more help would be hard to justify.
Besides, bringing in the Norwegians, or any foreigners at this junction, would have served as the detonator for a news media explosion. Worse, it would be an admission of Russian inability to care for her own men. And almost as bad, asking for help was like passing out an open invitation for any interested party to come and examine the most advanced submarine in their Navy.
1400 Hours—Rescue Site
NTV, the Russian independent television network, broke into its regular programming with a special bulletin. The
Kursk
was down. The submarine’s bow was damaged and flooded. All power generation on board the boat had been cut.
Armed with the Navy Press Office release, reporters had gone to work. At least one, and most likely more people with knowledge of the disaster, talked. Since few knew the extent of damage, there was a good probability that the someone who spoke was a ranking officer.
Two hours after the NTV report, the Navy denied any flooding and again placed the time of the incident on Sunday.
Apparently pressure from the news media developed rapidly. Two hours after the second Navy statement, Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, chief of the Russian Navy, admitted the
Kursk
was seriously damaged.
At the site, divers obtained water samples to check for radiation. Thus far, no contamination was detected. That was the only bright spot, because the deep-sea TV camera modules, which carry their own light sources, provided pictures that indicated vastly more damage to the submarine’s front sections than had been anticipated. The Navy made no mention of this distressing fact.
By this time, and because of other Navy press confusion, obfuscation, and falsehoods, their Public Information Office credibility had been damaged. As the evening progressed, the foreign-sub ramming theory was offered as actual fact. There was also talk of an explosion on board. Denials and counterdenials abounded. Offers of help from foreign governments poured in.
Britain agreed to loan its LR-5 DSRV. This rescue vehicle had been modified when it was used to assist a Polish sub. Its escape hatch matched the Polish model, which was much like the Russian design.
The U.S., NATO, and Norway were all quick to volunteer aid. These offers produced another quandary for the Russian group orchestrating how the disaster could best be handled in terms of protecting careers, Navy image, and honor.
To accept help could well be construed as an admission that the Navy was incapable of doing the job. It would also sting national pride.
To refuse assistance might lay officials open to later charges of callous disregard for human life—especially if it was discovered that crewmen on the downed boat lived for days and the rescue work proceeded too slowly to save them.
To further complicate a messy situation, there was the question of equipment compatibility. With the exception of the modified British submersible, fittings of other nations would be incompatible with Russian gear. Therefore time had to be spent determining what outside aid might be useful and how best to employ those resources. Starting such discussions would immediately demonstrate a willingness to accept help, even though that assistance might not, after serious consideration, be beneficial.
The place to review possible help was NATO. Most of the nations offering aid were members and, after all, this was a military, not a civilian matter. Better still, confidential talks could be held at NATO headquarters in Belgium. That would minimize leaks to the Russian press.
A delegation was dispatched to Brussels.
Even with this tactic, the high command faced a sharp reality. If they were able to quickly get inside the sunken submarine, all offers of assistance would be moot. Speed was the key. Every hour that passed without gaining entry pushed them closer to the point where refusing to accept aid would place them in a bad public light.
The rescue operation now took on a
Besides, bringing in the Norwegians, or any foreigners at this junction, would have served as the detonator for a news media explosion. Worse, it would be an admission of Russian inability to care for her own men. And almost as bad, asking for help was like passing out an open invitation for any interested party to come and examine the most advanced submarine in their Navy.
1400 Hours—Rescue Site
NTV, the Russian independent television network, broke into its regular programming with a special bulletin. The
Kursk
was down. The submarine’s bow was damaged and flooded. All power generation on board the boat had been cut.
Armed with the Navy Press Office release, reporters had gone to work. At least one, and most likely more people with knowledge of the disaster, talked. Since few knew the extent of damage, there was a good probability that the someone who spoke was a ranking officer.
Two hours after the NTV report, the Navy denied any flooding and again placed the time of the incident on Sunday.
Apparently pressure from the news media developed rapidly. Two hours after the second Navy statement, Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, chief of the Russian Navy, admitted the
Kursk
was seriously damaged.
At the site, divers obtained water samples to check for radiation. Thus far, no contamination was detected. That was the only bright spot, because the deep-sea TV camera modules, which carry their own light sources, provided pictures that indicated vastly more damage to the submarine’s front sections than had been anticipated. The Navy made no mention of this distressing fact.
By this time, and because of other Navy press confusion, obfuscation, and falsehoods, their Public Information Office credibility had been damaged. As the evening progressed, the foreign-sub ramming theory was offered as actual fact. There was also talk of an explosion on board. Denials and counterdenials abounded. Offers of help from foreign governments poured in.
Britain agreed to loan its LR-5 DSRV. This rescue vehicle had been modified when it was used to assist a Polish sub. Its escape hatch matched the Polish model, which was much like the Russian design.
The U.S., NATO, and Norway were all quick to volunteer aid. These offers produced another quandary for the Russian group orchestrating how the disaster could best be handled in terms of protecting careers, Navy image, and honor.
To accept help could well be construed as an admission that the Navy was incapable of doing the job. It would also sting national pride.
To refuse assistance might lay officials open to later charges of callous disregard for human life—especially if it was discovered that crewmen on the downed boat lived for days and the rescue work proceeded too slowly to save them.
To further complicate a messy situation, there was the question of equipment compatibility. With the exception of the modified British submersible, fittings of other nations would be incompatible with Russian gear. Therefore time had to be spent determining what outside aid might be useful and how best to employ those resources. Starting such discussions would immediately demonstrate a willingness to accept help, even though that assistance might not, after serious consideration, be beneficial.
The place to review possible help was NATO. Most of the nations offering aid were members and, after all, this was a military, not a civilian matter. Better still, confidential talks could be held at NATO headquarters in Belgium. That would minimize leaks to the Russian press.
A delegation was dispatched to Brussels.
Even with this tactic, the high command faced a sharp reality. If they were able to quickly get inside the sunken submarine, all offers of assistance would be moot. Speed was the key. Every hour that passed without gaining entry pushed them closer to the point where refusing to accept aid would place them in a bad public light.
The rescue operation now took on a
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