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The eastern sky brightened gradually—first pale white, then flushed with red hues as a new sun rose above the horizon. Its golden reflection danced over the waves. The morning air was fresh, and the sea was calm beneath scattered white clouds. A perfect day—at least, for most.
But out here in contested waters, the naval standoff continued.
Aboard the Tashkent, the crew had rested well after a night of sonar harassment. Now, energized and sharp, they were ready for whatever the day would bring. On the bridge, Captain Ilyich sipped tea from a metal cup as he studied the nearby American destroyer USS Cohen, hull number 866. It was still holding close.
Another day of high-stakes cat and mouse.
Finishing a small tin of canned fish, Ilyich gave his first order of the morning with a smirk: "Ahead full. Hard to starboard. Let's give our American friends a proper wake-up call—with black smoke."
The wind was blowing eastward. As the Tashkent accelerated, thick black exhaust poured from its funnel, drifting back directly toward the Cohen. A gift of oily soot and fumes to start the Americans' day.
The boiler crews increased fuel injection. Heavy oil burned aggressively, and thick, incomplete combustion smoke poured skyward before settling like a shroud across the nearby U.S. warship.
"Damn Soviets!" Captain Fechtler of the Cohen muttered, recoiling from the bridge window as the stench hit his throat. He fought the urge to order countermeasures, glaring at the provocateurs ahead.
Meanwhile, the U.S. survey vessels continued their methodical scan of the seafloor, moving southward at fifteen knots. But then something unusual happened—one of the survey ships came to a halt.
"Their sonar just intensified," reported a sonar operator aboard the Tashkent.
Then the second survey ship stopped as well, adjusting its heading.
Ilyich leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "They're triangulating," he said aloud. "They've found something."
The Soviet captain turned quickly. "Load the RBU-1200. Prepare to fire at 800 meters depth."
The seabed here lay 850 meters down. A detonation at 800 would send shockwaves strong enough to collapse any aircraft wreckage resting near the ocean floor. The dual RBU-1200 launchers mounted on the Tashkent's bow could saturate the area.
Sailors worked fast, loading RGB-12 depth charges—each a rocket-propelled anti-submarine munition—into the five-barrel launchers.
The Soviet Union had long valued rocket-based warfare. During World War II, their famed Katyusha rocket artillery had terrified Axis forces. Anti-submarine rockets evolved from wartime innovation, including lend-lease systems from the United States like the "Mousetrap" rocket launcher. Over the decades, the Soviet Navy had refined and expanded these into a family of dedicated anti-submarine systems.
The RBU series—Reaktivnyi Bombomet Ustanovka, or "Rocket Depth Bomb Launcher"—was designed to unleash rocket salvos into specific underwater zones. The number after the acronym referred to the weapon's maximum range; in this case, 1,200 meters. With modified propellant, this version could reach up to 1,450 meters. The RGB warheads weren't precision-guided but relied on sheer explosive force and saturation to eliminate underwater targets.
Unlike the U.S. Navy, which had transitioned to advanced torpedoes, the Soviets—and later, the Chinese—continued developing rocket depth bombs as affordable and effective anti-submarine and anti-torpedo measures.
Now, Captain Ilyich intended to use them for another purpose entirely.
"Ready… fire!" he ordered.
With mechanical whirs, the twin RBU-1200 launchers elevated. The five-barrel arrays looked like squat rocket organs on the bow. The launch system whined, then ignited.
"Whssh—whssh—whssh—"
A sudden roar erupted as ten RGB-12 rockets blasted out of their tubes, trailed by black smoke and curling flame. Their arcing flight shimmered against the blue sky before they descended toward the sea.
These rockets had been specially modified to detonate at 800 meters—a much deeper threshold than their original 300-meter setting. This was no test. This was a precision demolition meant to deny the Americans their prize.
To avoid misinterpretation, the Tashkent's main guns silently rotated, ready to return fire if the Americans responded with force.
The ten rockets splashed into the sea at 1,110 meters, roughly where the American survey ships had just been scanning. One of the vessels had moved off; the salvage ship had yet to take its place. The Soviets had timed it perfectly.
Columns of spray rose as the charges vanished below the surface. Then came the muffled concussions, felt more than heard aboard the nearby ships.
On the Tashkent, Ilyich watched smoke trail from the deck as his sailors reloaded. He looked toward the USS Cohen, which had stopped in apparent confusion.
"You thought you'd get your hands on our aircraft?" he muttered. "Not today."
A flicker of triumph lit his expression. For now, at least, the MiG-25 would remain out of American hands.
He turned to his bridge crew.
"Reload the tubes. Keep them guessing."