class, practically. Better refitted
and they call them 'Guppys.' If it seems confusing, let me just
say that this sub in which you now ride is much more advanced."


216 Shadow of Peril
Ourusov's face registered delight . He then again cleared his
throat and read from his notes:
"Several auxiliaries will be in Guantanamo this next week. You
may expect the ammunition ship Mazama, the refrigerator ship
Arcturus, the attack transport Alcor, the oiler Kaskaskia, the
landing ship, dock, now that's a funny name for it, isn't it? The
landing ship, dock, Spiegel Grove, and I have information saying
that the tanker Sabine will be departing the area. The tanker
Aucilla is due to arrive in Guantanamo from Norfolk, Virginia,
about the fifth of March. The destroyer John Paul Jones will be
here during the next two weeks, along with several others."
Raul Castro's eyes flashed. "I'm all for sinking some of these
ships," he said firmly, in his staccato Spanish, which I could,
nonetheless, understand.
Downing the rest of his rum, Fidel Castro's small brother
launched into another line of thought. Bringing the now empty
glass down upon the wardroom table with a bang, he asked,
"Where have you looked through your periscope at the Forrestal
before?"
"The Mediterranean Sea," I answered succinctly.
"Way over there?" Castro seemed incredulous. "But, Captain,"
he said, "that's where the Americans have that powerful Sixth
Fleet of theirs. How did you ever get that close to the Forrestal?
I always thought the Yankees really protected those big carriers
when they were operating as fleet units—you know, as differ-
entiated from down here where they all train more or less inde-
pendently."
"American naval authorities, and I'm sure the American pub-
lic," answered Lvov quickly, "seem to think that their Sixth Fleet
is the ruler of the Mediterranean. Little do they really know!"
For their enlightenment I took Castro and his swarthy friend,
Guevara, on a short trip of narration through the Mediterranean.
I told how although the Americans think they "own" that ancient
sea—and this, surely, is the view of not only the American Navy
but also the American tourists—the projection of Russian sub-
marine power is indeed capable of making "molten coffins" of


What Guantdnamo Could Become 21g
Castro and Che Guevara concerning the value of the USSR tech-
nical training offered to Cubans. Both these Cuban officials stated
that they were more than pleased at the reciprocal agreements
concerning workers, students, and technicians. Well over fifteen
hundred young Cubans are currently studying in universities in
the Soviet Union; others are enrolled in Polish, East German, and
other Communist countries. Nearly a thousand young Cubans
are learning about agriculture from advanced farming experts in
agricultural technical centers in Soviet Russia. Nearly two thou-
sand Czech, Polish, Russian, and Chinese technicians are work-
ing in Cuba itself.
But of equal importance is the fact that Soviet military power
has been planted right under the noses of not only the big
Guantanamo Naval Base of the American fleet, but it has been
planted—and pointed—from its Cuban soil sites, directly at spe-
cific targets in the United States.
Castro reverted to our discussion of the Mediterranean. Bring-
ing up the matter of sea power in that area, he said he had heard
that the Italians had recently been exerting themselves in the
field of antisubmarine warfare. He wanted to know whether we
were afraid of the Italians. Practically everyone else present
laughed uproariously, including myself. After all, the Italians
fought two world wars within a span of twenty-five years, and
although they weren't whipped in the first, they came very close
to it; in the second, their Army, Navy, and Air Forces did noth-
ing of any consequence except go down to defeat.
Nonetheless, I was compelled to tell Raul Castro and his com-
panion that Soviet intelligence does acknowledge the resurgence
of the Italian Navy after nearly two decades of neglect. I men-
tioned, in particular, one Italian naval commander named Fran-
cesco Castracane degli Antelminelli, whom Soviet agents believe
is spearheading the present drive to modernize the Italian Navy
through efforts in the antisubmarine field. I told the Cubans that
the Italians, thanks probably to this Antelminelli, are now de-
veloping small, sixteen-man submarines for antisubmarine work.
They aren't ocean-going types, but are designed to get close to


23
We Cannot Coexist Eternally
Moving westward along the southern coast of sunny Cuba
was so indescribably different from our movement, the previous
month, along the northern shores of Russia and Norway, around
North Cape into the Norwegian Sea. Here along the shores of
this so-called "Pearl of the Antilles," there were nothing but blue
skies and golden sunshine. What a contrast to the sight of the
low, white dunes of the Russian tundra near Kola Inlet. What a
contrast to the world, so vastly different, of Murmansk, where
in summer there is sunshine, but where in winter it is almost
perpetually dark. I thought of the treeless plains we had left up
there in northern Russia for this glorious sunshine and rugged
coastline of southern Cubal Alas! That we could not enjoy that
sunshine ... for it was only by coming to periscope depth oc-
casionally that we were even aware of the outside weather con-
ditions.
Professor Bogucharovo and his friend, Pozdeev, met the two
Cuban "dignitaries" the day they had come aboard; though,
granted, it had been some eight hours after the Cubans' first set-
ting foot on board that the two Soviet professors actually made
their introductions. They had, in these waters, become great
bunk artists—they had come to love sleep as only the mythical
Morpheus could have. Of course, both of them found in Guevara
an intellect of comparable level. The three of them soon spent
their waking hours hovering over the wardroom table, discussing
everything from Marxist theory to various plans of world order
predicated upon creeping socialism. It was obvious at the outset


224 Shadow of Peril
the firing squad. He was vitriolic when he spoke of the American
destroyers which came close to the beaches and tried to pick up
the invaders' survivors.
Why had the Americans not used their ships and planes to
pave the way for the invasion? In Guevara's opinion, it was be-
cause several of the American president's closest personal ad-
visers and State Department aides felt that for him to commit
U. S. power would be a step toward general war. Of course, even
the commissar views general war as a distinctly remote possi-
bility. At least, he told Castro and Guevara that he doubted
Soviet Russia would have entered into the situation in any event,
other than to file strong protests in the UN.
"Some American officials," I recall Commissar Lvov saying,
"really believe that Communism is beginning to fade from the
world arena. They actually think it is a moribund suprapolitical
force.
"Therefore, I'd say that as long as men like that are in posi-
tions where they can influence U. S. foreign policy, our efforts
are made that much easier."
When Baliuk told Lvov that we had previously discussed this
same subject, Lvov answered by saying all the better, for he had
found repetition to be the most effective means for getting points
across to people. "And the reason I want to get this point across,
about such dreamers," Lvov said, "is because in addition to the
belligerent activities of which we are guilty, if you can call it
'guilt,' we do have people helping us in America, even though
they may not even realize it."
One of the things most pleasing to Soviet leaders, of course,
is the position taken by many "do-gooders" in America: They
who would embark on a program of massive foreign aid, with-
out concern about the political faith of the recipients, or their
positions or leanings in the cold war.
"You mean," Baliuk said, "that these Americans—these socialist
types in the higher echelons of the American Government—are
sort of looking forward to a day when Communism has moder-
ated into democratic-socialism and capitalism has deteriorated


We Cannot Coexist Eternally 225
into democratic-socialism, and that they think this will finally be
the day when the entire world can live blissfully forever?"
"Right," said the commissar. "They look forward to what they
consider the inevitable day when the new world order will be
one of universal socialism."
But what neither the commissar nor Baliuk mentioned in that
conversation was that ultimate world socialism is precisely what
Marx and Lenin were always talking about. Communism, after
all, is only a means for achieving socialism on a huge and wide-
spread scale.
Now Guevara was talking about the final objectives of world-
wide Communism. There was no doubt in my mind that he iden-
tified himself and Cuba with the universal Communist move-
ment which has its headquarters in the Kremlin.
In my own mind, I have often wondered, frankly, how anyone
in the West could ever think that the Soviet Union will stop at
less than world dominion, world thralldom, under a super-social-
ist state headquarters? Apparently, various high officials in Amer-
ica choose to forget the words said by Premier Khrushchev in
April 1955, in Warsaw, Poland:
"We must realize that we cannot coexist eternally for a long
time. One of us must go to the grave. They—the West—do not
want to go to the grave either. So what can be done? We must
push them to their grave."
Even though I had grown to have tremendous prejudices when
it came to Commissar Lvov, in that I now held him in the lowest
regard, I still continued to believe most of the material he dis-
closed in the wardroom political orientation discussions. These
meetings, of course, continued without interruption.
It was on this underwater voyage around Cuba, to Havana,
that Raul Castro whetted my appetite for information on the
progress of the Cuban submarine pens being built for Soviet
subs. Upon my questioning him, all he would say was, "You will
see, Capitdn, you will see." And on the subject of missile em-
placements directed against the United States, he would only


24
Introducing Castro's Zangarillejas
It had not been our intention, despite Raul Castro's in-
vitation, to remain in Havana more than a week or perhaps ten
days at the most. Normally, seven days would be all the time
required for upkeep work and routine repairs after a voyage of
some thirty-odd days. But fate was to keep us in Havana for
most of the month of March.
I realized immediately that we would have to resign ourselves
to a rather indefinitely long stayover among Castro's revolution-
aries the moment Rostopchin told me of the casualty. It was in
the forenoon on March 8 that he gave me the alarmingly bad
news. Bursting into my stateroom, he pardoned himself and then
announced that we had used up all the main engine fuel injectors
-that we had no more spares, and that we had had to put num-
ber 3 main engine out of commission.
This left but two engines for the patrol up the east coast of
the U.S. and the return voyage to Russia. I could not risk such a
long trip, knowing full well that undoubtedly other injectors
would fail. If this happened in number 1 and 2 engines, then
the F-689 would be left without any means of propulsion-for
engines are needed to recharge the batteries-and such a casualty
occurring in U. S. coastal waters would be catastrophic! I had
been most apprehensive all along about this possibility, for snor-
keling is tough on engines—and during this cruise the F-689 had
done more than her share of this. I told Rostopchin to prepare
an immediate message to Fleet Headquarters (to be sent upon
our arrival in Havana), urgently requesting that these engine


228 Shadow of Peril
parts plus additional spares be air-delivered to Havana, and ad-
vising that the return patrol would be delayed until the parts
were delivered.
Our position at this time was some thirty to forty miles north-
east of Cuba's Cape San Antonio, along the extreme northwestern
coastline in waters marked by the Colorado Reefs. Havana was
less than eighty nautical miles away.
Since we now would be approaching the coastal shipping
routes, I ordered that we proceed with utmost caution. I did not
want to take any chances on being discovered, and, of course,
my orders stipulated that we time our arrival in Havana to coin-
cide with darkness. Whereas I would have liked to get into port
as soon as possible for liberty, it was mandatory that we shroud
our arrival in secrecy.
Thus it was that we passed around old Morro Castle into the
harbor waters where in 1898 the American battleship Maine was
blown up, around the salient promontory, and then headed to
the right to bring ourselves to the piers which Castro's Navy had
reserved for us. Of interest is the fact that the entrance to the
harbor from seaward was made in much the same manner as
was my approach toward the quarry in Beirut back in 1958. I
was up on the open bridge; the submarine had been surfaced
about a half-mile off Morro Castle, and a Cuban patrol vessel
had come out to intercept us. It had been sent after local Cuban
authorities had been notified by the Soviet consulate of the ex-
pected time of our arrival. This information, of course, I had
transmitted to the Soviet diplomatic office earlier in the day—
when we were approaching Bahia Honda, forty-five miles west-
ward of Havana.
As we had been previously apprised, there was indeed a huge,
lighted sign across the front of several of the pier warehouses. It
read, "Peace and Friendship" with the names "Fidel" and "Khru-
shchev" in smaller lettering directly underneath. The harbor was
fairly full. Soviet merchant ships hugged almost every available
pier berth, and several such ships were at anchor in midstream.
Without much difficulty, I brought the F-68g int0 the slip


Introducing Castro's Zangarillejas 229
designated and no sooner had the mooring lines been made se-
cure than Cuban workers, massed on the pier, strove to rig large
awnings around us for camouflage. I noticed that at the end of
the pier, guarding the entrance between two long dockside trans-
fer houses, there was a heavy iron gate around which at least a
squad or two of Cuban soldiers were massed. A black Rolls-Royce
automobile stood waiting just outside the gate. It was illuminated
by the floodlights on the shore side of the pier entrance; I could
see that it was a Rolls because the engine cover on no other auto-
mobile is so distinctively shaped. I presumed that this was Raul
Castro's waiting limousine.
I was wrong. It was a car the consulate had provided for Post-
Captain Lvov! And, as it developed, Raul Castro and Che Gue-
vara were met by a maroon-colored Cadillac which, chauffeured
by a Cuban sergeant and guarded by a tommy gun-carrying cor-
poral who sat in the right front seat, rolled up to the pier within
a half hour of our tying up. Raul prevailed upon me and all but
one officer, whom I had previously designated to remain on
board as duty officer the first day in port, to go with him and
Guevara to the Hotel Nadonal. Prior to doing so, I gathered the
crew together and, with senior Chief Petty Officer Igor Novikov
at my elbow, delivered a word or two of caution to the sailors.
This, as the first and only "liberty" port which the men could
enter for recreational purposes, was also one which was, I under-
stood, fairly saturated with various kinds of venereal disease. I
made this amply clear to all personnel, and warned them of the
possible consequences if they failed to take every precautionary
measure.
My Second Officer, Rostopchin, appointed several petty of-
ficers as naval policemen, issued them scarlet armbands for the
benefit of the local constabulary (who could then identify them
properly), and with my consent released all but a skeleton crew
for the first night's liberty party. All hands were told to be back
on board by nine o'clock the next morning. Colonel Ourusov had
beforehand advised that it was planned to have a bus at the pier
to take the crew to the Rex Hotel and to some houses of enter-


230 Shadow of Peril
tainment which, under police control, would not adversely affect
the health or welfare of the men. I consented to the plan, and
when the bus pulled up in front of the pier, felt satisfied that
the crew would be under control in this type of organized liberty.
After the crew bad departed in the big diesel-engined bus,
I made a last-minute check with the duty officer, Baliuk, to in-
sure that the submarine would be secure. This done, I permitted
myself the luxury of departing with Castro, Guevara, Ourusov,
and Rostopchin in the former's Cadillac. Makar and I sat in two
pull-out seats, which opened from the back side of the front seat,
occupied by the armed soldiery. The other officers were picked
up by Lvov in his large Rolls-Royce, and they followed us down
the streets and promenades, boulevards and alley-like thorough-
fares. Although I had not the slightest idea where in Havana we
were, or specifically where the Hotel Nacional was, I recall both
Castro and Guevara from time to time saying something like,
"Now, this is the old section ..." or "This used to be called El
Prado. Now we call it El Paseo de Marti. . ." and, "Do you know
why we call it that? Because, sefiores, we want to honor the apos-
tle of Cuban independence!"
Looking out of the windows as we rolled along, I could see
that the "Paseo" was lined with big new buildings, some offices,
and, apparently, some hotels or clubs. And there were all kinds
of monuments to see as the car whisked us past several churches
(two of them boarded over), up an incline, and then came to a
stop in front of a pink and white building identified as the Hotel
Nacional.
Porters and soldiery hustled up and escorted us inside. Throngs
of grinning, milling Cubans greeted us. Interspersed in the
crowds I could spot several Soviet uniforms, both Navy, Army,
and merchant marine. Raul Castro led us through the lobby and
out to the other side, by the swimming pool. Some guitarists were
to one side, playing Spanish melodies while several nighttime
swimmers splashed in the lighted and sparkling pool water.
Upon Castro's intrusion on the scene, the guitarists automati-
cally stopped until he waved, saying, "Ustedes continuas."


232 Shadow of Peril
From a nearby bedroom in the apartment, I could hear him say
loudly, "Senor Raull Senor Castrol What are we to wear?"
But the aide had been on the job. Almost simultaneously, serv-
ants (all in Army uniforms) appeared, carrying assorted sizes
of brand-new bathing suits. 1 picked a light blue one and watched
Rostopchin choose a bright orange.
Somewhat later we were in the living room, drinking rum Col-
lins and Cuban planters punch, bath towels draped over our
necks, waiting for Raul Castro to join us and take us down to the
pool.
From one of the nearby rooms, I could hear the aide talking
excitedly on the telephone, apparently giving orders and occa-
sionally laughing uproariously. Once or twice I caught the word
"senoritas," and twice I heard him say he didn't want any "zan-
garillejas" and then he would burst out in loud laughter.
All but the commissar had come out of the luxuriously ap-
pointed bedrooms and gathered in the living room. Kulakov said
he thought Lvov had never learned to swim, and hence wouldn't
be joining us at all. But this latter point was promptly squelched
when Lvov presently appeared with a Latin-American girl in a
light orchid negligee. She was strikingly attractive, if not genu-
inely pretty, and her long eyelashes blinked seductively as she
clung close to the big commissar.
"This is Eloisa, gentlemen," the commissar beamed. Then, ac-
cepting a tall glass of rum punch from a tray offered him by one
of the soldier-waiters, he said with a sigh, "I wish I could go down
there with you for a swim in that pool. . . but I think I may stay
up here and, er . . . get acquainted with . . . er . . . some of
the indoor sports they play around here . . ."
He glanced leeringly down at the upturned, smiling face.
Then, hoisting his glass for a final gulp and with a wave of tri-
umphant farewell to his less fortunate shipmates, Georgy Mi-
khailovich Lvov, Post-Captain Commissar, Soviet Navy, guided
his affectionate new friend out of the room and down the one
hallway beyond which were several more rooms.


Introducing Castro's Zangarillejas 233
Guevara laughed pleasantly, and said, "That's the Special Treat
here. Raul gives her to his honor guest." Then, realizing that
Lvov, although he was a Soviet four-stripe captain, was not the
captain of the submarine, Guevara added, "But of course we
have even more pleasant things in store for you, Senor Capitdn.
Raul is seeing to it that you will all have a good time. Why don't
we all just go right down now to the pool? I don't know what's
taking him so long, but I'm sure he will be down pronto."
Thus the rest of us, led by Che Guevara, went down to the
ground floor and into the pool for a refreshing swim. The gui-
tarists were still there; the armed guards were still there; the
other swimmers had left the area; but also on hand and in the
pool, waiting for us, were about a dozen scantily clad Cuban
queridas, or rameras. All of them were pretty enough to be pro-
fessional models. I could not help but think that Raul Castro was
living higher than the harem keepers in the Near East.
Glinka took one look at the shapely bodies moving about the
pool, and gave a shriek of uncontrolled delight. He was the first
to enter the water, even before Guevara could tell us that these
bonitas senoritas were for our own personal pleasure.
Professors Bogucharovo and Pozdeev had meanwhile been
taken to see Raul Roa, the Cuban Foreign Minister, who I un-
derstand had been expecting them for a late supper-dance at
his confiscated villa, a huge, white marble palace not far away,
which before the Castro revolution had been the Caribbean win-
ter residence of an American sugar refining executive. In an un-
dercurrent of conversation, I learned that Fidel Castro was also
to be there and that the Soviet consul and also the ambassador
were in attendance. My official call upon the Soviet diplomats
would wait until morning. It apparently had been previously
decided that on this, our first night in port, we were to just relax
and have a good time.
For some that first night was a memorable one. When Lieu-
tenant Glinka took his feminine selection back up to our lavish
apartment (and he was the first to do so) he had already ex-
plored her adequately right there within the swimming pool. Per-


234 Shadow of Peril
haps that was why he had one of the attendants turn off the
inside lights of the pool shortly after our arrival there for the
swim.
By late on the afternoon of the ninth of March, I had managed
to make my official calls on practically everyone of importance
in Havana and, because the submarine was already being worked
on with near feverish haste to make it ready for sea at the earliest,
return calls had been dispensed with.
But at least one of my calls proved productive; the Soviet con-
sul, an amiable gentleman under whose specific charge came the
diplomatic arrangements for visiting Soviet officialdom, agreed
to provide not only me but my officers with automobiles, together
with chauffeurs, during the period of our stay.
The reason he had sent the Rolls-Royce to the pier as the ve-
hicle for Post-Captain Lvov was that a special communication
from Moscow had asked that Lvov be accorded the maximum
in prestige items in order for him to properly represent Vice Ad-
miral Grishanov in the various matters which he had been or-
dered to delve into once he landed in Havana. Upon my request,
the consul placed a large green and black Daimler at my dis-
posal, and ordered Chrysler Imperials to be made available to
my other officers. These automobiles, he said with a chuckle,
had been confiscated by Castro from the holdings of individual
cane planters—that is, those who had proved difficult to handle
after he had come to power. Since they had subsequently been
sent to firing squads as obstructionists, the new State put the
vehicles up for auction. That was when he, the Soviet consul,
stepped in, and for certain considerations acquired them. They
were, of course, now the property of the USSR, officially, at least.
During the course of my initial conversation with him, I asked
how my injured officers and crewmen were. He told me that they
had all been transferred to departing merchantmen bound for
Soviet ports. The ships in which they were now sailing, said the
consul, were well equipped with excellent medical facilities. He,
the consul, after talking the matter over with the ambassador,


Introducing Castro's Zangarillejas 235
had decided that in the interests of preserving the secrecy of
the operations these wounded men had been involved in, it
would be best to return them to Russia. As for the sailors now on
liberty, the consul revealed that it was mandatory that they be
kept under tight controls at all times, especially so that none of
them might be seen and questioned by an international reporter.
Hence, the Castro Government had turned the Rex Hotel into a
Soviet sailor's haven, if not a heaven.
Raul Castro himself, as the Commander in Chief of the Armed
Forces of Cuba, the consul confided, had underwritten all ex-
penses for the sailors there. Everything from dancing girls to
bedroom girls were being made available to them, and the rum
and wine were "on the house." Also, for relaxation at the beach,
the bus would take shore parties to a nearby restricted area of
the shore where all personnel could enjoy the surf.
It was in company with the consul that I paid my calls on the
ambassador and his attache, and then went to pay my respects
to the Premier. Before seeing him, however, I talked for nearly
an hour and a half with both the consul and the ambassador
about the several missions which my orders required me to ful-
fill in Cuba. Both of these officials promised to aid me in every
way possible, to the end that I could take certain detailed in-
formation back to Russia.
My appointment with Fidel Castro was hurried and unpleas-
ant. From the moment I met him in his palatial, well-guarded
headquarters in Havana until I left him some twenty minutes
later, all I received was a storm of abuse.
Castro was unhappy. Perhaps underlying his edginess was his
own understanding of present Cuban economic chaos. He de-
plored the fact that Soviet Russia had not sponsored even more
programs which he had devised for the complete changeover in
Cuba. Though he appreciated the appearance on the scene of
Professors Bogucharovo and Pozdeev, whom he had met the
previous night, he felt that the USSR could ameliorate his eco-
nomic problems by buying an even greater percentage of the
sugar cane every year. He ranted about the recent United States


236 Shadow of Peril
embargo on Cuban trade, saying that the damned Yankee gringos
ought to be horsewhipped; that he would show them what kind
of man he was once the new big missiles came from the Soviet
Union.
Then he screamed that I should go back and tell Khrushchev
that he wanted more patrol boats, fast ones. And he wanted to
get some guided missiles tor some of his frigates. Then, he roared,
he would be able to take on some of the Yankee destroyers which
always snooped around from their base at Key West to the north.
He was thinking about announcing a fifty-mile territorial limit.
Why not, he wanted to know? And why didn't I sink some of
those damned Yankee gringo aircraft carriers when I was down
there off Guantanamo?
The ambassador tried to calm him down, first by saying that
after all, I was only a mere submarine captain—and that he was
the ambassador and as such the man for Castro to talk to about
broad policy matters. This failing, the ambassador said that in
regard to the embargo, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all.
Castro chomped into his green-leafed Havana corona and wanted
to know how come.
"Well, Senior Prime Minister," the Soviet diplomat said em-
phatically, "for one thing, I have just learned that even though
the American president has called for an embargo on all goods
originating in your country, the U. S. Treasury Department has
made an unexpected ruling that Americans may nonetheless buy
Cuban cigars just so long as they are first exported from Cuba to
some other locality. For instance, if you send your cigar exports
to the Canary Islands, they can then be reshipped to the United
States."
Castro's dark face showed a slight measure of satisfaction.
His mouth twitched, and he took a long puff on his cigar. "Do
you mean that this way, we can still get American dollars?"
The ambassador nodded.
Fidel Castro smacked one of his huge clenched fists into the
waiting palm of his other hand, and uttered an oath in what was
to me quite unintelligible Spanish. Then he said, "We do have


Introducing Castro's Zangarillejas 237
friends up there in the Yankee Treasury Department! Is the
American press going to influence them to change their ruling?"
"No," replied the Soviet representative of Premier Khrushchev,
"I don't think so. Already, there have been some congressmen
who have made speeches about the situation, but the copies of
the American Congressional Record which I have forwarded to
me every day indicate that the U. S. State Department really
isn't going to do anything about the matter."
Fidel Castro chewed his cigar passionately, and then asked an
aide present to start subscribing to the Congressional Record.
No damned reason, he said in unquotable Spanish, to have such
a good information booklet, as this Congressional Record appar-
ently was, go unread by his own staff. The subject of congress-
men suddenly captivated him.
"Are any of those potbellied senators still yakking about me
and what I'm doing?" he asked.
The ambassador thought for a moment, then said, "Well, Dr.
Castro, you recall one of their senators has made a speech urging
a pacific blockade of Cuba . . ."
"When did he make this speech?"
"Oh, some months ago. Back last summer, perhaps in August
or September. He advocated a pacific blockade which he said
would be recognized by international law and would not be con-
sidered a war measure. He apparently feels this blockade should
be absolute. Complete."
Castro narrowed his eyes.
"And if they ever did try to pull something like that?"
"In that case, Mr. Prime Minister," I interjected, suddenly find-
ing myself talking at a very high level of joint government, "our
submarines would probably be deployed to assist you, providing
we had a submarine base here in Cuba from which to operate."
Castro paced nervously back and forth across his marble-
floored office. Taking a long puff on his cigar, he blew a series of
deliberate smoke rings and, watching them diffuse into the at-
mosphere, said, "That, Capitdn, is why I am allowing two sub-
marine bases to be built for you."


238 Shadow of Peril
My ears perked up. This was what I wanted most to know
about. I started to enlarge on this conversation, but Castro sud-
denly looked at his large gold wrist watch and announced that
the audience was at an end. "Pues," he sighed, "Buenas tardes,
seiiores."
During the following week, I met and had luncheon with Raul
Roa and various other officials of the Cuban regime. I had the
opportunity to tell them firsthand of the need for Soviet sub-
marine bases in Cuba. My main theme was that since Russia to-
day has over two hundred submarines which normally are not
capable of making extended cruises across the Atlantic to prey
on American shipping, what is needed in order to give the Com-
munist world greater flexibility is at least one good, well-pro-
tected base in the Western Hemisphere. Since Russia has already
supplied Cuba with a veritable arsenal in nearly every type of
weapon, it is now Cuba's responsibility to favor the Soviet Union
with a base for her underwater might, at the earliest possible
time. The two hundred-odd submarines just referred to are of
the "W" class, or similar. If two squadrons (about twenty) of
"W" type were based in the western Atlantic or Caribbean, they
would prove a most difficult problem for U. S. and Latin-Ameri-
can naval strategists.
Roa agreed that it was a good idea to build sub pens in Cuba.
As a matter of fact, he said, the Cuban Government had already
confiscated a good part of the land at a suitable location near
Cienfuegos, on the southern coast of the island. There, he thought,
would be an excellent spot for extensive submarine pens. These
could be built out of massive steel-enforced concrete with giant
lead doors and roofing for protection against nuclear attack. They
would be practically impervious to any kind of assault save per-
haps a nuclear direct hit. Anyway, they would be a lot stronger
than the strong and massive old Nazi sub pens in Bordeaux.
(There, the French are still embarrassed by the presence of those
gigantic installations, but [because of their size and solidarity]
are powerless to remove them.) Moreover, Roa said, the Cuban


240 Shadow of Peril
Novikov stood there in the dimly lighted hallway, doubtless
swaying under the influence of the huge quantities of rum which
he had previously imbibed. "Where is it?" he asked, pressing
about twenty centavos into the man's hand. The taxi driver, who
had tarried to watch this performance, now witnessed the two
men disappear through an open doorway.
On the other end of that doorway, a short hallway led to an
already packed room, filled with dense cigarette and cigar smoke.
About a dozen merchant sailors, several Cuban soldiers, and one
or two civilians stood behind some manila ropes which had been
rigged across the room, separating the interested observers from
what turned out to be a nearly perpetual and continuing series
of performances. These performances were enacted by a cast of
a dozen men and women, some of whom were obviously Cuban
with Spanish blood, some Indians from South or Central America,
and others either mulatto or black.
There was one exception to this circus. She was a redheaded
girl of about nineteen, shapely and wholly nude. As the parade
of performers came in through a side curtain this redhead took
up the slack by teasing the masculine audience with frequent
body contortions and gyrations.
Her mistake—or perhaps her ultimate mistake—was made when
she discovered big, powerful, drunken Igor Novikov in her audi-
ence. He had been there for perhaps thirty minutes, had watched
as four separate pairs of performers had gone through their vo-
luptuous acts, and then had begun to feel an uncontrollable urge
for the inviting form of the redheaded tease. Novikov moved
steadily closer and closer to her, until finally he was right against
the rope and only a few feet from her. It was then that she
reached playfully over to tease him . . .
Eyewitnesses later reported to police that she made her in-
tended contact. And within literally seconds, so also did Novikov.
Some witnesses said they merely thought it part of the act;
others testified they were too surprised to do anything but watch
in what they said was "horror."


Introducing Castro's Zangarillejas 241
As luck would have it, a Cuban policeman happened to be
passing the premises at the time that the redhead started scream-
ing. Novikov was subdued forthwith and taken into custody.
The wheels of international justice sometimes turn slowly. Igor
Novikov was still in jail when, late in March, we put to sea again
in the F-68g.
As for the other sailors and the Cuban "show girls," suffice it
to say that the friendships formed were, however intimate, some-
what much less than durable.


*5
The Favors of Eloisa
One night in Havana, in the palatial former home of the
American sugar king, we were being entertained at a Cuban
"family affair" formal dinner. Fidel Castro sat at the head table,
with Commissar Post-Captain Lvov to his immediate left; the
Soviet ambassador was on his right, and my officers and I were
seated among Raul Roa, Che Guevara, Raul Castro, and other
revolutionary officers of the regime. Opposite each of us sat very
lovely, if not sometimes beautiful, senoritas. The Castro brothers
liked to look at their feminine companions during meals, I was
told; hence it was unlike the protocol in most countries, wherein
each gentleman is provided at dinner with a feminine conversa-
tional partner at his side.
Raul, who was sitting to my immediate left, wanted to know
something about Soviet hydrofoil development. I told him of Rus-
sian progress in that field, emphasizing that we had managed
to get a good head start on the United States by importing
former Nazi marine architects right after World War II. These
men, most of them brilliant freethinkers in naval design, had
just about persuaded Adolf Hitler to build a vast fleet of hydro-
foil transports to supply Rommel in Africa, when the Allies
bombed the major naval shipyards to pulp and hence precluded
this grand scheme from ever becoming a reality.
After the war, Russia had taken these men, made them all
personally rich, and had extracted from them the work which
had now made Soviet Russia the world leader in hydrofoil ship-
building. When Raul Castro asked about the new United States


The Favors of Eloisa 243
Navy hydrofoils, which he had heard were to be built for ex-
perimental use in antisubmarine warfare, I told him that it would
still be many years before the Yankees could match Soviet prog-
ress along these lines.
Raul Castro then noted that the English were planning on
sending the giant ocean liner Queen Elizabeth on New York-to-
Nassau cruises for turistas next winter. His information was that
the Cunard Line, failing miserably in transatlantic passenger
and freight traffic in competition with airlines and other inter-
national shipping lines, would probably be consigned to bank-
ruptcy if Russia could set up a faster travel means for such winter
turistas.
He then asked bluntly whether our government might not in-
vestigate the possibility of introducing large hydrofoil passenger
ships into the Caribbean runs—putting them under the flag of
Brazil or some other Latin-American country not wholly opposed
to the Soviet Union—and said that if this were done, the demise
of the large Cunard Line would then be nearly assured. When
that happened, it would be just one more defeat for capitalism.
I then told him about the large passenger ship construction pro-
grams going on in Soviet Russia. I talked about the new 750-foot,
thirty-thousand-ton liner now building in Leningrad, and told
him that it would be able to carry over eleven hundred passen-
gers on runs all over the world; then I brought up the impressive
hovercraft programs and the expansion of Soviet ocean liner
travel plans in other parts of the world, notably in the Far East.
He was impressed with the USSR's concentration on building a
new merchant fleet—especially at a time when the American De-
fense Secretary reportedly has vetoed the practice of giving fed-
eral funding assistance (subsidization) to American shipping
companies who desire to build new and faster ocean liners.
Opposite me at this meal, looking very enticing indeed in a
low-cut fight blue evening gown, sat Raul Castro's Special Treat,
the same Eloisa whom the commissar had become rather inti-
mately associated with on our first night in Havana. I was aware
of her studious, almost fascinated gaze in my direction through-


The Favors of Eloisa 245
anteroom just off the entrance, where an Army servant waited
to answer my every beck and call. He was also armed, interest-
ingly enough.
On arrival back at the hotel, I was led into the casino by Eloisa.
Reaching into her glittering rhinestone-ornamented handbag, she
produced a packet of Cuban bills, which she stuffed into my
pocket. Protesting was no use; she insisted that I use the money
for the sport of just gambling to see how lucky I was. Since the
casino was owned by the government, she said, and because I
was a guest of that government, this was the only way they could
let me play the roulette wheels. Raul Castro had given her the
bills with specific instructions that I was to have a good time.
So, high atop the Nacional, in the glittering rooftop casino, I
played the gambling tables. I don't know how many pesos I went
through, but I do know that within a couple of hours the crou-
piers had collected every last peso in the bundle. One thing I
was aware of as I stood placing money on the betting boards was
the proximity of Eloisa. Before the gambling was over, I found
she was clinging to me much as I had seen her hold Lvov some
days earlier.
The sunshine of the next morning poured through the win-
dows and woke me. Eloisa had already awakened, and was stand-
ing on the balcony, looking out at the sea. I arose, and walked
out to join her.
"What were you looking at?"
"Oh, at the sea . . . out where you came from," she said softly.
"Out where I came from? That is many thousand miles away,"
I answered. "And within the next two months, certainly, I hope
to be back there."
She turned and faced me. "Did you mean what you said last
night?"
An uncomfortable concern swept through me. What did she
mean by that? What could she be referring to? What had I said
to her? I shuddered to think.
She walked over to me and, taking her light negligee and
drawing it close over her bosom, looked up searchingly at me.


246 Shadow of Peril
"Do you really think I am beautiful? Really?" She cocked her
head to one side.
Inwardly, I sighed a breath of relief. Who could have known
what nonsense I might have told her the night before!
"Why, yes, Eloisa, you are muy bonita. </Por que?'
She smiled happily, and presently said, "Do you really like
me?"
"Eloisa, of course I do, why?"
"Then would you do something special for me, por favor?"
I nodded acquiescence, and she continued.
"Today, after breakfast, would you take me for a little ride?
I should like to take you somewhere."
It seemed apparent to me that she was not going to say any-
thing further which might prove embarrassing to me, so I smiled
and agreed to do whatever she wanted. After all, she would be
coming with me on my three-day trip to see the various missile
and sub installations in Cuba, and I most certainly did not want
to alienate her. No, indeed. She was much too engaging and
much too satisfactory for that.
But there were some questions which plagued me. Eloisa
seemed intelligent. She had a ready wit, and gracious manners.
She seemed to have been bred in comfortable surroundings, and
most assuredly knew how to conduct herself in the most ex-
pensive circles. How had she become what she was? The ques-
tion intrigued me. I had to find out the answer.
It was Sunday, March 18. I first realized it when the slow,
ringing tones of seemingly far-off church bells echoed across the
city. Eloisa had gone in to the bath and I could hear her splashing
about in the tub, singing a bright and cheerful melody. I listened
to both the church bells and the singing. Then I turned and
walked in from the balcony, pausing near the bath.
"Eloisa, I hear church bells."
"Yes, they are from the Cathedral."
"The Cathedral?"
"Si, amor mio. Es la catedral—la vieja iglesia de los jesuitas."
In my halting Spanish, I told her to please talk more slowly if


250 Shadow of Peril
So I just shuffled in to sit down on one of the thatched cane chairs
lined up on the floor. Eloisa seemed hurt. She gave me a look of
concern and recrossed herself. Then she moved in beside me and
knelt down. I continued to sit, but I was fascinated. The con-
gregation was now chanting something I did not understand, and
the three priests were all busily doing something way up there on
the altar.
The chanting now ceased, and the organ notes swelled up.
There was suddenly a silence, followed momentarily by three
chimes sounding off in crystal clear and ringing tones. Eloisa
crossed herself again and, nudging me, whispered that I was
embarrassing her. Then she tugged on my cuff, dragging my arm
down below the level of my knees, and causing me to capitulate.
I squirmed off the seat and knelt down beside her. As I did, the
organ increased again in strength, and with a flourish of majestic
playing, sent a thrill through me. I looked straight ahead at the
altar, at the spotlighted cross high above, and listened again as
a chime rang out loud and clear three times.
The Lord's Prayer was now being said, in Latin, of course. I
could understand parts of it, and the realization of what was
being spoken sent my mind forcefully back in time to the days of
my Christian youth. I closed my eyes.
Once again, I could imagine myself back in our small village
church in Aleksandrov, when I was a young boy . . . my father
and mother and brothers and sisters all there, faithfully on our
knees in worship to the everlasting Lord . . . praying to that
Great Power which Lvov and Sverdlov and Khrushchev and the
others denounced as nonexistent! Lvov! That bounder! What did
he know, anyway? Or Sverdlov, that idiot! . . .
And then the words came back to my mind, flashing before me
with new importance . . .
Once to every man and nation
Comes the moment to decide
In the strife of truth with falsehood
For the good or evil side . . .


26
Big Bananas
During the next three days, I was whisked over the length
and breadth of Cuba. Eloisa accompanied me, and during this
junket I learned of her background. She told me of how Batista's
henchmen had killed her brother, a liberal-thinking student who
had come back from fashionable St. Matthews in the northeastern
United States, to make speeches and engineer student protests
in Havana, against the rigidities of the old dictator's regime.
She disclosed how her father, once a successful Cuban business-
man, had been jailed by Batista, and how her mother had been
thrown out of their large and rambling plantation home by the
fascist, who confiscated her family's property after having jailed
her father. His crime, it seemed, had been his active questioning
of some of Batista's more inflexible policies. She herself had been
educated in a convent and for a brief period had studied at a
fashionable New York finishing school run by an elderly English
spinster. However, the growing crises in Cuba during the high
points of her father's difficulties with Batista had brought about
her removal from the school, and she had been brought back to
her family's plantation.
In the ensuing shuffle, she had been channeled to her near rela-
tives in Oriente Province, where Fidel Castro was then in hiding,
preparing for his take-over of the country. In a series of moves,
she had finally, as a fervently idealistic reform enthusiast, man-
aged to find Castro and his band of rebels. And there, in the
remote mountain fastnesses of Oriente, far from the gentility and
cultivation of the life she had known, she had been accepted by


254 Shadow of Peril
necessary in order to advance it. And thinking back now on these
statements of hers, I suppose I should have taken her at her
word.
The first site we visited was the intermediate-range rocket base
at nearby Matanzas. With Colonel Ourusov and Raul Castro, to-
gether with a train of his aides (including his favorite, Jose),
we traveled by motor caravan to this particular site some fifty to
sixty miles east of Havana. There, I saw the cement launching
areas, camouflaged against possible detection by American U-2
aircraft or other spying means. I asked Raul Castro how soon the
site would be provided with some of our new seventy-foot mis-
siles. He replied that within the next few months they would be
ready for them. Meanwhile, Cuba was depending on the older,
sixty-foot rockets. Several of these types had been received only
a few months ago, he said, and a large number of these missiles
were expected soon. We joked, I remember, about the lack of
American determination regarding Cuba's getting the armaments
with which she might pulverize most of the eastern and central
United States.
The following day, we motored to a remote missile-launching
base in the interior of western Cuba, at Pinar del Rio. There, the
Castro Government had succeeded in establishing a veritable
storehouse of intermediate range ballistic missiles which could
be launched from cement pads against almost any place in the
United States east of the Rockies and south of Kansas City.
Should larger, longer-range missiles be forthcoming, as Fidel and
Raul Castro desire, then Cuba will be truly in a position to an-
nihilate all of the continental U.S.
The last trip we made was via airplane, and it was a circuitous
bit of travel first to Cienfuegos, a good-sized and pleasant city
on the mid-southern coast of Cuba. There, I was shown the pro-
posed construction site for the huge Soviet submarine pens which
the Castros had agreed to build. Preliminary work was already
going on there. Then we flew to Camagiiey, in the central Cuban
wilderness. Here, as at Pinar del Rio and Matanzas, the Cubans
had built extensive missile launching sites, and had stored at least
five squadrons of ready rockets.


PART III
PERIL FROM THE SEA





27
"Back in Our Natural Habitat"
In 171o, Peter the Great commenced smashing his way
to control of the Baltic, which until then had been no more than
a Swedish lake. His brilliant naval commander, Admiral Fedor
Apraksin, directed not only the capture of Viborg, but also com-
manded operations along the Finnish coast in 1713, defeated the
Swedes at Gangoot in 1714 and, through his assaults on the Swed-
ish fleet and coast in the ensuing years, hastened the capitulation
of Sweden in 1721. Peter, aware of his own inferiority to Apraksin
as a sea commander, participated in most of the naval actions
of the period as a subordinate flag officer to this admiral. It is
noteworthy that after the Russian naval victory at Hango-Udd,
where the Swedish fleet had been almost annihilated, Peter
allowed himself the privilege of self-promotion from rear ad-
miral to vice admiral. Apraksin himself handed his Czar the new
personal flag denoting Peter's more senior rank in the Russian
Navy!
Such was the illustrious hereditary background of Soviet Navy
Lieutenant Commander Ivan Fedorovich Apraksin, descendant
of Russia's "first Admiral." On the twenty-seventh of March, 1962,
Apraksin reported to the F-68g for duty. With him was another
officer, Lieutenant Josef Ozerovich Marsk. Both had been flown
to Havana as replacements for two of the three officers I had
lost in the operations to date. Apraksin, a mild-mannered, urbane
officer of pleasant personality whose finely chiseled facial bone
structure set himself immediately apart from most of the other
officers (whose features tended to reflect the more common


"Back in Our Natural Habitat"
261
and teach him what I could of submarine operations. With a
firm foundation in underseas craft thus established, he would
then ostensibly be of value to the destroyer forces, for he could
bring to a surface-navy staff the impressions of an officer who has
actually served in the destroyer's traditional antagonist—the sub-
marine.
Marsk, for such a purpose, was an outstanding selection. Al-
ready officially qualified as professionally competent to com-
mand Soviet destroyer types by the Commander of Destroyer
Forces, Northern Fleet Headquarters as well as by the Central
Navy Administrative Commander, Marsk's resolute determina-
tion to acquire as much knowledge as possible about antisub-
marine warfare would ultimately result in his inestimable value
to the Soviet Navy. For despite the current accent on submarine
operations, and the heavy emphasis on training officers for sub-
marine billets, Soviet Russia has few officers experienced in
surface-ship antisubmarine tactics appropriate to meet the chal-
lenge of modern nuclear-powered subs built and building for the
U. S. Navy.
I assigned Marsk to the navigator for integration into the
watch routine, and concurrently gave to him such administrative
duties as both Dedusko and the commissary officer (Rodzianko)
had been charged with prior to their transfers.
It was also on the twenty-seventh of March that our Havana-
based intelligence conveyed word to us that the Soviet research
ship Vglo, which since mid-February had been conducting a
covert intelligence mission off the U. S. east coast, was now pre-
cisely in the middle of a U. S. Atlantic Fleet antisubmarine
(ASW) group. This American fleet group, consisting of an air-
craft carrier, seven destroyers, and two submarines, was pres-
ently located approximately 250 miles southeast of Cape Hat-
teras. Vglo, operating in the vicinity of the American units for
about a week, had been amassing important electronics informa-
tion. I checked the chart of the Atlantic seaboard and the areas
in which the U. S. ships were operating. I had no desire to make
contact with such an antisubmarine hunter-killer group as this!


262 Shadow of Peril
Fortunately, further intelligence revealed that the enemy would
not be in continuous operation for more than another week.
Other than that, the Communist intelligence apparatus in
Havana was able to provide me with the information that a
major amphibious exercise involving the U. S. Marines would
commence during the second week or so of April, probably on
about the ninth. More than forty thousand Navy men and Ma-
rines, embarked in eighty-three ships, would be participating in
a full-scale amphibious assault at Vieques Island, off Puerto Rico.
This exercise, to be a three-week maneuver, was ostensibly for
the purpose of maintaining combat efficiency of the American
Atlantic Fleet amphibious strike forces. But in Havana, the Cas-
tros viewed this intelligence with alarm. They believed the
yanquis would doubtless conduct a trial landing at Vieques, but
that they would then jump off for a landing somewhere on the
Cuban shore. Consequently, Raul Castro ordered a general alert
for his armed forces.
As we left Havana, Communist Cuba was writhing in a mas-
sive mobilization of all reserve units and police. Special orders
were being disseminated to the populace to remain calm, but to
stand ready to help evict the fierce invader from the Fatherland's
beaches when the attack came. The word arriving in Havana was
that the newly converted antisubmarine carrier Intrepid, (once
an attack-carrier in the Mediterranean Sea), a helicopter assault
ship, two command ships, a guided missile cruiser, and a missile-
carrying destroyer, would all be involved in the operation.
Additionally, there was a rumor that the large carrier Forrestal
might be involved. This infuriated Raul Castro, who, just prior
to F-68g departing Cuba, personally chided me for not having
sunk that huge floating aerodrome when I had had the opportu-
nity several times in the past.
The only other bit of intelligence we received from Intelligence
Headquarters in Havana, prior to our getting underway, was
that the American fleet was planning a large-scale fleet review
off Virginia, to take place the second week in April. The Presi-
dent of the U.S., it was reported, would be present.


"Back in Our Natural Habitat" 263
On the morning of March 28, Sergei Mikhailoff, Ivan Baliuk,
Ivan Apraksin, and Commissar Lvov joined me in looking over
the navigational charts of the American Atlantic seaboard—for
the last time preparatory to our getting underway. Baliuk, from
his voluminous intelligence material, laid out his hydrographic
charts alongside those which the navigator had put down for us
on the wardroom table.
Baliuk's special charts showed precisely the locations of the
Mid-Atlantic Ridge, the Caloosahatchee Sea Mounts, and the
other underwater island peaks such as the Poconos, the Nash-
ville, New England, Muir, San Pablo, Rehoboth, and Kelvin Sea
Mounts, all of which, accurately plotted by painstakingly con-
scientious Soviet oceanographers, now provide such positive
navigational information to Soviet submarines operating in these
waters.
My eyes moved slowly up the oceanic areas along the conti-
nental shelf—that region of the ocean bottom extending out from
forty to a couple of hundred miles from the shoreline, and be-
yond which there is a steep drop, as in a canyon, to the ocean
floor. Norfolk Canyon interested me, as did the Hudson, Atlantis,
and Hydrographer Canyons which extended northward. These
were the points where the continental slope drops precipitously
to great depths. And it was along this boundary of the continental
shelf, at depths of about six hundred feet, that we would place
the special electronics navigational beacons.
From our detailed information about where the trawler fleets
had anchored their many underwater navigational landmarks
(for subsequent use by our submarines), we were able to start
our own operations in such a way as to complement their work.
I assure you it was not difficult to determine where our own sub-
marine-launched special aids could best serve to augment the
larger trawler-planted devices. The latter are, in some cases,
atomic generators, powering navigational beacons resting across
the expanse of the Atlantic, from sea mount to sea mount west
of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. In particular, they indicate precise
launch spots for Soviet missile submarines. These subs are thus


264 Shadow of Peril
able, now, to home in on the beacons. Having done this, they can
use the positions of the beacons as settings for their rockets' in-
ertial guidance systems. With this sort of check, our underwater
craft can cruise indefinitely underneath the surface of the sea
without ever having to surface for a position correction.
Of course, Soviet intelligence is aware of the fact that the mam-
moth American Navy has possibly discovered some of the Soviet
radioactive navigational beacons on the ocean bottom. But the
naval forces of Soviet Russia will continue frequently to check,
monitor, and replace these devices as necessary.
Thus, the interesting possibility may arise whereby an increas-
ingly grotesque game of hide-and-seek will develop off the
American coastline.
Based on the latest intelligence report received the day of our
departure, it was determined that we could be in a position to
encounter the American fleet's presidential review off Virginia
—assuming that it was carried out anywhere from the tenth to the
fifteenth of April. I decided I would attempt to rendezvous with
this parade of U. S. ships. It would be perhaps one of the great-
est thrills of our lives, to be secretly planted, unseen but seeing,
close aboard the otherwise so powerful American Navy. And for
their Commander in Chief to be on hand would be like frosting
on the cake.
Shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon, as I was inspecting
the outer hull of the submarine from the pier, Colonel Ourusov
paid us a farewell visit. The previous day, I had brought all the
officers back on board the submarine from the plushy accom-
modations in the Nacional, and we had been striving mightily to
insure complete readiness for sea. Rostopchin had reported suc-
cessful dock trials and the electronics equipment had been thor-
oughly calibrated and checked.
Ourusov confided to me that upon completion of our current
mission, we should not be surprised to find ourselves being or-
dered to the Far East. There might be trouble brewing over
there, he said, and it had something to do with a request of Mao
Tse-tung that the Soviet Union provide more submarine support


"Back in Our Natural Habitat" 265
in the event that Chiang Kai-shek launch an American Navy-
protected amphibious invasion of the Chinese mainland.
Were we to be moved from here to those far Pacific waters, we
might possibly find it necessary to put into Conakry, the capital of
Guinea, to take on supplies or make voyage repairs prior to going
on with the long voyage around the world. Of course, there are
other ports like Conakry where the USSR now has submarine
facilities established, and any of these might be utilized in such a
deployment. For instance, at Surabaja, Indonesia, the Soviet
Union now has the exclusive use of the former Dutch submarine
pens at that port.
However, I informed Ourusov that I could not help but doubt
our ever receiving such orders to deploy to the Pacific. After all,
Mao has already been given about thirty submarines, most of
which are snorkel-equipped medium-range types like the W-7,
and all of them quite capable of thwarting amphibious landings.
Then too, the Soviet fleet based at Vladivostok would be the
likely reservoir for any additional submarine strength detailed for
Mao's protection or support. It therefore seemed most improbable,
to my mind, that Supreme Naval Headquarters would resort to
ordering the F-68g to the Pacific. These I enunciated to Ourusov,
who shrugged and sighed that, well, he wasn't a naval tactician
or strategist, all he was doing was telling me about a new possi-
bility for international fireworks.
How had Ourusov arrived at his conclusions? Questioning him
revealed that the worldwide Communist espionage network had
intercepted some correspondence between certain high-ranking
U. S. military officers. This correspondence pointed to the fact
that a significant element of American officers experienced in Far
Eastern affairs were pressing the Washington government to en-
dorse a Chiang invasion of Red China. It would be an invasion
logistically supported by U. S. naval forces—and, naturally
enough, Mao was alarmed about the prospects.
Our departure time had been set for 10 p.m.; at nine-thirty, a
black Cadillac limousine pulled up to the pier and Raul Roa,
accompanied by the Soviet ambassador and a well-armed body-


To the Presidential Review: Naval Power Assessed 271
executed for his role in crimes against the People. Furthermore,
he declared, an even worse scoundrel, a Jew named Mordekh
Abramovich Kakiashvili, had just been found guilty in a court in
Tiflis, capital of the Georgian SSR, of extensive illegal currency
speculation. He also had been executed for the good of the Soviet
Union. Lvov thus made his point that there was a Jewish con-
spiracy with international connections, that it was known, and
that something was being done about it. But to clinch it, the com-
missar went on to reveal that Kleimanov and Kakiashvili were
only two of several Jews who had recently been executed on eco-
nomic charges. At least twenty-two Jews, he said, were known
to be among forty Soviet citizens who had received death sen-
tences. Prison terms had been given to between one hundred and
150 Soviet nationals, of whom a majority were known to be Jews.
"The tinkle of gold and the rustle of bank notes have died
down, the luster of diamonds grown dim," intoned Lvov with a
heaviness in his voice, "but the way of these Jews has been logi-
cally ended, commencing with their having been brought forth
to the harsh bench of justice in the courtrooml"
Makar Rostopchin managed to endure it until Lvov pricked
him with the words, "And of course, the sooner we rid ourselves
of Jews in the Navy, the better it will be for the People." When
he heard these words, obviously directed at himself, he rose and
turned to leave the wardroom. Lvov called him back.
"Makar Rostopchin," barked the commissar, "you need not go.
You are only half Jewish."
There was a half-empty glass of vodka on the wardroom table
near Rostopchin. With a flash, his arm shot out and his hand
grabbed the convenient object. He pitched its contents across
the table, splattering the surprised face of Post-Captain Com-
missar Lvov. And then, smashing the glass to the deck, Ro-
stopchin told Lvov to make the most of the incident.
For the next ten days, except for periods when his presence
was required in the engine room, Makar Rostopchin was con-
fined to his berth. There, his meals were brought to him by the


To the Presidential Review: Naval Power Assessed 273
searchlights in our direction. Watch officer ordered fast emer-
gency descent; aircraft known to have passed overhead within
five seconds of our dive. Best estimate is that aircraft was a U. S.
Navy antisubmarine patrol plane from one of the antisubmarine
aircraft carriers. At 9:41 p.m., tremendous, powerful vibration
coupled with a roar of sudden rumbling heard close aboard, as
though colossal impact of a heavy mass into the sea had occurred.
Soon, underwater sound reported fading echoes. Commenced
using creep motor. Continued listening. Nothing. Waited some
more. Then returned to periscope depth for a quick 360-degree
look. Nothing seen. Descended again, this time to 150 feet, and
turned westward at 3 knots. Believe loud crash was possible
bomb concentration intended for us from the aircraft, or possibly
the aircraft itself— assuming the latter had unexpected and sud-
den flight trouble while homing in on us so extremely close to
the surface of the water. The conning watch officer reported to
me that the aircraft he had seen through the periscope initially
was a twin-engined, propeller-driven plane. Since we were then
about 150 miles southeast of Norfolk, Virginia, I assume that this
aircraft was probably one of the American Navy's carrier-based
submarine-tracker planes. Perhaps an S-2-F, so famous in anti-
submarine circles . . .
April 3, 1962
Wireless revealed that the huge American nuclear carrier EN-
TEBPRISE was just starting the final phase of her shakedown
cruise in the Caribbean.
April 4, 1962
Placed three more radioactive navigational beacons on the bot-
tom, plotted their locations with precision, and moved twenty
miles farther north.
April 5-7, 1962
Sneaked in close to shore off Virginia Beach. Sighted through
periscope and saw nothing of unusual significance. Not too many
people on beach area. Had to exercise extreme caution due to


29
The Penetration of New York Harbor
It was at a depth of 450 feet, and at six knots, that we
left the North Carolina coast and headed seaward. By one o'clock
on the morning of April 15, the F-68g was some sixty miles due
east of Cape Lookout, and about equally distant to the south of
Cape Hatteras. Northeastward from here until nearly abreast
of Hatteras, and then northward for roughly the next 180 miles
was my plan. We followed it with but minor variation. Hence,
by 7 a.m. on April 16, the U. S. naval authorities at Norfolk, Vir-
ginia (where the American Atlantic Fleet Commander in Chief
is headquartered) would have been more than mildly interested,
I feel sure, to know that we were not much more than 115 miles
to seaward from Cape Henry. Our course now took us on a head-
ing which, if continued, would place us at the entrance to New
York Harbor!
But there was business to be done. We had several strings of
underwater navigational beacons to plant, and positioning them
would take a combination of good judgment and precise naviga-
tion on our part. The first series of devices for this general area
were placed on the floor of the American continental shelf not
more than seventy miles east of Winterquarter Shoals, about a
hundred miles south-southeast of Atlantic City, New Jersey. Oth-
ers were planted along a track heading roughly northeast from
this point, for the next 120 miles. Their placement just inside the
one hundred-fathom curve would be invaluable for possible later
use by missile submarines required to position themselves ac-
curately. Needless to say, such extremely eastern cities as New


The Penetration of New York Harbor 279
historian Professor Morison) it was not at all unusual for German
subs to sink U. S. merchant ships within full view of the beach-
loving salt-water bathers from Virginia Beach north to Coney
Island!
I had almost made up my mind. Now all that remained was to
assemble all officers in the wardroom and ascertain whether
there were any on board who might object to my taking the sub-
marine on an operation beyond the scope of our orders. In par-
ticular, I was concerned about the commissar's attitude. Were he
to oppose any bold deviation from our basic orders, I was not
sure that I would want to execute such a fantastic plan.
"Gentlemen," I began, "a wonderful opportunity now presents
itself."
All eyes were focused now upon me. If any of the officers sus-
pected the extent of my thinking, none showed it. Rostopchin
reached into his shirt pocket and produced his silver snuff packet,
which he promptly put to its intended use.
His sneeze punctuated my asking whether any officer present
felt he might want to decline a chance to enter New York Harbor
—submerged.
Even Lvov's face registered not only approval but a keen de-
light at the prospects. As a matter of fact, his only comment
served to cement my until then most tentative plan. Said the
commissar, "When do we make the penetration?"
Notwithstanding Lvov's obvious enthusiasm about entering
New York Harbor in a submerged submarine, I went on to re-
mind all officers that according to the orders under which we
operated, I was to keep us outside the three-mile limit. In the
eventuality that we were discovered by the Americans, we would
have to surface fully or subject ourselves to a possible depth-
charge attack. In any case, we would not have the support of the
Soviet Government. Nonetheless, the experience, if successful,
would prove to be unforgettable—and for many years to come,
would be the topic of discussions in many Soviet warship ward-
rooms.
The decision was made to enter the world's most famous har-


The Penetration of New York Harbor 281
Going with Sergei Mikhailoff and Ivan Baliuk to the naviga-
tor's desk at the conning station, I indicated where I wanted the
submarine taken. Proceeding on a course due west-northwest,
we would arrive off the New Jersey coast on the eighteenth at
a point just southeast of Asbury Park. It was here, I seemed to
recall, that an ill-fated American excursion steamer, the SS Mono
Castle, had burned and beached back in 1934.
My orders to the navigator recommended a speed and course
suitable for our arriving off this area of beaches in the late after-
noon. I was anxious to compare the American beaches this far
north with the Russian seaside resort areas on the Black Sea.
Highlights taken from my personal copy of the patrol account for
Wednesday and Thursday (April 18 and 19) follow:
April 18, 1962
At 3:30 p.m., passed inside three-mile limit off Ocean Grove,
Asbury Park, New Jersey. Numerous bathers on beaches, despite
variable cloudiness. Commissar Lvov remarked that beaches did
not compare favorably with Soviet resort areas by the Black
Sea. Too many billboards and advertising signs along the shore-
line. At 5:30 pjm., set course for Ambrose Lightship. Intend to
night snorkel and recharge batteries en route Ambrose.
April lg, 1962
4:10 a.m., batteries recharged. 4:20 a.m., finished snorkeling
before morning twilight. 5:13 a.m., watched sunrise and com-
menced approach on huge American luxury liner United States.
6:05 a.m., en route New York Harbor, approximately 250 yards
astern of SS United States. Channel shipping ahead reduced
American liner's speed sufficiently for F-68g to maintain station
astern.
Upon entering New York Harbor, referred to Esso road map
of New York City (obtained in Havana), and was thus provided
excellent references to landmarks—supplementing our naviga-
tional charts of the area.


282
Shadow of Peril
I noted with mixed amusement and sentimentality the Ferris
wheels and high roller coasters at Coney Island. So as to allow
each officer the maximum opportunity to benefit from this ex-
pedition, I permitted all to take turns looking through the peri-
scope at various times while proceeding up Ambrose Channel,
and later, in New York's Upper Bay. There were no problems
encountered from other shipping until after we transited the
Narrows and entered the Bay, bounded on the west by Staten
Island and Bayonne, and on the east by Brooklyn. Along this
stretch of our track, I observed that the myriad numbers of har-
bor craft, ferry boats, small ships, and larger liners—all of which
were moving swiftly and often on converging courses—might
make our submerged entry more than ordinarily dangerous. I
checked the chart, noticing the depth of water to be variable
between forty-four feet and sixty feet. The tide, I felt sure, was
peaking during our entry. But even so, there were not more than
a few feet to spare between the bottom of the bay and the bottom
of the submarine. If we were to strike a submerged cable, or in
any way become tangled in debris, or collide with a ship, we
would be in trouble. And there was another worry. If a fire were
suddenly to break out on board, we might be compelled by the
fumes to surface. Besides collision, a fire on board a submarine
is one of the casualties most feared.
At one point, a large red ferry boat came up along our port
quarter and then passed (miraculously) astern of us. It was an
indescribable moment of anxiety. True enough, most ferry boats
have a small draft, but the idea that this one could have rammed
our conning tower, or smashed our periscope, was quite unnerv-
ing. As a matter of fact, this near-collision occurred only minutes
before another nearly catastrophic convergence in the Bay. Be-
tween Greenville and Red Hook Channels, or at least in the
vicinity, a fast-moving, green-colored ferry boat suddenly came
up off our starboard side and passed painfully close aboard (over
us, I was sure, in the final nerve-wracking moments) on its way
from Brooklyn to the Jersey side. Fortunately, we were hugging
the stern of the United States so close that there was no trouble


The Penetration of New York Harbor 285
on a parallel with the old American roundhouse fort on Gover-
nor's Island. Furthermore, the water upstream was bound to be
less briny, and the consequent loss in buoyancy would be con-
siderable, I felt sure. We just could not risk an underwater pene-
tration any further northward.
This decided, I maneuvered the submarine around and cau-
tiously started our departure from this magnificent but nerve-
wracking American seaport. Another of those fast-moving ferry
boats came careening by close aboard (nearly inducing a heart
attack in me), but this time I took full advantage of it and pur-
sued it as closely as I could. This wasn't too close, because we
couldn't maintain his speed in such shallow water. But at least I
was able to utilize the ferry's foamy wake for hiding our splashing
periscope. The state of the water in the bay was good from our
point of view, too. There were small wavelets and occasional
small whitecaps. Spotting the periscope would be difficult except
to a trained observer.
Twice, passing close aboard large liners, I gave the order to
lower the periscope. I counted on a few moments of dead reckon-
ing and previous visual observation of the area to insure against
our colliding with anything. It worked; apparently no one ever
saw us.
Once again, I was given some concern by the movements of a
green ferry which appeared to zigzag between some other vessels
and buoys and then cut across the main channel at a reckless
speed. But within another hour and a half, we had successfully
transited the Narrows and passed by Coney Island. Even as we
crept down Ambrose Channel, heading for the open sea, Kulakov
was busy developing the film we had taken.
In the vicinity of the Ambrose Lightship, I spotted a white-
colored customs, or Coast Guard ship. The satisfaction I felt at
having passed her by, earlier, and now again slipping past her as
she lay to, "guarding" the entrance to New York Harbor, was sweet
indeed. With the lightship as a base for departure, I accepted a
course of 080 degrees true from Mikhailoff, and proceeded now
generally eastward along the southern side of Long Island. There


The Penetration of New York Harbor 287
"Yes, Commissar," I smiled, "it would be an even greater shock
if some of the people just a little further to the east of Southamp-
ton knew we would be cruising within swimming distance of
their beaches—representing, as we do, a far-flung but powerful
probe into the recesses of a capitalist stronghold . ."
"What do you mean, to the east of Southampton?"
"Well, when I was in Washington a couple of years or so ago,
I attended a garden party. That was when Nikita Khrushchev
was touring the United States. Anyway, at this garden party—
and as I recall, it was held at the British Embassy—I was told
that on Long Island, there are three points of interest. The first
is Oyster Bay, which they used to call the 'Gold Coast,' and where
that great capitalist warmonger of yesteryear, Theodore Roose-
velt, made his summer home; the second is Southampton, where
some of the older rich have long gone to pass away their sum-
mers; and then, there is East Hampton, where the new and filthy
rich now go each summer to golf and drink."
"East Hampton?"
"Yes, Commissar. But they don't pronounce it that way. The
accent isn't on the East. Besides, they pronounce it East Hamp-
ton."
"East HOMP-ton?"
I nodded, and together, with an uproarious belch of laughter
not at all routine for Lvov and me to join in spontaneously, we
poured and drank another round of bubbling, sparkling, golden
French champagne.


Consummate Satisfaction and Pleasure 289
shipping might well be pre-targeted through satellites controlled
by Soviet space sailors temporarily quartered on the moon!
The thought, farfetched as it seemed, was at least equaled by
an exclamation made by Lieutenant Baliuk, to the effect that the
USSR may some day discover how to manipulate or otherwise
control—perhaps from the moon—earth's oceanic tides in spe-
cific areas of the world. Better still, Baliuk continued, would be
for the Soviet Union to find a way to alter the paths of some of
the world's great ocean currents. Needless to say, were the Gulf
Stream ever deflected or diverted away from the coast of the
United States on the Atlantic seaboard, there would be no more
wintertime sunbathing in Florida. And maybe even there, people
would have to change to heavy woolen underwear and fur coats
in the wintertime. The thought was a chilling one—even for the
cold war.
The ensuing week was one of transit from the southern coast
of Long Island to the Georges Bank, where we planted the last
of our electronics devices on the North American continental
shelf, and then proceeded on to an Atlantic Ocean point about 180
miles southeast of Cape Race, Newfoundland—which put us
squarely in the center of the Grand Banks. That our course took
us squarely into the middle of a large Soviet "fishing" fleet in those
waters was not, of course, a mere coincidence. You will recall
that my orders directed me to arrive at latitude 450 north, longi-
tude 500 west, en route to the USSR from our operations off the
American coast.
But getting to this rendezvous point was not without incident.
Witness an extract from my notes and commentary for the day:
April 20, 1962
Moonset at 5:22 a.m., observed by conning watch officer
through periscope while making routine area surveillance. Sun-
rise evident a few minutes earlier. Crew shifted to day routine
in view of probability of possible contact with American naval
forces in area east of Long Island. Coded bulletins received dur-
ing night by wireless indicate that U. S. destroyer and submarine
forces from New London and Newport are operating during


2Q2 Shadow of Peril
ately lowering the periscope, given the order to take us down to
275 feet—a depth which both he and I agreed was well below any
thermal layer.
The gratifying sounds of the American ship's propellers becom-
ing steadily more faint indicated that once again, we had been
undetected—right under the nose of a fairly new United States
Navy antisubmarine vessel. Alert lookouts on the destroyer could
possibly have spotted our periscope, however. Reports which we
have received of recent efforts to improve American submarine
defense capabilities come as a most curious bit of news. For the
Soviet submariner, it is comforting to know that no matter how
much attention America now suddenly devotes to antisubmarine
improvements, her failure to concentrate on this field of naval
warfare sooner (that is, during the past decade) will allow Soviet
submariners a good initial advantage in combat operations—
should open war at sea break out between the United States and
the USSR.
Upon the development of the film taken of the U. S. warship,
it was readily determined that the destroyer type which Lieu-
tenant Kulakov had come upon and photographed was a ship of
the post-World War II era, a destroyer escort of the Dealey class.
Unfortunately for the U.S., but certainly gratifying to Soviet
submariners, is the fact that statistics mentioned in Jane's Fight-
ing Ships portray the Dealey class as too slow to keep up with
carrier task forces, too slow to run down nuclear submarines,
undergunned for antisubmarine work (ahead-thrown rockets,
depth charges, and a limited-range directionally trainable rocket
called "Alpha," in addition to carrying a truly ineffective antisub-
marine homing torpedo). They are also equipped with sonar of
questionable characteristics.
April 23, 1962
In the late morning hours, at a point approximately 150 miles
south of Cape Sable, Nova Scotia, I maneuvered the submarine
into a position for releasing our last underwater navigational
beacons.


2Q4 Shadow of Peril
pliers wielded by the corpsman. It is said that the patient never
knew what was happening, and the ensuing operation was held
to be successful.
In the evening, wardroom officers met for a political lecture
by the commissar. His subject dealt upon the increasingly weak,
apparently ever more unstable, American economic system. Lvov
quoted Lenin as having said at one time, "The U.S.A. will
spend itself into bankruptcy and then will fall into our laps like a
ripe apple."
Via the whip-antenna, we received relayed wireless reports
from one of the Soviet trawlers far to the south, about 140 miles
north of Puerto Rico, that she was continuing to shadow the
American aircraft carrier Forrestal and a U. S. task force which
had for the past few days been steaming in that area. I wondered
what secret orders the other two Soviet submarines, the Z-521
and the F-7oo, were now operating under. We had never made
actual contact, even when we were operating in the same general
geographical area at the time of the Glenn orbital flight recovery.
Perhaps both these submarines were now back in Russia ... or
perhaps they were, like the F-68g, still engaged in covert opera-
tions of a highly sensitive nature. I wondered.
And of course, the matter came up for discussion at the ward-
room table. Lvov initiated the conversation about the other subs
when Baliuk read us the decoded trawler message about the
surveillance of the Forrestal and her task force.
Another subject which came up for general commentary was
the Soviet advance in measures to combat the American Polaris
submarine. According to up-to-the-minute intelligence available
to us through the coded Navy Headquarters messages, the USSR
had recently proof-tested an underwater H-bomb in the Arctic.
These messages indicated that this bomb has the capability to
kill any submarine within a one hundred square mile area. The
resultant damage sustained by a submarine within this area
would be inflicted as a result of a terrific underwater hammer
effect, set up by successive shock waves.
Of course, I reasoned, the cost of detonating thousands of un-


Consummate Satisfaction and Pleasure 295
derwater H-bombs in an effort to cover the millions of square
miles of ocean hiding areas would be prohibitive, unless in the
meanwhile we can develop better submarine localization devices.
The next few days were quiet ones; the distance from U. S.
shores had opened to more than five hundred miles and was
steadily increasing. We could afford to relax at last. . . not com-
pletely, but sufficiently so that I could reflect now, for the first
time, on the over-all operation which we had been conducting,
and which now was drawing to a close. As the range to American
shores grew greater, I took to surfacing the submarine for brief
intervals at night. The hatches were thrown open and fresh air
was allowed to enter the craft; I took full advantage of these oc-
casions to go up on the open bridge and benefit most completely
from the refreshing salt air, the invigorating white spray, and
the expansiveness of the surface environment.
For the American reader who has never been on board a sub-
marine, I would recommend that for a vicarious moment of
standing on the plunging, rolling weather deck of a surfaced
submarine, he might do well to look carefully at an oil painting
I saw in the Pentagon during my 1959 visit to Washington. This
canvas, the work of a World War II artist, was an on-the-scene
impression of a submarine splashing along at nighttime in the
bleak North Atlantic. This painting was exhibited with scores
of other wartime canvases. It may still be there. In any event, it
compared very favorably with some submarine-scene oils by lead-
ing Russian marine artists, which I have seen in Moscow, but
which of course are not easily viewable by most Americans.
April 29, 1962
At midafternoon, a single sweep of our surface-search radar
disclosed the massed Soviet fishing fleet for which we were head-
ing. They were strung out over an area of about a hundred square
miles just to the east of us, and apparently moving northward.
This conclusion I derived from prior receipt of their intended
position projected over the next twenty-four-hour period.


2g6 Shadow of Peril
It was during evening twilight that we finally broke surface
some few hundred yards from the large mother-ship, a trawler-
tender whose cavernous compartments contain vast electronics
storerooms as well as on-the-spot canning facilities for the fishing
hauls daily taken on board from the smaller craft of the fishing
fleet.
The commanding officer, Commodore A. V. Rudzogdin, in ad-
dition to having spent some thirty-three years in the Soviet Navy
surface fleet (where he last commanded, in i96o, the heavy
cruiser Aleksandr Nevskii), is presently one of the Soviet Union's
most knowledgeable oceanographers. He has been highly deco-
rated by the Soviet Navy and also by the Supreme Soviet for his
recent outstanding achievements in hydrographic work along
the Grand Banks southward to the approaches of New York.
After maneuvering the submarine alongside the tender's
leeward side, Lvov and I, followed by five crewmen visitors,
boarded the big ship by climbing adroitly up a Jacob's ladder
to the main deck. There, to our astonishment, we were met with
ceremony and fanfare.
After dabbling in some delicious appetizers in the commo-
dore's stateroom, we were taken into the wardroom, where about
twenty-five officers of the Soviet Navy—all dressed in mess jackets
—awaited our arrival. Not having expected such formality, and
particularly surprised to find the wardroom so full of naval of-
ficers (there were less than a dozen merchant marine officers
there), I found myself somewhat embarrassed. Neither Lvov
nor I had bothered to dress properly for the occasion; we were
attired in old salt-sprayed, oil-spotted blues. The gold braid on
our uniforms was tarnished and in marked contrast to the flash-
ing brilliance of the French lace adorning the commodore's and
other officers' uniforms.
A trio of musicians stroked out chamber music and popular
Russian songs on fiddle, bass violin, and cello, as we sat down
to enjoy a delightfully sophisticated meal afloat—champagne,
caviar, sardines, haddock, lobster, borsch, steamed rice, fresh


Consummate Satisfaction and Pleasure 297
salad (a real treat), sliced oranges (another treat), and Armenian
cognac.
Midway through the meal, the commodore arose to say a few
words and to toast our continued submarine successes. It was
obvious that he knew some of the activities in which we had
been engaged. Just before he sat down, he announced with ob-
vious pleasure that the Soviet Navy Commander in Chief, Ad-
miral Gorshkov, had just been elevated to the rank of Fleet
Admiral. "And do you know why?" the commodore inquired
rhetorically of his attentive audience.
"I'll tell you why!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm.
Both Lvov and I glanced from him to peer quickly at the faces
of the other officers. All were turned toward the speaker; each
expression registered respectful interest.
"The Kremlin has made him our first Fleet Admiral—the first
in all the history of Russia—as a direct result of two ambitious
programs initiated by Admiral Gorshkov. Both programs have
been hugely successful. Both programs are vital to the interests
of the Soviet Union. Combined, these two programs will give us
ultimate victory over the Western world."
I was entranced. Commodore Rudzogdin was not just speak-
ing. He was orating. With polished articulateness and a velvety
toned voice, he elucidated.
"Gentlemen," he said, "for his brilliant foresight and planning
in developing our current oceanographic effort, as well as for
his correctly assessing the Soviet Union's naval requirements,
which in turn has led us to producing such a mighty underseas
fleet, our nation has today promoted Sergey Gorshkov to the
highest rank to which a naval officer can aspire. We, here aboard
this great ship, as Soviet oceanographers, represent one of Ad-
miral Gorshkov's magnificent, brilliant programs. And our guests
this evening, from the submarine now in company with us, repre-
sent the blossoming supremacy of our Navy over the navigable
waters of the globe. Let us drink a toast now to our great Fleet
Admiral!!"


298 Shadow of Peril
The chairs shuffled and squeaked as more than seventy shoes
moved in a responsive demonstration, Rudzogdin bringing the
assemblage to its feet for a champagne toast to the number one
Soviet sailor, Sergey Gorshkov.
After dinner, I circulated briefly with the wardroom officers,
answering their many questions about our operations in these
waters, but confining my statements to the unclassified aspects
of our activities. Lvov took keen delight, however, in announcing
that we had just come from New York, where we had sighted
in on the Statue of Liberty—through periscope cross hairs. I was
quick to tell the other Soviet officers that actually, were we ever
to receive orders to destroy New York—and were we equipped
with missiles, as a large number of Soviet submarines now are
—we would fire the rockets from distances as far from the target
as seven hundred miles.
Furthermore, I informed them, present Soviet research and
development will shortly provide us with the means to fire Polaris-
type missiles from distances up to and in fact exceeding fifteen
hundred miles! Most of the tender's officers, although ranging
in grade from lieutenant to captain, were surface-type officers
with oceanography degrees. Few of them, I found, were knowl-
edgeable in submarine weaponry, although most of them ap-
peared well versed in the biological and hydrographical aspects
of oceanography and the underwater environment in which sub-
marines operate.
Before leaving the ship, Lvov and I were conducted on a tour
of the huge floating command ship. It was an ingenious combina-
tion of trawler repair ship, communications command vessel, re-
pository for thousands upon thousands of fish netted by the
smaller ships, floating cannery, oceanographic research platform
with extensive laboratories set up in several massive compart-
ments on the second deck aft, electronics spare parts ship, and
mine-laying ship in the event of war. The crew's quarters were
astonishingly luxurious. To use a lesser adjective would be to
describe improperly the living conditions for the rank and file.
Thick, soft carpets, plushy furniture, comfortable bunk rooms,


300 Shadow of Peril
one of the last times, so far away from Russia, that I would be
able to cruise the craft in other than a submerged condition. Just
before going below from the bridge, I turned to take one last
look at the many lights to the westward, denoting the many ships
of the fishing fleet. How smart and shipshape they all looked, I
recall thinking. And us! We looked slovenly and unkempt in com-
parison. I felt my lion's mane of hair, and involuntarily stroked
the masterfully groomed beard which I had been cultivating for
the past three months. We were on our last lap of the cruise; I
would want to ease the crew into proper shape for re-entry into
our home port . . . they must look smart and well disciplined,
I remember telling myself . . . after all, perhaps Fleet Admiral
Gorshkov himself will be there at Kola Inlet to greet us . . .
I told the conning watch officer to stand by for diving, indicat-
ing that we would snorkel for the remaining hours of the night,
and then dropped down the hatch to the conning station. There
I found the navigator and Second Officer bent over the charts
showing our track homeward.
"Gentlemen," I began, noting MikhailofFs full-grown beard,
the result of nearly ninety days of painstaking growth and care,
as opposed to the stubbly beginnings of Apraksin's whiskers, "to-
morrow morning we shall start the earliest preparations for en-
tering port. I am quite tired of looking at Castro-like faces all
about me. At breakfast, let us have a clean-shaven wardroom.
And upon our rounding the northern tip of Norway, let us have
the crew following our example."
Apraksin grinned and responded with a cheery, "Aye, aye,
Captain!" But Sergei MikhailofFs reaction was instantly to reach
up and hold his well-groomed whiskers in a defensive move. He
had obviously taken great pains to amass a genuinely attractive
beard, and may have been contemplating keeping it.
"Relax, Sergei," I told him, "after all, you'll be seeing your
favorite girl in a few weeks, I'm sure. And I'll bet she would
rather have you bare."
"At least, bare-faced," Apraksin said quickly with a twinkle.
Despite his beard, I sensed Sergei Mikhailoff was blushing. And


Consummate Satisfaction and Pleasure 301
possibly to offset his embarrassment, he now attempted to divert
attention from himself.
"I suppose it probably is better, in dealing with the ladies,
to be clean-shaven. Certainly, the commissar's beardless face
seemed to open up countless opportunities for him down there in
Havana!"
Sergei's thin lips parted in a wide grin. Apraksin, after a mild
frown, joined quickly in a grin which in a twinkling changed to
a snicker. Curious, I inquired what was so amusing. To my sur-
prise, MikhailofFs flashing grin now cascaded into an explosion
of laughter, not, however, wholly mirthful in its ring.
It was the Second Officer who answered my question. Deftly
glancing about him in an apparent seeking of some small measure
of privacy, Apraksin leaned over and whispered into my ear.
And the message he delivered stiffened me immediately in as-
tonishment. I was incredulous, and my automatic response was
a surprised exclamation.
"No!" I said.
Lieutenant Commander Apraksin's wide smile narrowed, and
he repeated his announcement. "It's true, Captain, the commissar
really was a little too bare down there in Cuba. Now his little
indiscretions have caught up with him, and the medical corps-
man is giving him sulfa twice a day!"
Perhaps not unsurprisingly, my resultant humanitarian concern
was not for the welfare or condition of the commissar, nor did I
express, then or later, any hope that his distress would be al-
leviated. Rather, my instantaneous thoughts centered on the
other officers and men, for my hope was that Lvov's affliction
would not be contagiously transmitted to any other man on board.
As for the commissar and his condition, I found myself viewing
it all with a secret sense of consummate satisfaction and pleasure.
Whatever he had acquired I was more than willing to concede he
deserved!


Death Holds No Charms 303
ing of more old-time American movies all contributed somewhat
to keeping the minds of the men from wandering into boredom
or daydreaming of our homecoming. Inadvertently, about four
days after we had left the trawlers, it became widespread knowl-
edge within the ranks of the crew that Commissar Lvov was
suffering from a venereal infection. However, as might be ex-
pected, the gossip in the galley expanded the basic fact into al-
most unbelievable proportions. It appeared, in fact, as though
the crew derived greater enjoyment, entertainment, and satis-
faction out of listening to and telling the "inside story" of the
commissar's plight, than they did from any other single, or even
combination of, sources. And, of course, the "inside story" grew
more elaborate each day. To the reader himself will be left the
imaginative extent of the constantly more descriptive accounts
of Lvov's condition.
Thereafter, Makar Rostopchin sought me out several times in
my stateroom. He was perplexed and worried. Moreover, he evi-
denced a growing concern over philosophical values and morals
of our people. What appeared to worry him most was the fact
that although he was a Russian, with patriotic roots dug deep
into the soil of the Motherland, his unyielding determination to
adhere to his religious beliefs would probably render him per-
sona non grata not only in the Navy, but also in the Soviet Union,
in the not too distant future. As proof, he offered the commis-
sar's many harangues, and the personal insults which had been
hurled at him by Lvov on this cruise.
There was little I could do to console him. If anything, his
words had the peculiar effect of causing me to consider, as I
never had before, the fullest implications of the Communist State
dominance over the minds of men. I found myself perturbed
and uneasy following his visits to my room. There is no doubt
that the principal effect of Makar's unafraid discussions of his
own intense thinking was to induce a considerable degree of
reflection on my own part.
I found myself bothered by the age-old question concerning
Reason, and the cause of man's existence. The more I thought


304 Shadow of Peril
about it, lying on my bunk in the homeward-bound submarine,
the more doubts I had of the validity of an ideology barren of
the recognition that there must be a Higher Power than man
himself. I considered that man of himself is, alas, a most misera-
ble and insecure, ephemeral type of being. I assessed the Com-
munist doctrine, finally, as incompatible with the realities of
man's own quest for intellectual growth and personal betterment.
On the other hand, I considered that since men are not, in reality,
equal, it behooves a just and paternal governing authority to
insure that the lesser endowed of the citizenry are not subjected
to the tyrannical abuses of an unchecked mercenary system.
And finally, one night in mid-Atlantic, as we snorkeled along
on our course for home, Makar Rostopchin left me in particularly
troubled spirits. He had decided, he said, that overriding his
devotion to service of the Russian State, he must remain at peace
with himself. The only way he could do that, he declared, was
to divorce himself from all association and attachment to those
reins of governmental authority which led to the hands of men
who rejected an Almighty and everlasting Force in the individual
lives of men. He would, he confided to me, submit his resignation
from the Soviet Navy upon our arrival in port. For him to do this
was certainly understandable, but it was dejecting to consider
that the Soviet system had brought a faithful servant of the Rus-
sian people to this realization that he could no longer serve their
government. His severance from the Soviet Navy would be a
substantial loss in professional capability at the operating force
level of the service. The more I thought about it, the more I de-
cided I needed fresh air . . .
For this underlying reason alone, then, I had the submarine
surfaced this night, and went aloft to the open bridge where I
could refresh myself. It was a mildly thrashing and confused sea
which confronted me. Spray struck out across the bows and was
flung back like a whip across the face of the submarine sail area.
Within moments, my face was dripping with brine. But the taste
of the salt water was not unpleasant; and the cool breeze was a


Death Holds No Charms 307
Every day, more than twenty-five hundred merchant ships
plow the Atlantic Ocean, pursuing their mission in either supply-
ing or exporting goods to foreign ports. Soviet Russia's disad-
vantage as a sea power lies in the limited numbers of ports avail-
able to her for trade as a relatively landlocked country with few
egress points to the sea. Yet the Soviet Navy is capable, today, of
denying to America the free use of the seas which the United
States relies on for her very survival. Russia can achieve this
through employment of her vast submarine fleet.
The Soviet Union's efforts in the investigation and exploita-
tion of the seas themselves are far beyond any corresponding
efforts in this field made by the United States. Russia, for in-
stance, has over three times the numbers of oceanographic survey
and research ships possessed by the United States, and is ahead,
now, in the international race for the control of inner and outer
space. Over a thousand Soviet oceanographers are at sea working
at any given time of the year; there probably aren't more than
eight hundred oceanographers in the entire free world!
And, of course, in sea power as in all else, America helps to
defeat herself by making too readily available all her military
and naval secrets. Not always openly available, but at least fairly
easy for Soviet espionage agents to pick up data here and there
—through personal contacts, cocktail parties, magazines, news-
papers, and the like—which in the aggregate adds up to worth-
while information.
Upon such facts did my mind dwell that night early in May,
when I stood upon the open bridge of my submarine, knifing its
way northeastward, bound for the Soviet homeland—mission al-
most completed. Nothing lay between us and our home port
except some Soviet trawlers to the south of Iceland. A pertinent
coded message received the night of May 3, as a matter of inter-
est, told us that the customary U. S. Navy antisubmarine force,
normally stationed between Iceland and the British Isles, had
been steaming along the waters of the English Channel and in
the Baltic during the past few days. One trawler, following the
carrier Wasp in the Baltic, reported that that ship had turned


32
The Final Accounting
Sunday Morning, May 13, 1962
History tells us that a Dutch admiral, several hundred
years ago, established an enduring naval tradition now recog-
nized by all modern navies. The story goes that upon returning
home from a singularly successful and brilliant operation against
his country's enemies, he had a broom lashed to the top of his
flagship's mainmast. This was a flamboyant advertisement of his
having "made a clean sweep" on the cruise just ending.
Neither unknowledgeable nor unmindful of such international
naval custom, and the value of having re-enactments of such
demonstrations when appropriate, I insured that the conning
officer of the watch, Lieutenant Baliuk, had a galley cook come
up topside and lash one of the mess deck brooms, at a forty-five-
degree angle atop the raised periscope, several hours prior to
our arrival at Kola Inlet. We had been fully surfaced since cruis-
ing generally to the north of Vardo, Norway, the last foreign terri-
tory we passed before entering Russian homeland waters.
The chipping away of significantly rusted portions of the top-
side hull and conning tower, and the application of red lead to
these areas on the previous day, had been a prelude to the actual
repainting of such sea-corroded parts early on this Sunday morn-
ing. The object was to so titivate the craft that on our arrival
home we would present an image of outstanding smartness and
enduring maintenance of the highest order. The weather helped.
The sun was warm and bright; the near absence of a sea breeze
precluded the whipping up of an undesirable sea spray. Over-


The Final Accounting 311
many of the families and friends of the officers and men of the
homecoming submarine. It was a happy occasion, I thought.
Then, over near the band, I spotted a military police vehicle,
with the giant letters MVD emblazoned on one of its license
plates. Behind this vehicle was a large black sedan, and my initial
most fleeting glances at it revealed that there were two officers
of fairly senior rank standing nearby.
No sooner had the submarine's mooring lines been made fast
and doubled up than two military policemen jumped onto the
maindeck from the pier and climbed to the top of the open
bridge, where they confronted me personally.
Whipping out a court subpoena, one of the men thrust it in my
face and, first making sure I was Aleksandr Ivanovich Zhdanov,
declared that I must consider myself under investigation as a
result of several irregularities occurring within the past three
months. I was then informed that to insure my availability for
questioning, without detriment to the continued proper function-
ing of the crew of the F-68g, I was to consider myself relieved
as Commanding Officer, effective at once. The shock was instan-
taneous. I felt wilted immediately. Hence I was unprepared to
argue when the senior of the two military policemen next asked
for Makar Rostopchin.
"Rostopchin?" I repeated his name numbly. Great dayl What
did they want with him? As a matter of fact, what precisely did
they want with me? Was it just the animosity of the commissar?
Was it something he had written in one of his reports?
My mind swirled with indignation mixed with anger.
"Lieutenant Commander Rostopchin! What do you want of
him?" I asked.
"This officer is charged with direct insolence to a superior offi-
cer, assault upon a superior officer, disobedience, and profession
of a religious faith denied to genuinely patriotic citizens of the
Soviet Union," I was told.
There was little I could do. Meanwhile, Makar Rostopchin
must have sensed what reception would be awaiting him upon
our arrival. For when sent for by messenger below, he reported


312 Shadow of Peril
within a few seconds to the bridge. He was attired in full-dress
uniform, complete with the round-the-neck ribbon of the Order
of Voroshilov, Second Class, which he had won in better days.
At once understanding the situation, Makar merely turned to
me and, taking my hand in a farewell gesture, expressed his
sorrow at having to leave under such stress.
"I shan't forget your kindnesses and sympathetic attitude,'' he
said slowly. "Despite the way things have turned out, I want you
to know I have enjoyed my long cruising association with you,
Captain, and I hope that some day, the system which sustains
such organized terror as this, will be supplanted by a more just
and intelligent one."
The conning watch officer, Baliuk, together with Sergei Mi-
khailoff, held out their hands and shook Rostopchin's in a good-
bye gesture.
And then, Makar Rostopchin was led off the submarine, onto
the pier—and into the vehicle with the MVD license plates. I
watched as the vehicle started up and moved out of sight. It was
the last time I was to see my bright and resourceful young engi-
neer officer; I have not even heard reports as to what his fate was.
Only one military policeman went with Makar. The other
stayed behind with me.
Within a few minutes, the workers on the pier had thrown a
brow over from the wooden planking onto the topside of the
sub, and the two senior officers I had spotted earlier came walk-
ing over. I climbed down and met them, at once recognizing
Captain Anatole Chichagov, Soviet Navy Operations Officer for
the Northern Fleet, and Captain Georgy Novgorod, Chief of
Staff for Political Administration, Northern Fleet. Saluting them
smartly, I managed to force a wide smile and then, turning to
nod in the direction of the waiting military policeman, asked
what was wrong.
Chichagov's Mongolian features were devoid of emotion, his
eyes remaining an apathetic study in stare. But his thin lips
parted enough to say, "Commander Zhdanov, let us first welcome


The Final Accounting 313
you back. I'm sure your patrol reports will tell us that our con-
fidence in you for this job was indeed well placed . . ."
Novgorod interrupted.
"But," he said imperiously, "before we do anything, we have to
establish whether the Government can count on you to clearly
and strongly support the truths under which the Party oper-
ates . . ."
"What Captain Novgorod means," cut in Captain Chichagov,
"is whether your personal convictions may possibly be, well, less
than firm on certain Party matters—"
"Purposeful resistance to Party doctrine or teachings is some-
thing the Government can't put up with, you understand," inter-
posed Novgorod. Then, frowning, he said, "To be quite frank
with you, there are charges which have been filed against you.
They allege that you have violated certain aspects of the law.
They also allege that you aren't amenable to acceptance of Party
doctrine, so necessary for our higher commanders to accept. . ."
The rest of his words were now interrupted by the shrill blast
of a boatswain's pipe as heard over the public address system.
Lieutenant Commander Apraksin had apparently authorized
general liberty for officers and crew, for in a moment the boat-
swain's mate was announcing the good word, and not long after
that the beginnings of an exodus took place. More than half the
F-68g crew began to crowd the gangway waiting to disembark.
I waved them by us, and thus started the crew on their first joy-
ous reunion with home, family, and friends. It was my last look
at them.
Issuing orders to the watch personnel to send my compliments
to the Second Officer, I asked that he report to me immediately.
The military policeman had directed me to turn over command
without delay, and I intended to do so with no commotion. It was
essential, I felt, to preserve my dignity at all costs.
Apraksin showed up within a minute at most, saluting smartly.
I looked at him searchingly, and then at Novgorod and finally
Chichagov. The latter cast his eyes downward, avoiding my gaze.


314 Shadow of Peril
"Lieutenant Commander Apraksin," I said, "I am under orders
to devolve this command upon you. That I now do. May I tell you
now that I have enjoyed my cruise with you, and I wish you every
possible success. Ill thank you to tell the crew I shall always re-
member them."
The words were becoming choked. Above and beyond Apra-
ksin floated the naval ensign of my country. It was a standard I
would not look upon again with quite the same attitude. Flap-
ping gently in a mild zephyr, it seemed to wave farewell to me,
for a life I had known so long that all other pursuits seemed alien
and strange.
Apraksin saluted smartly, then shook hands firmly. To carry
out your orders, sir, will be a pleasure. I shall not forget your
coolness and decisiveness which took us so successfully into the
lair of the enemy," he said. Then, with a frown, came the words,
"I relieve you, sir."
Leaving my personal effects to be gathered and delivered to
me at a later date, I followed the two captains, Chichagov and
Novgorod, onto the pier and into the waiting black sedan. Fol-
lowing hallowed naval custom, I, being the junior, entered the
sedan first—moving in well over to the far left-hand side of the
rear seat. Novgorod sat next to me, and Chichagov climbed in
last, taking the seat of honor on the extreme right. The chauffeur
slammed the door and, walking briskly around to the driver's seat,
turned to ask directions.
"Headquarters, oaf! I" bellowed Novgorod, with an impatience
I would have thought quite unbecoming a senior naval commis-
sar had I not been well conditioned to the previous antics of both
Sverdlov and Lvov.
The car pulled up in front of Northern Fleet Headquarters,
and an attendant opened the right rear door for us to disembark.
Two armed guards came to a rifle salute as we passed into the
main doorway and entered Admiral Chabanenko's headquarters
reception lobby. Colorful oil paintings of Russian sea fights, dat-
ing back to the time of Peter the Great, and now hanging ma-
jestically in this large anteroom, all served to instill a bursting


316 Shadow of Peril
supported or befriended poor Makar Rostopchin? I had but a
few seconds to wonder. Novgorod went right to the point.
"Commander Zhdanov," he intoned, "on two separate occa-
sions, you have publicly drawn attention to yourself as a sup-
porter of a superstitious and moribund religion. Charges have
been filed against you by Commissar Lvov to the effect that you
on more than one occasion, while Commanding Officer of the
F-68g, called loudly and openly for help from 'God.' As I recall,
the times that this occurred were laden with tenseness and trag-
edy was near."
Chichagov broke in.
"When your submarine got fouled up in seaweed and you
didn't think the blowing of ballast would correct the dive in
time," said the Staff Operations Officer, "Commissar Lvov has
charged that you vocally besought supernatural guidance or
protection or somehow expressed a faith in a God when this in-
cident happened. He has also said that one night when he went
to your stateroom, he found you moaning and blabbing inco-
herently about why 'God' had allowed your men to be attacked
by sharks! Foolishness, I'd have to say, personally. But mind you,
Zhdanov, these two incidents of themselves wouldn't be enough
in my own mind to warrant calling you to task. After all, we have
to consider that you were brought up as a Christian, believing, as
we all did at one time, in a supernatural Force . . . and perhaps
naturally, when an emotional strain overcomes you, the natural
instinct might be to revert psychologically ... to regress, you
know, to childhood's early and in your case wrongful beliefs and
superstitions."
Captain Novgorod walked around now to another door on the
rich-looking sidings of the room. Here he stopped momentarily
while listening to Chichagov continue.
"Well, Zhdanov," went on the latter, "there remains one inex-
plicable and damning incident which I personally prefer to be-
lieve just didn't happen. All you have to say is that it's a lie, and
by the Blood of the October Revolution, both Admiral Chaba-
nenko and I will stand by you."


The Final Accounting 317
Captain Chichagov eyed me closely. His Mongol countenance
was devoid of emotion. It was obvious that he reflected Admiral
Chabanenko's appreciation of superior professional competence
and downgraded the political aspects of my case insofar as he
hopefully could.
Novgorod now reached into his breast pocket and drew forth
a gold humidor, from which he took a small brown-paper-
wrapped cigarette. This he lighted with a small flint lighter and,
after one or two good puffs, threw his head back at a rakish angle
sufficient to channel well-configured smoke rings skyward from
between delicately pursed lips.
Chichagov made my mind hum. What could he be referring
to? I had not long to wait. He continued.
"While you were away, laws have been dredged up which
dictate that all persons found guilty of patronage to the several
church groups, or persons found to have publicly proclaimed
their allegiance to religious tenets at the expense of Party beliefs,
are subject to punishment as in the case of perpetrators of crimes
against the Government."
"It is," spoke up Novgorod, "a criminal offense to profess belief
in God publicly."
"Aside from your inadvertent exclamations on board your
submarine, during times of unusual stress," interjected Chicha-
gov, "I hope, sincerely, that you will deny any such unworthy a
manifestation . . ."
Novgorod's hand slipped down to the brass doorknob, which
he turned. Then, before opening the door, he said, "Commander
Zhdanov, I am not so sure of your innocence as is Captain
Chichagov."
With that, he flung open the door and shouted, "Come in, you
who would talk. We are ready!"
My heart pounded rapidly. Who was to talk against me? What
witness or witnesses were aligned against me? I craned my neck
to see into the next room. The open door led out into a room from
which, directly opposite me and at the far end of the space, shone


The Final Accounting 319
dear Captain, but nail you I have. I dare you to deny the testi-
mony of my most credible witness!"
Then, walking briskly a few steps over to the open doorway,
he sounded off, "Nowl we are ready! Come in here!"
The words were barked out with an apathy of tone, and a de-
mand for instant compliance was inherent in the manner of his
command. My eyes blinked again as I focused upon the light-
flooded doorway. Quickly, silently, a shape, a form, moved across
the doorframe. For an instant it was silhouetted against the bright
sunlight. And then I saw clearly. I saw all too clearly, and slowly,
I sat down.
It had been more than a month since I had bade fond farewell,
in Havana, to lovely, curvaceous, stimulating Eloisa! And here
she was, responding with alacrity to the call of Commissar Igor
Vladimirovich Sverdlov!
The details of this confrontation will be spared the reader.
That I was unnerved one must imagine. Suffice it to say that
Lvov, in direct communication with Sverdlov as well as Vice
Admiral Grishanov, had communicated to Moscow the possibili-
ties of my falling into a trap. And a trap was designed. Eloisa,
blind Communist adherent that she was, had readily agreed to
lead me "astray," and for the record.
Coldly, with an accurate insight into my proclivity toward a
faith in a Divinity (through word of mouth from Lvov), Eloisa
had steered me into a position where I had publicly professed
such a faith. When she had taken me to the cathedral in Havana,
she had known exactly what she would exact of me. She knew
precisely what she wanted to extract from me. She led, and I
followed. She suggested, and I executed. She gestured, and I
followed suit. And she had observed my physical acceptance of
Christian worship. She had, in fact, reported the matter as soon
as she had found it convenient to do so. And, to insure my con-
viction in a Party hearing, or worse, in a court-martial, Sverdlov
had arranged to transport Eloisa to the Soviet Union. As the
star witness for the Communist Party, she would, indeed, per-
form!


The Final Accounting 321
press for a greater understanding among peoples, to the end that
the world might live at peace. For it was as the Prince of Peace
that Christ sought men's souls. The choice, indeed, is between
darkness and light.
I believe the ravages of Communism must be averted. I believe
the tide of the Red offensive must be contained and thrown
back. The free world will never win unless it faces up to the
realities of Soviet power, and nowhere is that power so strong,
nowhere is that power so mobile, nowhere is that power so po-
tentially effective, as at seal









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