heard		Steve Vai			The Ultra Zone
			The Pretenders			Learning to crawl
			deftones			white pony
			a perfect circle			mer de noms
			king crimson			the construcktion of light

 

Nechvolodov with all due respect to brave young men and valiant dreams (8-17) There are certain things -- as, a spider, a ghost, The income-tax, gout, and umbrella for three -- That I hate, but the thing that hate the most Is a thing they call the sea -Lewis Carrol     At the floor, there is nothing but tap, tap, tap. and suddenly, nothing that's happened to me seems like it matters all that much...   Lifetimes into this, I found my peace. Perhaps it is the time, the creeping maturity of realization, the way of things in the world. I'm not as cold as I used to be, and somehow I have found a way to shut out the harsh reality of what is outside, all around us. It's like a storm cloud, black and rough edged. In a way, I think I actually saw it coming, but decided to trust in the fates and see if it would just blow over. But that was not the case. Not even close. It's one of those facts that I probably should have thought of before I even allowed myself to get so involved in this thing. But somehow I wanted to believe that it would all be perfect, glorious, and for once in my life -- important.   "Alexi, come on -- it's starting again!"   My name is Alexi Nechvolodov, Seaman's mate. For six days, my crew mates and I have been trapped inside of our submarine, The Kursk. It's hard to explain what has happened to us. I'm not sure I fully understand it myself. All I know is that hell is not the lake of fires that I was told of. Hell is here, at the bottom of this chilled ocean, here with me. I had just finished an afternoon meal, waiting for my part of the training exercises to begin when there was a heavy thud somewhere down below my feet and the walls shuddered like someone was trying to crush The Kursk like the end of a used cigarette. It was as if the whole world had been slowed to a crawl. I can remember crew mates leaning their heads out into the hallway, looking for some sign of what had happened, some explanation that would calm the voices that were in their heads. Deep down, I instantly knew what was wrong, but just like the others, I stood there, waiting to hear that I was simply overreacting to the fears I had tried to ignore since accepting this assignment. I remember quite clearly the sound of Mikhail's voice as he finally broke the tense silence with a quiet voice, saying "What was that?" Suddenly there was a harsh blaring, and the alarms were going off everywhere. Red illumination replaced the suddenly gone light, and the entire ship began to shake. Frozen in our places, we all stood around, looking at the alarms as if they were going to give explanations, hoping against hope that the lights would return, and that the pallor that had suddenly gripped us would drain away, and we could all sigh relief. The air grew very cold, like a door being flung open on a stormswept day, and I distinctly remember my knees buckling a little under me. There were rules, procedures, techniques. Step by step plans we had gone over to the point of overkill. On training missions like this, you never know just what to expect, so you find yourself drilling on just about everything before you ship out. My role was very explicit, I was the one who was in charge of securing electrical shutdowns in my section, and then if needed I was to help lock down the bulkhead doors. But those bulkhead doors were two decks down, and even if I had been there, I doubt I would have reacted any differently than I did at that very moment. I ran. From what -- I do not know, to where I could not tell you. But suddenly I was not a sailor trained to assist in the operation of a nuclear submarine. I was a frightened child trying to escape the coming thunderstorm. I am ashamed to say that I did not look back. I did not call for Mikhail' to run with me, or for any other man in the hallway to save himself. I just ran. Terrified, I barely kept my balance as I scampered away from the cold air. There might have been others running, but I am not sure. All I knew was that I did not want to be in the heart of this submarine at this very moment, and that I had to get away. The rumbling down below seemed closer than ever, the chill in the air suddenly sinking down into my bones, pressing my lungs deep into my heart, making it hard to breathe. My ears popped with such force that I cried out in pain, but no matter the sting I continued to run. The alarms and the flickering lights, faces of men I knew but could not hesitate even a moment to realize who the faces belong to. I was running, climbing, scraping, screaming. I heard other calls, other noises. I wanted so desperately to look back over my shoulder so that I could see that it was a dream, a simple misunderstanding taking place in my sleep, the kind of nightmares that the more experienced men on board would tease you about. But I could not look. I knew there was no dream, no waking up. All at once a force like I had never felt before crashed into my back and swept my feet out from under me. I was, I was flying there for a moment, caught up in a cloud of watery spray. My fear turned to terror, and I am sure that some of that cold water I was covered in were my own tears. The force behind me was like a jet engine, pushing me forward with speed I could not comprehend. It was all happening at once, and there was no time to think. I began to scream, flailing my arms, calling for salvation from anyone, anything... Suddenly rushing towards me was a small opening, a bulkhead doorway, smaller than the hallway that I was being forced down. I could feel my eyes widen, realizing that if I missed the opening I would be crushed under the weight of the cold arctic waters rushing in behind me. Perhaps a while later I would have accepted that fate, not realizing what was to come later -- but I began to try and angle myself towards the quickly approaching opening. As it approached I saw a face standing on the other side, holding the edge of the door moving to close it. Perhaps he wasn't prepared to see me being flung towards him, or perhaps the ferocity of the maelstrom behind me froze him in place, but he simply stood there watching as I rushed upon him. I crouched my body into a ball, and as I did so the spell broke open for the man behind the door. I was lucky enough to fly though the opening just as he was starting to close it. I hit the floor of the hallway like I had been thrown from the side of a train, my body rolling out of control until I came into hard contact with a metal ladder against my arm. Suddenly bolts of fire raced through my body, and I knew immediately that it was broken. I looked up in time to see two sailors swing the bulkhead door closed, only to see it flung back open, hitting both of them squarely in the chest and flinging them backwards like toys being thrown by an angry child during a tantrum. The noise was overpowering, and I reached my one strong arm towards the ladder. Pulling with all my strength to get my legs under me, I was suddenly aware of a huge black shape moving though the door at ferocious speed. It covered the floor in a matter of moments, and began moving towards me. I was pulling on the ladder rungs with all my might, trying to get away from it, when I felt it push against my legs and force me slowly upwards. I heard the cries of me as I ascended, but could not not see into the dark water to find where they were coming from. As I was pushed up the ladder, I began to hear other voices, and suddenly there were hands gripping my shirt, pulling me up through a small hatch. I heard screaming, I heard a hatch close. My arm felt like it was on fire, and the ground beneath me was shaking with the power of an earthquake. And then, there was silence.   Complete   silence.   That was Saturday. Since that time there were arguments with shouting, cries of terror, and ever creeping madness. Several members of the bridge crew and some of the men like me who had been fortunate to find their way to the higher decks were cramped into three compartments, separated from the rest of the ship by heavy bulkhead doors frozen shut, and millions of tins of cold arctic waters pushing to get in. We have no way of knowing how much time we have left, or if there are any other parts of the ship that survived, or if anyone is coming to help us at all. 10 of us. All together like this. Officers and crewmen, suddenly equal in fear, trying to understand all that has happened to them. Many of these faces I have seen before, but most of these men are from the bridge, and I do not know them by name. We spent a long while not saying anything, a long while not even acknowledging each other's presence. I prayed, I cried, I tried to accept it. I imagined the others doing the same. Later the silence began to break down, with soft frightened conversations and introductions. My friend Pavel from the shipyards was in the sonar room, and he said something about explosions in the torpedo room, but after a while none of it seemed to matter anymore. What was odd though, were the two officers who seemed to have no interest in talking to the rest of us. They were officers I did not recognize, but they bore the heavy coats and decorations of rank. The older one was quiet faced, wrinkles surrounding heavy eyes and a full set of lips that moved slowly together, as if furrowed in thought. The man wore his coat close to his ears, with the collars turned up. The other man was raven haired and tall. His lips never fully closed, revealing bright rows of straight teeth. He kept his arms crossed, but seemed to have very relaxed shoulders. There was a sense of ambition in his eyes, but he would look away from anyone but the older man. They did not talk to any of us. The third day in, the older man set up a table, while the taller man found a chair and a supply case. The two of them sat there, facing each other in silence for a while. It was the kind of thing that called attention, and we all found ourselves gathered around them. "Do you know who they are?" I asked Pavel. "Not really, perhaps they are political officers, or something." "Yes, they do seem political, don't they." I said softly. Then, as quietly as they had assembled the table, the older man produced a deck of worn playing cards, which he handed to his partner. There was a quick sound of shuffling, and before we knew it, we were all watching as the two men held their cards in close folds near their faces, rearranging and ordering them quietly. The exchanged quiet glances now and again, but they did not speak. We asked them what the game was, and if we could join in, but it seemed as if they did not hear us. The older man pursed his heavy lips, and placed three cards on the tabletop, face down. Suddenly, there was a heavy rumbling under our feet. Pavel turned to me with a frightened look. The taller man with the ambitious eyes grinned briefly, and shuffled three new cards to the elder player. Then he considered his own cards a moment more, and then closed them into a neat stack in his left hand. He raised a boastful eyebrow at his opponent, and began to fan his cards out slowly again. The older player's lips clenched slightly, and his eyes turned to his own cards again.   There was another rumbling somewhere down in the lower decks. The younger man cracked a smile that showed off more of his teeth, and sat back a bit in his chair. Almost as if on cue, the older man leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, looking deeper into the cards with his silvery eyes. Many of us tried to peer at his hand, but could not steal a glance around the large fingers protecting his cards. Letting out a sigh, the old man laid his cards on the table, revealing a pair of nines, a jack, and two lower cards that led nowhere. With a shrug and a smile, his younger opponent laid down his play in a fast motion, more like a throw than anything else. Three Queens, an Ace, and the 10 of spades. I heard Pavel actually gasp at the sight of the cards. There was a terrible pallor that shrouded the rest of us. The floor began to rumble, and the lights seemed to dim a step.   "What is this nightmare?" Pavel said to no one in particular. I wish I could have answered, but I was watching the men at the table. Despite the growing cold in the air and the shaking beneath my boots, I couldn't take my eyes away from them. There was a slow, sick creaking sound -- heavy and metallic. It seemed to ebb and flow, distracting everyone's attention for a moment as we could feel the very heart of the submarine strain. I found myself staring at the single light bulb nearest to me, softly flickering with its own waning strength. I wanted to move towards it, to grasp the glass in my hands and feel it's warmth, but I found that between the fear in my heart and that monstrous sound, I could not move a muscle. Then, there was a shuffling of cards, and the horrible creaking came to an abrupt stop...   They have played 25 hands since then, trading victories with no apparent pattern or advantage falling to either side. Our time, our lives, all seem to be tied into those shuffling cards. Every time they stop to rest is more terrible than the last. The younger player has won a healthy share of the matches, and he seems to be tiring of the sport. I fear if he decides not to play anymore that we will all be damned. Strangest of all is that he has not drawn a single card in any of the games that they have played. Instead, he has stayed with his original hands, playing them whether they hold winning combinations or not. In the last three games, however, the combinations have been deadly. If the old man doesn't draw some luck soon, I fear that all of our tides will turn for the darker.   "Alexi, come on -- it's starting again!"   Terrified by his silence, Varya guessed what was in his mind. "You aren't going to volunteer now, are you?" Sanya nodded. He smiled diffidently, "I feel... sorry for Russia" -August 1914, Alexander Solzhenitsyn.