Having become a media figurehead for the sailors’ families during the drama, Yelena was repeatedly asked for her reactions to the safe return of her husband. She was effusive in her praise for his rescuers, saying if she had a chance to meet them that she’d kiss them and carry them in her arms for the rest of her life if need be.
Such sentiments would do nothing to cheer up Slava. He was fiercely patriotic to the point of racism, according to his wife. He had respect only for Russians. Now not only had the craft that he’d been piloting become trapped – something he would surely be blamed for and which would for ever be a stain on his career record – but he’d had to suffer the ignominy of being rescued by foreigners.
Monday, 8 August 2005
Sunday evening, Kamchatka
When the Georgy Kozmin had eventually returned to the Petropavlovsk docks after its aborted mission to reach the action, Kent Van Horn put in a request with the Russian Liaison Officer to organise a hotel or some other accommodation for his men before they began the tortuous two-stage offload process. He didn’t want them making mistakes through their tiredness, and the urgency was now over. The Liaison Officer checked, then came back with the order that all American equipment had to be offloaded from the ship immediately, as soon as they docked. Kozmin needed to get underway again as fast as possible, he was told.
Van Horn was taken aback, but tried to remain professional. If they needed the ship, they needed the ship. He decided to compromise. His men would help offload Kozmin, but the equipment would stay on the dockside while they went and got some sleep. He would still be needing a hotel to put them up. It didn’t need to be fancy. It could even be some barracks, he didn’t care. Just some racks to rest his men.
The Russian officers didn’t seem to like the idea. They conferred, and decided that Kozmin didn’t need to leave quite so urgently after all. Once the equipment was loaded on to the dockside, the men were all found bunks on board the vessel.
Monday, 8 August 2005
02.05 Kamchatka
Just past two in the morning, KIL-27 pulled up at the quay with a little more grace and a little less damage than she’d inflicted when departing some 23 hours earlier. Journalists had started calling Riches as soon as the ship was back within range of the mobile phone network, and soon he was slipping into easily repeated phrases describing how the rescue had been accomplished. Only when he eventually spoke properly to his wife Aileen did it sink in quite what a roller-coaster it had been. It hardly seemed possible that just three days ago he was looking forward to a quiet weekend at home.
A Russian television crew were waiting on the dockside when they arrived. After they’d done an interview, Gold, Nuttall, Holloway and Riches were taken to one hotel, the rest of the team to another. Although exhausted, Holloway and Riches headed straight to the bar.
When Gold got into his hotel room, the first thing he did was call his son’s mobile number. Allan knew Scorpio well – he’d worked on the mine recoveries sometimes, and would know immediately the significance of what they’d achieved.
The ringtone ended and was replaced with a blast of noise. Gold winced and held the phone away from his ear.
‘What’s all the din? Where are you?’ Gold yelled into the phone.
‘In the pub, Dad. Riley’s in Haymarket. How did you do?’ said Allan.
‘No, first things first. You tell me. What was the score?’
‘We beat ’em! 4-1!’ came the reply. A big grin spread across Gold’s face. His team had won. Hearts had beaten the Hibernian football club, their main rivals in Edinburgh. Now this really was turning into the perfect weekend.
Monday, 8 August 2005
09.00 Kamchatka
As the rest of the UK’s response team caught their first sleep since their catnaps on the outward flight and began a round of official thanksgiving ceremonies, Squadron Leader Hewitt at the airbase noticed that the Americans had already packed up much of their kit. Because they’d been forced to take all their equipment off their ship the previous night, they were a step ahead of the UK’s team. That could be problematic, he realised. If the Americans left with their K-loader before the UK team had a chance to pack, he might end up getting stuck in Kamchatka. He immediately sent word to MOD Northwood, warning them that if the Americans took off before he’d loaded his C17, the aircraft could be here when the winter darkness and ice closed in.
Not that the thought of being stuck in Petropavolvsk for the winter felt as terrible as it would have only 24 hours ago. They were heroes now, after all. Hewitt had been out at a restaurant in Petropavlovsk as a guest of a Russian Lieutenant-Commander from the airbase – an ex-submarine man himself – when news of the Scorpio team’s early successes began to come in. Hewitt had felt the full brunt of the Russian emotion over the story. The place had been transfixed by the television reports, transmitted from the scene by the state news channel. And when the presenter had announced the first cables had been cut, the place had erupted into a carpet-beating frenzy of back-slapping and buying of vodka for toasts.
With his warning whistling up the chain of command back in the UK, Hewitt decided to go over and see the Americans to check on their plans personally. Dressed in his civilian clothes and accompanied by his Russian translator, Hewitt wandered up to the gargantuan C5 aircraft and tracked down the American Major who was in charge of loading and unloading.
‘Are you guys leaving soon?’ Hewitt asked.
‘Like to, but I’m not allowed,’ the Major replied, looking glum.
‘I see. That’s a relief, to be honest. We need to borrow your K-loader again or we’ll be stuck here warming ourselves with cheap vodka for months. What’s holding you up, anyway?’
‘I just had a call from top brass telling me I’m not allowed to leave until some Brit says that I can,’ said the Major.
‘That’s what I like to hear. I’m Squadron Leader Keith Hewitt, by the way.’
‘Hewitt?’ the Major replied. ‘You’re that Brit!’
Tuesday, 9 August
Morning
As the crews returned from the ships, the MIGs that had previously loomed as ominous but silent Cold War silhouettes were now swarming with activity. A pilot sat in the open cockpit of one, apparently running pre-start checks. It took one of the RAF crew to point out the missing turbine blades and the grass growing up around the wheels.
Such theatrics were confusing – and a little amusing – to Squadron Leader Hewitt. During the long hours of waiting for news from the rescue team, he’d astonished one of the Russian Air Force officers on the base by inviting him on board the C17 to have a look around. The man had been wide eyed at seeing such cutting-edge foreign military technology – some of the latest that NATO aircraft had to offer – and at being given the chance to inspect it up close. Hewitt smiled and told him to take pictures if he liked, that there was nothing to hide. It wasn’t quite true; Hewitt had carefully placed a couple of newspaper supplements over the more sensitive bits of gear.
But the gesture of trust had evidently not diffused very far. Squadron Leader Hewitt and the other RAF pilots were having all sorts of hassle planning the return trip across Russia. While their outward trip had been blessed with humanitarian status by the Russians, Hewitt and the other pilots were now being forced to go through a tortuous series of hoops and to clear hurdles to gain the necessary diplomatic and flight clearances for the flight home.