Kursk Down (2 page)

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 floor 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.

Then the lights went out. With no warning, they were encapsulated in a stygian darkness. Every sense would have been canceled, leaving those still capable of feelings scared, disoriented, and panting for breath.

CHAPTER 1

10 August 2000—0600 Hours (Two Days Earlier)K-141 Staff MeetingVidyaevo, Russian Federation

C
APTAIN
1
ST
R
ANK
G
ENNADI
P. L
YACHIN WAS AN EXCEP
tional officer. Respected for his consistently outstanding performance, he was precise, efficient, and decisive. He came from the region of Volgograd, an area dominated by the Volga River. And at the age of 45, he was recognized as one of the finest submarine commanders in the Russian Navy.

Before departing on any mission, a preembarkation conference with the boat’s officers was a mandatory ritual. The gathering he held before leaving port for the Northern Fleet maneuvers must have been particularly tense. The
Kursk
had a reputation as the best submarine in the fleet. And Captain Lyachin was not known for his patience with those who shirked any facet of their jobs.

Dmitry Kolesnikov’s report had to have been typical. As leader of the seventh compartment, it was his responsibility to describe any deficiencies or irregularities with the turbines. There were no problems. All was in readiness for the inspection and coming sea duty.

Lyachin had held this command for about a year and learned a great deal about the personal lives of his officers and crew. So he knew Dmitry had true potential and was a career man. He was the son of a submariner and his brother had also become a naval officer. He came from solid stock and had been trained at Dzherzhinsky Naval College in St. Petersburg, an exceptional school. Dmitry had the necessary dedication. One day he would make an excellent commander. Lyachin had accepted Dmitry’s report. They were facing a major seaworthiness inspection in a few hours. It would have been unthinkable for Dmitry’s section not to be fully prepared.

Captain Lyachin must have sensed the nervous excitement of his men. Having to make a formal statement of preparedness to him, in front of fellow officers, strengthened the bond between them. Navy men of this caliber would do anything in their power not to let down their comrades. The
Kursk
would be declared ready for navigation, diving, and deep-sea operations.

In his final hours on shore, Lyachin’s spirits had to have been high. He was the most fortunate of men. He was allowed to command the best submarine in the entire Russian Navy, possibly the finest sub in the world. And he was about to demonstrate the quality of his boat, along with the efficiency of his crew. They were to play a major role in the largest northern sea maneuvers in more than a decade.

Over 30 ships and subs, as well as many aircraft, were participating. They would hold mock attacks, fire missiles and torpedoes, and use their latest equipment. To Lyachin, the most important benefit was that his men would get valuable time at sea to further refine their skills. They needed sea duty, but funds were simply not available. At least someone at Fleet HQ had the good sense to recognize that submariners required time underwater to keep their abilities sharp. So his people got more hours offshore than most—not enough, but all the limited budget could afford. Anyway, just participating in this massive exercise was an honor. And winning the top prize could have a positive effect on coming promotions.

The Northern Fleet’s sea trials had another huge benefit. The maneuvers would better prepare his crew for their next combat tour of the Mediterranean. Demonstrating Russian naval strength to other nations, both favorable and unfavorable to the new Federation, helped maintain prestige throughout the world. If financing was available, he would favor a year-long showing of the fleet and flag.

Always cautious, Lyachin must have had several concerns before departing. One dealt with the torpedoes. They might be requested to fire one of the damn liquid-propelled fish. If so, he wanted to make certain Senior Lieutenant Aleksey Ivanov-Pavlov, the torpedo officer, understood that special care must be taken. A careful watch had to be posted on those liquid-fueled torpedoes. Such an action probably wasn’t necessary, but it was certainly prudent.

The only good in using an unstable liquid propellant was financial. The kerosene/hydrogen peroxide mixture was not as safe as either the solid-propellant weapons or those driven by an electric motor. The Navy high command had argued against using the liquid-fueled models and lost. It must have been hard for Lyachin to justify adding any degree of danger to his boat just because the torpedoes were cheaper than those they were to replace.

It was always the money. Everyone knew the oligarchs had stolen the nation blind. And most funding allocated for military uses went to the Army, to support its futile operations in Chechnya. As usual, the Navy was forced to make do with the leftovers.

Once on board the
Kursk
, Lyachin was in his element. The men he passed would have snapped to attention until he waved them back to their duties. The crew had become accustomed to seeing him in every part of the boat. His unanticipated presence kept them sharp.

The
Kursk
had been commissioned in 1995 and assigned to the 7th SSGN Division of the 1st Submarine Flotilla of the Northern Fleet. Despite six years of hard service, constant maintenance had erased most signs of wear. A polished plaque was fastened to a bulkhead midway along the main corridor. The inscription dedicated the submarine to the city of Kursk. Seven of the crew were from there and formed a tight little group. They kept their plaque shined, too. That sort of camaraderie, built on pride and common loyalty, was one more force that kept the men enthusiastic.

The people of Kursk found a nationalistic spirit in having
K-141
named after their city. They donated welcome amounts of money for the boat’s upkeep, items of food, and prayers for their safety. Young men of that region considered it an honor to serve aboard her. Many applied for that duty to meet their mandatory military service requirement. And they did this even though the tour on a submarine was for a minimum of three years as opposed to the normal two-year conscription period.

The submarine so many admired had been laid out by the renowned Igor Spassky and principal designer I. L. Baranov with Rubin Central Design Bureau. The NATO designation for this class of boat was “Oscar II.” To a Russian officer, she was of the “Antey” class. Called by any name,
K-141
was one of the deadliest attack submarines in existence.

The
Kursk
was powered by two nuclear reactors that allowed the massive boat to hide in the deep for long periods of time. The pair of giant, seven-bladed screws at the stern assured rapid acceleration in an emergency. And in case of a problem, she could operate on one reactor or the auxiliary diesel engine she carried.

Hours later, after a full day of brass and inspections, Lyachin probably took refuge in one of his favorite places on the boat. The lookout station, housed inside the tall sail, was a good place to be alone. The space featured square portholes that could be dogged closed for weather protection when surfaced.

The view from so high above the deck had to have been stunning. In early evening the light was still bright at such a high latitude. Summer was one of the few benefits of being stationed at Zapadnaya Litsa on the Kola Peninsula. There were several naval towns and Northern Fleet bases in the area, including Vidyaevo, where Lyachin lived with his wife. All the settlements were little more than rural hamlets. If a person wanted culture, it was necessary to go to Murmansk, not so far away.

From the lookout, the hills and trees, which for much of the year were covered with snow, formed a landscape of brown and green. The port’s huge cranes, no longer in working order, stood like immense rusting scarecrows against the blue sky. Below, along the piers, gray concrete stretched for miles, defining slips for boats of the flotilla. The subs were kept widely separated for safety considerations.

Activity along the wharves would have been intense, with the unmuffled roar of diesel truck engines loud enough to make conversation difficult. Sea smells of aged iodine and salt that blended with the sulfurous reek of bunker oil permeated the submarine.