Kursk Down (12 page)
AS-36
held a good sonar fix on the
Kursk
and started to close on the boat. Intent on this maneuver, no one noticed the slight drip of hydraulic fluid from a pipe. The drip grew to a trickle, then quickly into a thin jet of flammable red liquid spewing across the inside of the crew compartment. A valve that helps regulate controls for the boat’s trim had sprung a leak. If it were not capped, and quickly, it would drain all the fluid, rendering the controls useless. At this depth, if the entire fitting failed, there was a strong probability that pressure would force water into the rescue vehicle.
Radio contact with the surface was maintained while the crew attempted to deal with the problem. Finding they couldn’t stop the leak and were in fact experiencing control difficulties, they took decisive action.
As gently as possible, they allowed the boat to settle into the ooze and muck of the sea floor. Clouds of silt were billowed by their slowly turning prop. They deliberately grounded themselves. On the bottom, no controls were needed to maintain direction or depth. This allowed them to place the boat’s rudder and all diving planes in a neutral position, which lowered hydraulic pressure in the system, slowing fluid loss. If they could not repair the leak, their only option was to blow all ballast and make a dangerous blind emergency ascent. The crew of the
Kursk
had tried this same trick. For them, it had been too late.
The maneuver was risky enough in open ocean where traffic is light. In the disaster area, though, there were some 20-plus ships, tugs, and units of floating equipment. Rushing to the surface and popping up underneath another vessel would be deadly. The continued loss of hydraulic fluid presented another crisis. If they reached daylight, they would be unable to steer. So they risked ramming a ship.
It took only a few moments to realize that making a repair with the tools and materials on board was impossible. If anything, the leak was worse.
They had two safety measures. First, they could do a semiaccurate sonar scan of the water above them. That would tell them if the area directly overhead was unobstructed at the time they started up. Undersea currents would shift their position as they rose, so it might not be clear when they got there, but it would at least be open ocean when they started.
The other advantage was their emergency homing beacon. With it turned on, the
Rudnitsky
would have a tight fix on them. Other vessels could be warned away from the surfacing zone. Then the
Rudnitsky
could run in quickly to pick them up.
They discussed the plan by radio, and since no one had a better idea,
AS-36
received permission to perform the sudden ballast release once the area had been evacuated.
Sitting in the silence of the deep, the crew shut down all electrical drains. They had no choice. They needed maximum battery power to control the release of compressed air into the water ballast tanks. With heaters cut off, cold began to seep in, even though the hull was insulated. The wait gave the men an opportunity to think about their fellow submariners in the
Kursk
. For this moment, they shared a common fate with those they were risking their lives to rescue. There was a single, vital difference, however.
AS-36
still had one last means of escape from the depths.
The radio crackled. They were to go for emergency ascent.
There was a pause, then the outrush of water created a geyser of bubbles and sea floor slime. AS-36 surged through this curtain, accelerating rapidly. As they shot toward the surface, the sea around them turned from black to deep blue, to a lighter aqua.
The pickup crew on the
Rudnitsky
knew where to watch for
AS-36.
The massive eruption of bubbles gave ample warning of its arrival. Breaking out of the cold water with a loud splash, the craft shot over half its length into the clean air, then dropped, creating a sharp series of waves.
Inside the minisub there was relieved cheering as they broke the surface, then grunts as the nose slammed flat into the sea. In an orderly fashion, they went through the shutdown procedure. With the controls gone, the motor was useless.
Next, they opened the watertight hatch. Daylight and fresh air flooded in, lessening the petroleum reek of the spilled hydraulic fluid.
A tug drew alongside, bobbing in the waves. The men scrabbled over the slick, still dripping metal plates of the submersible’s hull. A sailor threw a heavy line. It was caught and quickly made fast to a towing cleat.
The diesel engine on the tug roared, throwing black smoke into the sky. The rope line tensioned, rising out of the water as the slack was taken up. They were under way.
Then
AS-36
swerved crazily. The crew on the sloping deck was almost knocked off their feet. They recognized the trouble at once. With the hydraulic fluid gone, there was no pressure on the rudder and diving planes to hold them in a set position. As the minisub began to make headway, water acted on each control surface differently, sending the boat into wild gyrations. The rolling was strong enough to cause water to splash through the open hatch.
The unchecked pitching of its captive at the other end of the line jerked the stern of the tug this way and that. One moment the boxy transom would rise out of the sea until the turning prop was visible, then violently snap down and veer off to one side. Next, and at random, she’d swing back hard enough to make the hull shudder with the strain of being turned.
The submersible’s crew had no option but to hang on and hope they didn’t take in enough water to sink them.
Skillful handling of the tug brought
AS-36
as close to the
Rudnitsky
as possible. Timing one erratic swing just right, the tugboat reversed engines, slacking the tow rope. An instant later, the line was cast free, allowing inertia to send the small sub alongside its tender.
A crane was already lowering a lift cradle from the deck above. Men secured
AS-36
just before she floundered, saving the vessel, which was hoisted aboard for repairs.
In spite of Navy Press Office efforts to hold back the flood of public attention, time was running out.
On Monday, August 14, no word about the massive rescue operation had been officially released by the Navy. On August 15, three days after the accident, news stories cited the Navy as being ready to move into the “active phase.” The various descents of the DSRVs on Tuesday and Wednesday, August 15 through 16, would be called the “first” and “second” attempts, in an effort to give the impression that activity had just begun.
Additional accounts compounded the confusion. The RIA news agency quoted a Northern Fleet Headquarters press officer as saying the crew was not in danger and the process of abandoning the sub had not been raised. Interfax, another news service, cited a source as stating it was “not excluded” there were casualties. Interfax also noted sources in Murmansk indicating a rescue diving bell had been lowered to the
Kursk
and was supplying the submarine with oxygen, fuel, and air for its ballast chambers. Other news services had stories of “acoustic contact” with those on the stricken boat.
Itar-Tass
apparently named Navy Chief Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov as revealing that the chances for a positive outcome were not very high. He also was quoted as saying the
Kursk
looked as if it had suffered from some kind of collision. Another item in
The Moscow Times
was attributed to a Northern Fleet spokesman who is said to have reported by telephone from the Navy base at Severomorsk: “We have learnt through tapping that there are no dead among the
Kursk
crew, but it remains unknown whether there are casualties.”
The need to gain entry into the sub, accept foreign assistance, or face public disapproval, which would make the damage-due-to-collision story less effective, was now a pressing issue. It had to be resolved. Understandably, efforts to get inside the
Kursk
became even more intense.
15 August 2000—Barents Sea
A
CTIVITY AT THE
K
URSK
SITE, ALREADY ON THE
N
AVY’S
sea-duty, nonstop, 24-hour-a-day schedule, became hectic. Men willingly gave up free time to perform double shifts. Laboring in this northern place, where the cold summer sun shines at night, they lost track of time. There was no morning, noon, or evening. There was only work that proceeded on several fronts at an increasingly frantic pace. A large part of the effort, however, was based on trial and error. Prior experience in actual hands-on undersea rescue was limited—because, considering the length of time modern nuclear submarines spend submerged, disasters seldom occur.
Since the first nuclear submarine,
Nautilus
, was launched by the U.S. in 1954, the list of sinkings and serious onboard fires is surprisingly short.
On April 10, 1963, an American attack submarine, the USS
Thresher
, made a test dive in the Atlantic, east of Boston, Massachusetts. She never resurfaced. All 129 on board perished.
In September 1967, 39 Soviet crewmen died from a fire on their November-class submarine in the Norwegian Sea. The boat managed to surface, which saved the rest.
In May of 1968, a nuclear reactor malfunction aboard the Soviet
K-27
spread radiation through the sub. The vessel was so contaminated it was dumped into the Kara Sea in 1981.
On May 22, 1968, the USS
Scorpion
went down in open ocean southwest of the Azores. A torpedo mishap was named the likely cause. Ninety-nine men were lost.
Sometime during 1968, an unnamed Soviet submarine sank while operating inside the Arctic Circle.
During April 1970, fires broke out in the interior of a submerged Soviet November-class sub in the Bay of Biscay, forcing it to the surface. The intense blaze burned for three days and sank the boat. Fifty-two of the crew died.
In February 1972, a Soviet Hotel-class vessel had a hydraulic line failure and fire. At the cost of 28 lives, the crew fought the blaze for 24 days before being rescued.
On August 21, 1980, an Echo-1-class Soviet submarine surfaced off the coast of Japan. Nine died because of radiation leaks and fire.
In the summer of 1983, an unnamed Soviet submarine in the North Pacific went to the bottom with 90 men.
In 1986, some 600 miles east of Bermuda, a Yankeeclass Soviet missile sub sank after an onboard explosion. Four of the crew met death.
On April 7, 1989, a Soviet attack submarine, the
Komsomolets
, suffered a fire and sank in the Norwegian Sea. Forty-two of the crew of 69 perished.
That’s a total of 12 incidents, including the
Kursk
, during a period of more than 46 years. Less serious fires on U.S. boats have occurred. Other Russian sinkings may also have happened. If so, these accidents are still classified. The Russian newspaper
Izvestia
reportedly accounted for 507 missing submariners in the Russian Navy during the past 40 years. This number makes it likely that not all of their large episodes have been made public.
Only two of the sunken nuclear-powered submarines listed above were American. Loss of the
Thresher
in 1963 brought about the SUBSAFE program, instituted by the U.S. Navy. From the revamping of fire suppression drills to the installation of flame-resistant materials where possible, to more exacting specifications for even minor fittings on the boat, every aspect of the submarine and its operations was scrutinized. This rigorous policy focused on reducing the danger inherent in undersea activities. Standards tightened even more after the 1968
Scorpion
disaster. Both these tragedies received worldwide attention in the news media.
Until the
Kursk
, news coverage of Soviet submarine casualties came only when it was impossible to keep the incident quiet. The 1989
Komsomolets
fire and sinking, for example, was publicized because its location was close to Norway.
Under the Soviet regime, the downing of a submarine, or for that matter any naval catastrophe, was a classified matter.
At this point in the
Kursk
tragedy, secrecy of another sort was playing a role. No one knew for certain how many of the crew, if any, trapped aboard the
Kursk
were still alive. A damage assessment was not publicly released. Had it been, hopes would not have been high. Knowledge of an onboard explosion was spreading. So a number of deaths was generally anticipated although most still believed there were survivors. Based on previous sub accidents, rescuing at least some of the crew was a possibility—even long after reason dictated giving up hope.
In 1983, for instance, a highly professional and courageous Russian officer on a sunken submarine maintained his command of the situation and helped hold his men together for three weeks.
And as long ago as 1939, the men aboard the USS
Squalus
, which sank in 260 feet of water, waited 36 hours before help arrived. Twenty-six submariners died. The remaining 30 were saved when a diving bell was lowered and attached to the sub’s hatch. Then, three or four at a time, the crew climbed into the bell, resealed the hatch, and the bell with its cargo was brought to the surface.
As part of the disaster rescue efforts, the Russians were unsuccessfully using diving bells from the
Altay
to duplicate the
Squalus
process. Problems rescuers encountered were attributed to swift undersea currents and hatch damage, the same difficulties that stymied the submersibles.
Recovery Site
By 0800 hours, waves in the Barents Sea were rising to 13 feet and the rescue ships were slammed by 45-mile-per-hour winds. It was anticipated that gale conditions would worsen before improving. So all undersea operations were curtailed. Hundreds of men, anxious to help their comrades, were forced to wait.
At 0900 hours, the Navy released a statement indicating the crew on board the
Kursk
was tapping on the hull. This news flashed through the rescue flotilla. Sitting idle now became even more difficult and stressful.
