Murmansk

 

By Richard Hardenburg 

British Salmoa Times Correspondent, on board USCGC Healy, Arctic Ocean

As the Polar Night settles over the Arctic Ocean, the USCGC Healy holds steady against the dark. From its deck, I look back on the extraordinary days of the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition. To make sense of them, I must set them down in order.

On November 8th, we flew to Murmansk aboard a Russian Il-96, shadowed by a Sukhoi Su-35S in blue digital camouflage. Passengers pressed to the windows, uneasy at the fighter’s presence, a reminder that even at thirty-five thousand feet, we were never beyond reach.

Minutes before landing, a woman in a navy-blue uniform stepped to the front of the cabin, picked up the aircraft’s microphone, and spoke.

“Good evening. My name is Senior Lieutenant Ludmilla Smirnov, and I am a coordinator for the expedition. Due to recent events, the expedition’s directors have made changes to accommodations in Murmansk, and we will be temporarily staying at the Northern Fleet Headquarters. Please understand this is a military installation. Follow their rules respectfully. You are our guests, and if you need anything or have any questions, please address them to me.”

“Regarding the declassified documents, when can we see them?” someone shouted from the back of the aircraft.

“The documentation has been recently declassified, and it is available to the public at the Navy’s library. An access card has been issued to each of you, and you will find it in your welcome package at Severomorsk. You may access the library at any time of day. Any other questions?”

“When are we boarding the S.S. Severnny Polyus, and visiting the laboratory installations on board?”

“Boarding the S.S. Severnny Polyus is scheduled for November 10th. In the meantime, a series of lecturers of historical and scientific interest will be delivering master classes, which I encourage you to attend. If there are no further questions, I will pass the microphone to the crew. Thank you, and welcome to Murmansk.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing at Severomorsk-3 airport in a few minutes. Please fasten your seatbelts and wait for instructions. The temperature in Severomorsk is minus fifteen degrees Celsius, and it is snowing lightly.”

The aircraft landed at night at Severomorsk-3, an airfield belonging to the Russian Navy’s Northern Fleet. Immediately upon disembarking, we were ushered into three buses that carried us to the headquarters of the Northern Fleet, the command center of Russia’s Arctic Navy.

The buses rolled along darkened roads, their headlights cutting through a light snowfall. The mood among the passengers was sober, subdued; the Moscow incident, the fighter escort, and our arrival at a military base rather than Murmansk International weighed heavily on us all. Three buses filled with explorers, scientists, and journalists, each lost in thought. What occupied the minds of these people?

The destination was not far, and soon we arrived at our accommodations: an apartment building designed for visiting officers. Luggage was already waiting in front of our respective lodgings, tagged with our names. Conveniently, Dr. Marino and Professor Ruderburg were across from my apartment.

The lobby of the building was small, its cork board bare except for faint marks where notes had once been pinned. A glass partition opened onto a brightly lit corridor leading to our apartments.

“Richard,” said Dr. Marino, flanked by Dr. Tanaka and Professor Ruderburg. “We are going to the library as soon as we get the access cards.” He added, almost in a whisper, glancing toward the entrance and the glass door to our apartments: “What if they change their minds?”

My apartment, furnished with a small table and chair, was austere but clean. The bed was comfortable, and on top of it lay an envelope inscribed: R. Hardenburg, Journalist, Canada. Its contents included precisely what was needed, a timetable of events, a personalized access card with my photograph and full name, and a map of the installation marked Authorized Areas. These included the apartment building, the library, the gymnasium, the theatre, the restaurant, and the conference center. All the authorized buildings were within close reach.

With my colleagues and our access cards, we headed to the library, a large building across a boulevard from our apartments.

The library had spacious reading rooms and was buzzing with activity. Most expeditioners were there, poring over documents, computer screens, and microfilm readers. If not for the uniformed personnel pushing carts with files and books, I could have mistaken the place for a college campus library on the eve of final exams.

Breathing in this new environment, I prepared myself psychologically to read declassified Russian documents about the 1959 Dyatlov Pass Event and the loss of Submarine K-88 Grom.

Now, aboard the Healy, and finally able to write freely, I find myself in the quiet of my cabin. Outside, the Polar Night presses against the steel hull, the wind lashing the deck with such force that even seasoned sailors tread carefully. Here inside, the hum of the engines is steady, a reminder of the fragile boundary between safety and the Arctic’s power.

It is in this solitude that I turn to the documents retrieved from the Northern Fleet library. Among them, one name emerges again and again: Captain Pyotr Alekseyevich Volkov, Third Rank, commander of Submarine K-88 Grom. His story, buried for decades, is now revealed in fragments, reports, testimonies, and classified notes. To understand the Soviet Anomaly, I must first understand The Man Under The Uniform.