The Taking of K-129

by Josh Dean

  Before leaving this office, Parangosky said, the men would need to hand over any cameras to the security staff. The keeping of diaries and journals was also not permitted. He said that the flight to Hawaii would leave shortly after the meeting and that the group should gather their bags and go to the building’s Walnut Street entrance, where a bus would pick them up and take them to the Continental Airlines terminal for boarding of a charter jet to Honolulu.

  After takeoff, passengers were served filet mignon, and they arrived in Honolulu at 7:05 P.M., just as a bloodred sunset seeped across the sky. The men were transferred to a smaller plane across the runway and by 7:45 were back in the air, en route to Maui, where finally they boarded buses to Lahaina. Rutten watched out the window as farmers set fire to the sugarcane fields, preparing for harvest, and the resulting smoke filled the air with the scent of caramel.

  It was dark when the buses arrived at the port. A path lined with tiki torches led to a glass-bottomed boat called the Coral Sea that would shuttle the B crew from shore to the Explorer. The men were excited, but also exhausted from flying and eating and drinking, and said little as they dropped their canvas bags and walked to the boat, which puttered out across the harbor and stopped alongside the enormous Explorer. The ship’s deck crane lowered a hanging basket, known as a Billy Pugh, down onto the Coral Sea, and groups of four or five tossed their bags onto it and then climbed aboard, at which point the crane yanked them straight upward and onto the deck, which felt to those who’d never experienced it like a thrill-park ride in the dark.

  “One hundred fifty fresh-faced new crewmen and personnel boarded the Coral Sea and, without so much as an ‘aloha,’ climbed aboard the Glomar Explorer,” a reporter wrote in The Maui News on August 24, which happened to be Rutten’s twenty-fourth wedding anniversary. “They looked like a band of CIA agents heading for exile.” That wasn’t a lucky guess, or even a cagey assertion. It was the writer’s attempt at a joke about a ship that was the hottest gossip item on the island, owned by an eccentric germophobe and chasing riches in realms that were barely explored. Stories from the papers were clipped and delivered both to the boat, where the crew laughed over the outrageous details, and in Washington, where Walt Lloyd and John Parangosky found a little humorous relief in the continued success of the mission’s outlandish cover.

  “Behaving not at all like the mystery ship she is, the Howard Hughes Glomar Explorer steamed in broad daylight into the quiet waters off Lahaina yesterday and dropped anchor,” wrote The Honolulu Advertiser. “The Glomar Explorer thus becomes the first commercial contestant in the billion-dollar race for manganese nodules to make it to Hawaii, the nearest land mass to undersea treasure.” That same story stated that the “Glomar Explorer is the first ship believed to possess the ability to harvest the nodules from the sea floor on a commercial basis.”

  The ship’s arrival in Lahaina coincided exactly with the Circum-Pacific Energy and Mineral Resources Conference in Waikiki, which brought in more than a thousand people from sixty countries, and speculation was rampant around the Hawaii statehouse that some Glomar crew members had surreptitiously attended, to keep watch on the discussion.

  Not only that, but the United Nations Law of the Sea Conference in Caracas ended during the stopover, following ten weeks of contentious negotiation sparked, in part, by Howard Hughes’s effort to mine the ocean floor for precious metals that belonged to no nation. As the Explorer “rocked to the gentle swells off Lahaina yesterday,” a reporter noted, “hundreds of delegates at the United Nations seabed conference in Caracas were arguing what to do about the mining potential of Summa Corp and others.”

  The reporter noted the vacuum of information from the ship’s crew and representatives, saying that “those connected with the ship are as tight-mouthed as James Bond pursuing Goldfinger.” A related story on the same front page reported that the state’s acting governor, George Ariyoshi, planned to initiate an investigation “concerning the ownership of mineral rights in off-shore Hawaiian waters” and that the state attorney general had asked local authorities to keep a close watch on the ship.

  A day later, the Explorer moved eight miles down the coast, anchoring off the less conspicuous Olowalu Point, one of the most popular snorkeling and diving areas on Maui, and the local papers were on it again. Advertiser science writer Bruce Benson noted that it was still “easy to recognize the ship’s personnel in town—they were the ones who walked around with their mouths shut.” Personnel wouldn’t even tell anyone how long they planned to be in the area, nor where they’d go when the ship left. They mostly just wore sunglasses and looked conspicuous. These stories weren’t plants, but the cover was so well constructed that they might as well have been.

  • • •

  John Rutten awoke early on August 17, his first morning aboard the Explorer, on the top bunk in the small stateroom that he shared with Carl Atkinson, the ship’s chief steward. Their room was nice enough but had one major drawback; it was directly adjacent to the ship’s movie room, so depending on the film playing—and the volume at which it was played—sleep was often interrupted by shouts, gunshots, or, on occasion, the lusty groans of Linda Lovelace.

  The exploitation was still a twenty-four-hour operation, and the B crew picked up right where the A crew left off. This time, men worked rotating shifts of up to eight hours, and the hospital crew mimicked that schedule, too. Over twenty-four hours, each medical crewman worked eight hours, had eight hours of off time, and was “available” for eight hours—which meant the person would need to be in the hospital if required, but more often could use that time as additional rest. Rutten, as the ship’s medical director, was also on call for emergencies twenty-four hours a day.

  After his first breakfast, Rutten went to the moon pool to get a look at “the catch.” He stood at the railing, fifty feet above the mangled sub, which looked to him remarkably similar to the fake version the CIA had built in Redwood City for the training program.

  Enormous exhaust vacuums gulped air from the room through eight-inch ducts and vented it out the rear of the ship, so that the pool’s exhaust was always downwind. The focus of the exploitation that day was on the Soviet crew’s bunk rooms.

  A few crew members in white Tyvek suits and breathing rigs were picking in the metal, and the only other person up on the gangway was a friendly, outgoing older man who told Rutten that he’d been working with submarines a long time, going back to World War II, when he’d run maintenance at a German U-boat base. His name, he said, was Manfred.

  The scenery at this location, around Olowalu Point, was unreal: Rippled green hillsides rose four thousand feet above the beach on the ship’s starboard side, while the vast pineapple plantations of Lanai, the smallest of the publicly accessible Hawaiian Islands, were clearly visible off port, as was the ten-thousand-foot summit of Haleakala peak, the massive volcano that dominates Maui’s topography.

  This spot was away from the city and just north of Kahoolawe, an uninhabited island used as a bombing range by Navy pilots stationed at Pearl Harbor. It was selected in advance for this reason, because no large vessels could get close, which was important because the Explorer’s crew would have to start disposing of debris, especially the tons of excess mud from the ocean bottom that had come up with the sub.

  The next morning, Rutten woke at five A.M. and began a tradition that would continue for as long as he was aboard. He put on his bathing suit and running shoes and ascended to the helicopter pad, where he ran laps for forty-five minutes, until the fast-rising sun made outdoor exercise unbearable.

  • • •

  The next morning, Rutten ate breakfast in the mess hall, then headed for van 14, where he would practice a full dress out for the first time. He removed his clothes and stored them away in a locker, then put on shorts, a T-shirt, and socks, followed by a yellow one-piece jumpsuit with a drawstring around the neck, plastic booties, and rubber boots that were ta
ped to his legs with yellow duct tape. A tech taped plastic gloves to the doctor’s wrists and handed him thick leather work gloves, which he pulled over the plastic ones. At the end, he was given a hard hat and a respirator. “I felt like an astronaut heading for an Apollo spaceship at that point,” Rutten would later write in the journal he wasn’t really supposed to be keeping.

  He left the dressing van and climbed down a long ladder to the floor of the moon pool, three stories below. This was Rutten’s first time on the floor, and the wreck was far larger than he expected it to be. Huge sections of the sub had already been cut apart and picked through. Chunks of black metal lay in piles, and there was mud, rust, and organic waste floating in seawater that puddled around the wreck.

  The K-129 fore section had begun to dissolve, so there was increased urgency to get it stripped. That was one reason Rutten had been asked to get familiar with the process, because even a slight change in expediency would increase the risk of injuries, from falls or cuts or whatever, and if there were to be an emergency, he’d need to get dressed and into the well as quickly as possible. He’d already prepared a full medical kit to stash in one of the dressing van lockers.

  Many things in and on the sub came up in the capture vehicle, including crabs, shells, and, by total chance, some manganese nodules. These nodules, being loaded with metals, had tested hot, and were handled carefully. Irradiated objects had to be removed, bagged, and disposed of using strict procedures. Tests had also begun to pick up rising radiation counts around the capture vehicle, which hung over the moon pool, and the nuclear guys attributed that to metal vaporization from the cutting torches. At no point, now, could anyone be around the equipment without a full antiradiation suit and respirator.

  Rutten was shown around the wreck, and then it was time to climb back out. Atop the deck, a fully suited radiation technician scanned him with a dosimeter, which detected a hot spot on his right boot. The boot was removed and taken away, where it would be cleaned with ultrasound purifier and then put into a bag for disposal, overboard, like all the other waste.

  • • •

  Several of the program officers who’d been unable to go to sea were put on the B crew as a token of appreciation, so that they could see and plunder the fruit of their labors. Dave Pasho also joined the crew in Lahaina, and because he was an amateur photographer, he had been trained in Redwood City to take photographs in a high-radiation environment. Once aboard the ship, he suited up and headed for the moon-pool floor to photograph anything of interest that came out of the wreck. He was welcome to participate in exploitation, too, and the first thing he noticed, when he stepped into the mangled former crew quarters, were the crude and uncomfortable-looking horsehide mattresses that the Soviet submariners had slept on.

  A series of tables had been set up next to the wreck so that items retrieved from inside could be set down and analyzed. The job, Pasho later explained, “was basically to squeeze the mud and find anything from rings to knuckle bones, to whatever.” Anything structural with printing, especially date or location, got the spooks excited. Analysts could use this information to figure out where the Soviets were manufacturing parts and how often certain components were replaced. It might even inform future target lists for American ICBMs.

  One item that Pasho found would forever haunt him. It was an undeveloped roll of film he handed over to the photo analysts, who took it to the darkroom lab for processing. The film was badly damaged, pockmarked from the salt and water, but some images were still clearly visible and there was a series there that squashed Pasho’s enthusiasm for the job: photographs of a Russian sailor, at the dock, with his family, just before shipping out.

  • • •

  Visitors were common while the ship was so close to shore, though it was never clear to most of the crew, Rutten included, who exactly these visitors were. Typically, they were introduced in some vague terms as being out “from Washington” or “Nevada,” and on Saturday the twenty-fourth, a group came through the hospital with a surprise guest leading the tour—JP. Rutten didn’t know JP’s full name, only that he was the senior-most Agency man on the operation, and that one never knew when he might appear, nor what the purpose of his visit was.

  Two days later, JP was back, this time to let Rutten know that Doug Cummings—his most trusted deputy—was in the sick bay. Azorian’s boss was clearly concerned about the man’s health, and during the course of their conversation, Rutten gleaned a rare personal fact about the mission’s most mysterious man—this day, August 26, was his birthday.

  Cummings had a history of recent medical issues, including a pulmonary embolism six years prior. He was taking medication to control arrhythmia and was showing mild atrial fibrillation. Though it wasn’t normal practice, Rutten opted to spend the night in the sick bay because this wasn’t a normal patient.

  JP had other concerns, too. Two Soviet “barographs,” or surveillance ships, were reported to be nearby, which caused a slight change in plans. The Explorer was scheduled to move farther offshore to a spot known as Area 3 to dispose of the larger hull sections that had been cut away in the process of exposing the sub’s interior, with the exception of any areas that showed “penetration”—breaches from the explosion or the collision with the seafloor. The Navy had asked the CIA to save these parts for further study.

  Because of the Soviets, this would all be done after dark, and while the ship was waiting to move, practically the whole crew showed up for lunch to celebrate JP’s birthday. For one meal, an exception to the alcohol ban was made, and the mess hall staff filled small plastic cups with champagne so that everyone could toast the boss before he returned to the mainland.

  Cummings’ illness necessitated a crew change, and several new, grim-faced Agency officers arrived from Washington to take over operations and security for the next and last stage, which would ultimately end back in Long Beach.

  The ship motored south, and then, at 4:20 A.M. on Friday the thirtieth, its motors slowed and then stopped as the ship anchored one hundred miles south of Hawaii, where a large crew assembled and began to dump the broken carcass through the open gate of the moon pool—pausing briefly around eleven A.M. so roughnecks could pull a cover over the large opening overhead in preparation for the daily pass of a Soviet spy satellite.

  Two days later, Rutten volunteered for lookout shift as the ship moved slowly in a grid pattern to ensure that none of the material dumped overboard had floated back to the surface. Working lookout enabled him to spend the morning on the helipad, his favorite place on the ship.

  Later, when he went below, Rutten saw the submarine’s brass diving bell in the mess hall, where someone had placed it overnight as a totem of the mission’s success. The bell looked filthy, like it had just spent six years in some ocean muck, but it had been cleaned with the ultrasound purifier, so that patina was now permanent. The bell had numerous dings, a large dent near the top, and the clapper was missing, but the fact that it had survived at all seemed remarkable to Rutten and the others who stopped to admire it.

  Apparently, the crew had finished with the disposal because the ship turned east and headed for Maui at ten knots, its maximum speed. By September 3, the Explorer reentered Hawaiian waters and dropped anchor just off Maui. A boat skittered out with mail and some new crew, including a number of faces Rutten recognized as having been on the A crew. Having refreshed with several weeks of R and R, they were back for the duration of the sail to port in Long Beach, which was to begin the following day, after one very important final task—which would be carried out that night after dark.

  60

  Burial at Sea

  SEPTEMBER 4, 1974

  Shortly after seven o’clock on a calm, cool night, nine miles off the coast of the Big Island, the Explorer’s tinny PA system crackled to life, and Mission Director Dale Nielsen began to speak. Seventy-five of the ship’s crewmen had assembled on the top deck and stood in sile
nce, facing a makeshift six-person honor guard—each member dressed in a spotless white suit and matching white hard hat borrowed from the exploitation team.

  The honor guard stood in front of a large eight-by-eight-by-fourteen-foot box painted in rose red, which held the remains of six Soviet submariners, each one laid out on a shelf and shrouded by a Soviet naval ensign. The bodies had been carried on litters covered in the flag of the USSR—crimson, with the yellow sickle and star—one at a time, and because there was only a single Soviet flag on board, the pallbearers reused it each time a litter had been placed inside the vault.

  These six bodies were recovered intact, but Nielsen wanted to make every effort to respect the lives of the others lost, too. Any human organic matter—body parts that were recognizable or not—had been carefully stored in the ship’s morgue. These remains were also placed inside the box, in bags.

  Two rehearsals were held earlier that afternoon to “ensure that the actual ceremony would proceed smoothly and with appropriate dignity,” an official report of the proceedings stated. The necessity of staging a proper funeral had been considered far in advance and ordered at Parangosky’s direction. Officers consulted the Agency’s Soviet desk, which arranged for a contact at Naval Intelligence to enlist the help of Nicholas Shadrin, the code name for Soviet Navy captain Nikolay Fedorovich Artamonov, who defected to the United States via Sweden in 1959. Shadrin had served on submarines and had attended funerals at sea: He was flown to Hawaii with his Naval Intelligence handler to help Nielsen and the crew prepare for a proper burial at sea.

  “The ceremony will now begin,” Nielsen said, as a dirgelike version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” played, followed by the Soviet anthem.