Chief designer Sergey Kovalev’s purpose in constructing the 24,500-ton Typhoon, however, was neither speed nor comfort. In 1974, Leonid Brezhnev announced to the world that the Soviet Union, in response to the growing threat of America’s Trident submarines, would construct the world’s largest, most powerful submarine fleet, each vessel capable of delivering a deathblow to the nation’s enemies. The result were the Typhoons: six nuclear monsters armed with twenty RSM-52 Sturgeon intercontinental three-stage solid-propellant ballistic missiles. Each payload in turn possessed ten independently targetable hundred-kiloton nuclear warheads, a total of two hundred nuclear missiles—enough to annihilate every major city in the United States in a matter of minutes.
Rushed into service, the Typhoons experienced a series of technical malfunctions, which severely limited their number of missions. The eventual fall of Communism and Russia’s failing economy left most of the subs laid up and in dire need of service. A smaller, stealthier, fourth-generation nuclear ballistic missile submarine, the Borey-class, was put into operation in 2003, officially replacing the Typhoon.
Of the six Typhoons completed, four remain moored at the piers of Nerpichya, on the westernmost point of the Kola Peninsula, awaiting dismantling. Another lies in dry dock, its fissionable fuel rods depleted, with no money allocated to effect refueling.
The last remaining Typhoon, designated TK-20, moves slowly through the harsh surface waters of the Barents Sea as it makes its way north toward the Arctic Ocean.
Captain Yuri Romanov tightens the hood of his parka, his eyes watering from the cold as he gazes out from the exposed bridge in the Typhoon’s sail. Dawn is still a good hour away, and the nascent twilight is just beginning to chase the stars from the sky. Romanov exhales, the fog of his breath dissipating across his curly, black beard as he glances up into the night. Somewhere high overhead, he knows, an American geosynchronous satellite is watching, imaging his ship’s wake, identifying her thermal signature.
The forty-two-year-old captain ignores the temptation to offer a one-finger salute.
Yuri Romanov joined the Soviet Navy when he was nineteen, following in the footsteps of his father, Igor Romanov, who had captained one of the first Typhoons, and his grandfather, Vladimir, whose warship had been sunk by a German U-boat during World War II. Over the last twenty-seven years, the third-generation seaman has commanded a dozen missions and served on at least thirty others.
It takes a unique personality to become a submariner. The stress associated with living underwater in a claustrophobic environment, the fear of knowing that even the smallest mechanical failure can turn the ship into a huge steel coffin—all of these factors place special demands on the sailor’s psyche. The submariner knows his actions directly determine whether he will live or die. It is this responsibility—of performing under life-and-death conditions—that forever binds the crew to the ship and the men to each other. It is this unique challenge that continues to separate Captain Romanov from his wife and three daughters for four months out of every year.
Yuri Romanov’s first assignment had nearly been his last. It was 1986, and the young ensign had been assigned to the K-219, a Yankee-class strategic nuclear submarine. In the late hours of October 4, the ship had moved into Bermuda waters, several hundred miles off the eastern seaboard of the United States. Yuri was stationed in the control room, updating the sub’s nuclearmissile tracking system. He had just locked on and computed coordinates to the target cities of Washington, D.C., New York, and Boston when the boat’s skipper, Captain Britano, ordered a “Crazy Ivan,” a sudden 180-degree doubling-back counterdetection maneuver designed to flush out any American attack subs that might be trailing in their baffles.
What Captain Britano didn’t realize was that his vessel was being trailed, by the Los Angeles-class attack sub, USS Aurora, which had detected the Soviet warship as it entered Bermuda waters. As the K-219 circled back, its dorsal surface smashed into the steel belly of the American attack sub, which had shut down its engines so as not to be heard.
The Soviet submarine was carrying sixteen nuclear missiles. The impact with the Aurora caused one of the K-219’s vertical missile tubes to rupture. Solid fuel mixed with seawater, causing pressurized gas to build up within the missile bay. The consequential explosion rocked the Soviet sub, igniting a deadly fire that quickly grew out of control.
The K-219 was forced to surface, smoke billowing from its open missilebay hatches. With the flames threatening to ignite his liquid propellant, Captain Britano decided upon a daring maneuver. As the captain of the American sub watched via periscope, Britano ordered all his remaining missile hatches open—an action that, had it been interpreted another way, could easily have started World War III. The Russian skipper then took his vessel to twenty meters down, flooding the missile compartments, extinguishing the inferno. The K-219 fought her way back to the surface as a dozen Soviet surface ships raced to her aid.
What the Aurora’s crew eventually learned—and the population of the United States never knew—was that the Soviet sub’s two nuclear reactors had gone supercritical, all its protective systems failing. As the K-219 struggled along the surface, heading north into deeper waters, a gallant Soviet engineer and a young ensign (Yuri’s best friend, Sergei Sergeivitch) were inside the contaminated compartment, struggling to shut down the two overheating reactors.
The two brave Soviet submariners successfully shut down the reactors in time, but Yuri’s friend suffocated in the process. Another four minutes and twenty seconds and the overheated fuel rods would have caused a nuclear meltdown, causing a nuclear plume that could have contaminated the northeastern seaboard of the United States.
At 2300 hours on October 6, a Soviet surface ship finally arrived on the scene to rescue the sub’s crew. The K-219 was flooded and sent to the bottom, its hull cracking open on the seafloor, dispersing its missile fragments and radioactive debris eighteen thousand feet below the surface.
Yuri and the rest of the K-219 crew returned to the USSR to be debriefed and reassigned. A week later, on October 11, Presidents Gorbachev and Reagan met in Reykjavik, Iceland, to begin peace talks on nuclear disarmament.
To this day, most Americans have no idea how close they all came to dying on that fall evening in 1986, the United States continuing to deny any involvement with the sinking of the Soviet submarine. But Yuri Romanov would never forget the bravery exhibited by Sergei Sergeivitch and the rest of Captain Britano’s crew. Years later, he would seek out many of these same men to serve under his own command, including half the officers currently assigned to the refurbished Typhoon.
Ivan Kron, Romanov’s executive officer, climbs up to join Romanov in the bridge. “It’s time, Kapitan.”
“In a moment.” Yuri continues staring at the bow wake. “She’s a big ship, eh Commander?”
“The Iranians don’t deserve her. Delivering her to the Persian Gulf will only rile the Americans.”
The captain leans forward, spitting over the side. “We’re not politicians, my friend. Parliament has its reasons for selling the TK-20.”
“Da, money. But assigning us to train their crew and deliver these weapons is a waste of our time. You are still the most experienced commander in the Northern Fleet. We should have had one of the newer vessels—”