Kursk Down Read online

  Copyright © 2002 by Clyde Burleson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover design by Diane Luger

  Cover photography by Tony Greco

  Warner Books, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10017

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  The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: March 2002

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55456-5

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PART I: THE BEAUTY

  PART II: THE DISASTER

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  PART III: THE LESSON

  WHAT REALLY SANK THE KURSK !

  EPILOGUE

  CREW MEMBERS

  KURSK DOWN! is the first complete story of the disaster and includes an inside-Russia look at the political calamity that ensued.

  KURSK DOWN! provides information from translated official Russian Navy reports on the accident, then shows how details in this material have been altered to put the best face on actions taken by naval leaders.

  KURSK DOWN! features exclusive interviews with rescuers.

  KURSK DOWN! reveals the real reason behind the loss of this great vessel and her brave crew.

  KURSK DOWN! conclusively proves what the Russian Navy was so loath to publicly admit—that an enormous explosion on board the Kursk sealed her fate.

  THE FIRST BOOK

  ON THE MARITIME DISASTER OF THE DECADE.

  AND THE ONLY BOOK THAT GIVES YOU THE REAL STORY.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful to a very large number of people who assisted in developing the information contained in this book. Many of those who contributed do not wish to be named. In any case, it would require several pages to recognize all who assisted.

  A few individuals, however, did much to help make this story possible. So a special thanks should go to Linda Stares for translations and explaining Russian customs, George Helland for his insights into Russia and information he provided, Karl Olivecrona for geographical assistance, Margaretha Olivecrona for help with language problems, John Brandon, Owen Osmotherly, and Nick Jones of Oil States MCS for technical information, and Peter Miller, who represented the book.

  Several organizations also proved to be helpful. These include Bellona, a diligent and effective group, The Moscow Times, The St. Petersburg Times, the Russian Naval Museum, Itar-Tass, and www.kursk.strana.ru/www.kurskl4l.org, vital online news sources.

  I also wish to single out Rob McMahon, the editor at Warner Books who had faith in this project and did such a valuable editing job. Thank you, Rob.

  And thank you, too, Suzy, for everything.

  Clyde Burleson

  August 2001

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  We live in a communications and information age. Today, a newsworthy event that holds public attention is covered by the media with an unprecedented thoroughness, as well as a wide divergence of viewpoints.

  All this makes it easier than ever before in history to amass a huge number of facts about any gripping incident. The sheer volume of available information, however, makes it difficult to organize it all into a manageable format. And often, that ordering process reveals conflicting reports, which produce more questions than answers.

  That was the case in the development of KURSK DOWN!

  The Internet provided access to daily news sources as well as trade publications in Russia, Europe, England, and the United States. These resources, when properly sorted, delivered an overall picture of the disaster. That same material also produced names and titles of people who were familiar with various aspects of the Kursk tragedy. Some of those individuals agreed to discuss the matter over the telephone. Many others did not. Language barriers provided additional stumbling blocks that had to be overcome.

  Interviews produced new insights and provided a view beyond published reports. And as information was amassed, translations of official Russian Navy documents took on new meanings. From this vantage point, the structure, contents, and theme of the book became clear.

  KURSK DOWN! is more than the recounting of a maritime disaster. It is an adventurous view of a great nation at a crossroads—which makes the story all the more compelling.

  PART I

  THE BEAUTY

  SHE WAS A BEAUTY. THERE WAS NO OTHER WORD. SHE SAT wide and low in the water, her curving hull a black that absorbed rather than reflected the soft Arctic summer sunlight. She was a leviathan of the deep, made by the hands of man to live under the sea. Here was a dark angel of death, a wreaker of havoc, bringer of war and destruction.

  Those who served on her revered her. Some also feared her, because of her power and great size.

  Although larger than most ships, submarines are traditionally called boats. This boat was named K-141 or the Kursk—not a graceful title for a lady of her breeding. But the Russian Navy is more practical than poetic. And the city of Kursk, grateful for the honor, has a heroic past.

  She’d first been christened Project 949A. Carefully conceived, she was a vastly improved enlargement of an earlier model. K-141 was one of the biggest nuclear attack submarines in the world.

  Her design was radical. She had a double hull. The outer shell, called the superstructure, gave the boat its distinctive oval shape.

  Covered with a rubberlike polymer that slicked the surface to add silence and more speed underwater, she had a dark, wet sheen as opposed to the dry look of paint on metal.

  Between the superstructure and the inner hull was a space of some 7 to 12 feet. A thousand miles of wiring, hydraulic tubing, piping, and bracing, filled this cavity. Here, too, 24 cruise missiles were stored in their readyto-launch tubes. Submerged and hiding in the depths, K-141 could rip-fire a salvo of atomic warheads that doomed targets over 600 miles away.

  The inner hull encapsulated the living part of the vessel with crew, controls, and nuclear reactors. Each compartment of the Kursk had three or four decks and housed a specific function. Watertight doors separated every section.

  The design team planned the double hull to make her a hardier lady. They wanted her to be able to withstand a direct hit by a conventional enemy torpedo or depth charge. To reflect their intent, they dubbed her “unsinkable!”

  K-141 was laid down in 1992 at the yards in Severodvinsk, a famed shipbuilding town on the Beloye More or White Sea. Skilled craftsmen cut and shaped each steel plate. Every centimeter of every weld was tested, every joint pressure-checked and x-rayed. Form followed function and beauty emerged. The boat’s function was devastation. Therefore, the beauty was tinged with subdued violence.

  Launched in 1994, she was almost 500 feet long and nearly 60 feet wide. Lying still, her bottom reached some 30 feet beneath the cold water. The line of her vast curving deck was broken by a large sail or conning tower bearing the proud red and gold symbol of the Russian Navy. Jutting upward from the sail, like shining lances, were slender radio masts, periscopes, and air intakes.

  At the rear, her huge rudder reached clear of the water, hinting at the boat’s enormous maneuverabilit
y.

  Submerged, she was home. She could remain down for 120 days, traveling at a speed of 28 knots, and dive to depths approaching 3,000 feet. When running, she hummed and the twin propellers made a distinctive cavitation sound. When hiding, she could lie still and silent, defying detection.

  K-141 was the best of her sisters. There was pride in those assigned to the other boats. Those who served on the Kursk were reverent. They knew and sensed her superiority. An indescribable feeling ran through her many corridors, compartments, and decks. It was as though the iron that formed her was special—as if she were made of steel from meteorites, the metal fallen to earth after being forged by a journey through space.

  While her destructive power might have had many uses in time of war, she was created for one purpose— to hunt and sink aircraft carriers. Hers was a daunting assignment. She had to avoid the protective cordon of ships ringing her prey, slip quietly past opposing submarines, attain a launch position for her torpedoes or missiles, and make her kill.

  She had been built for that moment, armed for that moment, her crew trained for that moment. It was her destiny. Or so her creators, and those who served aboard K-141, believed.

  PART II

  THE DISASTER

  12 August 2000—1140 Hours (Moscow Time) On Board Submarine K-141 ( Kursk)

  The explosion that had ripped through the submarine polluted the air with smoke and the sharp stench of burned electrical insulation. The small group of men who survived had found each other in the aftermath and taken shelter in the massive boat’s ninth compartment.

  Moving about was difficult because debris covered the steeply slanting metal deck. That was just as well because movement increased their respiration rates. Breathing faster used up their small supply of life-giving air more quickly.

  Captain-Lieutenant Dmitry Kolesnikov, in his role as senior officer left alive, had assumed command. Standing six feet three inches tall and weighing over 200 pounds, he exuded a friendly confidence. The combination of a handsome, youthful face, reddish-blond hair, and blue eyes added to his charm. Even though he was young, he was an experienced, competent submariner. He knew their situation was desperate. The others knew it, too.

  That understanding must have made his efforts to maintain morale and discipline more difficult.

  There was no way to escape. They were trapped on the bottom, 300 feet underwater, surrounded by an icy sea. The escape hatch in their compartment might have been damaged. It made little difference. With no breathing apparatus, chances of making a free ascent to the surface were slim. Even if they did succeed, they had no inflatable life rafts. How long would they last in the freezing water fighting towering waves? A few minutes? A half hour? No more, surely. The Navy was coming to their rescue. What they had to do was remain a team and hold out until help arrived.

  Waiting, shivering in the growing cold, each man was alone with his own thoughts and hopes. Help was on the way. It had to be. The Navy would not desert them.

  Cut off from the world of warm sunlight and fresh air, a horrid sense of isolation weighed on the group. And beyond question, Dmitry had to have wondered what orders Captain Lyachin would have issued had he been present.

  The submarine commander Dmitry so respected wasn’t able to help him. Captain Lyachin was dead. The entire crew, except the pitiful few gathered so wretchedly together, were dead, too.

  Several of the survivors were seriously injured and their pain must have added to Dmitry’s misery. These men were his responsibility. And there was nothing he could do to help them. The small rolls of gauze bandages and tiny bottles of antiseptic in the only first aid kits available were for minor emergencies. They had never been intended to deal with burns and wounds of such serious magnitude.

  Repeated intercom calls to the hospital-like sick bay near the crew quarters in Compartment 4 went unanswered. That was not surprising. The blast that had ripped through the submarine originated in a forward portion of the boat.

  As senior officer, it was up to Dmitry to provide leadership and bolster the men’s spirits. Part of his duties included keeping a record of their plight. Using what paper he could find, he made careful notes. Including himself and his best friend, Rashid, there were 23 survivors. Not many, considering 118 had been on board when they sailed.

  He had selected the ninth compartment as headquarters. There was an escape hatch where a DSRV could dock to evacuate them. Despite constant budget cuts, the Northern Fleet still had two of the newer Deep Sea Rescue Vehicles, plus a third older model. So they had hope.

  Help would come. He was a member of the most elite group in the Soviet Navy. If he could keep the men acting as a unit and alive long enough, the Navy would rescue them. And he could return to Olga—his Olechka—knowing he’d done his duty. Dmitry and Olga had been married only a few months and she needed him. He needed her, too. Then there was his mother . . . and his dad . . . and his brother.

  The dim emergency lighting and deep shadows made numbers on a watch face difficult to read. Had it only been two hours? The question the men must have asked over and over again still remained unanswered. What had happened?

  One moment, all had been fine.

  The turbines, turned by steam generated with heat

  from the pair of nuclear reactors, had been spinning smoothly. A nervous excitement had settled over the crew. The Kursk had been assigned a starring role in the most important part of the annual war games. Making five knots, submerged to a depth of 90 feet, they had been conducting a full combat simulation torpedo run. Captain Lyachin had announced receiving permission for a practice firing.

  As commander of the technical party of the main propulsion division, Dmitry was a respected officer and leader of the seventh compartment. On duty, he knew his job and his manner was direct. At 27, he’d managed to pull a lot of undersea time.

  His brightly lit workstation had the clean, pungent smell of hot machine oil, accompanied by a hum from the turbines. Gauges and controls were mounted in compact panels on the metal bulkheads. Above them, through neat holes in the steel, bundles of multicolored wiring cascaded down like rainbow horsetails, then vanished again behind a large electronic console.

  Captain Lyachin demanded perfection in every maneuver. So the firing run had to be perfect. And to be perfect, Dmitry and his team needed to function as a single unit. All their training, all the hours of meticulous equipment maintenance, had been focused on this one critical task.

  The long, hollow, echoing boom, like a distant thunderclap, had been unexpected. Underwater thunder was impossible. That sound must have generated instantaneous jolts of adrenaline that set hearts pounding. Shocked crew members would have seen bulkheads flex and felt the noise rattle deep in their chests. As their boat shuddered, it had lurched nose down, slanting the decks precariously, forcing them to grab anything at hand to remain standing.

  When the regulation sequence of short, sharp alarm bells had begun, the strident warning signal was piped throughout the boat.

  They had practiced this drill until every man on board reacted instinctively. A crew member had to be at his emergency station before the last bell in the series. That meant half a minute or less. As the lingering echo of the final ring bounced off steel bulkheads, the automatic watertight doors would clang shut. Each compartment was then a sealed entity.

  That echoing boom couldn’t have been faked. The realization this was not a drill must have been chilling.

  Other warning buzzers would have kicked in, creating an unearthly din. But one particular emergency klaxon remained silent. The absence of that single nerve-grating horn indicated all was well inside the nuclear reactors. Whatever was causing their problem wasn’t atomic in nature.

  Only a minute had passed. Men must have yelled orders as they half ran, half stumbled down corridors. By this point, the smell of burning rubber had started filtering through the round, white ventilation tubes. All sense of time was lost in the confusion.

  Suddenly, the floo
r had leveled out. The captain was very good, and this crew, exceptional—the best in the Northern Fleet. They’d won that distinction during their combat patrol in the Mediterranean Sea. They could deal with an emergency. Many a damaged submarine had been saved by increasing forward speed through the water while surfacing. And this boat had plenty of power.

  Dmitry and the men in his compartment must have found a moment of confident hope. They were “atomshiks,” nuclear submariners. They had been trained to ignore emotion and respect performance. But whatever relief they held was short-lived—because the world, as they knew it, had ended.

  A second explosion shook the boat so violently that no one could have been left standing.

  This death stroke came 2 minutes and 15 seconds after the first blowup and was five times larger. Ten times. Twenty times. It had doubled and tripled and quadrupled in destructive force and sheer deadly intensity. It was as if time had been stopped long enough so this eruption was compressed into an instant. The huge submarine was sent skittering like a toy, first one way, then twisting down, then snapping bow up with astonishing force.

  Those on board must have known the source of the devastation. It sprang from the bow of the boat—where torpedoes were stored. If it had been the cruise missiles housed alongside the sail, everyone would be dead.

  The few still alive had to have been partially deafened from the prolonged noise. Even dulled hearing, though, would have been enough to register the agonized squeal of thick metal plates, shrieking as they were torn apart.

  What happened next reduced the number of survivors. A murderous shock wave spread from bow to stern, bursting the welded seams. All items not securely stowed became deadly missiles. Flying tools and equipment killed or maimed, leaving dead and dying behind.

  That destructive blast was followed by an even more terrible enemy. Incandescent gases from the explosion ignited the air and searing fire shot into every part of the submarine. Flames whooshed at almost sonic speed through the ventilation shafts, erupting from grills and openings, scorching and melting all they touched. The inferno came and was gone in a pulse beat, leaving only devastation. Whole looms of wiring had been torn from their mountings and strewn about. The deck was covered with refuse, broken metal, and trash of all descriptions. The air was hazy and the sting of smoke from electrical fires must have burned in the survivors’ lungs. Only military discipline would have kept some of those still alive functioning.