Insight - Nuclear Terror
http://www.themoscowtimes.com/stories/2000/10/07/106.html
By Alla Yaroshinskaya

A member of Boris Yeltsin’s President’s Council from 1992 to 2000, Alla Yaroshinskaya spent the last several years working exclusively on nuclear disarmament issues. She has been a member of the Russian delegation to the United Nations to negotiate nuclear nonproliferation, and continues to be a champion for the survivors of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant accident. It was her series of investigative articles after the 1986 nuclear tragedy that brought Yaroshinskaya to national prominence.

Author of over a dozen books, among them her works on Chernobyl that earned her the Alternative Nobel Prize in 1992, Yaroshinskaya is also the president and founder of the Ecological Charity Fund, as well as the editor and publisher of the Nuclear Encyclopedia, the only reference book of its kind.

The following chapter is an excerpt from Yaroshinskaya’s forthcoming novel, "Kremlin Kiss," which is due to come out at the end of the year. This chapter is set on a nuclear submarine near the northern naval city of Murmansk — not far from where the tragic events of the Kursk nuclear submarine recently took place.

Editor’s Note: In September 1998, a sailor stationed aboard a nuclear-powered submarine near Murmansk went on a shooting spree. Alexander Kuzminykh, 19, killed eight of his fellow servicemen before locking himself in the torpedo room and threatening to blow up the sub’s weapons. The standoff between the sailor and the authorities ended several days later after Kuzminykh shot himself.

"But I’m leaving for a business trip to the UN — for a nuclear determent agreement," I objected sleepily. "Why the rush? What’s happened?"

"Pashkov will explain things to you."

"Pashkov is still defense minister?"

Sedov continued as if he had not heard my question: "Liza, it’s serious. One of our nuclear submarines is in a state of emergency. We could blow ourselves to hell and drag the others with us ..."

I was suddenly wide awake.

"Ask Pashkov about everything. You’re going there as the president’s representative, got it?"

"Yes. And how is the president? I hope, nothing ..."

"Nothing terrible — so far."

"Does he know?"

Sedov lost his patience. "Liza, the car is waiting for you."

A military helicopter flew us to the nuclear submarine base near the village of Kholmisty, where these events were unfolding aboard the poetically named Jaguar. Having just returned from a long trip, the submarine’s 16 nuclear warheads were programmed and poised to go. The only question was whether an officer seeking vengeance could deploy them on his own. The man in question was educated and experienced — there was no doubt about that. He had served in the navy for 15 years.

The man who had barricaded himself in the sub’s control center and put the world on alert was Nikita Yemelyaninkov. A family man with a wife and two children, Yemelyaninkov was respected among his fellow sailors. The commanders were unanimous in their opinion of him — the quietest, most balanced man aboard.

Sitting around the table in the commander’s room, I examined pictures of Nikita with his wife and children. I was shocked to find quite an ordinary, normal looking family.

"And where do they live?" I asked the unit commander.

"In the officers’ barracks. Where else could they live?" he said angrily. "Just like everyone else. They’ve been huddling together in a tiny room — 16 square meters — for five years already. He was transferred here from Primorye."

"I see."

"And how about their salaries?"

The bigwigs — those generals and admirals who had flown in from Moscow — began fidgeting. They did not like my line of questioning. They were concerned that such information could get back to the president, and that was not part of their plans.

The base chief looked through Nikita’s photos in silence while I waited for an answer.

"Go ahead!" said one of the admirals, throwing up his hands and breaking the oppressive silence. "Ask Pashkov how the army gets their salaries. They don’t see their money for two or three months at a time!"

"You there, closer to Velstyn! Tell him to what levels these democrats have driven the army! Am I not right?" the admiral turned for support to the base chief. "Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid of anything. Tell the truth — tell us the way things really are. I’ll allow it."

"What should I be afraid of?" asked a defiant base commander. "We’ve all been driven up the wall. My officers go to the port at night after their shift to unload ships and earn a piece of bread for their children! That’s how we live here above the polar circle, abandoned. And you ask why Yemelyaninkov shot his colleagues and locked himself in the control room? Frankly speaking, I’m surprised nothing like this has happened before."

"Tell that to your president," concluded the admiral. "Let him turn out these dermokraty or there will be trouble. The Army is on the brink."

"Let me talk to him — as a woman and as a mother," I said.

Down I went into the submarine, my legs turning to water, the fate of the world hanging by a thread.

"Comrade Yemelyaninkov. We understand that you need a rest after your long and hard trip. You haven’t seen your family for several months. They miss you," boomed the voice of the chief commander. It was not difficult to imagine what the ship’s commander was thinking. He must have realized that his days in this post were numbered after inflicting such a shock on the top brass. And what if, God forbid, Yemelyaninkov could launch the loaded missiles? Theoretically it was not possible. It took two keys from two different people to launch them. But who knew what he was up to? That was what terrified us all.

Finally Yemelyaninkov spoke.

"Enough. I’m fed up. Did you get the priest out? I don’t believe in God or the devil! I don’t believe anyone, do you hear me? Not anyone! Who can guarantee that if I get out of here I won’t be executed?"

In the far corner I noticed some men in camouflage wearing black masks, their guns ready.

"I personally give you my word as an officer that nobody is going to lay a finger on you if you come out now," said the commander. "The court will decide!"

"Ahh. You want to rot me in prison," cried "the
terrorist."

"This is the word of a Russian officer! It’s you and people like you who ruined the military! I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m warning you: I’ve taken out five people and I don’t care how many more go with me to the grave if I blow something up here."

Standing next to me outside the control room was the commander of the Northern Fleet.

"Please tell me, can an officer with Yemelyaninkov’s experience really launch nuclear torpedoes without the nuclear briefcase? I asked him quietly.

"Practically, it’s not possible," he answered soundly.

"And theoretically?’

He was silent for a few seconds before giving a firm answer: No.

Suddenly a strange thought came to my mind.

"Georgy Dmitriyevich, the missiles are programmed, aren’t they? Or were they taken off combat duty?"

The commander’s face hardened. "They were to be taken off duty after the trip ... But we didn’t have time."

"What are they aimed at?"

"Yelizaveta Petrovna, that is a military secret."

His gaze softened. "Your question is clear, but I can’t discuss it."

I leaned against a door, opened my briefcase and took out the folder I had brought with me.

"Here," I said, opening the maps.

The commander looked at it with interest.

"In English?"

"Yes, the one that concerns our attack was ‘adjusted’ in the Pentagon," I said, attempting to sooth my nerves with a little humor. "The one showing their attack against us — in Congress. Judging from this map our missiles cover the targets along the West Coast of America. Here are the bases in New Mexico, Nevada and up to Nebraska ..."

"This is nonsense, Yelizaveta Petrovna!" said the commander, his exterior stern once again. "Your nerves have taken over your imagination."

By now the negotiations with the "the terrorist" had been taken over by a local Federal Security Service officer — the same man who headed the capture unit. But I wasn’t really listening to what they were saying. I was more worried about the Admiral’s nervous response to my questions. This could only mean that the chaos ruling our country could lead if not to a nuclear war, then at least to a nuclear catastrophe of a more regional nature.

I asked the commander to take me to the unit chief’s office. I needed to call the President — urgently. Unless Pashkov had already called him.

Inside the office the room was terribly smoky and the unit chief sat alone. I asked him where Pashkov was. It turns out he had gone to dinner with the Chief Commander and the head of the local FSB. They must have had something to discuss.

"We must tell the president — even if he is not feeling well," I told Sedov at the conclusion of my appalling story. "He is the Commander-in-Chief."

"No, I don’t think we should," objected Sedov, a note of uncertainty in his voice. "What will change? We shouldn’t bother Nikolai Nikolayevich. Believe me, Liza. I know what I’m saying."

"Is his health really so poor?" my heart began to beat faster.

"That’s not the word for it. He’s in intensive care again."

"And how about the photos of him playing tennis?"

"Tennis, for God’s sake! It’s just a simple editing job using old footage."

"Igor Alexandrovich, we’ve got a nightmare unfolding here! I hate to sound emotional, but we’re in a terrible spot: Veltsyn is on the sidelines as we are on the brink of a nuclear catastrophe."

"I’ll call Chernomor at once. We’ll convene the Security Council. Calm down. Don’t panic or I’ll begin to panic. Maybe we should call the White House? Stevens?"

"Liza, we must do something," he reproached me. "Didn’t you just say so yourself? I’m merely thinking aloud."

"Call Chernomor if you can’t call Veltsyn, Igor Alexandrovich."

As I stepped out of the office, yet another special helicopter landed at the base — this one carrying the wife of "the terrorist." She was pretty — a woman with dyed blond hair and frightened blue eyes, now red from weeping. Why do all military men marry blondes? This has always been a mystery for me.

Her unenviable mission was to talk her husband into surrendering. Together we went to the submarine. On our way we decided that I would talk to him first.

"Nikita," I said as softly as I could. "My name is Liza. We must be the same age. I also have two sons, like you. You must be tired after the long trip and here, on land, there are problems. No one is going to blame you for anything.

"It’s difficult talking without being able to see each other, isn’t it? Let’s talk face to face. You can talk to anyone you like — say whatever you want to say."

"Who are you?" Nikita replied. I could hear the fatigue and despair in his voice.

"I’m simply a woman and a mother, first of all. Apart from that I was sent here by the president. To talk to you. To ask you about your problems. Let’s talk, okay? Maybe, you have questions you would like to ask. With whom would you like to speak?"

"To the president!"

"What, you want to speak to the president?" I asked.

"Do I want to talk to the president?! No! I don’t want to talk to that bastard about anything! He betrayed us, he betrayed us and sold us all down the river! I’ve got nothing to talk to him about. The only thing I can do for him is to shoot him like a dog!"

"Nikitushka! Nikitushka!" his wife interjected, sobbing. "This is me, Valya, your wife. Nikitushka, we’ve missed you so much."

Her tears were suffocating her, but the commander gestured to her to stop crying — it would only make things worse.

Suddenly a shot rang out from inside the control room. We all froze. Inside it was silent. Yemelyaninkov’s wife gave out a loud cry and ran towards the door.

Within a few minutes the door was open, and through the hatch I could see instruments stained with blood. On the handle of the door some white substance was dripping to the floor. My God, it occurred to me. Those must be his brains. I covered my mouth with my hand and rushed for the exit.

In the unit commander’s office Pashkov had taken off his jacket and sat in his pants and suspenders. Apparently he had had a good dinner with the chief commander. As I walked in he was calling Chernomor to report that the "nuclear terrorist" had been successfully liquidated.

I could not keep silent.

"Pashkov. He is not a nuclear terrorist — he is just one of your officers ground down by life. This one shot himself. The next one may get to you."