Popov and Ivanov, two of the younger Warrant Officers, had begun vomiting, a sign of oxygen deprivation. Lepetyukha was stretching the endurance of the V-64 canisters too far. He relented, and ordered a new one to be opened.
Everybody was drowsy, numbed with cold and crazed with thirst, but order had to be maintained. Lepetyukha commanded Milachevsky to keep making the hourly report. All through that long night he sent them, telling the world above that pressure on board AS-28 was normal, and the temperature stable at 4°C in the front compartment, 8°C in the aft.
In tough times Russian men often resort to a rousing song to keep up their morale, but Lepetyukha had banned all singing in the interests of conserving air. Not that anyone in the cramped, drip ping compartment would have the energy.
Sergei Belozerov, the 34-year-old electromechanic, was still working to keep the spirits of his fellow sailors from sinking too far. Whenever his watch showed it was time for breakfast, lunch or dinner aboard the mothership, Belozerov hauled him self up from the huddle and passed out the crackers with great ceremony.
The dry fragments of cracker stayed sharp on their tongues for what seemed like hours afterwards. Worried by the tiny reserve of water remaining, Bolonin had cut their water ration to only two mouthfuls of water each per day. Lifting the mug took such an effort that they needed to rest for 15 minutes afterwards, but the sailors looked up gratefully at Bolonin as he passed it around.
With Captain Lepetyukha all but incapacitated on the floor, the experienced submariner and civilian engineer had become the one to whom they were all looking for guidance and hope. Although respectful, they could be more familiar with him than with their captain. As Milachevsky relinquished the water mug, he looked up at Gennady Vasiliyevich Bolonin and with a grim smile said, ‘Well, Vasiliyevich, you have not quite made it to your sixtieth birthday.’
Bolonin nodded. ‘Perhaps. But you will make it to yours. I know this British system of rescue very well. You will see,’ he said with as much confidence in his voice as he could muster. He did know all about the international rescue community, and knew that with their involvement their chances of escape were indeed growing. But he also knew how much still stood between them and the fresh, warm air above.
Saturday, 6 August
SS + 54 h 45 mins
The naval architect Marcus Cave had grave reservations about the strength of the roofing where they needed to weld the 6-tonne Effer crane. Not only was the upper surface rusting away, but so too were the supports beneath it. That didn’t bode well for the steel in between. Like everyone on the team, he was suffering waking nightmares of his being the weakest link that spelled the end for the Russian submariners. Given the condition of the deck he could just see it – an 11 hour flight, a traumatic offload, the hard work of installing everything while time was racing by, the sprint out to the accident site and then, as Scorpio was lifted over the side, the sickening scream of tearing metal as the crane – and operator Charlie Sillet – disappeared over the side.
‘This deck won’t hold,’ Cave said to Captain Holloway. ‘We’re going to have to strengthen it before installing the crane. Can you ask these guys where the welders we requested are?’
Holloway nodded. He’d asked for three or four welders to be at the ship to meet them in order to speed up their mobilisation, but so far had seen no sign of them. He approached the Ship’s Master, but a huge black dog suddenly appeared on the flying bridge above him, snarling and barking. He tried to ignore it and began talking, but almost immediately another wolf-like animal appeared behind the Master, also barking fiercely. Finally he raised his voice, and explained to the master that the deck needed strengthening to take the crane.
The Master laughed, and after the din had been calmed somewhat, relayed Holloway’s words to his Deck Officer with a smile. The man shook his head, and delivered his reply with upturned palms and a shrug.
Holloway frowned, and turned back to Cave. ‘He says not to worry. Apparently they carried much bigger, heavier equipment than our crane on that bit of deck just last week.’
Cave nodded. Considering the state of the ship that just made his fears worse. ‘We’re going to have to strengthen it anyway,’ he said. ‘We need those welders. I’m going to go and find some suitable steel.’
Holloway turned back to the Master and tried to explain what they needed in order to start work, but suddenly realised he had not got a clue how to say ‘welder’ in Russian. His language training had been tailored to the demands of high diplomacy and cogs of bureaucracy, not to dockyard operations. On deck in his Royal Naval uniform, he began as dignified a mime of a welder as he could muster.
Thankfully it didn’t take long to get the message across, and a bearded Russian soon appeared from a deck store with a weathered looking oxy-acetylene torch. ‘Da,’ said Holloway, and added that they needed four such sets.
The Master shook his head. State regulations only permitted one welder to be working at any one time, he explained. Holloway took a deep breath. He should be used to this by now, but somehow he’d hoped it would be different in an urgent rescue situation. Protocol in Russia was a powerful force indeed. Holloway insisted and eventually the Master pulled out his mobile phone and called the port authorities, but it was soon clear how the conversation was going. The port was run by civilians who were remote from the Navy’s problems. They felt no urgency to break the law. Holloway’s attempts at eroding their stance came to nothing, and they were left with just one welder to strengthen the deck and secure their equipment.
Once Pete Nuttall had finished pacing out deck areas to plan the placement of the various pieces of equipment that were now on their way, he joined Cave in the half lit darkness on the pierside, and together they began picking their way through the scrap that lay around in the weeds, looking for suitable pieces of steel to use as reinforcement.
Saturday, 6 August
SS + 55 h
Nothing was shifting at the security checkpoint. The rain still beat down. The guard was still in his hut, the door closed. Only the minute hand on Riches’ watch was moving, steadily creeping around the face. The frustration was making his skin crawl.
After 30 long minutes, the official reappeared on the other side of the gate. The guard spoke with him for a second, then walked over and handed over the passports without a word. The gate swung open and the bus was waved through. Later it transpired that when a new shift had come on duty they had not been told anything about a foreign military team arriving in the dead of night. Riches suddenly felt a little guilty about his outburst at the gate. In the guard’s position he’d have been just as suspicious.
The bus followed the road onwards into the port, winding round jagged piles of discarded marker buoys, rusting anchors, chains and old boats. Finally it turned a corner and the jetty appeared. Cranes were offloading Scorpio and the rest of the equipment from the lorries. Riches glanced up at the ship that was moored up alongside. Holloway had warned that the Sura-class buoy tender KIL-27 was a little rough, but Riches hadn’t been expecting quite such agricultural technology. She looked as though she’d been abandoned for months, even years.