Kursk Down (22 page)

Reports of Dmitry’s final letter reached the news media which forced the Navy to officially announce its discovery. Subsequent leaks allowed part of the text to appear in print. This disclosure caused his parents and wife to begin an active campaign to see the note. The event revived public indignation and brought new accusations of a deliberate slow start to the emergency rescue effort as well as rejection of official statements on the cause of the sinking.

In an attempt to counter the groundswell, what was supposed to be the “full text” of the note was read on national television. The letter emphasized a timeline that strongly indicated the men trapped in the ninth compartment had come to a speedy end. The new official revelations were met with disbelief. Many publicly argued that the “full text” had been severely edited.

A number of leaks purporting to reveal additional content appeared in the press. One of the most damning was a report attributed to the Moscow newspaper
Zhizn
. In the story, one I. O. Griaznov, a military expert from the Severomorsk laboratory, allegedly stated that there was a second note found in Dmitry’s pocket, written on Tuesday, August 15, three days after the sinking. That message supposedly included: “Captain died . . . I am the only chief officer left on board. . . . It hurts . . . Murdered
. . . August 15th.”

The August 15 date was a matter of great consternation because it meant that if a Deep Sea Rescue Vehicle had been able to mate with the escape hatch, there might have been survivors. Northern Fleet officers quickly labeled the Griaznov text a fake.

Dmitry’s father, Roman Kolesnikov, believed his son’s military training would have come before sentiment. Therefore he was certain there must be unseen pages that recorded whatever information Dmitry had about the cause of the disaster and other technical matters. Based on his statements, Dmitry’s first superior officer on the submarine, the ex-
Kursk
commander, agreed with Roman on this issue.

According to a report from Bellona, a science-based environmental organization, two copies of the note were made. One was supposedly for Northern Fleet Commander Admiral Popov. The second was said to have been for Dmitry’s wife, Olga. She apparently did not receive it because
The Moscow Times
later reported that Dmitry’s father was finally allowed to view the original note and make a personal copy. Dmitry’s wife and mother, despite requests, had been unable to see it. Officials told them the note was being used in the investigation and would be given to them later.

The Russian military learned a costly lesson from this incident. In terms of maintaining prestige, respect, and dignity, it was better for them to control the news than respond to reports. All further work on the remains of
Kursk
submariners was carried out in private. When a second note was discovered, its release was handled in an entirely different manner.

An official announcement of the second note was slow in coming and pointedly did not provide the name of its author. Speculation among the families of those killed in the catastrophe was that it had been penned by Dmitry’s best friend, Captain-Lieutenant Rashid Ariapov. According to a report in
Pravda
, the Northern Fleet deputy commander verified this to the officer’s family.

No relatives have been allowed to see this missive and the limited text released for publication was of a technical nature. The comments included a reference to what may be a shortage of the belts used in individual breathing kits and a lack of oxygen-regeneration units. Other quotes include: “Our condition is bad. We have been weakened by the effects of carbon monoxide. Pressure is increasing. We can’t make it more than 24 hours.”

What else the note revealed is a matter of conjecture.

27–31 October 2000—Aboard the Regalia

The storm raged all day Friday without slacking. With operations held in abeyance, there was little for anyone to do except prep equipment and wait for better weather.

The divers remained in their pressurized habitats so as to be able to start work again as quickly as possible. They knew the
Regalia
had only been rented for a set number of days and that time lost to inclement weather hurt the operation.

Discovery of the first bodies and the note indicating survivors had gathered in Compartment 9 made the Navy revise previous plans. They would continue efforts to cut into Compartment 7. At the same time, Russians, with longer umbilical lines, would take the previously explored route through Compartment 8 deep into the ninth. They would be supported by running a suction hose into the compartment from a dredge barge on the surface. It was hoped that drawing out the muddy water and replacing it with clear seawater would improve visibility.

At 0400 hours on the morning of October 28, the divers went down again. The Russian team entered the watery hell of the ninth compartment. Visibility was only slightly improved. Much of the searching had to be done by moving arms and hands before them as they advanced. Hampered by their long umbilicals, they began a painstaking exploration of the area. If Dmitry’s note was correct, many more bodies were waiting to be found in this section.

In a terrifying world not envisioned by Dante or Edgar Allan Poe, the Russians worked out a search system. Handicapped by debris unseen until they collided with it, they sought and found corpse after corpse. The grisly work went on, day in and day out, until an end was called at 1100 hours on October 31. Further searching had become too dangerous for the men to continue. Eight bodies had been recovered. They knew more were there, but conditions were so deplorable that a thorough search was ruled impossible.

20–30 October 2000—Mainland

While the divers continued operations in the
Kursk
, stories of the families of the deceased submariners began to appear in the news.

It was estimated that the average
Kursk
family would receive a little less than $40,000, which exchanged into just over 1,100,000 rubles. That’s enough money in Russia, where monthly salaries can be 500 rubles, to be considered well off, if not rich. In 1999, an average salary was 1700 rubles ($60) per month. Contributions to funds set up for
Kursk
relatives totaled $4.2 million (118 million rubles). For 118 families that would be a million rubles (about $36,000) each and this was only October.

One mother, from a collective farm in the Ural Mountains, returned home to find her job had been taken. People thought she wouldn’t want to work now that she was wealthy. The woman managed to regain her position, but when payday came, she received nothing. They thought she no longer needed to be paid. Her 14-year-old-daughter also had a hard time. Her classmates objected to the new clothes her mother purchased for her.

Her dead son’s father had arrived while she was still at the Vidyaevo naval base. He’d been hiding from her for over ten years to avoid making child support payments and now demanded 25 percent of her compensation. Then she began receiving letters from people with her same last name, claiming to be relatives and asking for money.

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.