Facing the advancing USS Cohen, Captain Ilyich didn't rush to break through the American line. He had a plan. The two American survey ships and the salvage ship were only about a thousand meters away—well within the 1,200-meter range of the RBU-1200, the five-barrel anti-submarine rocket launcher mounted on his Tashkent. When the Americans eventually located the wreckage of the MiG-25 and began recovery operations, protocol would require the survey ships to pull away and leave the salvage vessel in place. That would be the perfect moment to strike. A few well-placed rockets, and the MiG-25 would be lost forever in a storm of seabed debris.
Then, under cover from Soviet air assets, Ilyich could retreat at full speed.
Until then, the game was one of distraction.
Under Ilyich's calm but firm command, the Tashkent danced around the American destroyer like a fish slipping through a net. The Riga-class frigate darted left, veered right, accelerated, slowed, and circled—always staying close enough to be a nuisance, but never aggressive enough to justify retaliation.
It was cat-and-mouse at sea.
As the sun sank and the skies dimmed into shades of steel and ink, the ocean's surface shimmered beneath the fading light. On deck, the crew grew tense.
"Captain, it's getting dark," the deputy captain said quietly. "Navigation at night carries more risk. If we collide…"
Ilyich nodded. "Turn on the navigation lights. Match their course. Keep a safe distance. And—activate the sonar. Send a sonar pulse every sixty seconds."
Though the Tashkent was a product of the 1950s, its sonar equipment had once been cutting-edge. Tonight, it would serve as a weapon of disruption.
Back in the American formation, things were not going smoothly.
Washington had decided against sending reinforcements. Analysts believed this was just a Soviet bluff. If the U.S. escalated by deploying more ships, the Soviets would respond in kind. That kind of standoff in such a tight and sensitive maritime region could only lead to disaster—not to mention make any kind of delicate survey impossible.
Let the two American escorts handle it. That was the call.
And so, the sonar survey continued.
Inside the sonar room aboard the salvage ship, the day-shift operator had gone off-duty. His night-shift replacement had just settled into his post and slipped on his headset when an ear-splitting pop blasted through his ears. He recoiled instantly, yanking the headset off and clutching his ears in pain.
"Damn it!" he cursed loudly.
Sonar operators were highly trained to detect faint underwater sounds—propellers, aquatic life, terrain shifts. Their ears were more sensitive than most. Loud, unexpected sounds could leave a lasting impact.
He rubbed the sides of his head, reduced the gain, and cautiously put the headphones back on.
Then it happened again.
A second sonar pulse, this one less piercing but equally annoying, blared through his headset. His screen lit up with erratic waveforms. Another curse escaped his lips.
"Those damn Soviets are jamming us!"
Underwater detection relied heavily on sonar since electromagnetic waves attenuate rapidly underwater. Just like radar, sonar systems could be jammed—and the Soviets had found the perfect way to do it.
On the Tashkent, Ilyich casually inspected the sonar room, watching the crew as they continued the disruptive sonar bursts.
"Good work," he said, satisfied. "Let's keep the Americans busy. We'll see what tomorrow brings."
It was a long and restless night.
At the U.S. base in Yokota, Japan, the top brass were anything but calm.
"Our salvage efforts have stalled," said Vice Admiral Jonard Williams, Commander of the Seventh Fleet. "We didn't send more ships to avoid escalation, but now the Soviets are tying up both our escorts."
The stakes were clear. If the U.S. could recover the MiG-25, it could potentially reverse-engineer the Soviets' latest technologies. The wreck might reveal insights into radar systems, alloys, avionics—priceless military intelligence.
But time was running out. Even the president had called to ask about progress.
"If the situation doesn't improve tomorrow, we'll have no choice but to send in reinforcements," said Lieutenant General Paul.
There was tension in the room. No one wanted a full confrontation. Neither side could afford it—not with the threat of nuclear war always looming.
General Russfield turned his attention to an intelligence officer seated at the far end of the table. "Locke, you came up with this plan. What's your assessment now?"
Locke didn't flinch. "I've been thinking about the Soviets' strategy. They sent two outdated warships—not enough for a fight, but enough to create chaos. They didn't bring survey ships of their own, so they're clearly not here to locate the wreck."
"So they're here just to make trouble?" Russfield asked, annoyed.
"Exactly," Locke nodded. "They've been disrupting our sonar scans since they arrived. But here's the real concern: those Riga-class frigates are armed with RBU-1200 anti-submarine rockets."
The room fell silent.
Locke continued, "They're not here to recover the MiG-25. They're here to destroy it—if we find it first."
Understanding dawned across the officers' faces.
"If we signal our salvage attempt," Locke said, "they'll know exactly when to strike."