Chapter 4: Officers of the Over-the-Horizon Radar Station at Komsomolsk-on-Amur

Original: Глава 4 «Офицеры ЗГРЛС Комсомольска-на-Амуре»

The investigation had been underway for three weeks now. August had ended in a flurry of editorial work and attempts to gather further facts about the over-the-horizon radar station (ZGRUS). The more I learned about this remarkable invention of Soviet scientists, which made it possible to control airspace and cosmic space at astronomical distances, the greater my desire became and the more my journalistic fervor intensified to understand the problem of the over-the-horizon radar station and write a thorough article. There were no more anonymous phone calls. The relocation of my family's residence had finally freed me from fears for their safety. Thoughts arose that I had simply been frightened and nothing serious lay behind that call from the unknown man to the editorial office of the "KVS" magazine. Subsequently, such carelessness nearly turned out quite tragically for me. But that happened in 1995, on the eve of publication in the newspaper "Krasnaya Zvezda" of another article on the problem of the over-the-horizon radar station. But in early autumn of 1990, I was no longer thinking about the possible dangers associated with journalistic investigation of the tragedy of Soviet over-the-horizon location and the personal tragedy of its chief designer.

Of course, in the main command of the Country Air Defense Forces (Voyska PVO), they succeeded in obtaining unique information about who, when, and why had directly shut down the combat system of the over-the-horizon radar station, about the fire at the "Krug" facility with the enormous radar near Komsomolsk-on-Amur. But despite this, after my return to the capital and analysis of the obtained data, I nevertheless developed a certain dissatisfaction with that trip. As if something in the command headquarters was being concealed from me, they were in every way trying to provide one-sided information. They spoke frankly only about the most obvious aspects, carefully avoiding sensitive topics that might be of particular journalistic interest. I felt that there was a hidden layer of information that I was not being allowed to access.

In early September, I called Colonel Ivan Vasilyevich Yuvchenko in Kubinka, who, as one of my acquaintances told me, is now already in the rank of general. But then in September 1990, Yuvchenko in turn asked several counter-questions about the nature of the forthcoming conversation. Having received answers to them, he appointed a day and time for our conversation. True, at the same time he warned that he would invite several of his comrades from the military unit that ensured the activities of the Far Eastern over-the-horizon radar station to the conversation. For me, this was already a favorable sign—the opportunity to hear not just one voice but several.

The conversation with Yuvchenko and his colleagues took place in a military unit in Kubinka. This was already in the middle of September 1990. The officers spoke about the technical characteristics of the over-the-horizon radar station with surprising frankness for military men of that era. They explained how the system worked, what its capabilities were, and what vulnerabilities it had. They told me about the specialists—both military personnel and civilian engineers—who operated the station. One name in particular was mentioned repeatedly: Boris Yakovlevich Kuzminov, the chief designer of the over-the-horizon radar station.

Kuzminov, according to the officers, was a man of remarkable intellect and exceptional technical talent. He had spent nearly forty years developing and improving the over-the-horizon radar systems. His contributions to Soviet military science and technology were immense. But, as often happened in the Soviet Union, the outside world knew almost nothing about him. He worked in obscurity, in closed scientific institutions, on projects that were classified and secret. His name appeared in neither Soviet encyclopedias nor scientific journals accessible to the general public.

The officers also told me about the disasters and tragedies associated with the over-the-horizon radar station. There was an incident at one of the stations in the late 1980s when a serious malfunction led to a fire and explosion. Several people were injured, and some were killed. Military investigators had blamed the local commanders and engineers for negligence and poor maintenance. But according to Yuvchenko and his colleagues, the real culprits were design flaws that had been introduced during modifications made by other design bureaus without the knowledge or consent of Kuzminov and his team.

This was the first indication I received that there were serious problems within the Soviet military-technical establishment connected to the over-the-horizon radar station. Different design bureaus and research institutions, ostensibly working toward the same goal, were actually engaging in a kind of hidden competition and were sometimes at odds with each other. This internal conflict had real consequences—it could lead to poor design decisions, inadequate quality control, and ultimately, tragic accidents.

After that conversation in Kubinka, I became determined to find and meet with Boris Kuzminov. If he was truly the chief designer and visionary behind the over-the-horizon radar system, then his story was essential to understanding the history and significance of this remarkable technology. I began making inquiries about where I could find him. Through a series of contacts and recommendations, I eventually learned that Kuzminov had retired from his official position but was still living in Komsomolsk-on-Amur, where the main radar station and the Radiotechnical Plant were located.

In late autumn of 1990, I prepared to travel to Komsomolsk-on-Amur. This was a long journey—the city is located far in the Russian Far East, on the Amur River. Getting there required a long flight from Moscow and then a transfer to a local aircraft. But by that time, my journalistic instincts told me that this journey was necessary, that the story of the over-the-horizon radar station and its creators was a story that had to be told. I had already invested considerable time and effort into the investigation. It was now imperative to take the next step and go to the source.

The journey to Komsomolsk-on-Amur was itself an adventure. The flight was delayed, the connections were difficult, and the weather was bad. But eventually, I arrived at the city. Komsomolsk-on-Amur is a large industrial city, built in the Soviet era specifically to develop and exploit the natural resources of the Far East. It is also the site of one of the most important Soviet military-industrial enterprises—the Radiotechnical Plant (RTP), which produced the over-the-horizon radar systems.

Upon arrival in Komsomolsk-on-Amur, I quickly established contact with local journalists who had some knowledge of the over-the-horizon radar station project. Through them, I learned more about the city and the plant. I also received some important information about Boris Kuzminov—where he lived and how I might approach him. I was told that Kuzminov was a man of few words, somewhat withdrawn, but that he was willing to talk to serious journalists about his work. I was also warned that the security services in the city took a close interest in anyone inquiring about the over-the-horizon radar station.

This warning about the security services was sobering. But it did not deter me. I had already invested too much time and effort in this investigation to turn back now. I was convinced that the story of the over-the-horizon radar station was an important one, and that it deserved to be told. I decided to approach Kuzminov directly, through a mutual acquaintance who had agreed to introduce us.

The first meeting with Boris Kuzminov took place in his apartment in Komsomolsk-on-Amur. He was a man in his sixties, with gray hair, intelligent eyes, and a demeanor that suggested both reserve and a deep inner strength. He was not effusive or particularly warm in his greeting, but he was not cold or hostile either. He seemed to be a person who was accustomed to weighing his words carefully before speaking.

When I explained the purpose of my visit—that I was working on an article about the over-the-horizon radar station and would like to interview him about his role in its development—Kuzminov listened carefully. He asked me several questions about my intentions, about what newspaper or magazine I was writing for, and about what aspects of the over-the-horizon radar station I was most interested in. His questions suggested that he was cautious, but also that he was considering whether he could trust me.

After about an hour of this preliminary discussion, Kuzminov agreed to talk with me at length about his work. He said that he had spent his entire life developing the over-the-horizon radar system, and that he believed it was time for the truth about this technology to be known. He was not happy with the way the system had been handled in recent years—both by the Soviet military leadership and now by the Russian authorities. He felt that his life's work was being squandered and neglected.

Over the following weeks, I conducted multiple interviews with Kuzminov. He spoke about the history of the over-the-horizon radar project, beginning in the late 1950s when the Soviet military first began to seriously pursue the idea of detecting aircraft at ultra-long distances. He described the technical challenges that had to be overcome, the breakthroughs that eventually made the system possible, and the years of refinement and improvement that followed.

Kuzminov explained that the over-the-horizon radar station works by transmitting radio waves that are reflected off the ionosphere—a layer of charged particles in the upper atmosphere. These reflected waves can detect distant targets beyond the visual horizon. The range of detection depends on the frequency of the radio waves, the power of the transmitter, and the sensitivity of the receiver. The technology was extremely complex and required advances in many different fields—radio engineering, mathematics, materials science, and physics.

He told me about the international competition in this field. American scientists and engineers were also working on similar technology, and their progress was roughly comparable to that of the Soviet Union. However, the Americans had vastly greater resources—unlimited funding, the ability to recruit scientists and engineers from around the world, and a vast infrastructure for testing and implementation. The Soviet scientists had to be more creative and resourceful, finding solutions with limited resources.

Kuzminov spoke with evident pride about the achievements of his team at the Komsomolsk Radiotechnical Plant. The designers, engineers, and technicians had created several generations of over-the-horizon radar systems, each more capable than the last. The final versions of these systems could detect targets at ranges exceeding 4,000 kilometers with considerable accuracy. This was a remarkable technological achievement, accomplished under difficult circumstances and with limited resources.

But Kuzminov also spoke about the frustrations and disappointments of his career. He had seen his designs modified and sometimes compromised by other organizations that did not understand the technical complexity of the system. He had witnessed bureaucratic interference and political pressure that sometimes went against sound engineering practice. And he had watched as, in the final years of the Soviet Union and the early years of the Russian Federation, funding dried up and the future of the over-the-horizon radar program became uncertain.

One of the most significant revelations came when Kuzminov told me about the accident at one of the over-the-horizon radar stations—the fire that the military officers in Kubinka had mentioned. According to Kuzminov, the accident was not the result of negligence or poor maintenance by the station operators. Rather, it was caused by design flaws that had been introduced during unauthorized modifications to the system. These modifications had been made by another design bureau without consulting Kuzminov's team and without adequate testing.

The aftermath of the accident had been painful for Kuzminov. The military investigation placed blame on the local commanders and engineers of the station. No one seemed interested in investigating the role of the unauthorized modifications. Kuzminov had tried to present evidence of the design flaws, but his voice went unheard in the corridors of military power. This injustice weighed heavily on him and was one of the reasons that by 1990, he felt increasingly alienated from the military establishment for which he had worked his entire life.

As I continued my interviews with Kuzminov over several weeks, I gathered an enormous amount of technical information about the over-the-horizon radar station. But beyond the technical details, I was also learning about Kuzminov himself—about his values, his beliefs, his frustrations, and his vision. He was a man of principle, committed to his work and to the truth as he understood it. He was also a man who had sacrificed much for his country and who now felt that his sacrifices were not being appreciated or even acknowledged.

Kuzminov showed me technical documents, photographs, and diagrams related to the over-the-horizon radar system. Some of this material was still classified, and he warned me that I would have to be careful about what I published and what I kept confidential. He was taking a considerable risk by sharing this information with me, a journalist. But he felt that it was important for the world to understand what the Soviet scientists had achieved, even if the full technical details could not yet be revealed.

During one of our conversations, Kuzminov spoke about the future of the over-the-horizon radar station. He was pessimistic. The Russian government had no money to maintain and upgrade the systems. The young engineers and technicians who had been trained to work with this technology were leaving the country, seeking opportunities abroad or in the newly developing private sector. The Komsomolsk Radiotechnical Plant, which had once been a source of pride for Soviet science and technology, was now struggling to survive.

"If we don't get funding soon," Kuzminov told me, "the entire over-the-horizon radar program will collapse. The equipment will deteriorate. The expertise will be lost. And our country will lose a strategic capability that took decades to develop." His words reflected deep concern not just for his own legacy, but for Russia's future security and technological capacity.

I completed my interviews with Kuzminov in December 1990. By that time, the Soviet Union was in its final days. The Communist Party had lost its monopoly on power. The various Soviet republics were moving toward independence. It was a time of great political upheaval and uncertainty. In this context, my research on the over-the-horizon radar station and its chief designer seemed simultaneously very important and almost irrelevant—important because it documented an extraordinary scientific and technical achievement, yet seemingly irrelevant in a world that was being turned upside down by political change.

After returning to Moscow, I set about organizing and analyzing the extensive material I had gathered. I had conducted interviews not only with Kuzminov but also with other engineers, technicians, and military officers associated with the over-the-horizon radar program. I had visited the Komsomolsk Radiotechnical Plant. I had collected technical documents and photographs. I had a comprehensive picture of the history, development, and current status of this remarkable technology.

In early 1991, I began writing my article. It was a lengthy and detailed piece, attempting to present both the technical aspects of the over-the-horizon radar system and the human story of the people who had developed it. The article described Kuzminov's role as chief designer, the challenges he and his team had overcome, and the tragic situation facing the program in the era of the Soviet Union's collapse. I sent the article to several publications, but initially, it was rejected. Editors found it either too technical or too long, or they worried about security and classification issues.

Eventually, however, my article was accepted for publication by a technical military journal. The article appeared in 1992, under a title that referred to the over-the-horizon radar station and its significance for Russian security. It was well-received in military and scientific circles, though it did not reach a wide audience. Most ordinary Russian citizens had never heard of the over-the-horizon radar station or Boris Kuzminov. They were preoccupied with the economic catastrophe and political turmoil that was engulfing the country.

In 1993, I was contacted by the editors of the newspaper "Krasnaya Zvezda" (Red Star), the official publication of the Russian Ministry of Defense. They were interested in publishing a more popular version of my article about the over-the-horizon radar station, written for a broader audience than the technical military journal had provided. I agreed to write this expanded version, which would include more biographical information about Kuzminov and more explanation of the technical concepts for readers without military or engineering backgrounds.

As I was working on the revised article for "Krasnaya Zvezda," I attempted to contact Kuzminov again. I wanted to verify some details and to get his reactions to how I had portrayed his work and his role in the development of the over-the-horizon radar system. But I was unable to reach him. It appeared that he had left Komsomolsk-on-Amur. Some sources suggested he had emigrated—possibly to Southeast Asia, possibly to Europe. No one seemed to know exactly where he had gone.

The disappearance of Kuzminov was emblematic of what happened to Soviet science and technology in the aftermath of the Soviet Union's collapse. Brilliant scientists and engineers, unable to find adequate support or opportunities in their own country, were leaving. The brain drain was massive. It represented not just a loss of individual talent, but a loss of entire schools of thought, research traditions, and accumulated knowledge. Countries and institutions that had invested decades in developing scientific expertise were now watching as that expertise dispersed to the four corners of the earth.

Nevertheless, I completed the article for "Krasnaya Zvezda." It was published in 1994. The publication generated some interest in military and security circles, though it went largely unnoticed by the general public. A year later, in 1995, I experienced the mysterious phone call and the threatening visitors that had alarmed me so greatly at the beginning of this narrative. By then, I understood that the over-the-horizon radar station remained a sensitive subject in Russian security circles. My articles about this technology and about Boris Kuzminov, apparently, had touched on classified information or had otherwise provoked concern among military and intelligence officials.