«She sank». Twenty-five years after the sinking of the Kursk submarine, Russian society has forgotten this catastrophe

Someone might say: close attention to a tragedy from 25 years ago would look strange in the middle of a brutal war that has been going on for the fourth year. Even if we take only the named lists of the dead compiled by Mediazona, roughly as many Russian soldiers die in Ukraine every day as sailors once went down with the Kursk (96 versus 118). However, Russia quietly revised its attitude toward the submarine disaster much earlier.

A short interview with one of the widows of the Northern Fleet submariners given to the BBC Russian Service six years ago is revealing. Reflecting on one of the most unpleasant aspects of the tragedy — Russia’s delay in accepting help from Britain and Norway — the woman says: “We didn’t need foreign help. Why should we let foreigners in? I was against it; they are our enemies”. For 2019, such a remark is quite natural, but in 2000 nobody would have said that out loud yet. On the contrary, both specialists and ordinary people, journalists, and the crew members’ relatives themselves were outraged by the Russian command’s inappropriate arrogance toward Western sailors.

But since then the country and its citizens have become completely different. And the changes on land quietly began precisely with the submarine’s wreck beneath the waters of the Arctic.

Half an hour before noon

For a long time, several mutually contradictory explanations of what happened coexisted in Russian society — alongside the official version set out by Prosecutor General Vladimir Ustinov back in 2002. According to it, the submarine and its crew were buried by an explosion caused by improper handling of the 65-76A torpedo (“Kit”).

For almost 20 years many Russians doubted Ustinov’s report. A popular theory held that the Kursk died after colliding with a “killer submarine” — either British or American. Other alternative versions claimed that K-141 was accidentally destroyed by one of its own Russian support vessels, or blown up by a leftover World War II mine, or hit by some anti-submarine missile launched by who knows whom.

Over time, this cacophony led to the inevitable result in such cases: by admitting everything at once, people stopped believing in anything specific. When, in 2022, journalists from Kommersant spoke with Danis Ishmuratov, the son of one of the men who died on the submarine, he involuntarily gave a formula universal for late-Putin Russia: the Kursk case is a military secret, all documents are classified, and if we ever learn the truth, it won’t be soon.

Meanwhile, the official “Ustinov” version does not look so implausible after all these years. Yes, the prosecutor general carefully polished away a number of undesirable details, but its key thesis — that the Kursk was destroyed not by external impact but by its own Kit torpedo — has never been convincingly refuted. Moreover, Admiral Valery Ryazantsev, who was critical of both the authorities and his fellow servicemen, pointed to the same projectile. This officer became one of the leading specialists on the Barents Sea tragedy and devoted a major work to it, In the Wake of Death.

What did Ryazantsev point to? First of all, the capriciousness of the 65-76A torpedo. Its most important component is highly concentrated hydrogen peroxide. When the projectile is launched, it serves as the oxidizer, i.e. it provides combustion and thrust. But peroxide is an extremely explosive substance that requires special care. The submariners had to make sure that no foreign particles got inside the Kit and degrease all tools and systems related to the torpedo. In August 2000, this was not done on the Kursk, because the crew had not been trained to work with peroxide torpedoes, Ryazantsev argued:

Since the submarine was built in 1995 and up to 2000, the crew had not operated peroxide torpedoes on the nuclear submarine and had not carried out firing with practice [training] torpedoes for more than three years. Let us also recall that in the available Act of inspection and degreasing of the technical air pipelines of the Kursk nuclear submarine dated December 15, 1999, the signatures of the ship’s commission members and the submarine commander are forged. This leads to the absolutely reliable conclusion that the technical air systems on the Kursk had not been operated or degreased for a long time.

On the afternoon of August 12, 2000, this led to monstrous consequences. The submarine taking part in the Northern Fleet exercises was supposed to “attack” a conditional enemy — a group of surface ships — with salvos from 11:40 to 13:40. But as early as 11:28, a sonar operator on the nearby cruiser Peter the Great detected the first explosion, and two minutes later the second one rang out.

Following the ill-fated Kit, at least 10 live torpedoes exploded on K-141. As will later become clear, the Kursk then suffered irreparable damage, lost most of its crew, and settled on the bottom of the Barents Sea (depth about 110 meters). The blast wave was even recorded by Norwegian seismologists, but the submarine’s own command missed the tragedy completely.

According to one version, the commander of the Northern Fleet, Admiral Vyacheslav Popov — who was nearby on the cruiser Peter the Great taking part in the same exercises — was told that the strange noise was related to the activation of the radar antenna. The explanation satisfied the officer, the command game continued, and about an hour later Popov cheerfully announced to journalists’ cameras: “We are working according to the standard scheme. I am quite satisfied with the first stage, if it can be called that”.

Knocks from the darkness

The naval exercises in the summer of 2000 were the largest for the Northern Fleet since the collapse of the USSR. The Kursk could not possibly not take part in them. Today the submarine’s name is associated with catastrophe, but back then it embodied the might of a state recovering from all the upheavals of the 1980s and 1990s.

In the autumn of 1999, the command chose K-141 for an autonomous voyage to the Mediterranean Sea — right under NATO’s nose, against the backdrop of the Yugoslav crisis. The Kursk fulfilled its mission. After the successful voyage, the submarine was considered elite, and its commander, Captain First Rank Gennady Lyachin, was nominated for the title Hero of Russia (the sailor would receive his award posthumously). However, for the sailors and officers, the attention of the superiors ultimately proved fatal — the gaps in the crew’s training were ignored, and that led to the two explosions on August 12.

In those moments, the shock wave turned the entire bow section of the Kursk, including the command compartment, into a heap of metal. Ninety-five of the 118 crew members died instantly. The remaining 23 submariners, as will later become clear from the note found when the boat was opened, written by Captain-Lieutenant Dmitry Kolesnikov, gathered in the stern, in compartment 9. Before that, in order to leave at least some chance of rescue, they had sealed the bulkhead between the undamaged 6th compartment and the adjacent 5-bis compartment tight as a drum.

We will apparently never know exactly how these brave men met their end. All that can be said with certainty is that these were utterly horrific hours. Just imagine: the boat, overturned by the explosion, lying on its side, total darkness all around, the reactors no longer working, the Kursk’s hull rapidly cooling. In the dim light of emergency flashlights, disoriented and concussed men desperately searched for any warm clothing and the vital oxygen-generator cartridges.

One of the main disputes surrounding the Kursk disaster is tied to this episode: how long did those 23 sailors in compartment No. 9 hold out? Ustinov’s report mentioned above states that they survived their comrades who died in the two explosions only briefly. Supposedly Captain-Lieutenant Kolesnikov and the members of his group died during August 12. But the official version is contradicted by the knocks recorded by the sailors of Peter the Great: they picked up signals until August 15. Most likely, the exhausted submariners were beating something metallic against the Kursk’s hull in the hope of attracting rescuers.

“The Kursk was found by knocks underwater. Using a special device — a hydrophone. We understood that it was Morse code: three short knocks — dots, then three longer ones — dashes, and then three dots again. A pause — and then all over again. Everyone on the ship without exception knew that this was SOS — the distress signal sent by sailors from the flooded submarine

- Andrey B., petty officer second class from the Peter the Great

In any case, those who survived the explosion on the Kursk desperately hoped that help would come. Yet in retrospect it seems that on the other side of the sea’s surface everything was done to ensure that no one reached the submariners.

Admirals against everyone

All day on August 12, no one in the Northern Fleet paid any attention to the disappearance of the Kursk. Only in the evening did the command realize the seriousness of the situation. Admiral Popov finally declared the vessel in distress, ordered a search to begin, and reported the situation to the Defense Ministry in Moscow.

The sailors quickly found the wreck site, but the emergency quickly exposed all the incompetence in the Navy. It turned out that there was no nominal crew list for the Kursk on shore, and the rescuers technically could not pull the survivors from the bottom of the Barents Sea. The Northern Fleet had three special vehicles on its books, but none of them managed to dock with K-141. Moreover, the first two bathyscaphes arrived at the site of the tragedy almost a day after the explosion, and the third, the most advanced by specifications, arrived two days later still.

The Navy and Northern Fleet command succeeded in something else. For several days it successfully convinced the country that the situation was under control.

The military leaders lied that contact had been established with the sailors of the submarine, that the supplies on the Kursk would be enough for the crew until August 25, and that the rescue operation would soon produce results, all without help from NATO member states.

Foreigners offered their participation as soon as they heard about the incident with the Russian submarine abroad, but the Russians refused to accept help.

For the first two or three days, people in the country believed the admirals and generals. In 2000, only about 3-4% of Russians used the internet; most residents got all their news from TV. The TV channels were still autonomous from the Kremlin, but their staff generally repeated the Defense Ministry’s statements — everyone believed in the best. Including the supreme commander-in-chief — President Vladimir Putin, elected four months earlier.

The Kursk tragedy coincided with the head of state’s vacation in Sochi. Early on the morning of August 13, Defense Minister Igor Sergeev reported the situation to the vacationing president by phone. Supposedly everything was going even more quickly than the instructions required, and the available resources were more than sufficient. Putin believed the marshal in epaulettes, made comments to journalists on site, and continued his rest on the Black Sea.

The president interrupted his holiday only five days later — by then all of Russia, following the newly awakened TV journalists, was berating the military and civilian leadership for lying and incompetence. The foreign press echoed them as well.

Western reporters’ attention remains fixed on the drama in the Barents Sea. And now strange details are emerging. Citing British rescuers, the Sunday Times writes that seven hours after their arrival they were not given permission to carry out a rescue operation. The British had to persuade their Russian colleagues. In private, the military admitted that the cause of the accident was most likely a failed torpedo launch

- from a news broadcast on NTV

On August 16, Putin personally approved the participation of Norwegian and British specialists in rescuing the Kursk. But the decision was clearly too late, and the unyielding Russian Defense Ministry prevented Western divers from quickly deploying in the Barents Sea. Only late in the evening of August 19 did the British and Norwegians arrive at the site of the tragedy. Once they reached the submarine, they could only confirm that there were no living people there.

At 5:00 p.m. on August 21, the chief of staff of the Northern Fleet, Admiral Mikhail Motsak, publicly acknowledged on television that all crew members of the sunken submarine had died.

“The child still won’t be born in a month”

When recalling the consequences of the Kursk disaster in public discourse, most people will probably remember the brazenly cynical “She sank”, thrown out by Putin on September 8, 2000, in an interview with American journalist Larry King. But for real politics, a completely different conversation involving the Russian president had much greater consequences.

On August 22, the head of state came to the military town of Vidyayevo in Murmansk Oblast, where the families of the dead submariners lived. High-ranking guests — for example, Navy Commander-in-Chief Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov and Deputy Prime Minister Ilya Klebanov — had already tried to speak with the sailors’ wives and parents earlier, when there was still hope of saving the crew. It ended badly. The women gathered in the Officers’ House in Vidyayevo demanded direct answers to their questions, but instead received vague and evasive formulations. A couple of times this led to hysteria in the hall.

The meeting with Putin was no easier. Grief-stricken widows and orphaned mothers shouted, wept, and hurled awkward questions — again about the refusal of help from abroad. The head of state, like his predecessors, failed to hide behind “convenient” answers. The politician lost his temper and blamed the tragedy on the owners and employees of independent TV channels:

“They stole the money, bought the media, and manipulate public opinion. But we can’t say to them: ‘Stop!’ That would be the right thing to say, but [illegible] we need to carry out information policy ourselves more talentfully, truthfully, accurately, and on time.

However, what calmed the public was not promises to bring the media under state control, but Putin’s assurances that the Russian authorities would not abandon the families of those who died on the Kursk. The president promised generous compensation to everyone, including citizens of Ukraine. It must be acknowledged that Vladimir Vladimirovich did keep his word here, although the payment process was not without delays. In the spring of 2002, the far-from-loyal Novaya Gazeta stated that the relatives of the sailors from K-141 were the first in Russian history to receive decent compensation.

“The state provided the families of the 118 dead submariners with apartments and compensation: 720,000 rubles plus military insurance (from 40,000 to 70,000 depending on rank)”. These were sums completely out of reach for the Russian provinces of the early 2000s: about $25,000 at the 2002 exchange rate.

Toward the end of the meeting in Vidyayevo, Putin finally collected himself and even allowed himself his signature barracks-style quip. Reflecting on the timeline for raising the Kursk hull with the sailors’ bodies, he warned the audience that the process could drag on for a long time (indeed, they would have to wait until autumn 2001): “Even if you gather nine pregnant women together, the child still won’t be born in a month”.

There was no outcry in response, but the distinguished visitor still left the town with a bitter aftertaste. The effect was worsened by a report on ORT (today’s Channel One) soon after by the then hugely popular journalist Sergei Dorenko on the Kursk catastrophe. Dorenko not only showed the terrible poverty in which the submariners’ families lived, but also directly accused Putin of lying. The president did not tolerate this, viewing the ill-fated report as a stab in the back from the channel’s then co-owner, oligarch Boris Berezovsky.

Dorenko’s program was shut down by a call from the Kremlin immediately after the Kursk broadcast. The presidential administration first forced Berezovsky to step away from managing the media asset, and then — before the end of 2000 — persuaded him to sell his share of the channel’s stock. That is how ORT gradually began turning into the Channel One we know today.

***

The Kremlin’s campaign against uncontrolled television channels did not end there. In April 2001, after the pacification of ORT — following a much longer and more complex maneuver — came the dismantling of the “old NTV”, which had also shown itself not entirely reliable in the days of the Kursk’s sinking.

The president’s political technologists surely saw the operation as a successful precedent. It turned out that tragic events could also be used as a pretext for unpopular decisions. In 2004, the Beslan terrorist attack was used by the authorities to abolish direct gubernatorial elections. Although everyone around understood: popularly elected regional heads were no more implicated in the tragedy in Ossetia than independent TV was in the submarine’s wreck off Murmansk.

In the 1990s there was such a bad tradition: something happened, and then President Yeltsin would pointlessly go to the scene and apologize, either for the murder of Listyev or for some catastrophe. He would apologize to the people. It was an awful sight. It was perceived as the quintessence of weakness. I thought Putin had no business being there.

- Gleb Pavlovsky, Russian political scientist and political strategist

The real culprits in the Kursk tragedy got off with a scare. In 2001, all the top officers involved in the ill-fated exercises — Defense Minister Sergeev, Navy Commander-in-Chief Kuroyedov, Northern Fleet commander Popov, and his chief of staff Motsak — quietly resigned. Neither they nor anyone else was brought to criminal responsibility. The official investigation blamed everything on the ill-fated 65-76A Kit torpedo with allegedly defective welds.

However, one may assume that Putin did not forget how, in the first days of the tragedy, the then Defense Minister had set him up by dutifully repeating the lies of the northern admirals. So Igor Sergeev still remains not only the only marshal of the Russian Federation, but also the last army officer to head the relevant ministry. After him, anyone and everyone took the helm of the ministry, but never a career military man: first former KGB officer Sergei Ivanov, then tax official Anatoly Serdyukov, then rescuer Sergei Shoigu, and finally economist Andrey Belousov.

The president surely did not forget the unpleasant meeting in Vidyayevo either. Since then, he has never again spoken in such a format with the relatives of victims of any terrorist attacks or disasters. Yes, sometimes there are “intimate” conversations with selected people, hospital visits, and flower-laying ceremonies. But the head of state has never again spoken before a packed hall of outraged people.

And it seems that Putin’s main “Kursk” lesson was that any grief and anger can be offset by enough money. Only if in the 2000s the state could afford ostentatious generosity toward dozens of citizens, now we are talking about tens of thousands. And sometimes payments for the dead return to the same families. Remember the Danis Ishmuratov quoted above, the son of the Kursk warrant officer Fanis Ishmuratov? As late as October 2022, the young man, then a contract soldier in the Russian Armed Forces, was killed during the so-called “special military operation”.