On this day in 2000, 118 Russian sailors died at the bottom of the Barents Sea, and 23 of them survived the explosions only to be abandoned in the dark while their own government lied about it for a week and turned away the foreign divers who might have proven it. To understand the Kursk you have to understand what it meant. In the 1990s the Russian navy had rotted. Ships rusted at the docks, sailors went unpaid for months, and the once mighty fleet barely left port. The Kursk was supposed to be the answer to all of that. An Oscar-II class nuclear submarine, K-141, named after the largest tank battle in human history. It was as long as two jumbo jets parked nose to tail, it had a double steel hull, and it was engineered to survive a direct torpedo hit and keep fighting. The crew called it a floating city. The admirals called it unsinkable. In August 2000 it was the centerpiece of the biggest naval exercise Russia had staged in years, a show meant to tell the world the bear was back. On the morning of August 12 the Kursk was firing practice torpedoes at a battlecruiser. Then everything went wrong at once. A cheap, volatile torpedo propellant called HTP leaked through a faulty weld and detonated in the bow. The torpedo room flashed to more than 2000 degrees. 135 seconds later that inferno cooked off the remaining warheads in a second explosion so enormous that seismic stations across northern Europe registered it as an earthquake, and foreign submarines quietly monitoring the drill felt the shock through the water. The front of the boat was torn open and 24000 tons of steel drove into the seabed 350 feet down. Everyone in the forward compartments died almost instantly. But at the very back of the submarine, 23 men were still alive. They dogged the hatch shut, gathered in absolute darkness, and waited for the rescue they were certain their navy was already launching. One of them was 27 year old Captain-Lieutenant Dmitri Kolesnikov. At 13:15, roughly two hours after the blast, he began writing a note by touch because there was no light left. He recorded that all the men from the flooded sections had moved into the ninth compartment. He counted them. "There are 23 people here." Then the line that would break a country: "None of us can get to the surface." On the same scrap of paper he wrote something private to his wife, and a few haunting words about how dark it was, how slim the odds were, and how he hoped someone, anyone, would one day read it. Investigators later concluded the 23 probably did not last long. In the freezing black they were burning chemical cartridges to make oxygen, and one is believed to have dropped into the oily seawater sloshing across the deck, triggering a flash fire that devoured the last of their air. So the cruelest part is this. While those men were dying within hours, the Russian navy was telling the world they were alive and well for days. Because that is exactly what the state did. It lied from the first hour. Officials announced the crew was fine. They claimed rescuers were tapping steady Morse code back and forth with the trapped sailors. They insisted the oxygen was stable and rescue was minutes away. All of it was fiction. Their own rescue submersibles were rusted, half-abandoned relics that failed over and over to lock onto the escape hatch in the current and the near zero visibility. And rather than admit that their own weapon and their own decay had gutted the pride of the fleet, they floated a cover story to the public. The Kursk, they said, had probably collided with a NATO submarine spying on the exercise. A foreign hand. Never their own. Through all of it, one man was missing. Vladimir Putin, only four months into his presidency, was on vacation at his Black Sea resort in Sochi. He did not cut the holiday short for five full days. Pictures of the new president relaxing in the sun circulated while an entire nation stood at the shoreline begging for news of their sons and husbands. Years later he would admit he probably should have flown back, then add coldly that it would not have changed anything. The whole time, Norway and Britain were pleading to send their trained deep-sea divers and rescue crews. Russia said no. Again and again. For days it chose national pride over 118 human lives. When the pressure finally became unbearable and the Norwegians were allowed in, they did something that exposed the entire charade. The exact escape hatch Russian officials had sworn was hopelessly jammed and impossible to open, the Norwegian divers cracked open in a matter of hours. Inside, the compartment was completely flooded. Every man was dead, and had been for days. The lie was now a corpse-filled fact. Then came the moment that told you everything about the new Russia. When Putin finally went north to face the widows, the mothers, and the fathers in the bleak naval town of Vidyayevo, they did not thank him. They screamed at him, wept, and demanded to know why their children were dead and why help had been refused. As the cameras rolled, one grieving mother, Nadezhda Tylik, was jabbed with a sedative needle from behind and slumped in her chair mid-sentence, her fury chemically switched off on live television. The image seared itself into memory. Grief would not be permitted on screen. And Putin learned his lesson from the Kursk, just not the one anyone hoped. He decided the real problem was not a rotting navy or a botched rescue. The real problem, he concluded, was that independent television had shown the country the truth. Within the year the free Russian TV channels that had covered the disaster so relentlessly were pressured, seized, and brought to heel. The Kursk was not only a grave for 118 sailors. It was the opening act in the slow strangling of the free Russian press. Months later, sitting comfortably on American television, Larry King asked Vladimir Putin one simple question about the tragedy that had consumed his country. "What happened to the Kursk?" Putin paused, gave a small, cold smile, and answered in two words. "It sank." 118 dead. 23 who lived through the blast and were left to suffocate in the dark. A week of open lies, a fabricated collision story, foreign rescuers turned away out of pure ego, a mother sedated on camera, a free press marked for death, and a president who could not be bothered to leave the beach. The wreck was eventually raised from the seabed the next year, but something else was raised too. For the first time the entire world got a clear, unobstructed look at exactly who Vladimir Putin was and how he would rule. That was 26 years ago. He is still running Russia today.

May 1942. The fake water shortage that sank four Japanese carriers. By mid-May 1942, the US Navy had a problem. They had broken into the Japanese fleet operational code, JN-25, well enough to read fragments of it. They could see Admiral Yamamoto assembling something enormous. Four fleet carriers. A diversionary attack against the Aleutians. A landing force. The target was identified in every transmission by a single two-letter codeword: AF. Joseph Rochefort, the eccentric cryptanalyst who ran Station HYPO out of a windowless basement in Pearl Harbor known as "the Dungeon," was certain AF was Midway. He worked 20-hour shifts in a red smoking jacket and bedroom slippers because the basement was freezing. He survived on coffee and sandwiches passed in through the door. Washington disagreed. The Navy's main code-breaking section, OP-20-G, thought AF was probably the US west coast, possibly Hawaii itself, possibly even the Panama Canal. Admiral King in Washington trusted his own people. Admiral Nimitz at Pearl Harbor trusted Rochefort. One of them had to be wrong. Rochefort's deputy, Jasper Holmes, came up with the trick. Midway was instructed to broadcast a radio message in plain, uncoded English. The garrison's freshwater distillation plant, the message said, had broken down. They were running short of water and requested an emergency tanker. The message was fiction. The plant was fine. Two days later, American listening stations intercepted a Japanese intelligence transmission, encrypted in JN-25, reporting back to fleet headquarters that "AF is short of fresh water." AF was Midway. Confirmed. Nimitz now knew where, when, and with what. He positioned his three available carriers, Enterprise, Hornet, and the half-wrecked Yorktown, in ambush 325 miles northeast of the island. Yorktown had been hit at the Battle of the Coral Sea two weeks earlier and was supposed to need 90 days in dry dock. Pearl Harbor's shipyard repaired her in 72 hours. On June 4, 1942, in roughly six minutes between 10:22 and 10:28 AM, American dive bombers caught three Japanese carriers, Akagi, Kaga, and Soryu, with their decks loaded with fuel and ordnance for a strike they were about to launch. All three were burning hulks by lunchtime. Hiryu was sunk that evening. Japan lost four fleet carriers, a heavy cruiser, 248 aircraft, and over 3,000 men, including most of the irreplaceable veteran naval aviators who had attacked Pearl Harbor six months earlier. Joseph Rochefort was rewarded with reassignment. His rivals in Washington saw to it that he was pushed out of cryptanalysis entirely and given command of a floating dry dock in San Francisco. He spent the rest of the war repairing ships. He received the Distinguished Service Medal for Midway in 1986, ten years after he died.

May 1943. The month Germany lost the Atlantic in 22 days. In the first three weeks of May 1943, German U-boats sank 34 Allied merchant ships in the North Atlantic. In the same three weeks, they lost 41 submarines of their own. For four years, Karl Dönitz had been winning the war at sea. His wolfpack tactics had nearly starved Britain into surrender. In March 1943, U-boats sank 120 ships, and the British Admiralty privately concluded that the convoy system itself might no longer be viable. Then everything turned at once. Centimetric radar arrived on escort ships and patrol aircraft. Submarines that surfaced at night to recharge their batteries, the standard wolfpack tactic, were now visible from 30 miles away through fog and darkness. American escort carriers closed the "mid-Atlantic gap," the patch of ocean previously beyond land-based air cover. Very long range B-24 Liberators flew patrols from Iceland. HF/DF radio direction finders, nicknamed "Huff-Duff," triangulated a U-boat's position the moment it radioed home. Bletchley Park read those messages in near real time. Convoy SC 130 sailed in mid-May. Not a single merchant ship was lost. Six U-boats were sunk. On May 19, 1943, U-954 was depth-charged in the North Atlantic by the British escorts HMS Jed and HMS Sennen. All 47 crew died. Among them was Oberleutnant zur See Peter Dönitz, age 21. Karl Dönitz's son. Five days later, on May 24, Admiral Dönitz signaled every U-boat in the North Atlantic to withdraw. He wrote in his war diary, "We have lost the Battle of the Atlantic." He would lose his second son, Klaus, exactly one year later, in May 1944. Klaus was not supposed to be aboard the torpedo boat that night. He had volunteered, against orders, to celebrate his 24th birthday with the crew. The boat was sunk by British destroyers off Selsey Bill. By the end of the war, three out of every four men who ever sailed in a U-boat were dead. It was the highest casualty rate of any service arm of any nation in the Second World War.