Kursk Down Read online

  It was not a deluge of tourists, because Murmansk is hardly a tourist haven. In this city of almost a half million, the climate is cold, life is hard, and petty crime was said to be on the rise. The out-of-towners were members of the news media and they had descended on the town like kids flocking to a circus.

  Murmansk is the largest Russian seaport on the Arctic Ocean. Ice-free, it can remain open the entire year and is in the center of the Northern Fleet’s many bases. The streets reflected the city’s strong maritime tradition. Those same streets also carried a reminder of the number of exhausted nuclear reactors from military ships that have been dumped in the shallow waters, awaiting proper disposal. Radiation counters were located at busily trafficked intersections. And radio stations regularly included radiation levels as part of the weather reports.

  Newspaper and electronic media reporters had gathered in Murmansk because that was as close to the rescue site as most could get. Only the Russian state-controlled TV network, RTR, was allowed to broadcast and tape from sea. The nearby home port of the Kursk, Vidyaevo, was off-limits to outsiders and guarded by the military.

  The disgruntled reporters had little to do except haunt the train station and airport. They questioned travelers, hoping to find relatives of Kursk crew members. They also attended the irregularly held press briefings. Since there were few people to interview, they spent most of their time talking with each other. These conversations became incestuous. Someone had a theory about what was really happening. A second person heard it, expanded on it, and it circulated, growing larger and larger until it was replaced by the next new notion.

  The press confusion, replete with the government and Navy issuing conflicting stories, had worsened. Disinformation led to a complete distrust of “official” spokespersons.

  Many seasoned reporters on this story could remember the days of total Soviet press control. Released from old constraints, they were anxious to cover this breaking event from every angle. They feared that the constant flow of garbled misinformation was a deliberate attempt by officials to keep the issue confused. In other words, it was a cover-up.

  The rumor-makers went at it again: the Northern Fleet had shot itself in the foot. They sank the Kursk with their own missile. Official denials did nothing to quell the missile theory. In fact, by sticking with the collision-with-foreign-sub position, in the face of no evidence, those who wanted to believe the missile concept were given fresh hope. And they dug deeper to find proof.

  A horde of reporters with too little to do tends to ponder every fact. If there was the slightest discrepancy between press releases or comments from officials, it was detected and publicly displayed.

  At a news briefing called on August 20 to report on rescue progress, the last vestiges of civility were ripped aside. The press declared open war.

  The session was held in a large conference room at the Polyarnye Zori Hotel. An unruly group filled the space to capacity. All present spoke Russian or had personal interpreters. Several of the photographers, in an effort to get an angle over the heads of their fellow journalists, propped chairs along one wall and stood on them. As in every Russian gathering, chain smokers were present, so the air was gray and acrid from smoke. Everyone was talking, so the voice level escalated while they waited, rising in volume, then subsiding, then rising to a louder level.

  Management, to protect the hotel’s tranquil atmosphere and isolate the commotion, closed the doors to the meeting area. All present understood that starting on time was not even a hope. The briefings began when, and often if, the briefer arrived.

  The doors opened, two civilian officials squeezed inside, and the doors closed once more. The speakers, realizing it was impossible to work through the throng of people, elected to stand where they were and issue their statements. There was a rostrum at the other end of the room, but no microphone. So in the chaos, it made little difference.

  One of the pair shouted for silence. His request was echoed by the press corps closest to him and the demand eventually reached everyone. A murmuring semisilence followed.

  The official read from a single sheet of paper while his assistant passed out copies. There were not nearly enough to go around. Men grabbed the stack and white sheets were flung in the air. A grand melee ensued for possession of one of the pages. This noisy scuffling stopped the reader midsentence. With no voice amplification, half of those in the room couldn’t hear him. One reporter yelled to demand more copies of the release. The civil servant shrugged.

  Questions were shouted. First one, then a half dozen. They came without waiting for an answer. Flash units began popping and intense lights from video cameras half blinded the two government men, as well as many reporters, who yelled their irritation.

  One of the officials waved for silence and the bedlam calmed slightly. He told them that was the release, that was all the available copies, that was all he knew. He and his associate went out the doors and quickly down the corridor to the lobby. A car, with engine running and a third man behind the wheel, waited for them in the hotel drive. They jumped inside just as the mass of journalists erupted, shouting after them, and made their escape.

  The reporters knew the routine, too. When they returned, disgruntled, to the lobby, those who grabbed a handout had run off several on a copy machine. The release papers were being peddled for a drink at the bar.

  No one knew anything of consequence but they agreed on one point. If they hung around, maybe they’d be in the right spot when something did happen.

  They did not have much longer to wait.

  21 August 2000—Rescue Site

  Shortly after 0700 hours, members of the Norwegian rescue dive team went down to the Kursk. Using the correct information, they unsuccessfully attempted a hatch opening. That news was received with great disappointment. It appeared there was no hope of finding survivors.

  The divers next decided to use brute force. A crane lowered its cable and hook, which was attached to the closed hatch. Then the crane reeled in the line until it was straining. Slowly the crane increased its power. The steel hatch began to give, then tore loose with a wrenching shriek. The rear upper door was at last open. The escape tube was flooded and empty.

  Entering the escape chute, the divers began working on the inner door at the bottom. A second crew was brought in to relieve the first team, and the effort continued. Just over five hours later, they breeched that final barrier. Inside, they found only silt-laden water and poor visibility.

  In a somber meeting, Admirals Popov and Skorgen reviewed what was now known. It was agreed that the Kursk’s crew had perished and that the Norwegian-British rescue effort was complete. They had fulfilled their mission.

  A great wave of sorrow rolled across the water from ship to ship in the flotilla as news of their lost comrades spread. There was little to be done but grieve.

  At 2100 hours on August 21, 2001, nine days after the accident, the Russian Military Council of the Northern Fleet issued a statement. It officially recognized the loss of the crew. Condolences were extended to all relatives.

  Television is the universal Russian news medium. It reaches into the most remote parts of the nation and exerts a strong influence on public opinion. Television reporter Arkady Mamontov with RTR network had been giving reports during the operation from the deck of Peter the Great. A respected and well-watched personality, he delivered the terrible news. There was no hope of survivors.

  The dark days of August had come to Russia once again.

  CHAPTER 9

  21–22 August 2000—Rescue Site

  THE MOOD AT THE RESCUE SITE WAS AS GLOOMY AS THE weather. The news that President Vladimir Putin had declared Wednesday, August 23, a national day of mourning for the lost crew members of the Kursk did little to raise the men’s spirits.

  Norwegian and British workers took the failure of their mission personally. Many sat in morose silence. They pondered what might have been done and how they could have contributed to a speedier operatio
n.

  In the midst of this grief the divers were called upon for one final act. A team made a last descent to the Kursk. There, they closed the hatch and welded it shut to prevent scavengers, a term that included U.S. as well as NATO intelligence agencies, from entering the boat.

  That night, after the end of rescue activity, Russian Minister of Defense Igor Sergeyev appeared on TV. According to reports, he made several stunning declarations. The first was that debris had been located on the sea floor. Lying less than 300 feet from the Kursk’s bow was what was presumed to be a piece of the conning tower or “sail” of a foreign submarine. Some sources described what had supposedly been discovered as part of a conning tower railing. That was new. The next two items were not. Apparently harking back to dispatches from the two search aircraft that located the general area of the Kursk disaster, he noted the discovery of a lurking sub as well as the white and green marker buoy. This is the same buoy, mentioned earlier, that was later identified as a sack of potatoes that had fallen overboard while provisions were being loaded onto the Peter the Great.

  Either the Defense minister was provided with false information or he had acquiesced to the collision theory and was lending his support, or both. In any case, his statement added credence to the unsubstantiated claims.

  At dawn on August 22, ten days after the accident, a formal on-site memorial ceremony was held for the lost submariners. When it was completed, the Normand Pioneer, with the British LR-5 secured aboard, and the Seaway Eagle completed preparations for their return to Norway. After again expressing their condolences, they departed the tragic site at 1400 hours. Other ships of the Northern Fleet were leaving as well.

  A rear guard, consisting of the hydrographic survey vessel Mars and a rotating escort of at least one and at times two warships, was to remain. The location had been pinpointed by satellite mapping. A buoy marked the precise place where the hulk rested on the sea floor. The Mars was to monitor radiation in the area. To this point, no contamination had been detected.

  The warships on sentinel duty were there for a different purpose. The Russians were all too aware of the top-secret American CIA operation in 1974 that had recovered a sunken Soviet submarine for intelligence purposes. This fantastic maritime feat had stunned the Soviet high command. That boat had been retrieved from a depth of over 17,000 feet. The Kursk lay at 300 feet. Here was a much more tempting prize, as it was the latest ship of the line.

  A recovery would not be necessary. It was feared that divers might be sent to inspect the Kursk. Deeply submerged underwater, they could avoid sonar detection. What might they find in the wreckage? Obviously more than the Russians wanted to reveal.

  So the site was left with a full-time guard. And to make doubly certain, the ship on duty dropped hand grenades and depth charges into the water at unpredictable intervals. The resulting explosions would kill or injure aquatic spies.

  As the last of the flotilla departed, one vessel sounded a mournful horn and siren. It was unheard in the eternal silence of the depths.

  Russian Federation

  The announcement by the Military Council of the Northern Fleet that the entire crew had perished sorrowed the Russian people.

  The Kursk disaster had come at a time when those in the news media were desperately struggling to establish the limits of how far they could go in reporting a story. In a sense, coverage of the Kursk catastrophe was a window of opportunity. This single event established a relatively sharp line of demarcation between pro-government and opposing-government media.

  A news service’s favorable view of military actions during the rescue effort was one litmus test. Another measure was backing the collision theory. These two criteria marked the news outlets supportive of the government.

  Critiques of the official point of view or critical stories about Navy bungling pointed out the media less inclined toward the government. Readers, listeners, and viewers received a practical demonstration of where each news service was positioned.

  The enormous amount of coverage of the Kursk disaster also induced a powerful change in Russian attitude. What started as sadness was transformed into indignation and outrage. The targets of this emotional frustration were the military and the government.

  There is an old public relations adage about not arguing with the person who holds the microphone. In this case, both pro-government and anti-government media had microphones and TV cameras, which allowed them to openly argue with each other. Then, to everyone’s amazement, the print media, usually bitterly divided, became unified. Their questions reflected the nation’s wrath and confusion. Why didn’t the Navy have the equipment required for the rescue? Why wasn’t foreign assistance immediately accepted? Why did the president blithely continue his vacation?

  Izvestia, normally a government ally, featured a photo of President Putin in a Navy hat and barked, “False information about the tragedy of the Kursk is sinking the military’s reputation.”

  Moskovsky Komsomolets featured three pictures: one of Defense Minister Sergeyev at a billiards table, another of Admiral Kuroyedov, and a third of President Putin on vacation in Sochi. The caption was caustic: “They don’t sink.”

  The absolute barrage of personal criticism did not please President Putin. In striking back against his more adamant critics, he accused the media of political blackmail.

  There are three dominant TV networks in Russia. RTR is state controlled. ORT is “public television,” although it is 51 percent owned by the state. NTV was at that time the independent commercial channel and the subject of government scrutiny. Air talent from NTV complained of being excluded from news scenes and the village of Vidyaevo during the rescue operation.

  Ignoring the negative press, a segment of the military establishment continued its efforts to place blame for the disaster on foreigners. Head of the Northern Fleet, Admiral Popov, added a new high to the collision story by stating he would, if need be, spend the rest of his days on earth trying to find who “organized” the sinking of the Kursk.

  This was later countered in the news media by publishing the Norwegian Navy’s dismissal of the collision story as “propaganda” for Russians.

  Government-controlled RTR furnished the only TV coverage from the rescue flotilla that was allowed. An RTR team broadcast live from the Peter the Great. In the aftermath of the failed mission, RTR presented a chronology of the operation’s events to the Russian public. It amounted to a slight reordering of recent history by fudging dates to make it appear there was less confusion and more immediate action by the Navy.

  This new sequence of events produced a quick backlash. Time Europe responded by stating, “The strangest and most cynical-seeming piece of damage control so far appeared on the state-owned TV network, RTR, early this week.” The same source also implied the aim of the chronology was to present the notion that a prompt rescue operation took place.

  Time Europe also noted that RTR had indicated the Russian Navy accepted offers of foreign aid on Tuesday, August 15, three days after the accident—this in the face of Deputy Prime Minister Klebanov’s assurance to the public on Wednesday, August 16, that no such assistance was necessary and the Navy possessed all needed ships and matériel. This thrust and counterthrust blitz from officials and news services created a perfect climate for the generation of progressively complex theories.

  One account held that the accident put the entire naval command into a state of shock. The loss of the Kursk, the recurrent downed-by-a-friendly-missile story, a rumor that Admiral Popov had tried to shoot himself in despair, the misreporting of undersea conditions to cover an inability to dock with the sub, and more, all combined to indicate the Navy was at fault.

  Possibilities such as these had a depressing impact on the society as a whole and a devastating effect on one group in particular. Families of the lost crew needed nothing to add to their grief.

  Relatives of Kursk crew members had begun arriving in Murmansk by train before the official announcement that all h
ope was lost. They came to comfort the wives and children of the fallen submariners and to be close to the source of further news.

  At first, the Navy was unprepared to assist family members who arrived at the train station. Disconsolate men and women were left to fend for themselves. Some bereaved relatives had to contend with taxi drivers demanding the princely sum of 500 rubles for the drive to Vidyaevo. Five hundred rubles was the equivalent of $18, about a fifth of an officer’s monthly pay, an outrageous price for the trip.

  By Saturday, August 19, the Navy’s oversight was rectified. Special direction signs to buses had been posted in the railroad terminal and personnel were on hand to aid these pilgrims.

  After serious deliberation, it was decided that President Putin would fly to Northern Fleet Naval Headquarters at Severomorsk. Dressed in a black suit and shirt with no tie, he was greeted by Admiral Kuroyedov, head of the Russian Navy, then transported to Vidyaevo. Putin intended to meet with the families on Tuesday, August 22, before the scheduled national day of mourning. In preparation for this session, relatives of the deceased not yet in the Murmansk area, or in transit, would be offered air transportation. Money was short, so Karat Airlines Flight AKT 9611 was chartered by an oil company. A naval officer from headquarters later noted that the Navy did not have an aircraft large enough to accommodate the number of people.

  Families traveled to Moscow from all regions of Russia and, despite their mourning, told each other their stories. Many were too exhausted from watching TV reports of the rescue as it slowly progressed. One woman complained that no one had contacted her about the flight. She found out about it from television. A tearful man stated he had learned from the paper that his nephew was among the missing.

  In an effort to help the grieving throng, civilian and military psychologists were assigned to the group.

  The news media, still hungry for coverage, came out in force. Many waited to waylay family members at Vnukovo Airport in Moscow, where the chartered flight originated. This was an opportunity for reporters in the capital city to file firsthand stories on the aftermath of the disaster. With no one to hold them back, they worked the crowd, seeking human interest tales and more evidence of military disregard for surviving family members.