It's going to explode now! It's like something that never happened...
History, told by a participant in events that officially never happened. Photos courtesy of the narrator.
I'm sitting with an old friend in a cafe, sipping beer and eating dried smelt. We're chatting leisurely about this and that. About the weather, how to start a car in the cold, how to barbecue, and just about any other trivial matter... Sometimes, out of nowhere, a question pops up: "Do you remember? What's it like where you live?" And then the story begins about what it was like back then...
It's still the same: "Do you remember how they used to punish you for wearing a moustache back then?" Of course I do, they used to punish you for wearing wedding rings too, issuing orders about all sorts of non-combat losses and injuries caused by these rings... And did you wear a ring? Yes, I did. And you? No, it was inconvenient – it would get caught on the cable, or the gunwale... Anyway, I just kept it at home...
Listen, you're a submariner, haven't you been briefed on nuclear emergency procedures? Of course, what's the matter?
Yes, that happened, but when exactly it happened is already forgotten, and some old photos came to hand...
Characters and performers, time and place of action.
Actors: from the Navy - a Project 671RTM submarine, from the KGB's Marine Corps - a Project 745P seagoing tug.
Executors: submarine of the Pacific Fleet submarine division, patrol cruiser "Brest" of the 1st diplomatic patrol of the Kamchatka border district of the KGB of the USSR, commander Captain 2nd Rank Fyodor Yakovlevich Dudkin.
Place of action: Sea of Okhotsk.
Time of action: November 1988.
Extras: nameless and not so nameless admirals and the people: sailors from the crews of a submarine and a border ship.
Well, there was such a case...
I'll give you a rough date; a lot of time has passed. It was the late 1980s, most likely November or December. I was serving on the second-rank border patrol ship (PSKR) Brest, a Project 745P built in 1978 at the Yaroslavl Shipyard; it's probably already decommissioned (indeed, it was decommissioned in 2019). We were deployed, as usual, to the North Kuril Islands—patrolling our territorial waters from Cape Lopatka on the Kamchatka Peninsula to the middle of the Fourth Kuril Strait, quietly chasing away Japanese and Korean poachers, and performing general border service duties.
“In those distant, now almost legendary times,” the protection and defense of the state border of the USSR was an established type of service; significant forces and means for protecting the border and economic zone of the USSR had already been deployed, an extensive network of border outposts, radio technical surveillance posts (RTPN), radio technical intelligence had been built, and forces had been deployed Defense The countries on the Kuril Islands and the SSBNs on Kamchatka were protected by a fairly strong group of surface ships, and the naval units of the border troops were already well and sufficiently equipped.
And in general, there were border troops back then; it's not clear what the current "border service" is. They were fully-fledged troops of the KGB of the USSR, the real first line of defense and protection of the country, providing deployment for the army and combat reserves for fleetThe KGB's naval complement was rapidly replenished with modern vessels and was in good technical condition. Who could have imagined then that in three or four years, the troops would be systematically and mercilessly destroyed, not by an external enemy, but that the remnants would be abandoned to a slow, technical death? The entire legacy created by three generations of our people would be slaughtered by incompetent and pathologically narcissistic leaders...
The Brest project 745P corvette at anchor. 1986.
Project 97P moved easily through half-meter ice, and if you weren’t too crazy, you could even overcome almost a meter, but very carefully and without rushing.
This was the routine duty we set out for from Avacha Bay this time. We were ordered to guard the area from the 2nd Kuril Strait to the 4th Kuril Strait, took over from our colleague, and began our patrol.
November 1988, the weather was perfect. We patrolled overnight from Alaid Island to the abeam of Shelikhov Bay on Paramushir Island. In the early morning, we anchored in Shelikhov Bay, at the 5th Border Outpost of the 60th Border Detachment, and monitored the situation. The weather was, as they say, "one hundred percent"—calm, sunny, visibility over 10 kilometers. Paramushir Island was already covered in snow, the sun sparkling off the snow crystals.
The Alaid volcano island, one of the most beautiful volcano islands of the Kuril chain, was revealed in all its glory.
Alaid Volcano Island. 1988.
The weather forecast, which we usually received from Japanese radio stations on a fax machine using a Volna M receiver, was quite useful. A cyclone was moving through the center of the Sea of Okhotsk, and the weather there was nasty, but we weren't affected. The crew was quietly going about their business as usual—they had just changed their 12-hour watch, completed their inspection, and completed their checkup. weapons and technical equipment. We were gathering for lunch. The commander was Captain 2nd Rank Fyodor Yakovlevich Dudkin, a talented commander, an excellent navigator, and an excellent educator. He was highly respected and respected among the officers, warrant officers, and sailors. He was finishing his service on this ship project and had already been approved "from above" to form a new crew to receive a Project 1124P border guard ship from the industry. We called them "motorcycles" for the roar of their turbines and their speed. Two such ships had already been received, and three more were awaiting delivery from the industry.
In short, I'm just sitting here smoking...
At lunchtime we received approximately the following RDO from the division:
At W=D= (approximately midway between Paramushir Island and Terpeniya Bay on Sakhalin Island, that is, the southwestern part of the Sea of Okhotsk), a submarine is in distress and has lost propulsion. Weather in the area: sea force 6-7, wind 25 m/s, visibility less than 2 miles, snow drifts. A dry cargo ship (I don't remember the name) is en route to the area. Proceed to the designated point and provide assistance.
We quickly raised anchor and, under the guidance of two cars, “rushed” to the point.
So what does "take off" mean for a Project 745P vessel? After all, the design calls for it to be a seagoing tug with an unlimited range and unrestricted seaworthiness. It has a displacement of 1620 tons, a length of 56,5 meters, a beam of 12,6 meters, a draft of 4,6 meters, and a reinforced ice belt of 20 mm at the waterline. The crew consists of 47 people, including six officers, five warrant officers, and 36 sailors.
This "battleship" is armed with two AK-230M 30mm cannons with 2000 rounds of ammunition, and fire control is provided by two "Kolonka" artillery fire control systems on the upper bridge. Its radio and television equipment includes two "Don" radars and a decent HF and VHF communications suite, along with standard ZAS and SBD systems. The propulsion system consisted of two 13D100 main diesel engines, each producing 1500 horsepower, driving two 1100 kW DC generators, a PG-950 electric propulsion motor, and a fixed-pitch propeller in a steering nozzle.
There were two controlled fire extinguishing monitors with automatic foam delivery, dewatering equipment with a total capacity of up to 1500 m³/hour, a water-based radiation and chemical protection system, and radiation and chemical reconnaissance devices. A satellite navigation system—the "Shlyuz" system—was already installed, receiving data from the civilian "Tsikada" navigation system and a unit for receiving data from the combat "Parus" navigation system. Naturally, there were rescue and work boats, as well as six PSN-10 life rafts.
The tug's towing capabilities were impressive: a stern hawse with a folding roller, a 22-ton towing hook, a 300 mm towing bollard for towing with a pull of up to 22 tonnes/force, and an automatic towing winch—the tug's primary "weapon": the automatic winch had a pulling force of 18 tonnes, a 56 mm steel towing rope, and a 500 m rope length on the winch drum (from memory). The hull was specially reinforced for towing. An electric windlass was on the forecastle, and a capstan was on the poop. Towing was possible for any ship and vessel with a displacement of up to 10,000 tonnes, but this is uncertain. At the same time, thanks to the crew's efforts, everything was always in excellent working order, and the crew knew how to use all this wealth.
Another thing to note: in terms of crew habitability and comfort, Project 745P is simply a luxury naval hotel in Soviet times. Officers' cabins are single-berth (the commander's, in addition to his bedroom, also has a lounge; the first mate has a cabin next to the commander's; the political officer and the BC-5 commander have a single cabin; and the navigator and the BC-4 RTS commander have double cabins, which also accommodated passengers). The midshipmen's cabins are double-berth, with plastic wall panels, refrigerators, a private shower with a toilet, a bunk, a desk, a wardrobe, a bookcase, a bookshelf, and a sofa.
The superstructure portholes were large and rectangular, while the hull portholes were round. Naturally, the portholes had armored covers, and they were required to be closed in the event of an alarm. The noise from the main engines was quite tolerable, becoming completely unnoticeable after a day. The crew quarters, each accommodating six people, were quite adequate, though not like those on civilian ships, which have smaller crews (no gunners, no chemist, fewer radio operators).
So, rough weather at sea didn't greatly affect living conditions. There was a shared galley for the crew and officers, a crew mess hall with a projection booth, and a separate wardroom for officers and warrant officers. Officers included the commander, first mate, political officer, BC-1 commander, BC-4-slR commander, and BC-5 commander. Warrant officers included the boatswain, communications team petty officer, electrical team petty officer, engine team petty officer, and a medical assistant. Up to 20 passengers could be carried on board, and even more soldiers were carried…
There was also an armory in the forward section of the ship, in the officers' corridor, a weapons storage room: AK-74 assault rifles for sailors and PM pistols for all officers and warrant officers, plus eight pistols for the inspection team, along with ammunition for assault rifles and pistols. TNT blocks (0,5, 1,5, and 3 kg) for detonating mines and other such items were also stored there, as needed. Detonator cords, electric detonators, and other such wonders were stored separately in the commander's safe. The armory also contained missiles For flare pistols and linethrowers. There are also night vision devices and other things.
There were also some "tricky" rooms—the ZAS post, the encryption office, and the secret office. Well, I shouldn't really go into that...
The ship's water and provisions endurance was 40 days, but it regularly served for 60 days on the Magadan and Chukotka fronts, calling at the ports of Magadan or Provideniya to replenish water and occasionally fuel. Hot water was always available for showers for both the crew and the command staff.
Our "battleship" reached a speed of 10,8 knots under one engine, and could "fly" at a whopping 13,8 knots under two. Well, it wasn't a race car, as you can imagine. And its purpose wasn't track racing, but towing, icebreaking in its base areas, rescue operations, and convoy duty. It was a fine ship in capable hands.
Brief information from the AI: Recommended calculation for towing the Project 671RTM submarine.
1. Initial data on the Project 671RTM submarine:
Surface displacement: 6990 t. Length 106,1 m. Width 10,78 m. Draft 7,8 m.
2. Requirements for the tug:
Power: Towing a 6990 t towing vessel in open sea requires a tug with an engine power of at least 6000–8000 hp.
Bollard Pull: The minimum bollard pull requirement should be 60-80 tonnes to provide sufficient reserve for manoeuvring and to compensate for the effects of waves, wind and current.
Displacement: To ensure sufficient seaworthiness and stability, the tug must have a displacement of at least 2500–3500 tons.
3. Requirements for the towing rope:
Recommended option: synthetic rope
Diameter: With a traction force of 60–80 tons and a safety factor of 3, the rope's breaking load must be at least 180–240 tons. This requires a nylon rope with a diameter of 100–120 mm.
Acceptable option: steel cable
Diameter: For a breaking load of 180-240 tons, a steel cable with a diameter of at least 75-85 mm is required.
4. Limitations on excitement:
Towing in sea state 4–6 is highly undesirable and prohibited.
Towing should only be carried out when the sea state is no more than 3-4 points.
5. Conclusion
Towing a submarine of up to 6990 tons by a tugboat with a displacement of 1500 tons and a capacity of 3000 horsepower is insufficient for towing such an object.
Regardless of the type of cable (56 mm steel or 80 mm nylon), it is not strong enough to handle the required pulling force in rough seas.
Towing in sea state 4–6 remains unacceptable and dangerous.
The bottom line is rather grim: towing a stricken submarine under these sea conditions and the tug's performance characteristics is simply unacceptable. We must wait for better weather and use a more powerful seagoing tug and a more powerful towing gear. Curtain call...
While they were sailing, the boatswain prepared the towing equipment. After four or five hours, we entered a storm zone of 7-9 points, and around one or two in the morning, we approached the site of the accident. It was devastating: the sea was "higher than the village council," the wave was breaking through the superstructure (which is about 18 meters high), meaning it was at least 8 points, tearing the boats from their moorings. Snow flurries mixed with sheets of spray raised by the wind—this is when the thin top layer of the water is torn off and turned into foam—all of this flying at terrifying speed across the surface and slamming into the superstructure and portholes.
We also had to prepare to establish contact with the submarine—after all, the navy and border troops operated on different codes and frequencies and didn't communicate directly. But since we had a complete set of naval documents, the radio operators worked tirelessly to prepare equipment and special means for communicating with their "neighbors." Overall, the task was no trivial one. Our communications capacity was also insufficient; we needed a repeater to support all the necessary communication channels with the fleet and the division command post, and, as was the case, everything had to be covered by the ZAS. Such a repeater was sent to us—a Project 97P patrol cruiser was removed from the Magadan sector; it arrived in our area within a few hours.
This is what a 6-point flood looks like from the starboard corridor. PSKR "Brest", 1984.
In the floodlight, we saw a distressed submarine on the surface, and a bulk carrier of 15-20 tons bobbing nearby (about 10 cable cars). Waves periodically rolled over the submarine; imagining how they were going to accept a tug was a fantasy... We contacted the bulk carrier: it was leaving the area, lacking the necessary rescue equipment and making towing impossible due to its size. It handed us the location of the accident and departed. Well, we had no complaints, and began preparing for the tow.
After some fiddling with the ZAS, they established contact with the submarine. According to their information, they were en route between bases from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky to Bolshoy Kamen for repairs. As a result of an accident, the reactor had lost feedwater from the circuit. The reactor was being shut down to a minimum. There was a risk of the core melting out into the sea. The submarine was heading toward the waves at low speed under diesel power. There was a limited fuel supply and a power shortage. There was no water specially prepared for the reactor, and there was insufficient power to supply all systems. Basically, given the weather, it was all over.
We activated the KDU-5 (the ship's dosimetric unit, a radiation monitoring device), and the background radiation was slightly elevated. When the level steadily climbed, the first mate reported to the captain the threshold for issuing individual dosimeters. Tension quickly mounted among those aware of the situation (and there were only two of them). After some deliberation, the captain vetoed the issuance of dosimeters, not wanting to increase the level of anxiety on board. There was a tense conversation between the first mate and the captain, but they limited themselves to monitoring the KDU-5. If the radiation level continued to rise, then dosimeters would be issued.
The first mate was quite tense—there was a whiff of a court martial, and both he and the captain knew it. Fortunately, the others were calmly preparing the equipment for tow and suspected nothing. The captain and first mate pondered the question of how to organize and execute the tow, but they already considered that secondary—the most important thing was somehow approaching the boat and launching the towboat in this weather. And then, as God would have it...
Going any closer than 1 cable would have been suicide, and downright scary—the ship would toss us at the boat like a splinter, smashing us to pieces—theirs were almost 7000 tons, compared to ours, 1500. But there were no other options. This is where the commander, Fyodor Dudkin, fully revealed his talent. He had a feel for the ship, as they say, down to his fingertips, knew her inside and out, and taught the crew to do the same, perfectly sensing her reactions to propeller speed and rudder position. After about an hour and a half, we got the hang of it, mastering the rhythm of the waves and the wind drift, stalling on a wave, and the effect of the superstructure's windage. We took up a position to windward and aligned with the boat as best we could on the stern headings.
It was impossible to fire a heaving line in such conditions, but for the sake of experimentation, we tried it—the boatswain managed to throw it about 40 meters… Approaching the boat that far is basically impossible, unless you want to commit suicide immediately and without hassle. They started feeding nylon line to the boat with a linethrower, fortunately, they had a good supply of both rockets and lines. People were blown off the quarterdeck, and the first mate eventually chased everyone away and fired the linethrower himself, occasionally swapping with the boatswain. Even though everyone on the upper deck was tied up with safety lines, the feeling was eerie. The risk of falling overboard was very high; the ship was rocking and tossing like a ball, and the quarterdeck was periodically swamped by waves. The captain tried to get as close to the boat as possible, otherwise all methods of tugboat deployment would become problematic, and as time passed, everyone from the boat was shouting obscenities over the VHF ZAS.
The boat was 90% submerged; if you let your guard down, you'd be floundering, though not for long. A crew of four to six divers worked on the submarine's forecastle; the water was mercilessly pouring over them, and they periodically retreated. After about an hour and a half of continuous attempts, they finally caught a couple of lines and began to pull in the towlines with their capstan: first a line, then 50mm nylon, then 100mm nylon, then 250mm nylon—this refers to the standard measurement used in the navy at the time, expressed in millimeters of circumference for nylon mooring lines; for steel cables, the standard was in millimeters of diameter.
When we selected a 250mm nylon towing line on the boat and began to take up the slack and begin towing, the nylon quickly snapped under the force of the wave. It became clear we needed a steel towing line, and we had one standard, a 56mm one, with an 18-ton automatic winch and a length of 500 meters. Incidentally, these nylon mooring lines break with a terrifying sound, like an explosion and a flash, and the line flies with incredible speed and force, easily tearing a person in half, so the danger of being crushed by a broken line was serious.
So, we repeated everything, and having used up almost the entire supply of emergency lines, we managed to feed the nylon cables to the boat with difficulty and began to pay out the steel towline. That's when the inevitable happened: the steel cable wouldn't reach the boat, but, due to its enormous weight of almost 5 tons, simply fell vertically downwards. Considering that 100 mm nylon was attached to it, all this bliss could have wound itself around the propeller... We were saved by the design of the rudder-propeller system: the propeller rotated in the rudder nozzle, almost completely enclosed by the nozzle's cylinder. A couple of times we felt excessive strain on the propeller, our hearts sank, and we felt the steel cable rub against the propeller shaft, but we escaped...
Towing of the Project 671RTM submarine. On the quarterdeck are the senior mate, the quartermaster, and the holdman. October 20, 1988.
When we started the tug, we had to let out about 400 meters of steel rope, and this "rope" was rubbing against our propeller. The submarine also endured stress, on top of the storm and November temperatures: while heaving in the steel rope, the submariners bent the axle of the bow capstan (the capstan was retractable), and the whole saga almost went down the drain, along with the boat...
By God's grace, by 8:3 or 10:4 a.m., tugboats of the required thickness and length were launched and, adjusting to the waves and wind, they began to slowly tow this miracle to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. The towing speed was slowly increased. The submariners were already tearfully pleading for this – the reactor's temperature was creeping up, well above 80 degrees Celsius, and there was no sign of cooling. After a while, the submarine's commander announced over the VHF that in three or four hours, the reactor would melt through the bottom of the hull and fall into the sea, causing a thermal explosion, a small "boom." For the layman, it could be described as: Chernobyl squared, no one would be happy, only the Sea of Okhotsk could save the Far East from radiation contamination.
The situation snowballed, and the radiation level recorded by the KDU-5 increased significantly. Many years have passed, so I'll say the radiation level sometimes reached 1 R/hour, albeit briefly. The first mate, the boatswain, and several sailors—those who spent a lot of time on the upper deck—were given dosimeters. At the commander's request, the doses received were not recorded or recorded.
The submarine requested power, if possible. By lunchtime, I think we were able to get a power cable there. After consulting with the engineer, the ship's commander gave the order early in the morning to prepare distillate for the submarine, although we obviously couldn't produce the required quality of distillate, and the distillate production rate was finite and impossible to increase. The submariners asked for at least something, otherwise there would be a "boom"... And we managed this miracle, thanks to the bilge crew and the entire BC-5. The distillate was produced, and an hour later, the hose for transporting the distillate was delivered to the submarine.
We'd already been preparing for this (not for the reactor's collapse, of course, but for its cooling)—we distilled the water twice with the boiler, shouted "banzai," and hauled more "ropes" onto the boat, then pumped water through hoses to cool the reactor. That's how we towed it—with 56mm steel towlines and 250mm nylon towlines for safety, a power cable, a fuel hose, and a freshwater/distillate hose. Oh, I forgot—we also installed a telephone line to the boat and established a phone line with it for coordination and easier communication on special issues.
But the chief mate's biggest nightmare was calculating the towing. Well, it seemed like no big deal—just use the strongest one and push and pull, the situation would dictate. But no... All these calculations had to be submitted with justification "upstairs" for approval. And, of course, his skill would be assessed, and not just anywhere, but at the Navy Headquarters itself, where fat and lazy admirals who have forgotten the sea sit, and all the work is done by all sorts of small fry from kapley to kapdva... The chief mate opened the ship's logbook, the naval officer's handbook, and the boatswain's handbook—that was all the literature... And there, as you can imagine, you need to know the wavelength, take into account all the parameters of the tonnage, tugs, and other such quirks... But towing a nuclear submarine in stormy weather was not an option, and there was a direct ban on towing in stormy weather with sea state greater than 4...
Towing a nuclear submarine. Chief mate and battleship officer of the patrol cruiser "Brest". October 20, 1988.
Figure 18. Submarine towing. October 20, 1988.
So, after much sweating and sketching, the first mate reported the towing plan to the commander, and this plan was reported "up"... What happened then is beyond words... Just like Vysotsky said: "And then it began, you can't describe it in words, and where did all this strength in my arms come from?"
Orders poured in from various admirals: immediately reduce/increase towing speed, replace the tugs with 350mm ones (where to get that on the open sea—the Moskva River admirals didn't care), stop supplying feedwater—otherwise, there'd be a tribunal (wow, is an admiral going to cool the reactor by peeing? And what would a thermal explosion from a reactor falling out of our ship do?), and other such wonders—every commander considered it their duty to issue the strictest orders and threaten tribunals, execution, dismissal, and demotion...
In short, the entire towing process was accompanied by intensive "management" by the General Staff of the Navy, under Gorshkov's personal and sensitive supervision. We were linked directly to the General Staff of the Navy via communications. To assist us in maintaining contact with the command post, the Navy's General Staff deployed a Project 97P "baboon"—I believe it was the "XXV Congress of the CPSU"—from the Magadan sector, acting as a repeater. Our border command, through our communications channels, advised us to endure and continue towing as best we could. Although they initially expressed dissatisfaction, once they heard what Moscow was doing, they gave up and offered moral support.
And there's a lot more, I won't recount the nonsense of the Moskva River admirals. But they really got on our nerves... During one of the sessions, the commander, unable to bear it (and Fyodor Dudkin was a man of rare endurance), told them to go to hell and cut the connection. They "pressed their ears," thinking they'd be removed from their positions... Things turned out alright, though.
Anchoring in Vasilyev Bay. October 20, 1988.
But there was also a different danger. While in a wave and under tow, the ship lost the ability to quickly respond to wave direction and changes in wave length. Given that the towing speed was generally slow, close to the wave propagation speed, and that it was impossible to significantly change it because the towing time was limited by the reactor's condition, increasing the towing speed was technically impossible without the fatal risk of breaking the last towline. Reducing the speed quickly was impossible due to the enormous inertia of the entire ship-tug-submarine system in stormy weather. Consequently, we regularly encountered loss of ship control and reduced stability.
The wave would periodically overtake us; we'd be riding its crest for a while, and any jerk could have simply capsized the ship. Both the captain and first mate were well aware of this, but there was no quick fix. Adjusting the towing speed abruptly in stormy conditions was even more dangerous than the towing itself and catching the wave crest. So we sailed under the constant threat of either capsizing or snapping the tugs and losing the boat. We monitored the ship's subtlest vibrations and the wave's progress, turning the engine at 50 rpm, plus or minus, since any greater change would have caused jerks and inevitably broken the tugs. All we could do was pray...
The Lord heard our prayers – the cyclone gradually moved north toward Magadan, the wind died down to 10-15 m/s, and after about four hours, the sea swell decreased first to 5, then to a perfectly acceptable 4, and finally to 3, and we breathed a sigh of relief. True, a large residual swell continued, but the situation was no longer as tense.
So how could this have happened without an adversary? An American R-3 Orion showed up at midday, and it was a real nightmare. We were towing at about 5-6 knots, but after escaping the cyclone, we gradually picked up speed to 7-8 knots, fortunately the sea had calmed down and the jolts were barely noticeable. Things were looking up, and after a while, the radiation levels on the KDU-5 began to drop, and we perked up.
Our superiors gave us the task of towing the submarine to base in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. But as we approached Paramushir Island, the naval commanders issued a blunt order: prevent a disgrace! This meant preventing the submarine from entering base "by the nose," towed by a border guard. This is understandable—entering Avacha Bay with such a "tail" would have to be done during daylight hours, the fairway is narrow, and the entire public, as residents of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, would witness this disgrace—the glorious submarine fleet being towed by the nose by border guards... So, at the roadstead of the 3rd Border Outpost of the 1st Border Commandant's Office of the 60th Vilna-Kuril Order of Lenin and Alexander Nevsky Kamchatka Border Detachment (3 PZ 1 PC 60 PO) on the southern tip of Paramushir Island. Paramushir in Vasiliev Bay, the boat and I anchored.
We were told, however, that the naval rescuers couldn't get out to sea yet, couldn't assemble crews, had no working towing gear, no functioning feedwater systems for the reactors, no one thing, no other... But after a while, a single, half-dead, specialized naval rescuer somehow managed to drag himself to us, and we were ordered to hand over the boat to him. The rescuer cursed like a cab driver, there was no water, no towing gear, and he begged us...
We took the mooring lines from the boat, which were torn like old rags, the submariners gave us a few cans of roach, some alcohol, and our battleship went on to duty guarding the border.
That's the whole story.
The crew performed brilliantly. And when the orchestra promised by command to greet the ship on its return from duty didn't show up at the dock, the crew immediately realized they'd get nothing for this "inconvenience." They were also warned not to discuss the towing incident anywhere, ever. The crew's quarters, personal belongings, and all the ship's skerries were searched—all photographs of the incident were confiscated, anyone who had them. Only these four photos remain (maybe a couple more remain); otherwise, this whole story would simply be nonexistent.
While the boat was being towed, on orders from division headquarters, lists of government awards were prepared and sent to the division via encrypted message. We were given the order: officers would receive orders from the Red Banner to the Red Star; warrant officers, petty officers, and sailors would receive medals from "For Distinction in Guarding the State Border" to "For Military Merit." Particularly outstanding individuals were permitted, at the discretion of the command, to be nominated for orders.
But of the promised orders and medals, I believe they only awarded two petty officers or sailors the "For Distinguished Service in Guarding the State Border" award, and even then, they didn't specify what for. They were awarded on Border Guard Day, eight months later, and not even on February 23rd. Six months later, the commander was awarded the Order "For Service to the Motherland," 3rd Class. By then, he was already on another ship and deservedly received the award for impeccable service and mastering new technology—basically, "for the sand." The award document didn't mention the rescue operation...
So that’s what was, what wasn’t…
Incidentally, the first mate wasn't the only one left unscathed—for the radio operator's failure to destroy the tape (unclassified, admittedly) in the radio room, the first mate was awarded... a disciplinary measure—a severe reprimand, I believe. A fine equivalent of a medal, what can you say?
Incidentally, in the late 90s, in St. Petersburg, I accidentally ran into the head of the RTS from that boat—or rather, he recognized me. We hugged, talked... That's the story.
Postscript
An old submarine buddy of mine, when asked about an accident in the mid-80s on a Pacific Fleet submarine, immediately mentioned this incident: October 20, 1988, Sea of Okhotsk, submarine 671RTM. They (the Pacific Fleet) had been reminded of this several times in their emergency orders. We've been friends for almost 30 years, and it never occurred to anyone to mention it. That's how it is...
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