Kursk Down (23 page)
1 November 2000–31 March 2001—Russian Federation
A
LTHOUGH 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 military 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.
What really did sink the
Kursk
?
Will we ever know?
The answer to both questions is yes.
The real cause of the
Kursk
disaster is clear.
THE LESSON
A single word defines the force that actually sank the
Kursk
.
That word is “attitude.”
As history has proven, it is far easier to strive to regain old glories than accept new realities. In brief, that’s the story of Russian military management since the fall of the Soviet Union.
Under the old regime, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics attained a position of world power based solely upon its military might.
Behind that warrior shield, which was often made from smoke and mirrors, there was no infrastructure to support the nation’s claim to greatness.
The Russian road system was abominable. Other means of transportation were inadequate. The agricultural capabilities were consistently unable to sustain the population. Russian manufacturing potential was far beneath the people’s needs. Health-care facilities were marginal. Housing was substandard as well as crowded. Sanitation facilities were stressed to the maximum. And Russian educational efforts had become sorely limited.
Human rights were dismissed, and each individual became, in too real a sense, a ward of the state. So the family unit was placed in a secondary role and religion was relegated to the status of a barely tolerated anachronism.
These were the inadequacies in their major cities and most heavily populated areas. The situation was worse out in the boondocks.
To sustain world power, the leadership of the USSR played upon the fear of being invaded, utilized nationalism as a force to unify a diverse people as well as instill a distrust for foreigners, and hid the lifestyle deficiencies created by applying as much of the national productivity as possible to maintaining its military might.
Under Soviet control, the once proud scientific community was instructed to direct its internationally renowned capabilities to military purposes.
All art forms—in essence the nation’s total creative effort—came under the watchful eye of government approval. It was also harnessed to pull the cart of nationalism.
And to ensure a positive image for the government among the people, continue support of military excesses, and sustain fear of foreign aggression, news sources were tightly controlled.
In short, the USSR was a nation in which the total possible output, aside from the barest essential needs of the populace, was devoted to maintaining a position of world importance through military strength. With this intense focus on arms and armaments, it was no wonder the highest echelon of military leaders gained and nurtured a degree of selfimportance along with an attitude of arrogant superiority.