Friday, 5 August
SS + 29 h
Through the persistent, bone-aching cold the crew of AS-28 were now beginning to feel the effects of the foul air, their heads throbbing from the combination of oxygen deprivation and carbon dioxide build-up. Captain Lepetyukha was holding out as long as possible before opening each new V-64 cartridge, all too aware of the limits of his supply.
The canisters – each the size of a five-litre tin of paint – contained soda lime to absorb carbon dioxide and potassium superoxide to generate oxygen. Once opened, they were usually placed in a metal unit on the wall that contained a fan to circulate the air. But they couldn’t risk using up power to run the fan, so the V-64 canister currently open was perched precariously above the main motor. To try and coax more life-giving gas from the canisters, Bolonin had suggested that the crew sprinkle a little of their precious water on to the chemicals. He knew from experience that the water would begin a chemical reaction that could coax an extra hour or two from each can.
It was a risky move: such chemicals are notoriously volatile. Add too much water and the potassium superoxide would explode. Two years later, in 2007, contamination of oxygen-generating substances was the chief suspect in a blast on board the Royal Navy submarine HMS Tireless en route back from the North Pole.
The challenges of operating beneath the ice had created problems for Tireless. Normally a Low Pressure Electrolyser on board uses high voltages to strip breathing oxygen from seawater, discharging the unwanted hydrogen gas back to the ocean. But Arctic water can drop to temperatures of minus two or three degrees Celsius, and is prevented from freezing only by the salt it contains. At certain depths, the hydrogen vents were prone to freezing. It was a known issue with operating beneath the ice, and for the last 11 days beneath the ice the submarine had been using Self-Contained Oxygen Generators (SCOGs) – or oxygen candles – instead.
The SCOGs on Tireless used sodium chlorate instead of potassium superoxide, with a .410 shotgun cartridge to ignite them. Two crewmen were in the Forward Escape Compartment towards the bow of the submarine activating a new SCOG. One of them inserted an ignition cartridge and triggered it with a tap, but unbeknown to him some hydraulic oil or grease had apparently leaked into the canister.
The ignition began with the usual hiss as the iron filings and barium peroxide began to burn, creating the heat that would transform the sodium chlorate into common salt (sodium chloride) and oxygen. But the contaminant changed the chemistry of the reaction – investigations into exactly how have been inconclusive – and the slow burn became uncontrollably fast. Seconds later, a loud blast was felt through the whole submarine.
Both men who had been replacing the SCOGs were killed. A third crewman was badly injured and was only saved by the skill of his crewmates and rescuers. The captain managed to locate an opening in the ice pack above, while a helicopter from an Alaskan US Navy base made a daring moonlit flight to rendezvous with the submarine and pick up the wounded man.
Every half an hour the men on AS-28 would take readings of the atmosphere inside the submersible and relay them to the crews above. The crew were having to rely on manual measurements rather than the usual electronic ones to conserve their battery power. The old batteries were bad enough when operating at normal temperatures; Lepetyukha was not sure how well they were going to last so close to freezing.
Every now and then their status reports to the surface would be answered with medical advice from the specialists aboard the Kozmin, even though Lepetyukha already knew what to do: keep still, keep warm, and don’t panic.
There was little talking. Lepetyukha had ordered as much. Speaking used energy, and energy meant breathing more air. As Roger Chapman wrote of his time trapped on the seabed in Pisces III, ‘Every un-needed word spoken would mean so many fewer seconds for the rescue, while every wasted movement might cut off minutes. Even thoughts and worries could steal survival time.’
Gennady Bolonin looked around at the gloomy Naval men. They were so young. He was already 60 years old, and most of his friends were dying anyway. But these sailors were at the very start of their lives. He looked over at Milachevsky’s 25-year-old face. Bolonin could only imagine the storm of emotions going on inside the pilot as he faced the growing possibility that he’d never see his two daughters again. Bolonin determined to do all in his power to prevent that from coming true.
But trapped down here, there wasn’t much that he could do. His efforts to calm their fears by reminding them about the ROVs had been scuppered when the Venom from Georgy Kozmin had disappeared so suddenly. Someone had then reminded him that another of the robots bought after the Kursk had disappeared while investigating the loss of the submarine K-159.
The whole K-159 saga was too depressing. The submarine had been decommissioned in 1989 and was one of almost 200 sitting rusting in Naval dockyards. When a coalition of foreign nations decided to encourage the Russian government to begin defuelling the nuclear reactors, storing the radioactive core and dismantling the rest of the submarine with a fund of £130m in the summer of 2003, there was a rush to take action. The rusting remains of K-159 were prepared to be taken from the Naval base in Gremikha 200 miles up the coast to Polyarny, a closed Naval town on the northern coast of the Kola Peninsula where the scrapping was to take place. Rather than putting her on a transport ship, the Navy had simply lashed her between four ageing pontoons for the journey. But even when K-159 had been in service she had a reputation as an unseaworthy vessel, and after over a decade of sitting abandoned her hull had corroded to the extent that some areas were reported to be as thin as foil.
The ten men put aboard to monitor the boat as it was towed had a last picture taken of them smiling on the dockside and then set off, a Russian flag flying from the submarine’s fin.
Early in the morning on 30 August, K-159 sank. Although there was no bad weather reported in the area, the authorities later blamed it on a storm that snapped the tow rope and detached one of the pontoons. Whatever the truth, K-159 went down so fast that only three men managed to get out, two of whom died of exposure on the surface. The other seven remained trapped inside at 238 metres, still with three quarters of a tonne of nuclear waste on board.
By the time rescuers arrived, there were no signs of life. The fancy new Venom robot was only deployed later during the investigation, but its fate didn’t inspire confidence. The pilot had managed to suck the Russian flag that still hung from the fin into one of the thrusters, and in the end the brand-new machine had been lost.
Bolonin’s drooping eyes were drawn to a movement at the edge of the huddle of damp, freezing bodies. Sergei Belozerov was starting to stir. His hand reached into his top pocket and fumbled in slow motion with numb fingers until he produced a cigarette. All the men were looking by this time, their blank stares now with a flicker of interest. They watched Belozerov as he stared longingly at the half-crushed, drooping grey stick. Each and every one of them would have traded a cigarette for almost anything in the world at that moment. A match would have lit, just. But a cigarette would have burnt through their valuable remaining oxygen, reducing their life expectancy far faster than even the most pessimistic of the service doctors warned. Belozerov didn’t need to light it. He drew the cigarette beneath his nostrils with a long, passionate inhale, his eyes closed in rapture. Weak smiles broke out all round, and the wilting cigarette was passed from one man to the other without a word.