Kursk Down Page 17

  By late October, snow covered the ground at her village of 300 people and temperatures were dropping. When the village boiler broke, the local administration just assumed she’d pay for the repair.

  Across the width and breadth of the Russian Federation, loss of the Kursk and questions raised by that disaster remained items of daily regret and speculation. Every activity relating to the submarine was therefore newsworthy. So on Sunday, October 29, when the Navy held a memorial ceremony in the restricted town of Severomorsk, it was well covered. On that blustery, partly cloudy day, hundreds of people gathered at Courage Square in the heart of the small community. Mourners carried framed photos of the lost submariners and assumed places around the seafront plaza. Four armored personnel carriers, each topped with a casket draped in the white and blue Navy flag, rumbled slowly into sight. Progressing at walking speed, the procession passed row upon row of officers and men. As the caskets rolled by, sailors removed their hats, bowed their heads, and dropped to one knee in the snow that covered the ground of this Arctic outpost.

  When the procession stopped, all came to attention. One by one, the names of the 118 submariners who perished were read from a roll of honor. Mothers and fathers, hearing the name of their son, broke into tears.

  Olga, Dmitry’s beloved Olechka, was stiff with grief. Chin lifted and with fists clenched, she stared straight into the wind at the cold sun riding low on the horizon. Her life with Dmitry was finished. For her it was time to start over.

  In the harbor, warships riding at anchor, guns and electronic antenna giving the sleek vessels a deadly air, blasted low, mournful horns in a farewell salute. In the final tribute, she could almost hear his voice. “I could drown in your eyes, like a real submariner, without any sound.”

  1–7 November 2000—Aboard the Regalia

  A change now occurred in the recovery operation. Focus was shifted to the third compartment, where 24 crewmen had been posted. This was the communications center of the boat. If coding equipment and related items remained in salvageable condition, they would be found here. That area also had a shaft used in radio transmitting that was large enough to have sheltered a few people. And since there was a direct access to Compartment 2, which contained an escape capsule hatch, survivors might have gathered there, as well. Some Northern Fleet officials were also of the opinion that crew from Compartments 4 and 5 could have gone forward on their way to the escape route in Compartment 2.

  A sixto seven-inch hole was cut into Compartment 3 and a TV recon started. Visibility was poor but what could be seen was extensive damage from both fire and explosive shock. By some reports, the conditions in Compartment 3 precluded divers from entering that space. There is eyewitness testimony, however, that one or more divers inspected or entered the submarine through the gaping hole blown in the forward hull.

  The mission was running low on time. Every minute needed to be productive. In a spirit of cooperation, the divers agreed to stretch their work periods from four hours to six hours. An entry port was cut through the hull and the dredge pipe used to help clear the murky water. Despite reports to the contrary, Russian divers then went into Compartment 3. Intelligence materials in there were too valuable to be ignored.

  The damage in the compartment excluded the possibility that anyone reached the escape hatch in the command center next door. Entire bulkheads had been blown away, leaving shards of broken, melted metal. Items from the second and third compartments were thrown together in a tangled mess. It was apparent in the first moments after entry that no bodies would be found. Body parts might exist amid the jumbled ruins or beneath the silt that covered the deck, but there was no way to tell.

  None of the divers had arrived on-site with a complete understanding of how devastating the explosion on board the Kursk had been. As the extent of damage became known, a degree of discouragement began to replace optimism. It was obvious the fore part of the submarine was totally ravaged. Attention was focused now on the fourth compartment. One of the largest areas on the boat, Compartment 4 contained the cabins, galley, gym, sauna, and other crew facilities. A total of 12 men would have been stationed here during a battle stations drill.

  As preparations were made to cut another entryway, a team of Russian divers was sent to take up-close video images of the mutilated area toward the bow. And in hopes of finding collision evidence, one more sea-floor reconnaissance was also conducted. Once again, nothing was discovered.

  On November 3, storm conditions returned, halting work because of strong winds and blowing snow. When the weather improved, a research ship, the Horizont, arrived as a replacement for the Semyon Dezhnyov. These vessels were responsible for a continuous monitoring of the sea for radiation.

  By Sunday, November 5, a Russian diver gained entrance to Compartment 4. Visibility was bad even though the area had been flushed to remove silt. As expected, conditions in the compartment were conclusive proof that the shock wave had smashed through, causing almost unimaginable damage. The bulkhead and watertight door between the fourth and fifth compartments somehow held. Because of the debris and the horrendous force of the blast, bodies were not expected to be found.

  A clear picture of the mutilated sub was now evident. Every compartment had been ripped by a fire storm. Reactor safeguards had functioned as planned. No source on the boat was leaking radioactivity. The entire front half of the sub was a useless mass of melted, distorted metal. Only the crew shielded by the reinforced barriers of the reactor section could possibly have survived any length of time.

  Every movement made by a diver working inside the burned-out hulk was fraught with danger. Some records, hull samples, and other materials were recovered. But there was not much more to be learned by further investigation.

  Early on the morning of Tuesday, November 7, representatives from Rubin Design met on board the Regalia to discuss entry into Compartment 5. Although it was conceivable that some bodies might possibly be found on lower decks, limited reconnaissance provided a strong indication that many of the narrower passageways were blocked. So even though Halliburton’s contract ran through November 10, the decision was made to cease operations. Orders were given, and the project was phased out.

  The final act of the exhausting 18-day activity was the sealing of holes that had been cut through the hulls. The mission was over. Twelve bodies had been recovered and returned to Russia.

  Early in the afternoon, a memorial service was attended by expedition personnel and members of the Russian Navy. A somber group ignored the foul weather and gathered on the deck of the platform ship. All present, regardless of nationality or allegiance, shared a deep sense of loss. Men who go down to the sea in ships form a brotherhood. Those who venture under the waves are brave and enjoy a special camaraderie. The loss felt in that final hour before parting brought tears to the eyes of the men who had lived with this tragedy. At about 1400 hours, the Regalia, with a long salute of its ship’s horn, began its return to Norway.

  CHAPTER 13

  1 November 2000–31 March 2001—Russian Federation

  ALTHOUGH WORK AT THE RECOVERY SITE HAD COME TO A close, popular interest in the disaster grew even stronger. The Russian people hungered to know why the Kursk had sunk and who or what was to blame. Publicly asking those questions was an ideal way to demonstrate a newfound freedom of expression. And demanding answers gave the citizens an untried level of empowerment.

  Unfortunately, the continued publicity made it more difficult to obtain facts. News reporters were seemingly everywhere, interviewing anyone with an opinion about what had happened. The constant barrage obscured the voices of the few real experts, allowing every ridiculous notion to be heard.

  Those who had attempted to avoid full disclosure of accident information wanted this attention to fade and die. If the news media would only quiet down, time would erase the severity of the disaster from the people’s minds. It had always worked that way in Russia. This group hoped the impending memorial services, as well as impressive mi
litary funerals that played well on TV news, would bring a measure of closure. Surely the public would tire of the same story, day after day.

  As the remaining recovered bodies were returned to land, a painstaking process was used to make positive identifications. Medical doctors and forensic scientists also worked to define cause of death. In some cases, such as Dmitry’s, identity was easily established. In others, proving a reliable ID was more difficult. One seaman had a breathing mask melted to his face. Others were severely burned. By November 4, extensive work had allowed 10 of the 12 recovered bodies to be identified. Cause of death was simpler to define. High concentrations of carbon monoxide were present in tissue samples.

  As the remains were released to the families, plans were laid for individual funerals. Dmitry was returned to his native St. Petersburg for burial. The funeral was held at Admiralty Hall of Dzherzhinsky Naval College, his alma mater. This former palace, known for its golden spire, is a city landmark.

  Captain-Lieutenant Dmitry Kolesnikov was laid to final rest with full honors on Thursday, November 2, 2000. His was the first funeral for the submariners lost on the Kursk.

  More than 3,000 friends, colleagues, officials, and dignitaries attended the memorial service. Columns in the building had been spiral-wrapped with ribbons, and flags adorned the walls. In Russian Orthodox tradition, the family—his stoic father; his mother, weeping silently; his widow, face serious; and his younger brother—sat beside the wood and zinc coffin. A guard of honor stood silently by. More than a thousand mourners, many in uniform, gravely filed past the closed, flag-covered casket to offer sympathy.

  A picture of Dmitry was placed in front of the coffin above a large framed copy of the note he had scrawled while awaiting rescue or death. There were no speeches. The only voice was that of the priest who prayed to God for Dmitry’s “warrior soul.”

  A funeral procession column was formed. Led by the honor guard, a long, solemn line marched from the hall. Outside, umbrellas blossomed, protecting some from the rain as they took part in the final cortege. Walking slowly through the cold streets, grim-faced naval officers and sailors ignored the drizzle. They were led by one man carrying the photo of Dmitry that bore a diagonal black ribbon across the lower left corner. The officer behind him held Dmitry’s Order of Courage medal in his hands.

  As a military band played somber music, his mother wept openly. During the burial service, Northern Fleet Commander Vyacheslav Popov stated, “His fate will become an example of serving the fatherland for everyone. I will teach the officers, sailors, and midshipmen of the Northern Fleet according to his example.”

  At a barked command, a rifle detail in full dress uniform came to attention. A second order brought them to port arms. A third shout and rifles snapped to shoulders. They fired in unison, paused, shot another volley, then a third into the air with military precision.

  Olechka, Dmitry’s beloved, who knew his last thoughts had been of her, stood with her body rigid as a stick. Proud of Dmitry and the tribute to his memory, it was clear she would trade all the high honors for one more moment with him alive, holding her. The poem he wrote before the Kursk sailed on its final voyage would remain with her always. “And when the time comes to die, though I chase such thoughts away, I want time to whisper one thing: ‘My darling, I love you.’ ” She knew his last words had been for her.

  Captain-Lieutenant Dmitry Kolesnikov was placed to rest in the section of Serafimovskoye Cemetery known as Hero’s Way.

  In another anguishing bit of irony, the remains of Viktor Kuznetsov, a senior midshipman who had been a turbine operator mate, were identified. Ill and tortured by waiting for news, his mother died in the city of Kursk. The family was notified that Viktor’s body had been recovered only two hours after his mother had passed away. A pair of coffins were placed side by side for the service. His mother was buried in the city’s southern cemetery while her son was interred in town near a memorial to those who perished in the Great Patriotic War (World War II).

  These funerals, and those held for the others who had perished, dampened the spirits of many Russians. Coverage of the events, though, increased rather than decreased interest in the Kursk disaster.

  The public seemed insatiable. The situation had become a nationwide affliction. And in spite of efforts to correct the problem, some Russian leaders were still at times operating at cross purposes. The friction caused by their lack of cohesion was the very ingredient that kept the story fresh in the public’s eye.

  Important people tend to appear foolish when they make a statement one day, then deny it the next. Demonstrations of such blunders were easy to find. No lesser a person than Deputy Prime Minister Klebanov gave a widely publicized announcement that a logbook had been recovered from the Kursk. According to a Moscow Times story, the news operation Interfax quoted Klebanov, in his capacity as head of the Kursk investigating commission, as stating, “We recovered what we could—certain notes and the logbook from the fourth compartment.”

  The next day, Tuesday, November 14, The St. Petersburg Times noted that Klebanov issued a press release saying the documents recovered earlier in the month from the Kursk did not include a logbook. Instead, only technical bits of documentation were retrieved and none of this material provided any new information on what had occurred.

  Another error was evident from Klebanov’s at times single-minded insistence on rallying any support possible for the collision theory. On November 8, reports indicated that as head of the Russian government panel, Klebanov stated the divers recovering bodies had found “serious visual evidence” of a collision between the Kursk and another sub. Then he noted that it was too early to give clear answers about what happened. This ploy of making a revelation based on speculation, then backing away from it without offering proof, appeared to have been strangely effective—as was the willingness to change positions on the collision issue with ease. In October, when there was no refuting that the two Mir submersibles had searched and found no evidence of collision, Klebanov explained that a collision was unlikely.

  Such vacillation may have been an indication of an open mind confronting new evidence. Or, it’s possible the changes could be attributed to backstage political tactics aimed at keeping others in line. The threat of forging a new alliance during a delicate time can be an effective way of holding on to an old ally.

  Again and again, throughout the story of the Kursk, it seems a deliberate effort had been made to create confusion. Was this the case? Or was the Russian military and government leadership so disjointed they could not present a united front?

  Since facts are the bane of confusion, offering facts will end much of the mystery. Use of fiction in place of truth only creates more discombobulation.

  A prime example of such disorganization was the problem caused by unkept promises. A widely reported statement made on October 24 by the commander of the Russian Navy, Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, trumpeted his view of the cause of the Kursk sinking. “I am eighty percent sure it was a collision with another submarine. In the next two months, I will make up the other twenty percent and will announce to the world who it was.”

  A great deal more than two months have passed since that statement, and Admiral Kuroyedov has yet to make his announcement. He has, however, been quoted often in the media maintaining a collision did occur.

  In short, there have been accusations, recriminations, and demands to inspect U.S. as well as other NATO nations’ sub fleets. Everything but evidence of a collision has been offered. And not surprisingly, staunch denials have met almost every attempt to offer a noncollision scenario.

  This iron-curtain defense has been sustained for months. A few rust spots, however, started to appear on the once shiny surface. On February 27, 2001, The Moscow Times focused attention on a story in the normally pro-government newspaper Izvestia. In the report, Izvestia stated that the second note found on a Kursk crewman blamed the explosion on an experimental torpedo.

  The exploding torpedo
concept gained more support from Igor Spassky, a member of the investigating commission and head of Rubin Central Design Bureau. Spassky reportedly hinted that a torpedo was the cause. Several days after the accident, a person referred to in Russian newspapers as the “mouthpiece” of the Defense Ministry commented that the sub had been refitted to carry new torpedoes that were “difficult to store and dangerous to handle.” Then an admiral from the Northern Fleet jumped in with this published quote: “One cannot deny the possibility that during firing, the torpedo did not leave the hatch completely and exploded inside it.”

  Not surprisingly, Dagdizel, the torpedo designers, continued to be adamant about the safety of their weapons. During the months after the bodies were recovered, Dagdizel maintained a low-key presence.

  The one line of blame for the accident that refuses to fade away and still has teeth is the persistent scenario in which a missile from the Peter the Great cruiser triggered the disaster.

  In early March 2001, a retired Russian admiral, said to have been connected with the ill-fated rescue operation, reportedly agreed to be interviewed in the town of Murmansk. In a published article, he stated that documents concerning the Kursk were being hidden. He also indicated a launched Shipwreck missile from the cruiser went the wrong way. This missile purportedly hit the water near the Kursk with tremendous impact. This, in turn, caused the Kursk to roll and shudder sufficiently to dislodge a torpedo from its rack. The weapon then leaked its highly volatile fuel.

  If that occurred, the leaking torpedo would have been loaded into a tube and shot away from the submarine as quickly as permission to fire was obtained from Fleet HQ.

  This sequence of events certainly fits the known reports and accounts for the eyewitness comments. Even weapons experts who have expressed doubts about this explanation have, in fairness, said it is not impossible.