When the final Typhoon-class submarine, Dmitry Donskoy, was eventually retired, it closed quietly the book on one of the most incredible pages in naval history. For decades, these massive underwater leviathans fascinated the experts and captured the popular imagination—not just for their enormity, but for what they represented during the tense Cold War years. The Typhoon was more than a technological wonder; it was a Soviet declaration of intent to keep pace, and possibly surpass, its American counterpart in the nuclear arms race.
The concept of the Typhoon was developed in the dark of increasing U.S. abilities. As the United States introduced the mighty Ohio-class ballistic missile subs, the Soviet Navy looked for its solution-one that would ensure a second-strike capability in a nuclear war. The outcome was Project 941 Akula, which NATO knew as the Typhoon class.
They were designed by the Rubin Design Bureau, led by Sergey N. Kovalev, and the first of these behemoths started construction in 1976. They weren’t merely a countermeasure, however: they were a testament that the USSR could construct something larger, more resilient, and more formidable than anything afloat.
Their figures alone were astounding. Stretching approximately 170–175 meters and weighing 48,000 tons when submerged, a Typhoon was bigger than most warships on the surface during the Second World War. But size was just one factor. The construction deviated from the norm by utilizing two parallel main pressure hulls, along with three smaller hulls for control and living quarters, all housed within a tubular outer shell.
This double-hulled configuration provided them with superb survivability—harm that would cripple some other submarine could be shrugged off by a Typhoon. Between the two principal hulls lay the actual teeth of the design: 20 behemoth R-39 Rif ballistic missiles, each carrying multiple nuclear warheads.
Conditions on board were surprisingly comfortable by submarine norms. The vast interior space provided amenities unheard of in the navies of most nations—crew members could swim in an infant pool, relax in a sauna, or exercise in a gym. There were no indulgences; they were necessities for crews of 160 men who spent up to four months under the ice. With its huge reserve buoyancy, Typhoon could crash through thick ice and re-emerge into the polar night, waiting for orders everyone hoped would never arrive.
The first ship, TK-208 (rechristened Dmitry Donskoy), went into service in 1981, followed by five sisters. Both were stunning examples of Cold War brawn, and their presence entered popular culture—the imaginary Red October of Tom Clancy’s novels was based on them.
Operationally, they sailed the icy seas in comparative quiet, serving as reminders of what was being risked in a nuclear confrontation. There were moments of tension, as when in 1991 there was an explosion of a missile on TK-17 Arkhangelsk, but otherwise their record was one of staid deterrence.
It was not due to combat that they ran out, but due to budgets. Following the fall of the Soviet Union, keeping these enormous machines running was prohibitively costly. Arms limitation treaties, old missile systems, and dwindling defense budgets all conspired to drive the class into retirement. By the 2000s, only Dmitry Donskoy was still operational, being used as a test bed for the new Bulava missile.
She tested the prototype in 2005 and continued to remain active for years, conducting trials and crew training. But with the growing economic pressures in Russia, even that use could not validate maintaining her in service.
Decommissioning a Typhoon is no trivial procedure. Every nuclear reactor has to be dismantled safely, and the thick steel hull—thicker than the majority of warships —is cut into sections. Now, Dmitry Donskoy lies at Severodvinsk with her retired sisters, Arkhangelsk and Severstal, waiting for that long and expensive procedure. The name will endure in a future Borei-A class boat, signaling the movement towards smaller, quieter, and more contemporary ballistic missile boats.
The Typhoon’s legacy is one of wonder and contemplation. They were the largest submarines ever constructed, unrivaled before or since, and a testament to an era when size and toughness were viewed as the ultimate assurances of national security. The oceans may be less noisy without them, but the legend of these Arctic monsters will live on for generations—silent, towering ghosts in the annals of naval warfare.