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

In calm seas the two main engines can drive the ship to around 24 knots, but with the current propelling them downriver their actual speed over the bottom rises to 30 knots.

“We’re going way too fast, Captain,” Soloviev warns.

There is no other choice. They have to get out of here as soon as humanly possible. “Steady as you go, Viktor,” Sablin orders. “Keep us in the channel!” he calls to Maksimenko.

Sablin feels like a maniac on a carnival ride that has run amok. There is no way to get off.

Soloviev is muttering something under his breath. He is peering out the big forward windows trying to spot the lit buoys before they run over them or, worse yet, drift out of the channel. If he drives the Storozhevoy aground at this speed, not only will the ship sustain crippling damage, but it’s also a safe bet that there will be casualties among the crew. Possibly even deaths.

Maksimenko suddenly looks up from the hooded radar screen as if he’s just stuck his finger in an electric socket. “Eb tvoiu mat,” he swears, and he reaches up for a handhold to brace himself.

Sablin’s blood runs cold. “What is it?” he demands.

“A ship!” the sailor stammers weakly.

Soloviev spots the looming shape of a big ship directly in their path at the same time as Sablin and, before the order can be given, hauls the wheel hard over to the right.

The Storozhevoy heels sharply to starboard, probably well past twenty degrees, which is extreme even for a warship, and Sablin is only just in time to grab a handhold to stop from being propelled across the bridge and dashed against the bulkhead.

From below they can hear the sounds of equipment and loose gear flying all over the place, crashing into stanchions and walls with tremendous noises. Men are shouting in anger.

If they were under battle stations orders they would have taken preparations for such violent evasive maneuvers, but they’d been given no warning.

Sablin manages to regain his balance as the Storozhevoy looks to clear the very large ship now sliding rapidly off to port. He is a tanker leaving the dock and just coming into the fairway to head out to sea.

If Soloviev had not been paying attention they would have slammed their bows directly into the side of the ship. It would have been a disaster. The tanker would probably have exploded, and there almost certainly would have been the bodies of a lot of incinerated sailors floating in the river, but there would have been civilian casualties ashore as well.

“Bring us back into the channel,” Sablin orders softly. He’s suddenly not very sure of his voice. His mouth is dry.

Soloviev doesn’t say a word as he brings the Storozhevoy back on course.

Away from the lights of downtown Riga, it seems as if the fog has cleared a little. In any event, they are able to pick out the buoys marking the fairway by eye.

Sablin had planned to shut down the ship’s radar once they had cleared the river and were out into the gulf. He was enough of a naval officer to understand at least rudimentary battle tactics. If their radar sets were banging away, whoever the fleet sent out after them would be able to home in on them. Besides, Maksimenko was too nervous to do a very good job.

“Shut down the radar, Oleg,” Sablin ordered.

“Sir?”

“Turn the radar set off. We don’t want anyone picking up our signals.”

Maksimenko shuts off the power as Sablin picks up the intercom handset and keys the push-to-talk switch.

“This is your zampolit speaking.” His voice is broadcast to every compartment aboard ship. “All hands—boevaya trevoga—man your battle stations. All hands, man your battle stations.”

“But, sir, we have no rockets or ammunition,” Soloviev points out.

“It’s all right,” Sablin says calmly, the first major crisis behind them. “They need something to keep them busy.”

37. FIRSOV

Standing on the quay watching the Storozhevoy disappear into the fog, Firsov figures that if he had not waited so long to abandon ship and sound the alarm, none of this would be happening.

The petty officer who brought Firsov ashore from the submarine is still there on the launch watching the same thing. He and the two sailors on the crew cannot believe what they are witnessing. First the Storozhevoy crashed into a mooring bouy, and then he very nearly collided with a gasoline tanker leaving the dock.

The petty officer looks up at Firsov. “Pizdec, whoever is in command of your ship is a crazy man. He’s going to get your crewmates killed if he keeps up like that.”

“He’s probably already done so,” Firsov replies. He wants to tell the petty officer that if the skipper of the submarine, Captain Second Rank Leonid Svetlovski, hadn’t been so slow on the uptake, this could have been prevented.

As soon as Firsov had made it to the deck of the submarine, he ran aft to the sail, where he shouted up to the pair of sailors on the bridge on watch trying to keep warm.