Ulf, the skipper, and Frank, the first mate of the Solo. Pictured in captivity at secret KGB base. Photo by Twilly Cannon

Polar Tiger By Twilly Cannon Inserts (in bold) by Josh Mahan

It was a slow night in Charlie’s. The usual suspects were arranged around the bow of the main bar. Twilly was unusually quiet, and had been most of the night. Occasionally he rustled in his chair to fidget with a pack of Marlboro Reds. A conversation I was having with a gentleman about a boat engine he was developing to clean harbors when docked had deteriorated to silence. The hush of the tavern was broken by the crash of a man sliding a PBR bottle across the bar and landing it into the garbage can on the other side.

It seemed to bring Twilly out from wherever he had been. His eyes refocused.

“Hey, did I ever tell you the story of the Polar Tiger?”

And the man once young, and growing older, began to speak, as if he were still there.     

“Just as our small "Away Boat" returns to the Greenpeace ship Solo, the Russian Border Guards (KGB) begin firing. Even over the sound of our engines we can hear the staccato chatter of their 30 mm cannon very clearly. Most likely these are warning shots but we move quickly nonetheless-trying to recover the Away Boat and re-board the Solo. It’s difficult work in the sub-freezing conditions.

Off the north coast of Russia, well above the Arctic Circle, lies the banana-shaped archipelago Novaya Zemlya. Ninety per cent of all the nuclear megatonnage detonated on earth has exploded here. This is well known from seismic records. Novaya still had its secrets though. Beginning in 1991 Greenpeace had discovered evidence of massive nuclear dumping in the ocean. At least fifteen reactors, some fully fueled, thousands of casks of waste, and extensive radioactive liquids dumping was our information.

The principal aim of our expedition is to investigate these rumors and document what we find. For this purpose our Away Boat is equipped with a remotely-operated mini-sub (ROV) capable of underwater video. Since we anticipate being arrested by the KGB any video we shoot will be transmitted back to the Solo by microwave. And since the Solo will likely be seized the footage will be relayed, via satellite, back to London.

We hope to get into Stepovov Gulf where the Russians have dumped a nuclear submarine, the K-27, with its two fully fuelled reactor in 20 fathoms of water. Operating the ROV will be tricky given the Arctic conditions and potential for radioactive contamination. If the ROV bumps bottom, for instance, it could dislodge a bubble which could carry radiation up with it. Bursting next to the Away Boat it could make things pretty hot pretty quickly. For weeks we've been practicing radiological protection and decontamination procedures. Chilling worst-case scenarios. A plutonium contaminated wound. Gross contamination of the Solo. Abandoning ship in the high Arctic.

Thirty of us left Amsterdam in late September bound for Murmansk--the so-called "City of a Thousand Smokes". Aboard is the normal complement of crew, issues specialists, scientists and myself, the action coordinator. For a week we sail north then turn west towards the Barents Sea—pasing the Nord Cap—a significant landmark for Arctic navigators. Entering into Murmansk I can see where its nickname comes from. It is a bleak and gritty place with hundreds of belching smokestacks. A very gray place. A few journalists and a People's  Deputy (the Russian equivalent of a Member of Congress) join us for the voyage. It is a weird time in Russia. Perestroika has hit and no one really knows what is permitted or spoken of.

We hold a press conference and announce our intentions to enter the Kara Sea which Russia claims as territorial waters. 'Ready to defy Russian authorities and monitor radiation at the world's biggest nuclear dump at sea' reports Reuters. The temerity of our announcement temporarily confuses the Russians. Is this permitted? Eventually the answer we get is nyet. We'll see you out there, we tell them.

Solo leaves Murmansk on a hopefully deceptive heading. We want to fool the Russians into thinking we will enter the Kara Sea from the north. Our intent is to feint to the north and then make a dash for the Kara Gates-a narrow, 24-mile strait on the south end of the islands. The Russians are monitoring us. Every evening, just at dusk, a Russian May (reconnaissance) aircraft overflies us to check our position, course and speed.

By the fourth evening out of Murmansk we are in position for our dash. The May overflies us as usual and as soon as it’s out of sight we make our break. Turning for the Gates we go to flank speed. Some of the crew are watching the Blues Brothers on video to ease the tension.

0500 We are approaching the Gates. Up to now the Russians have been strangely quiet--considering we are running just offshore of one of their most secret, strategic places. Now a shore station is calling. The radar shows an unidentified ship is closing on us in the dark. It is asking us to identify ourselves. We are stalling for time. Eventually we respond to the hailing. The ship asks our destination and nationalities aboard.

0530 The unidentified ship has closed on us and we can make it out in the gray light of dawn. Using the reference Jane's Fighting Ships we identify it as the Ural-an armed KGB tug. Both ships have sped to 14 knots as we run for the western exit to the straits. The Ural is now a mile off our stern and dead even in speed. It is demanding we alter our course and slow to three knots.

0545 The Ural continues to call on the VHF and is signaling by Morse lantern. Our navigator reports 20 minutes until the we break into the Kara Sea, the Ural has fired several flares and are asking to speak to the People's Deputy. They are raising signal flags using the International Code of Signals. "Sierra Tango November' "Sierra Tango November'. Being a bit rusty on my signals I look it up in the code book. Let's see, the entry for Sierra Tango November reads "Stop immediately. Do not attempt to lower boats or use the wireless. If you don not comply we will open fire". Not a pleasant message at all.

Albert, our skipper, gets on the radio to respond to their calls. "We are an unarmed ship, an environmental vessel. You have no right to fire on us'. It goes back and forth. Finally the Ural announces it will fire one more warning flare then shoot. The flare goes up. We keep going. The Russians don't shoot.

0615 We have broken through the Kara C3ates-the first ship to do so in fifty years. The Ural is still trailing close behind but has stopped threatening us. The People's Deputy is talking to them on the VHF. Time to go to work.

Our first task is to transit far to the sea’s northeast to locate the edge of the ice-pack. Nearby, rapidly moving ice could clog the straits and trap us for the winter. Anticipating this possibility the Dutch crew has stocked the ship with winter provisions including 600 lbs of frozen herring, 30 lbs of Drum tobacco, 78 cases of vodka, and an enormous amount of Grolsch beer.

Five days have passed since our dash through the Gates. Its pre-dawn and we are still being tailed by the Ural. Our radio has been quiet for some time. The Solo has been steering a wandering course around the Kara hoping to disguise our true intentions. Our track on the chart looks like a big, lazy question mark. The ice conditions are good. We decide to attempt the action. Despite months of knowing it would come to this the enormity and risks of the plan hit hard again. I go to bed pretty scared wondering what tomorrow will bring in that icy fjord.

To my pleasant surprise John wakes me with a cup of hot coffee. It's time to go I'm told. He stays and chats while I prepare. Later I realize he knew how scared I was. Didn't want me to dwell on it. Up on deck in the bitter pre-dawn cold the Away Boat is also being prepared. Engines are being warmed. It’s so cold the deck crew is using the steam lines to thaw frozen hydraulic fluids in the ship's crane. The last adjustments to the decontamination shed are completed.

Down in the ship's cinema the seven members of the Away Boat crew are also preparing. First we put on fishnet underwear. Then heavy poly-pro thermals. Then a pile suit. We struggle into our bright orange Nord-15 survival suits. On one arm a whistle and strobe light gets strapped. I put on pile gloves, a balaclava, goggles and neoprene gloves. A self-inflating life vest goes over it all. Once dressed the crew sits quietly in a row--not unlike paratroopers waiting for the jump light. Tim is playing his violin. Most of us are alone in our thoughts. Will they shoot if we launch? How long will we be in jail? I go up to the bridge to check our position.

We are approaching the launch point so I go back to the cinema to alert the crew. Together we waddle up on deck to finish the preparations. The ROV and side-scan sonar are loaded in the Away Boat. Next comes food, hot coffee in thermoses, a medical kit, and our radiation protection gear. The microwave transmitter is lashed in. Once everything else is loaded a tent-like nylon dodger-scant protection but better than none-is fastened over the bow.

0700 and we are about to launch the Away Boat. The Ural is off the port beam trying to get a better view of the activity on our decks. Our bridge is radioing the Ural explaining our purpose here. The small boat is lifted outboard as Solo turns south for more favorable launch conditions. Two of the crew ride down to detach the crane hook and re-start the engines. A final round of hugs and good lucks and the rest of us clamber down the pilot ladder into the waiting boat.

We leave the Solo and mush our way through the icy sea heading for Stepovov Gulf, 28 miles distant. The ocean feels huge and forbidding as the distance between us and Solo grows. We hear on the radio Ural demanding Solo pick us up at once. We maintain radio silence to prevent the Russians from direction-finding us. It is a gray day and bitterly cold. A dark scud sky hangs low over us with snow squalls passing through. The sea is close to freezing and it has a slow, greasy feel to it.

0915. We are closing on the coast. The cold has intensified so we put on our goggles to prevent our eyes from freezing. The spray coming over the bow freezes as it hits, slowly riming our survival suits. Every so often we crack the ice off. Most of the crew is under the dodger but a few of us have to be outside to steer and prepare the equipment. We've been leapfrogging from squall to squall. The snow reduces our radar visibility and the KGB vessels are having a hard time tracking us. With luck like this we may get into Stepovov undetected. Our engineer Ronald and I struggle to set up the antennas in the cold. Occasionally I hear an aircraft overhead but the cloud cover is too low and thick to see anything.

And then our luck runs out. The Away Boat pops out of the squall and into perfect Arctic sunshine. Off to the north I see a ship heading in our general direction. They hadn’t seen us yet but soon do--altering course directly for us. We turn south and parallel the coast looking for another squall. As the Away Boat approaches the 12-mile limit the ship is closing fast. We aren't going to make it to the fjord. We break radio silence to confer with Solo. The Ural has been quite threatening we learn.

We're afraid that breaking the 12-mile limit will provoke the premature seizure of the Solo. The new ship has closed on us and we can see its name: Mars. It appears to be an oceanographic vessel with no guns visible. We are more maneuverable but with our heavy load they are faster. The Mars cuts across our path and we veer offshore. Kiril, our translator is talking with them on the radio. They threaten to fire on us with small arms and demand we stop and await arrest by the KGB.

It would be a definite liability to be separated from Solo so we decide to make a break back offshore to the rendezvous point. Despite all the protective gear I can't feel my toes. Ulf, the mate, alters course. We're back in the snow. An hour later and we are back at Solo. The Ural is firing its 30mm cannon. My crew scrambles up the pilot ladder and we lift the Away Boat back onboard. I run up to the bridge to prepare our ship for seizure.

We are dead in the water. Our new strategy is to demand the Russians let us finish our work or, failing that, we will provoke them until they arrest us. The Ural launches a small boat and it’s headed our way. We send two female deckhands to meet the boarding party-throw them off a bit. Three KGB officers and ten enlisted men, armed with pistols and machine guns come aboard. A third vessel, an intelligence gathering ship, arrives on the scene.

For the next few hours our ship is searched and our papers examined. There is a lot of communication from our ship to their ship to Moscow and back again. Get off our ship we tell them. Let us get back to work. Finally, at 1430, we are told we are under arrest. The KGB men move to seize the bridge, engine and radio rooms. They're too late however. 

Refusing to steam to our own arrest we have disabled the ship's engines. The Russians are pissed then confused. The aurora borealis appears and we go up on the helideck to dance under the long streamers of milky green light. We arrest them and they have a dance party?

Around midnight we are taken in tow. The Russians are doing a poor job of it and as the towline is being passed our ships bang off one another. The Ural is an armor-belted warship so we are on the losing end of each collision. I go below deck to inspect some buckling of the hullplate. One of their officers is screaming at their deck crew. They move in a slow, sullen fashion as a heavy snowstorm starts up.

One of our preparations for this eventuality was to create a second radio room in the ship's cinema. And before sailing we hid a second, complete set of video transmission gear in the crew's quarters. By crawling through the ship's fire escape tunnels we can meet in the cinema, do our transmission, and slink away undetected. The first use of our video transmitter, called the "squisher", is to beam footage of our boarding and arrest. Two hours later it is shown on most European networks, including Moscow. The Russians are, again, very pissed off.

By October 17 we've been under tow for several days heading for an undisclosed location. Life aboard has become very interesting indeed. The Russians, while not guarding something, tend to hang around the bridge talking or sleeping sitting up against a bulkhead. I find myself thinking how grim it must be to be a Russian recruit in the Arctic.

After our arrest the KGB searched the Away Boat and found maps and photos of Stepovov Gulf. They have started to use the "E" word: espionage. Minute scraps of information are scrutinized. I can't really get a feel of what they are looking for. At one point they find a bottle of mud in the ship's lab (left over from a campaign in England months before) and they act like it’s the Maltese Falcon.

I show them a copy of Jane's. They marvel that their own vessel, complete with statistics, is in it. To us it’s a reference book. To the Russians it contains State Secrets. Jane's is brought to the attention of their officers who are still gathering evidence for our trial. It's the beginning of a playful game with the KGB. They don't understand while we aren't more frightened or repentant. A note on the messroom bulletin board announces "Tunnel Committee forming 8 PM. Bring picks and shovels'.

The officers are calling us in two by two to be interrogated. (We refused to be interrogated alone-more of the game). What is your name, nationality, education and position on the ship? Dave gives his nationality as American, education US Navy and a Masters of Oriental Medicine and position as deckhand. Gere, our cook, is also a registered nurse, midwife and aromatherapist. The Russians are skeptical until we tell them she's from California. John and myself have political roles aboard which the Russians are having understanding. Finally John describes us as commissars. "Oh, like on our ship", one of the officers says. "Yes, but the difference is on our ship they believe us', John replies. One of the officers grins at this.   

Returning to the messroom I notice the lights of another ship extremely close by. Several of us rush to the bridge. The Ural has lost power and is dead in the water. Our ship, being heavier, continues moving towards it. A dangerous collision is setting up. Albert starts shouting orders, calm but forceful. We re-start the engines and veer just in time, in effect passing the Ural. As our momentum slows the heavy towing cable starts to sink, drawing the ships close together. Albert puts the barest reverse power on to stretch the cable.

The KGB officer on duty doesn't understand what is going on and he is shouting orders at his men and at us. Pistols and machine guns are brought to the ready. "What kind of game is this?!!" the officer is shouting. He orders Albert to stop. "My fucking hippies can drive a ship better than your military guys!" Albert is shouting back. It is a very tense moment but it soon passes. Later than night another officer comes to us, apologizes and says our actions were correct. The Ural never told them it had lost power. We drift for two days until another KGB tug-the Ladoga-shows up and takes us both in tow. This guarantees another week of tow time.

We decide to up the level of gamesmanship with the Russians. First we play the Dima card. (Dima is one of our Russians aboard). His great-grandfather was a gun-runner for the Russian Revolution and Stalin's Foreign Minister. His grandfather was the lead character in a Solzhinetsin novel. His father was a dissident who got the family exiled to Siberia. Dima's a Greenpeacer.

Finally they get to the question they are dying to ask. "Do you know any other Litvinovs?" Dima slyly confirms the rumor. Lineage is important in Russia and anything remotely associated with Stalin-anything-is scary. This info is on its way to Moscow. Lots of communication on this one.

There is an old Russian saying: the nail that sticks its head up gets hammered down. This is taken to heart in the Russian military. Kick everything upstairs. Take no responsibility for anything at any time. It can only mean trouble. Report anything strange or unusual. In our present situation anything fits this category so it ALL goes to Moscow. And since we have an unlimited capacity for strange we are, in effect, spamming Moscow with our weirdness.

After the last bit of fun we fire a second salvo. Greenpeace had produced a series of reports on the world's nuclear navies. Most of them-including Soviet Naval Nuclear Accidents had been translated into Russian. Dima and I arrange a meeting with the officers. We take along a copy of the report. We sit down across from thee Russians and Dima delivers a spiel about how we want them to understand what we are doing. "Ahh, now comes the propaganda session" one of the officers remarks, I take out the report and lay it on the table between us.

Generations of secrecy have turned Russia into an information-starved society. On every level one is asked: why do you need to know? Not even as Russian naval officers have they seen information like this. These are State Secrets for sure! No one moves. No one says anything. No one touches it. They seem to be pretending it simply isn't there but no one can take their eyes off it. The nailhead rule has them locked in its tractor beam. Finally someone moves. One officer takes his hands off the table and puts them in his lap.

We insist its a gift for them. No, they don't want it. We insist, in the spirit of perestroika. The KGB guys confer in whispers for several minutes and finally announce they will accept the report. The senior officer takes it and, escorted by the other two, goes to the bridge where it can be properly guarded.

Our gift triggers a truly massive exchange of messages with Moscow. Giving them the report is the data equivalent of blowing a bonghit up a drug dog's nose. After three days of messages the KGB officers announce they are transferring the report to their ship. There is a lot of paperwork to fill out. Our report is heading to Moscow.

A couple days pass and I'm up on the bridge while the Russians are eating lunch. Normally hot food is sent over from their ship each meal. Today it seems they are eating canned bread and fish. Some of the cans of fish had obviously gone bad. It seems their ship has run out of food and they are eating their emergency rations.

The food situation gives us another chance to fuck with the Russians. We call a meeting to tell them that, as our guests, we couldn't allow them to eat that stuff. We insist they eat with us in the messroom. But we are not your guests, they respond, you are our prisoners. Guests, prisoners, what's the difference we answer. As always the decision is nyet. It would be too dangerous, bad for discipline and for a whole lot of other reasons he can't mention.

So I wait for evening and put together a huge bowl of food to take to the bridge. Fruit, fresh bread, sausages, cheese, coffee, and the secret weapon-bananas. As soon as I step onto the bridge an officer rushes towards me waving his arms and shaking his head. Take it all back he insists. I put the bowl down on the chart table and leave the bridge.

In the morning the food is gone. Time for another meeting! We begin to negotiate dinner arrangements with the KGB. The negotiations consist of going over all the previous objections several times before the Russians agree. They have one condition, though. We will eat first and then their men will eat.

Fine we say. But we have a few conditions of our own. First we're going to give them a better place to live on the ship-and they had to keep it clean. Second, no guns in the messroom-too much chance of an accident. Finally, we tell the Russians they have to learn to recycle. For a moment they stare at us in disbelief until-to our surprise,they agree. A few hours later all the KGB recruits have taken Garbology 1O1. I get a chuckle watching them separating their garbage, washing out their milk bottles and vacuuming the bridge with AK-47’s slung over their backs.

We move the KGB guys into an unused office on the ship and give them bedding and washing supplies (The latter being largely defensive) There are a few computers in the office so I round up some video games from the crew and install them.

The next night I am playing cards with the German TV crew in the messroom. One of the KGB guys comes in and asks "will you come with me, please". I notice he isn't wearing his guns--a good sign. My fellow card players make eye contact to ask "do you need backup?' I tell them I'm fine alone-I'll be right back. I follow the recruit up to the office where they are staying. There are another half-dozen recruits huddled around the computer. They've booted up "Chuck Yeager's Air Combat" and, not being able to read English, can't get past the password question. "Please, one of them asks as he hands me the manual, "what is the wingspan of a MIG 21?'

We are finally towed back out through the Kara Gates and into the Barents sea. It feels like months since we were last here. And it is evident we are heading somewhere back towards Murmansk. For a short period we are back in international waters and a Norwegian Orion overflies us (The Orion is the NATO equivalent of the Russian May). A final pass with wings dipping in salute, good luck over the VHF and off it flies. Later we will learn that the photo the Orion took of us under tow appeared on front pages across Europe.

After nearly two weeks of towing we arrive at our destination-the secret KGB base at Tyuva Gyuba. They sandwich our ship between the broken Ural and a frigate called 'White Birch". Two years earlier we had encountered this same ship when it was called something like "The Victory of the 23d People's Congress". I guess perestroika is hitting ship names as well.

The end of the tow has us in a merry mood so we break out the squisher and shoot a little travelogue of the secret base. We film secretly, out windows and doorways, or with guards posted. Tony, our video whiz, beams it out and a couple hours later it’s on the news. An irate officer appears on deck. "Moscow says I was on the evening newscast", he fumes. We hold back our chuckles. A couple hours later a young recruit signals me over and, in very conspiratorial tones says "you are sending your TV with Sputnik". I put my finger to my lips. He smiles and nods, understood.

In an evening meeting the KGB tells us what the process will be. Now that we have arrived our three-day detention (under the law) begins. If found guilty they will sentence us themselves. We also could be held over another week for another trial by military court. We wonder if we'll be permitted to see our consular officials. "What happens if we are found innocent?” one of the crew asks. "Oh that won't happen", one officer replies, "if you were innocent you wouldn't be here".

The rest of the crew is briefed on what we learned in the meeting. There is a lot of speculation about what will happen next. Tony hopes our stay is short because he says he told his wife he'd be home for his daughter's 21st birthday. Gere says she didn't know Tony had a 20 year old daughter. The rest of the crew chuckles because they know Tony’s daughter is five.

In the morning consular officials from five different nations-the US, Sweden, Canada, the Netherlands, and Germany-arrive by KGB boat. "I wonder if Zimbabwe is sending my consul?"' quips Tim. Only the Dutch consul is allowed on Solo, it being a Dutch vessel. The rest of us meet our consuls on the White Birch.

Only then do we learn the worldwide reaction to our action. The story of the Russian dumping is white hot across Europe. The action and our capture has been the lead story in almost every paper and newscast. Many countries have used our action to send notes of protest over the secret dumping program. The US consul tells us he was preparing to come to Murmansk as soon as he heard of our capture when he got “instructions from the highest level".

For three days we have been on trial. Or should I say the trial is occurring because we aren't allowed to attend it. My stereotype of the Russian judicial system seems to be coming true. We are awaiting the outcome-we know we are guilty and speculate what  the penalty will be. Albert convenes a crew meeting to announce the results.

We have been found guilty of "scientific sampling without proper authorization". Our penalty is to leave Russian waters as soon as practicable. A cheer goes up-no one thought we'd get off this easy.

We make preparations for sea which takes a couple hours. The Ural moves off our side, mooring lines are singled up and the engine is brought online. The Solo eases away through the ice-clogged waters. Suddenly hundreds of Russian sailors appear on the decks of their ships. They are all waving and cheering. Evidently our action has some support in their fleet as well.

The radio room is opened up again and we get the SatCom going.

Immediately the ship's phone starts ringing off the hook-as it will for the next 36 hours. We download the ship's e-mail and we find literally thousands of messages of support for all over the world.

We made international waters, headed for Tromso, Norway. Three days en-route we get another message. Boris Yeltsin, the Russian president, has agreed to our demands and has ordered a complete disclosure of the secret dumping program. The phone starts ringing again. It’s a great day.”

By this time, my mouth was parched and bladder full. Twilly was starting to get quiet again, but I knew he had another one in him. It was time to make a move.  

What you read was a true account of a Greenpeace expedition to the Russian Arctic. The trip provided innumerable stories for Twilly Cannon. This account is a snapshot of some of them. The title comes from the e-mail distribution list the collaborators used.