Mutiny: The True Events That Inspired The Hunt for Red October

Brezhnev and Grechko are keeping their distance from Gorshkov. The navy belongs to the admiral; in fact, it was he who almost single-handedly invented the modern Soviet maritime force, so that’s no stretch. But Gorshkov is on his own in this situation. It’s almost as if he has contracted the bubonic plague and no one wants to help him lest they become infected, too.

He has had no time to move from the small Kremlin office adjacent to Brehznevs conference room. The general staff has answered the recall, but all Gorshkov needs is the telephone that connects him with Navy Headquarters, with KGB Headquarters, and with Vice Admiral Kosov at Baltic Fleet Headquarters in Kaliningrad.

“I have recalled the Tu-16s,” Kosov is saying.

Gorshkov knows this, because fleet communications have been patched to his phone. “Why did you give that order?” he demands, though he has a fair idea of the answer.

“The Tupolevs are not needed. They’re too big, and not accurate enough for a ship as small as the Storozhevoy.”

“What are you sending in their place? The fleet will not catch up in time before the bastards reach Sweden, and they’ve ignored lawful orders from the KGB patrol boats.”

“A squadron of Yak-28s will be taking off momentarily. They’ll reach the Storozhevoy in about fifteen minutes’ flying time.”

Gorshkov thinks for a moment about the consequences of sending so many warships and fighter-bombers out into the international waters of the Baltic. Should one of the fighters fire on the wrong ship, a civilian, commercial vessel or, God forbid, a warship from another country, the situation could spiral totally out of control.

“Who will be in charge of the flight?” Gorshkov wants to know.

“The air wing commander Sergei Guliayev is personally taking charge,” Kosov says. He has been handed the responsibility for stopping the Storozhevoy, thus easing some of the burden from Gorshkov. And in turn Kosov has transferred some of the burden to an air wing commander. It’s called covering your ass, and Soviet commanders are consummate professionals at the game.

Defense Minister Grechko walks in at that moment and sits down across the table from Gorshkov. Grechko is sweating, though the room is cool.

“Keep me informed,” Gorshkov tells Vice Admiral Kosov.

“Yes, sir.”

Gorshkov puts down the phone and looks at the defense minister.

“Is the situation under conrol yet, Admiral?” Grechko wants to know.

“Vice Admiral Kosov is a good man. He assures me that he has everything under control, and that the Storozhevoy will be neutralized within the hour.”

Grechko sits forward all of a sudden and slams his open palm on the table, the noise fast and sharp. “Not neutralized, Admiral, destroyed!”

55. THE BRIDGE

The KGB patrol boat Smirnov has used semaphore flags, international signal flags, and red flares from a Very pistol. Just now an officer is on the port deck, just below the bridge, shouting orders through a bullhorn, his voice so highly amplified that it is distorted beyond all understanding.

Sablin stands at the port wing hatch. The officer with the bullhorn and the skipper and helmsman on the bridge can see his face in the window, just as he can see theirs. Less than fifty meters separates the two vessels. And now that the fog has lifted momentarily he can see the two other KGB patrol boats trailing one hundred meters aft.

It must be frustrating for them, Sablin thinks. They have been given the job of stopping a ship, but nothing they have done has had the slightest effect. He wonders what they will eventually put in their reports and how they will answer the questions from their superiors.

“Why did you fail to stop the mutineers?”

“Where was your initiative?”

“You are trained officers of the KGB; why is it that you didn’t carry out your orders?”

In some small measure Sablin may feel sorry for the men on the three patrol boats. After all, they are good Russians, just like the Storozhevoy’s officers and crew. He sincerely wishes that there were some way for him to help absolve the patrol boats’ crews for their failure this morning. But nothing like that is possible.

“Bljad,” Maksimenko swears softly. He’s done a lot of that in the past hour.

Sablin turns away from the window. “What is it now, Oleg?”

The same kid calls from CIC: “We should surrender now, Captain,” he says.

“You turned the radar on again?” he shouts into the handset.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I had to make sure. I’m showing war planes heading our way. Very fast.”

“Can you tell what kind of aircraft these are?”

“Yak-28s.”

“I know this name,” Sablin says. “I think NATO calls them Brewer. Are they jet fighters?”

“They’re bombers. Meant to attack ships like ours. They’re coming out to sink us. We’re all going to die.”

“We’re not going to die,” Sablin says sharply. “I promise you that no one will die this morning.”