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surface.
    The temperature hovered between a seasonal norm of 10° to 12°F, but the biting cold was welcomed by most of the crewmen gathered on the bridge. For them, it was a physical release to take the first deep swigs of open air, no matter how numbing the chill. It was an even greater pleasure to see the familiar landmarks along the bay shore for the first time in more than two months.
    The man in the distinctive fur hat was Captain First Rank Vladimir Ivanovich Kobzar, one of the most competent and respected officers in the Soviet Pacific Fleet. At age thirty-eight, he was already a seasoned submarine commander and had captained the K-129 for three and a half years.
    Before the waters brought up from the deep were fully drained from the deck, sailors had opened the hatch above the aft torpedo room. Even on this overcast morning, the men’s first glimpse of sky caused them to squint sharply against the light.
    Almost as soon as K-129 surfaced, a small tugboat that did double duty as an icebreaker signaled, “Follow me.” The auxiliary boat, sent out when K-129 radioed flotilla headquarters that it was entering the bay, had been waiting to escort the sub. It would lead K-129 through the thin ice shelf that formed along the shore all winter, and into Rybachiy Naval Base. While the open waters of the huge bay were largely clear of ice, the shorelines remained ice-bound from late autumn until the middle of spring. The tug led the submarine into Krashennini Cove at the southeastern end of the bay and crunched a path through the ice shelf to a center berth that had been reserved for the arriving sub.
    The docking area consisted of twelve long, concrete piers that made up Rybachiy’s main submarine pens. Other submarines, some much longer and wider than K-129, were secured in the shelter on either side of the piers. The facility could easily hold four dozen submarines tied up at one time. Just inland, adjoining the piers, were concrete warehouses and industrial buildings where supplies were stored and machinery hummed with constant demands for spot repairs on the fleet. The concrete docks, buildings, and treeless muddy yards all blended into a muted gray that echoed the drab hues of the idled submarines.
    While the tug gently nudged the K-129 into the assigned berth, a small knot of grim-looking officers in black greatcoats watched from the pier—the only reception party. Unlike its American counterpart, the Soviet submarine service did not encourage families and friends to greet their returning submariners.
    The crew was required to remain on board while the captain, first officer, and political officer reported to the division commander. Only after a brief report on the mission had been satisfactorily delivered could the captain return to the boat to allow the first of the crew—those officers and senior petty officers with family members billeted nearby—to depart the boat. If anything at all had gone wrong on the long mission, no one would be allowed to leave the submarine until the chain of command was fully satisfied that all questions had been answered. Even the wives of the most senior officers were not informed of K-129’s return until this debriefing had been completed to the satisfaction of headquarters.
    There had been many cases, particularly during the unsuccessful ventures of Soviet submarines to Cuba during the 1962 crisis, when submariners were confined aboard their boats for weeks after returning from months at sea. Often this cruel, extended confinement had been imposed for minor infractions that were no fault of the seamen and officers, such as being forced to surface for identification by harassing U.S. Navy destroyers. The Americans would stalk the submarines, pounding them with their powerful active sonars. They positioned their warships over the Soviet subs to prevent them from snorkeling to recharge their batteries or replenish their air. Ultimately, the sub commanders had no choice but to