The Soviet warships charged into waters the Americans firmly believed were their own—just a hundred nautical miles from Hokkaido. The red banners of the USSR snapped against the sea wind as the ships surged forward with defiant purpose.
To Captain Davis aboard the USS Donald B. Perry, the message was clear—and unacceptable.
"Captain, the Soviets say they're here for salvage operations too," the signal officer reported.
Davis' expression darkened. "Also doing salvage? Not a chance. We can't let them recover that MiG-25."
The downed Soviet aircraft, likely containing sensitive avionics and design secrets, rested somewhere on the seabed below. If the Soviets got there first, the entire American operation would be compromised.
"Full left rudder! Move to block their path!" Davis snapped.
His strategy was simple: block the Soviets physically. The Perry was over 3,000 tons—more than double the size of the aging Riga-class frigates now bearing down on them. With the Americans taking a forward intercept position, Davis hoped to force the smaller Soviet ship to either back down or risk a collision.
The update was relayed to headquarters. Davis expected reinforcements: additional warships, perhaps even air support. But the response that came back from Yokosuka was terse.
"Maintain position. Continue to monitor and confront Soviet activity."
"That's it?" Davis shouted. "No ships? No fighters?"
"No, sir," the first officer confirmed.
Davis clenched his fists. Headquarters was holding back, likely afraid of escalating the incident. The moment he reported the intruding vessels as obsolete Soviet frigates, command had probably decided it wasn't worth provoking a larger standoff.
"They're hanging us out to dry," he muttered, eyes locked on the incoming ship.
The Soviet vessel, belching black smoke, drew closer. Davis held his ground. "They'll turn," he insisted. "They have to. We've got them outgunned."
Three nautical miles. Two. One.
The bridge grew tense. One of Davis's officers hesitated. "Captain, this ship is the property of the U.S. taxpayer. You sure you want to bet it on a game of chicken?"
Davis barely flinched. "We're defending American pride. They'll blink."
On the Soviet side, Captain Ilyich stood calmly on the bridge of the Tashkent, his eyes narrowed, voice cool.
"Maintain speed. Keep heading straight."
"Sir," his first officer began cautiously, "at this rate, there's a real risk of collision—should we turn to avoid it?"
"No!" Ilyich barked. "If they want to play this game, we'll play it."
He knew the American ship was bigger, but if the Tashkent collided with the Perry amidships, the angle of impact might favor the Soviets. The damage would be considerable on both sides—but it would prove a point.
Five hundred meters. Both ships were now moving at nearly thirty knots. On the Perry, Davis peered through his binoculars and saw a Soviet officer—perhaps Ilyich himself—raising a clenched fist defiantly on the bridge.
Davis hesitated.
"Right full rudder! Reverse engines!" he shouted at last.
Too late. The Perry's heavy frame groaned as it turned. Water churned violently behind it as the ship's rudder and propellers struggled to slow and shift its direction.
Back on the Tashkent, Ilyich allowed himself a satisfied smile. "Left full rudder," he ordered.
The Tashkent veered just enough to avoid direct collision—but not enough to completely disengage. The narrow gap between the ships closed to mere meters. Hulls scraped against one another with a deafening metallic shriek, and sparks flashed as metal ground on metal.
Both bridges held their breath.
Then it was over.
The two frigates disengaged. No serious damage—just long scratches and streaks of missing paint. The ships regained their balance and steadied on course. The sailors looked over the rails in silence, inspecting for structural compromise.
None.
Davis exhaled through clenched teeth. "Damn it," he muttered, watching the Tashkent break through his blockade and head straight for the American survey ships and salvage vessel.
"Radio the Cohen! Tell them to intercept! We can't let that second Soviet ship follow them through."
The USS Cohen, an older Keeling-class destroyer built in 1945, was the only backup in position. Though aging, the ship had held up well. Historically, it would remain in service until 1982, eventually sold to Pakistan. But today, it was America's last line in this standoff.
Aboard the Cohen, Captain Fechtler snapped to action. "We've got the call. Move to intercept! Let's show these Soviets this isn't their playground!"
The Cold War wasn't fought in battles alone. It was in moments like this—bluffs at sea, collisions barely avoided, and staring contests measured in steel and nerve.