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

The crowds are usually split eighty-twenty between navy people and civilians. But everyone in Baltiysk serves the navy in one way or another, either in uniform or as a subcontractor or as a waitress in the Rossia. So every night the main topic of conversation in the packed restaurant is the navy. The faster the vodka flows, the faster the stories blossom, and the faster the guys grab any available girls and get up on the dance floor. As the noise level rises, so does the fun.

The Rossia is the place to be in Baltiysk. It has an atmosphere of relaxation and excitement. A secret place only a few hundred meters away from the ship that is light-years away from military duty, discipline, and responsibilities.

“Hey, Boris,” one of the waitresses calls when Gindin finally gets into the restaurant. She is carrying a table across the room, and he threads his way across the packed floor to where she sets it up.

She’s a pretty girl, with long blond hair, blue eyes, and a million-watt smile. She can afford to be extra nice; Boris would make a great catch. She brings him vodka, then herring and fried potatoes, pickles, stew, crusty bread, a quintessentially Russian supper, and he is in seventh heaven.

He has friends in the restaurant, and they have to wonder why he is getting such good service when they may have to wait for a drink or something to eat. But Boris is a regular, he’s an officer, he’s single, and he tips 30 percent.

That night in particular sticks out in Boris’s mind at this moment in the midshipmen’s dining hall, because of the warmth he felt. He was at peace with himself and the world. There were no difficult decisions to be made. No white or black backgammon piece to choose.

The waitress watches him that night, and at one point she comes over and lets him know that she gets off work at one in the morning. She’s interested. She would definitely like to spend some time with him. But it can’t happen. He has to be back aboard ship by midnight.

“Maybe another night,” Boris tells her.

She lowers her eyes in disappointment. “Sure, Boris,” she replies. She looks up and smiles. “May I get you another vodka?”

“Please,” he says.

After she leaves, he spots some friends, who join him for a few hours of fun. They’ve brought a girl, Olya, and everyone dances with her and sings and drinks and has something to eat. It’s not the most perfect night of his life to that point, but it sticks out in his mind right this moment, facing Zampolit Sablin and an absolutely insanely impossible choice.

22. SENIOR LIEUTENANT

Gindin’s thoughts are tumbling over one another now so fast it’s getting difficult to concentrate on any one thing, except for some crazy reason he fixates on how his fellow officers and sailors see him. It’s as if he’s looking at himself through the wrong end of a telescope. He’s way down at the end of the long tunnel, but he can’t make any sense of the details.

He’s always had what he feels is a good relationship with Captain Potulniy and just about everyone else aboard the ship. That includes the cook. But at this moment one incident sticks out in Gindin’s mind. He’s spent two days and nights fixing one of the diesel generators. He’s had little or no time to sleep, nothing substantial to eat, and he’s dead on his feet and hungry enough to eat a bear when he finally gets back to his cabin.

It’s late, well after the dinner hour, when he calls the officers’ galley and asks if the cook could send something up to his cabin.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but dinner is done. All the food has been put away, all the dishes have been washed, and the galley will not be open again until morning.”

“Okay,” Boris says. “I understand.” He goes to bed hungry that night. It’s not the end of the world, but a little something to eat would have been nice.

As it happens, the very next day the cook rushes to Gindin’s cabin. There’s absolutely no water—hot or cold—with which to wash the dishes. “We have to carry all the dishes and all the pots and pans back to the crew’s galley, where they’ve got water,” the cook complains bitterly. “It’s damned hard work, Lieutenant.”

Boris is combing his hair in the mirror and doesn’t even glance over at the cook. “I guess it must be very hard work. But I’m sorry; there’s nothing I can do about it.”

The cook knows better. It’s not that Gindin can’t do anything about the water problem—he’s the engineer after all—it’s that he won’t do anything about it.