Forty years on, the matter was still causing confusion. When saturation divers had at last been allowed to approach the silent hull of the Kursk, they’d been directed to open the hatch anticlockwise by the advisors from the Russian Navy, but it was apparently jammed. The divers were prevented from trying to open it clockwise by the Russian Naval officers in the room, who feared damaging the thread as had happened on S-80. Only when the Russians were out of the control room did the supervisors tell the divers to try turning it in the other direction, and found it opened freely.
The crew of AS-28 had managed to make themselves understood, however, and the frantic efforts of the surface crew to open the hatch with a hammer were prevented. The wheel began to turn in the opposite direction and, after a few seconds, the hatch at last swung open.
Tatiana could see hands, a head. It was too far away for her to make out if it was her husband, even when squinting and shielding her eyes from the sun. The sailor slowly clambered on to the deck where he immediately stooped to light a cigarette. Another head appeared, and the sailor emerged and lit up. Finally she saw a uniform she thought she recognised. She wasn’t sure until she saw the way the figure lit his cigarette. Then she knew for sure. Her husband was alive.
Sunday, 7 August
SS + 72 hours
Yelena Milachevskaya was at her sister’s house when the call came from headquarters with the good news. ‘My feelings were dancing,’ she later said. She ran out to the market to buy a bottle of wine, shouting to everyone she encountered that all the men had been saved. Everyone cheered, buoying Yelena’s mood still further.
Back at the house, Guzel Latypova was still there, playing with the twins. She too was swept up in the tide of emotion. Just as the news broke, the sun emerged over Zavoyko, casting a rare golden light over the district. Tapping out her latest update to Interfax, she found herself unable to stick to the pithy facts required for the datafeed as she described a bright and cheerful sunbeam that had burst over the scene.
When Yelena Milachevskaya whirled back into the house they drank the wine together in celebration, but even after the last drops had been finished, Yelena said didn’t feel like she’d drunk a thing.
Sunday, 7 August
SS + 72 hours
On board KIL-27 the news that all the sailors were alive sparked another surge of elation to cascade through the ships, spread via hugs and back slaps. Even Dmitriy’s immediate superior, who until now had remained on the bridge of KIL-27 along with the ship’s Master, came down to thank the rescue crew.
Amid the chaos of celebration, the Scorpio team were still at work. As Gold emerged from the control cabin on to the deck. Riches shook his hand in a brief moment of congratulation. Gold was smiling, but still intent and focused. Scorpio was still in the water, and he wouldn’t relax until his machine was safely back on deck. At last the umbilical winch began to slow and a yellow shimmer appeared in the water off the port beam, and a cheer went up as it broke surface. Gold guided Nuttall to position the robot beneath the catcher unit, which clicked into place, securing it to the crane. Marcus Cave took position beneath the half-deck supporting the crane to make sure their operation did not end with Scorpio, the crane and Charlie Sillet being dragged down to the seabed from where they’d just recovered AS-28.
As Scorpio began to lift out of the water, Gold gave his last command to Nuttall over the radio. ‘OK, shut her down, Pete,’ he said. Brimful of pride, he watched his robot emerge, seawater sluicing down through the machine’s convoluted innards. They’d done it. Dozens of pairs of hands reached out to Scorpio’s dripping frame to steady its return to the deck, like fans receiving a stage-diving rock star. They guided Scorpio down, and finally it was resting back on the rusting deck. Its job was done.
Nuttall pulled out a bottle of ten-year-old malt whisky that had been left hidden away in the control cabin after the last mine-recovery exercise. He said he’d never been so glad to see a bottle of the old Arran single malt, as he poured a generous measure into each of their coffee-stained mugs and handed them out. ‘Good job, boys,’ he said as they all raised their mugs.
Gold separated himself from the mob and walked over to where Scorpio sat, puddles of seawater still on the deck around it. He put a hand on its frame, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on Scorpio’s still-salty yellow floatation blocks.
He later called his partner Susan on the satellite phone. When he heard her pick up he said hello, but at the sound of her voice he suddenly choked up. He couldn’t speak. All the tension of the last 72 hours, kept tightly under control and focused on getting the job done, suddenly came bubbling up. Hearing nothing but silence, she assumed something was wrong and that the mission had failed. At last he managed to speak, and told her that they’d pulled it off, and that the Russian sailors were safe.
ISMERLO was being flooded by well-wishing congratulatory messages from the submarine rescue community around the world. Among them was a message from Roger Chapman:
03:40:37Z Fantastic news. Well done to all nations, Russia, US and UK and all members of the s/m rescue community for this joint effort. Congratulations Ian, Stuart and the Scorpio 45 team and supporting personnel from James Fisher Defence and for all the support we received from the US on mobilisation. Best wishes from the LR5 team to the Scorpio Boys. We hope the crew of Priz are safe and well with no ill effects.
Chapman’s own ordeal back in 1972 had lasted 84-and-a-half hours. For him the clutching cold, the rancid smells and the killer headache were only too clear a memory. At the moment of his own rescue, when the submersible Pisces had finally begun to be lifted to the surface, he recalled that his mind had been so addled by the carbon dioxide that he’d been irritated at the disturbance.
As the team were securing Scorpio and her systems for the voyage back to Petropavlovsk, Podkapayev arrived and asked them to join him in the officers’ mess. They agreed to join him once they’d finished the lashings – they didn’t want to lose any of their equipment now, especially with Riches’ favourite customs officer doubtless waiting for them at Elizovo airport, checklist in hand.
Up in the officers’ mess the Ship’s Master had pulled out all the stops. A huge spread of cheese, meat and pickles had been arrayed across the wardroom table, along with five or six different brands of vodka, evidently rounded up from various crewmen’s cabins. The remains of Nuttall’s single-malt whisky were added to the lineup. With the entire British team, the Americans and the Russian escorts and translators and some of KIL-27’s officers crammed into the small space, the waiting shot glasses were filled with vodka and handed around. When everybody had one, the Master raised his vodka and gave a long, rambling toast, looking each of the UK team in the eye as he did so. Holloway translated his words; they were a formal tribute to the professionalism of the British team.