Course Set: Franz Josef Land Archipelago

By Richard Hardenburg

British Samoa Times - Norport, British Salmoa

The lecture delivered by Professor Dmitry Alekseevich Romanovsky on November 9—the final academic event of the day—officially lifted the curtain on the Arctic theater, setting the Severnaya Zemlya Expedition in motion. It would now be up to this sophisticated troupe to deliver a disciplined performance rather than follies, worthy of the enormous expectations placed upon them.

A review of the lectures and seminars conducted in various classrooms throughout the day revealed the expedition’s precise technical composition. Experts in disciplines such as marine biology, chemistry, climate and atmospheric science, oceanography, glaciology, and epidemiology were well represented. More tellingly, I noted the presence of ROV operators, submersible crews, and specialists in nuclear and analytical chemistry among the expedition’s body.

Captain Leonov

As expeditioners began to leave the theater following the lecture, an announcement was made in all official languages of the expedition, summoning all participants back to their seats for a pre-boarding briefing.

Once everyone was seated and waiting, I noticed that the video crews were gone. No additional personnel remained standing along the walls. Their absence gave me an ominous sense that departure was no longer abstract—the final hours were approaching.

The absolute silence was broken by the assertive footsteps of three men entering the theater. They were dressed in FSUE Atomflot uniforms, each bearing the distinctive yellow bands of officers. I was startled to recognize one of them.

“Good evening. My name is Captain Igor Petrovich Makarov, and I am the captain of the Severny Polyus.” The man in the center spoke in calm, precise English. “To my left is Senior Assistant Captain Sergey Ivanovich Belyaev,” he continued. “He is my second in command.”

He paused, then added stiffly: “The man to my right is Captain Third Rank Anatoly Viktorovich Leonov. He has been recalled to serve in an executive capacity aboard the ship.” Gesturing toward Leonov with an open hand, he said, “Captain Leonov would like to say a few words.”

“Thank you, Comrade Captain Makarov,” Leonov began. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I will be acting as the principal expedition director aboard the Severny Polyus, and as liaison between this expedition and headquarters in Severomorsk at FSUE Atomflot.” He paused, allowing the statement to settle. “I have been recalled from the Foreign Ministry because I have served in the Arctic throughout my naval career. Captain Makarov remains the principal authority aboard Severny Polyus and retains full command. The ship’s current executive officer remains in his post. I am here solely as an advisor and liaison.”

The theater fell into a deep silence. It felt as though Captain Leonov were briefing a room full of naval officers rather than civilian scientists.

“I will take a small number of questions,” he said evenly. “There is much to do before departure at 0500.”

The room erupted into a tense, restless murmur as hands shot into the air. Captain Leonov pointed, selecting the first speaker.

“Are we part of a military operation?”

“No,” Leonov answered immediately. Then he added, without softening his tone: “Following the Moscow Incident, expedition leadership made real-time adjustments to ensure the success of this scientific mission. The expedition now has direct naval support. I am part of that support.”

He raised his index finger slightly, signaling finality. “One more question.”

“Can you explain the risk assessment process?”

Leonov looked down briefly, as if assembling his thoughts, then raised his head and answered without hesitation. “We are employing a two-pronged approach. First, during planning: identifying hazards, medical risks, training gaps, and security concerns. Second, through dynamic assessment in the field—continuously identifying hazards and evaluating their likelihood and impact in real time.”

He continued evenly. “We integrate multiple parameters and receive updated intelligence from several government departments throughout the expedition. This informs our contingency planning.”

A chilling silence settled over the theater.

“Comrade Captain Makarov will address you now,” Leonov concluded. “I will see you aboard the Severny Polyus.” He turned to Captain Makarov, exchanged nods, and exited the theater.

Last Preparations

Captain Makarov took a step forward. His face was noticeably more relaxed. “Captain Leonov already mentioned our departure time is 0500,” he said. “If you decide not to proceed—” he paused, allowing the thought to land “—you will be provided with transportation to Moscow via the Arktika train service, and from there you may make your own arrangements.”

He let his gaze move slowly across the theater, as if making contact with every face. It felt personal, as though he were asking a single question: Are you ready?

No one answered.

“Good!” he said sharply. “The Severny Polyus is open for boarding. Take only the essentials, including your personal computer if you brought it.” Then, with a faint smile, he added, “If your clothing is not appropriate, we can help with that. Dismissed.”

Onboarding the Severny Polyus

Captain Makarov turned to Assistant Captain Belyaev and spoke a few words in Russian, which Belyaev immediately relayed over his handheld radio. As they began walking toward the door, a long, reverberating horn blast—lasting nearly ten seconds—echoed from the Severny Polyus, followed by a public-address announcement in several languages.

“Attention, scientific staff. The gangway is now open for boarding.”

I did not have much time to linger in my apartment at the base. After grabbing my laptop, notebook, camera, and toothbrush, I locked the door behind me. Outside in the hallway, Dr. Marino, Dr. Tanaka, and Professor Ruderburg were already waiting. They appeared energized, their conversation a mixture of academic anticipation and pre-departure nerves.

“This is really happening, Richard!” Dr. Marino said.

“Marino-san, are you afraid of the Aten-Khem?” Dr. Tanaka asked, his tone mischievous.

We laughed, the tension easing briefly. Outside, we joined a growing stream of expeditioners moving toward the docks. For a few minutes, we forgot what we had left behind in Istanbul and Moscow.

As the Severny Polyus emerged through the light snowfall, its scale became apparent—a massive structure of steel and modern engineering, purpose-built to challenge the Arctic. The typhoon horn sounded again, a resolute ten-second blast that felt less like a warning than a summons.

The procession carried us to a brightly lit gangway, where a slow-moving line of scientists from dozens of nations waited to board. Overhead, a monotone voice repeated the same instructions in multiple languages, directing everyone to proceed to the auditorium for check-in.

Stepping aboard introduced an immediate sense of order. Crew members stood six to seven feet apart, facing us, their left arms raised to indicate the flow of movement, their right hands rotating in a silent instruction not to stop. They wore the gyuys—the distinctive square blue collar over V-neck tunics—revealing the traditional telnyashka beneath. The display was precise, almost ceremonial.

The human corridor ended at the doors of the auditorium. Inside, the space resembled a stadium more than a theater—severe seating, utilitarian design—well suited for a crew briefing rather than a lecture.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” a familiar face said from the platform. “My name is Senior Lieutenant Ludmilla Smirnov, and I am a coordinator for the expedition.” She spoke in English. She was no longer wearing her naval uniform, but the officers’ attire of Atomflot. “Welcome aboard the Severny Polyus. This is a brief orientation covering the next few hours before departure at 0500. We have favorable weather conditions.”

She took a few steps, then stopped and straightened. “We have an extremely tight training schedule ahead.” After a pause, she continued, her tone firm. “At the conclusion of this phase, the expedition directors will assess overall readiness and risk.”

She allowed the statement to settle. “During the next two weeks, we will conduct Arctic survival and field operations training near Franz Josef Land. The training will be intensive and physical.” Another pause. “My recommendation is that you proceed directly to your assigned cabins and rest.”

She gestured toward the exit. “After leaving this room, turn right. Crew members will guide you to the sign-in tables. Locate your name alphabetically. Your accommodation assignment is listed beside it. These assignments are final.”

T-9 Hours to T-6 Hours

“Ms. Hartwell. Ms. Marchand. Mr. Hardenburg.” Senior Lieutenant Smirnov called out as I was preparing to leave the auditorium.

I paused, turning to see two women standing nearby. It was immediately apparent that I was not the only journalist assigned to the expedition. Ms. Hartwell was accompanying the British scientific contingent; Ms. Marchand, the French delegation.

We gathered in front of Smirnov. “You are the three accredited journalists attached to this mission,” she said. “You have been issued special access passes. These permit entry to the bridge when authorized. If you are instructed to clear the area, you will do so immediately. Is that understood?”

We nodded.

“Space aboard the vessel is limited,” she continued, “but you have been assigned shared officer-grade accommodations for the duration of the expedition.” She paused, then added evenly: “You are observers. Do not interfere with operations.”

The Severny Polyus had begun its departure preparations before we arrived in Severomorsk. Understanding the rhythms of a vessel of its size is not straightforward. At T-9 hours, however, the Polyus had entered a brief lull, its crew focused on loading provisions.

Our accommodations were designed for four officers and included a small sitting area with a desk. After placing my laptop and handbag on a berth labeled with my name, I stepped back into the corridor.

“Where are we going?” Ms. Marchand asked.

“To the bridge,” I replied. It might be the only opportunity before the transit of the Kola Inlet.

Stepping onto the deck offered an immediate sense of the conditions: minus twenty degrees Celsius, enough to freeze moisture in the breath. A deep inhale triggered an involuntary gasp.

“Zashchitite golovu, pozhaluysta!” the deck master called out sharply. “Head protection, please,” he repeated in English, handing us bright yellow helmets.

Inside the bridge, the air smelled of strong tea and warm electronics. Consoles glowed green in the low light. “Tovarishch kapitan, posetiteli na mostike,” a sailor announced.

“Welcome to the bridge,” said Senior Assistant Captain Belyaev. “This is an appropriate time for a visit. Once we begin departure procedures, the bridge will be sealed.”

“What is involved at this stage?” Ms. Marchand asked.

“At T-6 hours,” he replied, “we are calibrating Arctic-specific navigation systems and satellite communications. Coordination is also underway with the Northern Fleet. They will provide escort during our transit of the Kola Inlet and for the initial passage into the Barents Sea. You will see two Krivak-class frigates today.”

T-2 Hours to T-00 Hours

At T-2 hours, the propulsion shafts began a controlled cycle, producing a low, steady hum. By 0400, all shore connections were disconnected. Inside the observation lounge, the air carried the smell of ozone and burnt coffee. Through the heated glass, xenon deck lights swept across the black water as tugboats moved into position.

At 0500, the typhoon horn sounded for ten seconds. Moments later, the Polyus began to move.

The Kola Inlet

At 0530 hours, the weather improved. Ahead of the Polyus, the glare of the xenon lights revealed the stern of the leading Krivak; its name was hardly perceptible: Neustannyy.

At T+1 hour, 0600, an announcement followed: "Return to your cabins and workstations. Immersion Suit Drill is about to commence."

T+7, 1200 hours — The Point of Departure

The observation deck monitor displays a position two hundred and ten miles from Severomorsk. From the vantage of the observation deck, the scale of the maneuver becomes clear. As the leading frigate peels away to the Polyus’s starboard side, the bow deck below swarms with sailors in a kaleidoscope of color-coded helmets. By the time I join the increasing crowd, the rear frigate has already claimed its station off the port beam.

The command comes from the bridge of the lead Krivak, sharp and final: “Vlyuchit' ogni.” For thirty seconds, the tactical blackout breaks. Orange and yellow deck floods snap to life, shattering the indigo gloom. In that instant, the two frigates are transformed; they cease to be menacing grey shadows and become glowing citadels of steel. Reflected off the jagged frazil ice, the light feels defiant—a brief, golden middle finger to the encroaching polar night.

Along the rails, the sailors are lined up in heavy black bushlat coats. They stand like iron statues, their breath blooming in collective white clouds. At exactly the thirty-second mark, the sentimentality ends with jarring finality. The lights do not fade; they vanish.

Then comes the Boyevaya Trevoga—the call to combat stations. The harsh, rhythmic clanging of battle alarms echoes across the ice, blending with the banshee scream of the frigates’ gas turbines. As the sailors scramble to their gun tubs, the ships begin an aquatic high-speed dance. One Krivak heels hard to port, the other hard to starboard, kicking up massive "rooster tails" of slush that glow ghost-white in the dark.

Within sixty seconds, the dance is over. The only thing left to see is the fading phosphorescence of the twin wakes, and then—nothing. The brothers have returned to the darkness, leaving us behind. The silence that follows is not the absence of sound, but the presence of the Arctic itself—a cold, indifferent weight that fills the space where the turbines’ scream had been.