Bessac began trying other evasive maneuvers. He called for the "noisemakers," devices that could be shot out the signal gun in the stern room. They came in cans, each about a yard long. When launched, they responded by sending a wash of sonar-befuddling bubbles into the water-an effect sort of like a giant Alka-Seltzer.
The Soviets weren't fooled. They answered Gudgeon's noisemakers with another round of grenadelike charges tossed into the water. Punishment for daring an evasive attempt? A taunt to show how badly it had failed? It didn't matter. Gudgeon was still under assault.
Next, Bessac looked at his helmsmen, and with a "Let's try it," began directing them to drive the sub right toward the enemy, hoping that was the one move the Soviets would never expect. It didn't work. Nor did it work when he sent his boat left, then right, then straight ahead again. Each evasive maneuver was answered with a storm of explosives.
There could have been as many as eight ships above now. One ship would pass over Gudgeon, then the next would come in for a run. Throughout, sonarmen kept track of the Soviets, and fire control men kept her torpedoes aimed. But there was a general "no shoot" policy for spy subs: don't shoot unless shot at. So far, the small charges had not been replaced by heavier explosives.
The siege continued, twelve hours, twenty-four hours. Nobody remembers Bessac-or, for that matter, Coppedge-leaving the control room. If they were getting any sleep at all, it was in quick catnaps. Most if not all of the crew were forgoing sleep as well, even the men confined to their bunks who lay tensely listening to the siege.
It was chokingly painful just to move about, to breathe. The short trek from the chiefs' quarters to the control room left a man panting, eyes watering, as if he'd just run four miles. There was, of course, no cooking on board. Instead, the mess crew handed out cold sandwiches. Smoking was banned. It was nearly impossible to light a cigarette in the oxygen-depleted atmosphere anyway. Still, a few men found air pockets where they could light up and sneak a puff or two.
The men bled oxygen into the sub from the large canisters affixed outside the hull, two aft and two forward. But adding oxygen could do nothing to reduce the carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide that were building to dangerous levels. Nearly everyone had a pounding headache. Some men were close to passing out.
Canisters of lithium hydroxide crystals were placed around the sub to absorb some of the excess carbon dioxide. Some of the crystals were spread out on mattresses to help the process along. But the carbon dioxide levels remained way too high. The crystals could not absorb the carbon monoxide, the colorless, odorless gas that could eventually lull everyone on hoard into a permanent sleep. The Soviets kept Gudgeon cornered as they moved hack and forth, sideways, diagonally, drawing spokes in a wheel, a wheel defined by enemy boats. With each pass came pings, then grenades.
Wednesday, August 21, early morning: no change. Wednesday afternoon: no change. Wednesday, early evening: Gudgeon had been under siege for nearly forty-eight hours and underwater without snorkeling for nearly sixty-four hours. Bessac had dutifully noted the distance traveled in his logs over these two days as zero. Something had to be done, something drastic.
Coppedge began walking through the boat, telling the men they were going to have to try to snorkel, try to "stick our nose up." For most of the siege, the men had been at relaxed battle stations. Now they were called to full battle stations. They had to get fresh air. They had to send a message for help. They had to alter the status quo or die.
"We're going to come up," Bessac announced in the control room. "As soon as we hit, start to snorkel."
As Gudgeon came up, some of the men tried to run the hydraulics that would raise the radio antenna. The antenna wouldn't budge. It should have shot up with a bang. But all they could hear was one bump, then another. As soon as Gudgeon's snorkel broached the surface, the men started the engines. The sub took one gulp, then another.
Then one of the ships made its move, came roaring right at Gudgeon as if to ram her, or at least to force her down. The Soviets weren't finished with the sub. They weren't going to let her men get air, and they certainly weren't going to let them yell for help.
Someone hit the collision alarm, and Bessac gave the order to dive. The engines were shut down, and Gudgeon was back under. The crew hadn't been able to send an SOS. The air was just as bad as before.
Bessac ordered Gudgeon down to about 400 feet while he pondered his next move. He consulted with Coppedge, who talked to the engineering officer about the state of the batteries and with Doc Huntley, the corpsman, about the status of the air and crew. Bessac had few choices. It was obvious that his men couldn't survive much longer. The batteries might last another eight hours or so if the sub didn't move much, but that wasn't going to accomplish anything. The old man knew he didn't have the power to outrun his tormentors.
Within moments, the decision was made. Gudgeon was going to try to snorkel again, and she would probably have to surface. But one thing would not happen. She would not be hoarded; she would not be taken. The captain and the crew would die first. Not a single man on board objected.
Bessac ordered all the torpedo doors opened. He knew the Soviets would be able to hear them, and he wanted to show that the Americans meant business. Then, some of the officers were handed pistols, including Doc Huntley, who went around the boat waving his .45, saying it was his job to shoot the spooks if the Soviets tried to board. "You could take a green pill, or I could shoot you," he told one spook. Doc had always been a little different.
Doc probably wasn't authorized to go around touting his death'shead mask. Maybe, the crew mused, he never should have been issued a gun. But he had the .45, and for the moment the spooks were more afraid of Doc than they were of the Soviets.
Meanwhile, the spooks and the men in the radio shack across the control room, anyone who handled any codes or other sensitive papers, began loading them into leather bags that were speckled with holes and weighted down with lead. Some documents were destroyed outright. If the Soviets tried to board, those bags would go out the upper hatch and down to the bottom of the Sea of Japan.
This was the moment that no submariner wants to experience, and it was one of the worst moments any captain could face. It was also a moment that was unavoidable. Maybe Gudgeon would have gotten away if she had been able to go deeper, if that garbage ejector door hadn't jammed. Whatever the reasons, Bessac had been beaten.
Dejected, he gave the order to rise.
Bessac wanted to get a message out to the U.S. base in Japan. But on the way up, the radio mast jammed again. As soon as the snorkel hit the surface, Bessac gave the order and all three of Gudgeon's engines came on line, shooting exhaust fumes into the sub's fouled atmosphere as well as outside. Nobody cared about the exhaust now, not as long as the snorkel kept sucking in fresh air and venting out the worst of the poisons the men had been breathing.
The sub was at periscope depth now, and it was clear that the Soviet ships were hanging back. But for how long?
A minute passed, then two. Then five. The men still hadn't been able to send the message. But Gudgeon was taking in air, shooting out exhaust. The men wondered whether their CO would go through with this, and surface.
Bessac was calculating, figuring his options even at the last minute. Gudgeon would need at least twenty minutes of snorkel time to clear the air minimally, and that wouldn't even begin to charge her batteries. If she had to dive again, she could, at best, crawl through the water on battery power. If she stayed at snorkel depth, she could transfer one engine to charging the batteries and still move a little faster. But it was only on the surface that Gudgeon could make a run for Japan at her top speed of about 20 knots. There was no telling whether the Soviet ships would try to charge again, but at that speed, and with a head start, maybe, just maybe, she could outrun them.