Their fears were unfounded, and Commodore Mike McLaughlin of the San Diego Submarine Squadron immediately agreed. Riches breathed a sigh of relief. The UK team had cheered in the aircraft when they had heard they would land ahead of the US team, but that competitive spirit had now evaporated. They knew very well from exercises that cooperation was the key element in submarine rescue, but real-life operations could sometimes play out differently. Now it was clear to Riches that this was not a race between the various submarine rescue services, but a race against time. And, so far, it was time that had the edge.
Fifteen minutes later, a low rumbling grew from the darkness in the direction of the terminal buildings. The noise got louder and louder, until finally the American K-loader appeared with a forklift trundling along by its side.
Just forty minutes later, all the UK equipment had been rolled out of the back of the C17, on to the K-loader and then loaded on to the waiting flatbed trucks with the Russian crane. While some of the trucks had the standard twistlocks to secure shipping containers at their corners, most of the gear had to be lashed down with ropes and chains.
Riches stared in disbelief when he saw a couple of police cars pull up. The last thing they needed was another level of authority to hold them up now that they were finally ready to get the equipment down to the docks. But he was mistaken: this was their escort. As soon as two of the team had hopped into one of the truck’s cabs, the whole convoy began to roll.
Gold was watching the convoy as it disappeared into the distance, looking unhappy. Not for the first time, Riches wondered if Gold’s partner at home ever felt jealous of his devotion to that machine. Little did he know then just how prescient Gold’s concern would turn out to be.
It wasn’t long before a drab, military grey minibus arrived to pick up the rest of the team as well. Finally things were moving, Riches thought. But once he’d slammed the door the driver set off in the wrong direction. They weren’t headed for the gate at all, but back towards the terminal. The driver explained – through the translator – that they had to go and pick up the American team, who had just been given permission to go and inspect their vessel. Riches shook his head in the darkness. Surely the Russians could have allocated more vehicles for an incident that had evidently become a national concern?
It was close to midnight when they finally escaped Elizovo airport. The night was pitch black as they made their way out of the gate and down the wide, smashed roads. The minibus’s suspension was shot, giving the passengers a precise feeling for the state of the road surface beneath them. In contrast, the heating worked extremely well. Within minutes they wished it didn’t, as it was stuck on full blast and everyone was slowly roasting.
The streets of Petropavlovsk were dimly lit by irregular streetlights that caught looming shapes of concrete buildings, sections of huge pipework and occasional wisps of escaping steam. Cavernous potholes forced the bus to a near standstill at traffic lights. No one was on the streets, and there was hardly a car in sight. There was silence in the bus as everyone peered into the darkness, all lost in their own thoughts. It had begun to rain again.
At the edge of town the bus slowed, and turned on to a dirt track. As it headed into absolute blackness the atmosphere on the bus changed. This couldn’t be the main road to a military port, Riches thought. The Russian officers on board – one of whom had delighted in revealing that he worked in Intelligence – were talking between themselves in low voices, and even the interpreters were starting to look uncomfortable. The thought crossed Riches’ mind that they were being taken to a dark corner of the city to be despatched, as if they were in some John le Carré spy story.
Then a glow appeared ahead, against it the silhouettes of defunct looking cranes and crumbling storage facilities. Soon they could make out the side of a rusting ship lit by yellowing spotlights. An officer announced that this was the Georgy Kozmin, AS-28’s mothership, that had returned from the site in order to host the American rescue team. Only her stern was tied against the dock; her bow was held out in the bay by two anchors. It was a strange way to be moored as it made loading difficult. It was common in crowded Mediterranean marinas, but there was no other ship close to the Kozmin. Then again the dock didn’t look like anything Riches had ever seen before: it was more muddy field than concrete jetty. The Americans were in for a tough time, he thought. Just getting the vehicles down here with all their equipment was going to be bad enough; transferring it on board was going to be a nightmare.
There was no time to commiserate. The US advance party was dropped off and the bus turned straight around, threading its way back up the dirt track to the main road and then onwards to the port. Finally it pulled up to the gate, rain streaming down in front of the floodlights and rattling the roof. The tension in Riches’ chest released a fraction when he saw the entrance. They’d arrived. Finally they were going to be able to do what they’d come all this way to do.
Then the guard stepped from his hut. His body language was wrong. Kalashnikov at the ready, he marched up to the window and began barking questions at the driver. The Russian officers stepped out into the rain and began explaining who the party were, but the guard was having none of it. Riches had been told of Captain Holloway’s delay at the gate, but assumed that now everything had been explained their admission would be a short formality. At last the guard agreed to call his superior and after ten long minutes another official approached the inside of the gate, hunched against the rain. He demanded all of the team’s passports, then disappeared.
More minutes rolled by. Riches asked the Russian translators what was going on, but they shrugged their shoulders. He asked them to find out, but they shrugged again. He called Captain Holloway, but got no answer. Then he got out of the bus and hailed through the fence to the guard.
‘Hello! We are here at the request of the Ministry of Defence, on an urgent mission. You have to let us in!’ he called.
The guard ignored him.
‘Guard! Time is running out! Come here and explain the delay!’ Riches shouted, hardly able to control the frustration in his voice. He was standing in the drenching rain, yelling and waving his arms, but the guard would not even look his way.
Riches climbed back in the bus, slammed the door and swore. He took a deep breath. This delay was not a major problem, he told himself. Holloway and the others were already inside and they’d be let in eventually. It didn’t help. Maybe he was still tired from the flight, but black thoughts were returning. If they’d had this much trouble just getting to the ship, what was waiting for them when they headed out to sea?
Saturday, 6 August
SS + 54 h 35 mins
Captain Lepetyukha’s one good lung was labouring hard from the increased carbon dioxide level, and the cold had now penetrated into his body’s core. He was trying to focus on keeping the crew under control, but it took him minutes on end to recover after speaking even a short sentence. He could see the others struggling too, and having to rest after every movement.