A Russian Fathers Narrative
I watched as my son boarded the Moskva, proud and strong, unaware of what lay ahead. When the ship sank and he never returned, I was given no clear answers. I had to find them myself. And in the process, I uncovered something far worse than I had ever imagined. What I discovered wasn’t just negligence—it was systemic failure, decay, and political theater wrapped in military delusion. I now know, with certainty, that my son and many others were sent to die aboard a ship that should never have left port.
The Moskva was never ready for war. By February 2022, this once-proud flagship of the Black Sea Fleet had become a symbol of rot. Not a symbol of power. A relic. And yet, despite its known failures, our leaders chose to parade it into a missile engagement zone at the start of a full-scale invasion. They didn’t care about the men on board. They cared about what it looked like.
I held in my hands the official readiness report for the Moskva, dated 10 February 2022—just two weeks before Russia’s war against Ukraine began. It bore the signature of the ship’s commanding officer, Captain Anton Kuprin. It listed failures across every vital system: propulsion, navigation, radar, communications, weapons, and even basic firefighting equipment. The truth in those pages was appalling.
I read about the ship’s air defense systems—its S-300F “Fort” and OSA-MA missiles. Both were practically blind. They could not reliably track, lock onto, or destroy incoming threats. Key components were nonfunctional. Diagnostics showed test modes failing, indicators dead, circuits shorted, amplifiers degraded. The Moskva could not defend itself against modern anti-ship missiles, not from Ukraine, not from NATO. Everyone knew this. But no one stopped the deployment.
The command systems were equally broken. Navigation automation was incomplete. Radar arrays were unstable or offline. Fire control systems reported catastrophic drift and power errors. I read that even basic signal equipment had to be replaced—but the replacements had not even been tested or handed over to the crew. In other words, the Moskva went to war deaf, blind, and uncoordinated.
The engines and power systems? Exhausted. Gas turbines had long passed their safe operating hours. The fleet command even had to issue special telegrams to allow extended operation under “emergency conditions.” One main engine couldn’t even connect to the propeller shaft. The ship had to rely on backup systems just to move. That’s not a warship—that’s a floating trap.
Even the fire suppression systems—the one thing that could have saved lives—were broken. There weren’t enough breathing units. The few that existed weren’t equipped properly. Life rafts failed to inflate. My son and his comrades didn’t just face fire. They faced it without air. Without protection. Without escape.
The leadership knew. The systems were broken. They sent Moskva anyway.
They also lied. President Putin stood before the country and declared that conscripts would not take part in the special military operation. I took him at his word. We all did. But I know now—Moskva went to war full of conscripts, including my son. He was never pulled from the ship. He was never rotated to safety. He was offered a contract instead. Pressured to sign. When families asked why, commanders said certain posts “couldn’t be filled by contract soldiers.” Absurd. Criminal. My son wanted to finish his service and go home. He never got the chance.
I asked myself again and again—why was the Moskva sent into danger? Its missiles had a range of 1,000 kilometers. It didn’t need to leave Sevastopol to strike Ukrainian targets. Yet it was sent into the northwest Black Sea, into range of Ukrainian coastal defenses—Neptunes, Harpoons, Western intelligence and radar coverage. What support did it receive? Where was the satellite reconnaissance? The air cover? The naval screen? None of this is clear. What is clear is that it was exposed. And it was hunted.
I read the ship’s watch logs from February and March 2022. I saw how the crew responded to radio intercepts. How they raised battle stations over and over again. How they tracked threats, received signals from high command, and followed orders that put them right into the line of fire. They were ordered near Zmiinyi Island. Ordered to remain close to shore. Ordered to pursue small naval targets. All of this while operating under combat alert. The risks were known. And nothing was done to shield them.
Then came the fire. I asked myself if enough was done to rescue the crew. I know that evacuation systems failed. I know that many breathing units were defective. I know that the fire spread because the internal layout and safety systems were either nonfunctional or overwhelmed. I asked: Were wounded left behind? Were the bodies of those killed recovered? Or were they simply left to sink with the ship? And I still ask: Why was it not towed to Sevastopol, as reported? Was the decision made to scuttle it? And if so, who gave that order?
The Ministry of Defense released its version: a fire, an explosion, evacuation completed. But this was not true. Not in full. Not even close. The ship stayed afloat for nearly 30 hours. If there had been a full detonation of its combat load, it would’ve been gone in seconds. But it wasn’t. That tells me the main munitions didn’t cook off. That means it was something else—fire, command failure, abandonment, and cover-up.
So I ask directly:
Who sent a ship that wasn’t seaworthy into a war zone?
Who kept conscripts on board despite clear orders from the President?
Who failed to ensure air and naval support?
Who neglected to evacuate the wounded?
Who decided to let that ship sink rather than face the consequences of its condition?
The Moskva is gone. My son is gone. Dozens more are gone. Their bodies lie at the bottom of the Black Sea, and all we have are half-truths, silence, and ceremony. I do not want vengeance. I want truth. I want accountability. I want the system that killed my son to admit what it did. And I want others to know the truth before more fathers receive what I received: a closed envelope, a vague explanation, and a lifetime of unanswered questions.
The Moskva was not lost in battle. It was lost in lies.
And in my son’s name, in the name of every man who served and died aboard her, I say this: Only truth honors the dead. Only truth can stop this from happening again. And only truth can hold accountable those who, from behind their desks, condemned our sons to die aboard a ghost ship sent to war.
—Dmitry Shkrebets, father of Yegor Shkrebets
Flagship of grief. Voice of memory. Witness of betrayal.
