Searching for a sunken aircraft in the open ocean is a daunting task—more chance than science. Finding a downed MiG-25 at the bottom of the Sea of Japan, far smaller than even the smallest sunken vessel, bordered on impossibility.
Two U.S. survey ships scoured the seabed in overlapping paths, moving in slow formation like a comb raking through sand. With every sweep of sonar, they hoped to spot the MiG-25 wreckage. But it could take minutes, days, or even months.
In the sonar room, the most intense activity was underway. Operators, trained to hear the faintest differences in sound, strained their ears beneath their headsets. These sonarists were a rare breed—able to distinguish between a fish expelling bubbles and the churn of a distant propeller. From sound alone, they could often identify the class of an approaching vessel.
While the survey teams remained alert, the American salvage ship stayed largely idle. Its crew relaxed on deck, enjoying the breeze and sun, chatting while their instruments did the heavy lifting.
Behind the salvage ship were two escort vessels: a Keeling-class destroyer and a Knox-class frigate. The moment Soviet reconnaissance aircraft had been spotted surveying the area, these ships had been scrambled from Yokosuka.
The Keeling-class, a veteran of World War II with a displacement near 4,000 tons, was aging—more relic than weapon. Its main armaments were old naval guns, with no modern missile systems. In contrast, the Knox-class frigate was part of the U.S. Navy's second-generation anti-submarine fleet. Though not state-of-the-art, it featured quad Harpoon anti-ship missiles, a 127mm naval gun, and Sea Sparrow air-defense missiles. It also carried torpedo launchers, an ASROC anti-submarine rocket system, and a helicopter. Still, its outdated steam turbine belched thick smoke, a reminder of Cold War-era technology.
Aboard the USS Donald B. Perry, the Knox-class frigate, Captain Davis stood on the bridge, visibly agitated. He had little patience for what he considered a glorified babysitting mission.
"We're just a hundred nautical miles from the Japanese coast," he muttered. "Jets could be here in ten minutes if needed. The Soviets already did a flyover. Unless they've gone mad, they'll stick to surveillance."
His confidence faded when a voice crackled from the radar room: "Contact. Three surface echoes detected. Nine o'clock. Twenty-five nautical miles and closing."
Davis reached for his binoculars. "Probably just a trawler…"
But then he saw it: thick black smoke rising from the horizon, followed by the tips of masts breaching the curvature of the sea.
That's no fishing boat.
The shape became clearer—then the flag. A red banner, marked with a gold hammer and sickle, rippling from the mast.
"Soviet navy..." Davis muttered, his jaw tightening.
He didn't hesitate. "All hands to stations! Prepare for combat! Left full rudder! Ahead flank speed!"
The USS Perry growled as her turbines surged. Harpoon missiles powered up, and crew scrambled to action posts. No one knew what the Soviets were doing this deep near American maritime activity.
"Signal them!" Davis barked. "Tell them they're inside Japanese territorial waters and must withdraw immediately!"
As the gap closed, Davis studied the ships through his binoculars. They were Riga-class frigates—old Soviet Type 50s, each displacing under 1,500 tons. Their armament was antiquated: three 100mm guns, smaller autocannons, torpedo tubes, and depth charge launchers. No guided missiles. No modern electronics. Fossils.
What were they doing here?
The signal crew aboard the Perry flashed a message in semaphore. The reply came quickly.
"Report from signal crew," an officer said. "They claim they are operating in international waters."
Davis clenched his teeth. "Technically... they're not wrong."
By international standards, only waters within 12 nautical miles of a nation's coastline are considered sovereign. The Soviets were operating just outside that line. In truth, this was legal—but provocative.
"Fine. Let them have their show," Davis said. "They're not armed for trouble."
On the Soviet side, aboard the Riga-class frigate Tashkent, Captain Ilyich stood calmly on the bridge. He watched the American formation, expression unreadable.
"Message from the Americans," a sailor relayed. "They request we withdraw."
"Reply that we're beginning a salvage operation and ask them not to interfere," Ilyich responded firmly.
He knew his mission was symbolic as much as strategic. His outdated frigate stood little chance in a real conflict. But that didn't matter. His orders were clear: assert presence, contest salvage rights, and deny the Americans uncontested access.
Ilyich's eyes narrowed as he looked at the American ships. "They'll hesitate," he muttered. "They always do. Too much politics. Too much noise."
He gave a slight nod, his voice resolute. "Even if we don't return, we complete the mission."
The Cold War had come to the surface of the Sea of Japan—and the game had just changed.