Cochino's loss made headlines in the United States-and in the Soviet Union. The Soviet Navy newspaper Red Fleet published an article accusing the United States of undertaking "suspicious training" near Soviet waters and of sending Cochino near Murmansk to spy.
For its part, the U.S. Navy had gone public with the disaster, acknowledging, in effect, that its men and its fragile boats were not yet any match for the treacherous northern seas. Austin's spy gambit had failed, but the Navy had no intention of disclosing that, or even that a spook had been on board at all. When asked to comment on Soviet claims that Cochino had been near Murmansk, officers gave the same answer that the Navy would offer to other such questions for decades to come: "No comment."
Despite the tragedy, and the initial reluctance of some commanders and admirals, there was no question that the Navy would continue to send subs to monitor the development of the Soviet atomic threat. Just nine days after Cochino was lost, an Air Force reconnaissance plane picked up evidence that the Soviets had detonated a nuclear device. The other side had the bomb. The anticipated threat that had inspired the submarine spy mission in the first place was now real.
Two — Whiskey A-Go-Go
The USS Gudgeon (SS-567) pulled into Yokosuka, Japan, on Sunday, July 21, 1957. This was the final stop, the place where submarine crews coming from Pearl Harbor and San Diego could make preparations to sneak close to Soviet shores. This is where they would return after their missions, to celebrate, to relax, to prepare to go out again. Yokosuka had become spy sub central in the Pacific.
This base at the tip of Tokyo Bay was marked by a mix of espionage and debauchery, tension and release. It had been a Japanese Navy port and was later taken over by the Allies. Here, an enlisted man could get drunker than hell and here officers had created a "submarine sanctuary" in a walk-up flat decked out with a bar, a few bunks, and images of bare women writhing on black velvet.
It had been nearly eight years since the Cocbino tragedy, and submarines had become central to the cold war intelligence effort. They had proven their worth once and for all during the Korean War, when snorkeling diesel subs were sent into the Sea of,Japan to stand watch against any Soviet efforts to intervene. Ever since, even the submarine force's most die-hard warriors had recognized the value of hanging right off the enemy's coast, watching his comings and goings. Unless war broke out, surveillance would be the submariners' primary mission, their reason for being, the best way to gather detail about the Soviet naval buildup that was now unfolding in full force.
Spy subs already had brought hack news that Soviet shipyards were churning out new long-range subs, including more than 250 Whiskeyand Zulu-class boats equipped with snorkels. The Soviet high command had made clear that it was preparing to challenge the U.S. Navy on the high seas using the submarine as the principal weapon. The Sovi ets were still learning how to operate their subs; for example, one of the first 30-day test runs on a Whiskey left her crew so ravaged by noxious gases that their hands and legs were swollen to twice their normal size. Despite these problems, the Soviets continued to move ahead. Indeed, the United States had received reports, albeit unconfirmed, that the Soviet Navy was modifying some of its Zulus to carry missiles, possibly with atomic warheads.
That was enough to convince even the most traditional admirals that there was more to this idea of submarine spying than feeding a bunch of egghead analysts stashed away within the bowels of Naval Intelligence and the still-mysterious CIA. Realizing they could use submarines to steal intelligence that was vitally important to the submarine force itself, the admirals leading the Atlantic and Pacific Fleets had taken control of this business of submarine spying, running the show, making the assignments. At their orders, subs were lurking underwater, periscopes peeking above the waves, watching through all but the iciest months of the year as the Soviets put their newest boats through their paces. This was also a great way for submariners to maintain readiness for battle, not just in war games with friendly forces but by driving up into Soviet waters and facing the adversary.
The top priority of any spy sub captain was what the Navy called "indications and warning." Captains were supposed to forget about caution, forget about radio silence, and flash a message home from the Barents or the Sea of Japan if they picked up any sign that the Soviet Navy was mobilizing, perhaps preparing to attack. U.S. spy subs also were now using much more sophisticated versions of Austin's "ears" to scan for Soviet missile tests. And submarines, antennas at the ready, were routinely picking up the chatter that told the U.S. Navy how many Soviet ships and subs were ready for sea and what their tactics might be in wartime.
Increasingly, fleet admirals consulted with Naval Intelligence, becoming partners in espionage. Intelligence officers invited other Navy men to train alongside them, noting in one invitation that they were engaging in the world's "second-oldest profession," one with "even fewer morals than the first."
Most top government officials were given little if any indication of the risks the sub force was taking, or of what a strange game of machismo was being played. While President Dwight D. Eisenhower had only hesitantly approved U-2 spy flights high over Russia, fearful of aggravating Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev, many submarine captains believed it was their job-and forget the niceties of international law-to drive straight into Soviet territorial waters. Fleet commanders graded the captains on how long they kept their "eyes and ears" up out of the water. The more daring the attempt, the higher the grade. This had become a contest of sorts, a test of bravado for the captains, their crews, and their craft. And for most of the captains, these days of unfettered risk would forever mark the high point of their careers. To he sure there was stress and lots of it. Some veteran commanders lost twenty pounds running these long western Pacific deployments-"Westpacs," in the trade. Nobody could tell ahead of time who would be able to take the pressure and who wouldn't.
Gudgeon shoved off from Yokosuka for her turn at the Soviets with Norman G. "Buzz" Bessac at the helm. Already he had led Gudgeon, undetected, on a reconnaissance mission beneath a group of Soviet ships operating in icy northern waters. Now, he was leading his sub straight into enemy territory, his first command in these dangerous waters. But the thirty-four-year-old lieutenant commander was here in the first place, was on submarines at all, because he craved adventure. In the year and a half since he had taken over Gudgeon, he had convinced his crew that he was one of those "go to hell and back" captains, a man who wanted his sub to make her mark among the lumbering propeller planes, the U-2 jets, and the landlocked listening stations that were keeping an eye on the Soviets from all angles.
In that, he had a lot in common with the spooks on board his boat. They had their pick of assignments, these men who were the Navy's chief snoops and eavesdroppers. They could have ridden Navy spy planes and been home every night in time for dinner, sleeping with their wives instead of dozing cheek to toe with a half-dozen men and a torpedo or two. But for the spooks, just about everything about submarines seemed to signal importance and drama. They sneaked aboard with uniforms, like those of Cochino's Austin, altered to hear radiomen's sparks instead of their own insignias, the telltale lightning rods and quills. Their written orders said only that they were to report to the "USS Classified."