“Sir, the nuclear fission products, sir…”
“Stop wasting my time, Officer. Get to work! I expect a repair plan in place within 10 minutes.” Arkhipov cut the communication with the officer and immediately reached out to Captain Zateyev over the intercom. On the other side of the doomed boat, Zateyev nervously bit his fingers, but otherwise was surprisingly together. Years in the military taught him to take any situation as a problem-solving puzzle. He believed that in the face of danger, soldiers who fall apart are selfish and even dangerous.
“I am already aware of the problem, major,” reported Zateyev in his usual matter-of-fact tone. “So it happens, we have another one. The antenna is down. We are cut off from Moscow.”
“Damn it. I wish I was there when she was built…”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, sir. I’ll report when the welding team is at the reactor.”
Clang.
A heavy intercom phone handle connected with the base on the wall. What slipped from Arkhipov’s tongue was not something he would ever dare to share with a high-ranking commanding officer, because it would land him in a mental institution, but over the years Arkhipov had learned enough about his strange ability to begin understanding it. Somehow he could influence his decisions and if those decisions had negative outcomes, he could revisit them. How was it possible? Arkhipov abandoned this question and dedicated himself to use this ability to the most benefit for the country. This meant assigning himself to all the most critical military operations and being personally present in the life-and-death situations, like the Soviet-Japanese war, and now handling a nuclear submarine. What he couldn’t do was fix the disasters that he didn’t cause. He could not correct the manufacturing errors that plagued K-19 in abundance, but there was a chance that he could minimize the damage of the current situation. Arkhipov sat down and closed his eyes.
All of this had happened before, he could see it in his head. Time and time again, K-19 nuclear meltdown resulted in an explosion, a brilliant white light, and then - nothing. No matter what the crew did, the scenarios resulted in an explosion. Over and over again he experienced the death of his crew, the expressions on their faces when light and heat rushed out of the reactor, that fraction of a second when they realized that it was all over. His visions resembled a paralysis: limbs stiffened while his eyes involuntarily moved under his eyelids as if in REM sleep. Excruciating headache and nausea … And the nose bleeds. Crimson red drops fell on the control panel. Tap - Tap - Tap… Arkhipov wiped the blood with the back of his sleeve and headed down to the reflectory compartment, to check on the welding team, ready to enter the reactor chamber. By that time, the temperature of the reactor had reached 700 C, and it would continue to rise with every minute as the fission products were not properly cooled.
“What’s the status?” he inquired from the team that looked mortified but continued putting on radiation suits and gathering scrap pieces of sheet metal and wire to patch the breach.
“It’s not good, sir. You shouldn’t be here, sir, the radiation level is skyrocketing. Look, your nose is already bleeding. Radiation sickness, sir…”
“You never mind that, officer. Who is going in?”
“We cast lots. The six of us are the lucky winners…” the officer smiled bitterly.
Arkhipov glanced over the group of young men who were preparing to sacrifice their lives. Something wasn’t right… “Wait… Orlov, you stay… You weren’t there… It was Mishin. Where is Mishin? He needs to go.”
“Mishin, the radio technician?”
“Yes, him.”
“But sir…”
Orlov was befuddled. For some crazy reason, commander Arkhipov was saving his life. Orlov, who was neither exceptionally skilled, nor a personal friend of Arkhipov’s… Meanwhile Mishin walked in. His face was furiously distorted as he walked by Arkhipov giving him the most obvious look of contempt anyone had ever seen. Arkhipov had seen that look before, on the bus, in 7th grade. Each time it was because of his visions, only now Arkhipov knew exactly what a life-and-death situation was. He could take all the contempt in the world, just to prevent the disaster from happening. Mishin was not going to argue with the orders of a superior commander, but he was clearly befuddled as to how he got on Arkhipov’s bad side.
“I am sorry, Mishin. It had to be you. There was no other way.”
“Sir, I am not going to disobey your order. But permission to speak freely.”
“Granted.”
“You are a piece of ass, you know that? I’ll see you on the other side.”
“I understand. But trust me, there is no other way. If I went there myself, it wouldn’t make any difference. I know, I saw it! I know you won’t understand, but you just have to trust me on this.” At that moment, machine humming seemed like a dead silence. Scared and doomed, the officers looked at Arkhipov as if he held the keys to heaven with all the answers and all the solutions, with hope and bitterness, with big eyes and trembling hearts. “Officers, you are the finest submariners that our country has to offer. I am proud to serve with you!” And disregarding the Soviet rules about prohibiting religious references in places of service, he quietly added: “God have mercy on our souls,” and christened the team with an Orthodox cross, drawn in the air with his two fingers. Arkhipov turned around to hide the tears that welled in the corners of his eyes. He knew that there was no scenario in which these six young men survived.
-6-
Almost a year later, a special commission was still investigating the actions of the K-19 team. The high-ranking apparatchiks were divided on whether to send Arkhipov and Zateyev to GULAG for abandoning the ship, or to award them a medal for stopping the detonation of the nuclear reactor. Both sides of the argument had powerful influencers who kept whispering in Khruschev’s ear. This whispering was getting old, and Khruschev decided to attend the hearing himself. The surviving crew was gathered to testify. Orlov was pressing against the gray wall of a poorly lit, windowless hallway. All this time he did not dare to ask Arkhipov why he spared his life that day, but finally the opportunity presented itself, although not under the rosiest of circumstances. Arkhipov walked by Orlov, pounding with his soles down the concrete floor that echoed and reverberated his confident stride, looking ahead at nothing in particular, and took a seat at the furthest red chair, away from the group of the mariners, huddled together whispering and dropping not-so-subtle glances at their former leader.
Orlov decided that he needed to know. He approached his former commander and requested permission to sit beside him. The two sat side by side, the grey cool wall behind them. It was not some artificial presto wall, but a real rock and concrete wall, solid, impenetrable, like the mind of the bureau it was housing.
“Mishin died three months ago…” said Orlov, just to get it out of the way. “I am sending his wife half of my paycheck. It’s not much… But since they cannot make up their minds whether to make us heroes or enemies, Mishin’s pension is under revision…”
Arkhipov silently acknowledged it. What could he say? What could he say in these walls that grew ears from every corner, like poisoned mushrooms grow in a damp thick forest? Orlov turned to Arkhipov and emphatically placed his palm on his shoulder.
“When you go there, sir, you tell them! You tell them that Mishin was a hero!”
And he burst into tears. Shaking with his whole body, he took out a worn pack of cigarettes: Vatra, the cheapest, the nastiest tobacco there was. With shaking fingers, he placed one end of the cigarette in his mouth, but immediately took it out spitting a mouthful of loose tobacco. He pushed the tobacco back into the paper wrap as best he could, placed it back in his mouth and tried to battle the matchbox. The battle was lost from the get go as the striker was worn out, and the matches were damp. Arkhipov took out his matches, which were in pristine condition, and lit Orlov’s cigarette. Orlov took a long, indulgent drag,
and for a moment refused to exhale. Then his shoulders dropped, and he slouched forward, supporting his forehead with one arm, elbow resting on his knee.
“Sir, tell me why… Why I was not supposed to die that day…”
“I don’t know, Orlov, I really don’t. I only know that it was Mishin who had to be there. In all honesty, Orlov, it had nothing to do with you.” Orlov nervously laughed, with a high-pitch eerie laughter that usually preceded someone snapping. Perhaps luckily for Orlov, a gray-suit bureaucrat poked his head out of the conference hall and invited Arkhipov in.
The First Secretary of the Soviet Union and one of the two most powerful men in the world, Nikita Khruschev presided at the long table. To his left and right sat various decorated Admirals and some grey suits, who remained unnamed. Each of the functionaries had a glass and a jug of water in front of them, placed on a silver tray. In front of Khruschev there was a tray as well, but a bigger one, as it also contained a small vase with scarlet-red carnations. Leaning sideways on their flimsy stems, the flowers were a resting ground for a rather fat fly, which calmly straightened its wings and cleaned its buggy eyes right in front of the General Secretary.
What courage! thought Arkhipov and faintly smiled.
The fly didn’t seem to bother Khruschev, but the flowers obstructed his line of sight. Annoyed, he moved the tray to the right, wrinkling and pulling the white table cloth from the left side. Arkhipov saluted and stood in the middle of the room, as there was no chair for him to sit.
Khruschev leaned forward, placing his folded arms on the desktop. “I am tired of this K-19 investigation. Are you a hero, Arkhipov, or a deserter?”
“It is not for me to decide, Mr. First Secretary.”
“You are damn right about that,” winced Khruschev and loudly landed his fist on the table for dramatic effect. “I’ve heard enough about this incident already. What I don’t understand is why you randomly relieved Orlov from going into the reactor, and instead sent in Mishin, a radio technician. Mishin, who is dead now, by the way, had no business of going into the reactor, don’t you think? With this decision you may very well have endangered the entire repair mission. I say this is negligence. If not more.”
“Tovarishch Khruschev, I know it makes no sense, but Mishin had to be there. Mishin was the linchpin. It was the only combination that did not result in nuclear meltdown.”
“What the hell you are talking about?? You need a shrink my friend!”
“….you need a shrink my friend,” simultaneously repeated Arkhipov.
“How did you…”
“How did you...”
“This is ridiculous.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop it… Mr. First Secretary, I can do it all day… And this Admiral here will need a new pair of pants in a moment.” As Arkhipov was saying those last words, Khruschev accidentally knocked over the vase, and the water spilled all over the crotch of the Admiral, sitting on the right hand side from Khruschev. “What the hell is going on here?” Khruschev rose from his chair and smashed his fist on the table. The ribbed glasses on the silver trays jumped in the air.
“Permission to speak in private, Tovarishch First Secretary.”
“Out of the question!” roared Khruschev. “You are 30 seconds from being arrested!”
“It is a matter of the national security. Look, I am unarmed. You can order to handcuff me. But I will not speak a word, unless we are alone.” Arkhipov knew that alone in a room with Khruschev the KGB would not dare to eavesdrop. It would be the safest place to talk.
Khruschev thought about it for a moment, but curiosity took him over. “Alright. Handcuff him. And get him a chair! Get me a gun as well.” A young officer ran in the room with the handcuffs, a holstered gun, and a box of bullets. Khruschev, like his predecessors, was paranoid of murderous plots, and made it a standing policy to not have a loaded weapon in the same room with him. Then he signaled everyone out. While the Admirals begrudgingly obeyed his order and proceeded to the exit, Khruschev opened the bullet chamber of the gun, and one by one loaded the bullets. When the two were left alone, Khruschev pointed the gun at Arkhipov, who remained sitting in the middle of the room. “Now talk. You have 30 seconds, or I will put this whole box of bullets through your head.”
“No you won’t.”
“Ok, I’ve had enough.” Khruschev targeted Arkhipov’s head and pulled the trigger.
Clank.
“What??”
“An empty cartridge.”
“You are pushing your luck!” And he pulled the trigger again.
Clank.
“The whole box is filled with empty bullets, Tovarishch Khruschev. I cannot explain why, but I know it to be true. I saw it.”
“How did you do it?”
“Like I said, I had nothing to do with it. I only know that you can discharge the entire box in my head, and they all will be empty. Perhaps the officer picked the wrong box in a hurry. What do I know?” Profoundly struck, Khruschev sat down at his chair. Then he pointed the gun at the wall, and one by one discharged the entire chamber. They were all empty.
“Do you believe me now?” Arkhipov asked him calmly.
“Let’s assume that I do, for the time being. I can still drag your ass to places where the sun does not shine. Start talking.”
-7-
October of 1962. Arkhipov was assigned as the commander of the submarine flotilla of four diesel-electric B-59 subs headed to Cuba. After Khruschev was convinced that Arkhipov’s gift was real, he closed the K-19 investigation and commemorated the crew, but the incident remained classified. Upon Arkhipov’s insisting on being assigned to handling nuclear weapon assignments, being in charge of the four B-59 subs headed to Cuba was about as high profile as it could get. Initially, none of the crew knew the nature of the assignment. For all they knew, they were headed to the Arctic circle for another training mission. Not many even knew what the “special weapon” on board was, as it was guarded 24/7 by a special guard. Arkhipov knew it all.
Cuba was a strategic linchpin in the Soviet’s Cold War strategy. Finally Castro had given in and allowed them to be armed with nuclear power, which he had refused for a while, thinking that it was more of a liability. But after the Bay of Pigs invasion, his temperance ran out. There had to be a stronger argument in the fight against the United States. Cuba had to have nuclear capacity, there was no other way. The U.S./ Soviet tension was palpable. Kennedy had escalated tensions by invading Cuba, and by meddling in Russian airspace with their U2s. A moment could come when someone would have to push the button first. Arkhipov was determined to be there at that moment, because in that scenario, an uninformed or rushed decision may mean the end of the world. Khruschev delegated Arkhipov with extraordinary authority during that mission. Generally, to dispatch a ballistic missile, it required an approval of the ship’s commander and the ship’s political officer. On that mission, the flotilla commander Arkhipov had veto authority. By October 22, the B-59 flotilla received the last transmission from Moscow: to maintain their position in Sargasso Sea and not to approach the Cuban shore.
The reason was the blockade enforced by the United States. U.S. intelligence established that Cuba was building missile launch sites, and the blockade was supposed to prevent the Soviets from delivering any more missiles to Cuba. October 22 was also the day when Kennedy publicly addressed the nation about the nuclear threat in Cuba. The U.S. radio waves exploded. Having no communication with Moscow, the four submarines laid low and listened to all the frenzy that penetrated the U.S. radio. Unlike the nuclear submarine K-19, the diesel-electric B-59 had to periodically surface to recharge its batteries. To make things worse, the U.S. radio reported on a rumour that the Soviet submarines were approaching Cuba, and the U.S. anti-submarine operation aimed at detecting and surfacing them. Conditions on Arkhipov’s submarine were dir
e. The battery charge came dangerously low, and they decided to surface, risking exposing themselves to the U.S. search mission. When the radio technicians heard that the U.S. Destroyers were sweeping the area, the B-59 attempted an emergency dive, with a partially charged battery. Not knowing if they had been noticed, Arkhipov and the crew were in a state of offensive readiness. At that time, the air recycling system on the submarine malfunctioned, and the temperature on board rose to 50 C, and in some compartments, well above that mark. Oxygen was saturated with carbon dioxide, causing the officers to pass out.
That was when the first sonar strikes followed. Somewhere above them, an anti-submarine team had located the Soviet subs and was trying to surface them. With no orders from Moscow, the team had to make the decision. Were they under attack? Were the grenade and sonar charges offensive or an invitation to negotiate? Commander Valentin Savitskiy was not of the feeble-minded bunch. The crew used to joke that Savitskiy had a heart of a lion and a mind of a tiger: always ready to get in the fight, ask questions later. Those were not the ideal qualities to handle a nuclear launch sequence. Perhaps for that very reason, Arkhipov was placed on that particular submarine. Or perhaps it was another instance of ridiculous luck that humanity neither sought nor deserved. An act of God, if you wish. But it took an act of man to cash in on that luck. “They’ve been pounding at us for three hours!” lamented Savitskiy among the select group of high-ranking officers. His formal attire was unbuttoned, sweat soaked it right through, and stench of men’s bodies permeated every nook and cranny - way worse than any gym or a laundry bin you could ever imagine.
“So they know our location. That much is obvious,” agreed Arkhipov. “This does not authorize us to use the special weapon.”
“Wake up, Arkhipov! You don’t want them to get their hands on our equipment!”
“Oh quit worrying about your equipment, commander! Same old Valik. Above all, protects his junk,” joked Arkhipov and the crew chuckled. And then followed a massive explosion, dangerously close to the starboard hull. Five men, Arkhipov and Savitskiy included, were tossed in a man-pile like toothpicks.
329 Years Awake Page 10