Mutiny: The True Events That Inspired The Hunt For Red October (35 page)

The Ilyushin is an ASW turboprop aircraft, powered by four Ivchenko A1-20M engines, that operates from land bases to search for enemy submarines and either launch a torpedo attack or direct ASW surface ships, such as the
Storozhevoy,
where to direct their attack.

In addition to the three-man flight crew, the May-052 usually carries a complement of ten or twelve operational crew who man the airplane’s various sensors, including search and attack radars, the Magnetic Anomaly Detector (MAD), and a suite of Electronic Support Measures, some of which are connected to sonobuoys that could be
dropped into the water and others capable of detecting and pinpointing any sort of electronic emissions, from either radio transmitters or radar gear.

This early morning only three crewmen have been mustered, because 052 is searching for a surface ship, not a submarine, which is much harder to find. One is manning the Berkut Radar; the other two man the ESM equipment. If the
Storozhevoy
is actually in the river or even out into the gulf they will find him.

Barsukhov keys his throat mike to speak to his crew. “We’re just crossing over the mouth of the river; anything yet?”

“Infrared, negative.”

“ESM?” Barsukhov prompts.

“Sir, I thought I was receiving nav radar emission about two minutes ago, but it was brief. Soon as I came to it, the transmissions stopped.”

“Did you manage to get a bearing?”

“Yes, sir. I’m estimating a bearing of three-five-five.”

“Are you picking up any other contacts?” Barsukhov asks.

“Numerous contacts in the Irben Channel, plus the gas tanker we passed eight minutes ago, no other military targets emitting in the gulf, but—”

Barsukhov glances at his copilot, then holds the mike a little closer to his throat. “But what, Oleg?”

“This ship we’re looking for must be in some deep shit. Looking aft, I’m seeing emissions from just about every ship at moorings.”

“I’m showing heat blooms from every power plant,” the infrared operator breaks in. “Soon as we find our target I think the whole fleet means to sail downriver for the gulf. Something’s up, Skipper.”

“Well, let’s do our job and get out of here so that they can do theirs,” Barsukhov says. “And God help the poor son of a bitch when the fleet catches up with him, whatever he’s done.”

It’s still pitch-black outside and will be for several more hours before dawn arrives. The fog is thick enough that they cannot make out
anything on the surface. They are relying solely on their compass and on their navigation radar. It’s like flying over a field of cotton batting, dark gray at this hour.

“Stand by, Lieutenant. I have a possible contact, now bearing three-four-zero,” the ESM operator reports from aft.

“Can you say radar type?”

“It’s a nav radar. Definitely military, one of ours. Stand by.”

The May-052 is flying due north. Barsukhov tweaks the wheel slightly to port, adding a little left rudder, and the big Ilyushin turns gently to the left on a new heading of 340. Considering the top speed of a Krivak-class sub hunter and the
Storozhevoy’s
estimated time of departure from his mooring, this could be the target.

A minute later the ESM operator is back. “They’ve shut their radar down again, but I’m identifying the target as Bogey-One.”

It’s the designator for the
Storozhevoy
they’ve been given.

Barsukhov switches to his tactical frequency and keys his throat mike. “Ground control, this is May Zero-five-two, over.”

The ground controller at Riga’s Skirotava Naval Airfield comes back. “Roger May Zero-five-two, report, over.”

“We’re painting Bogey-One, say again, we’re painting Bogey-One, and will have a flyover in twelve minutes.”

“Say your confidence.”

“Confidence is high,” Barsukhov replies. “Target bears three-four-zero.”

“Roger, May Zero-five-two. Squawk seven-seven-zero-seven.”

Barsukhov’s copilot resets the aircraft’s transponder to 7707 and flips the send switch, radiating a signal unique to this particular aircraft. In this way his ground controller can pinpoint May-052’s position and from that locate the
Storozhevoy.

Their job is nearly done. They will fly out to the actual target and attempt to get a visual verification. But for all practical purposes the ship has been found.

“I think they’ve spotted us!” someone calls from the CIC, Combat Information Center. He’s at the Head net C search radar and he sounds frightened.

“Who has spotted us?” Sablin demands. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not sure, but when I had the radar on I thought I picked up a target aft and above us. An aircraft. As I was shutting down I got a spike, which I think was one pulse from an aircraft search radar. But I can’t be sure.”

Sablin has been dreading this moment from the beginning. “Too soon,” he says half under his breath. They need more time to get out into the open Baltic, into international waters where they should be safe. If need be, he intends to send his message to NATO. It would be nearly the same as defecting, but if it comes to that, Sablin figures he’ll need all the help he can get.

“Is it still there?” Sablin asks. He realizes now that he should have posted lookouts.

“I don’t know, sir. Not unless I turn on our radar again.”

Sablin considers the options. “Do it,” he orders.

It takes precious seconds for the radar operator to comply. “I have something!”

“What is it?” Sablin demands.

“It’s too fast for a helicopter. Probably an Ilyushin May reconnaissance aircraft.”

“Shut the radar down,” Sablin orders. His nerves are jumping all over the place. He is snapping his fingers.

The warrant officer from the communications room suddenly appears at the hatch. “Baltic Fleet is calling,” he says. He’s out of breath and clearly having second thoughts.

Sablin looks at him and then at the other two men on the bridge before he walks over to the VHF radio on the overhead to the left of the helmsman’s position and flips a switch. The radio suddenly comes to life.

“Storozhevoy, Storozhevoy,
this is Baltic Fleet Command. I repeat,
Storozhevoy, Storozhevoy,
this is Baltic Fleet Command. Respond, over.”

Sablin reaches for the mike but hesitates. He turns back to the young comms officer. “When did they start calling us?”

“Just now.”

“Nothing from anyone else before this message?”

“No, sir.”

The Ilyushin May had spotted them and radioed their position, and now they were being hailed.

“What will we do?” Soloviev asks.

Sablin takes just another moment to gather his wits. After all, isn’t this exactly what he had planned for? Hadn’t he considered the possibility that their departure would be detected?

He pulls down the mike and presses the push-to-talk swich. “This is the Soviet warship
Storozhevoy,
over.”

“Roger,
Storozhevoy,
stand by one, for Vice Admiral Kosov, over.”

Sablin’s gut tightens. Kosov is the Baltic Fleet’s chief of staff and is a reputed son of a bitch. Sablin keys the mike. “Roger, standing by.” Now it starts, he thinks.

The admiral is on a moment later.
“Storozhevoy,
this is Vice Admiral Kosov speaking. Let me talk to Captain Potulniy.”

“I’m sorry, Admiral, but Captain Potulniy is no longer in command,” Sablin responds. He looks over his shoulder as Seaman Shein comes through the hatch.

“They’re making a lot of noise,” Shein reports. “They want to get out.”

“You haven’t let them out, have you?” Sablin demands. It’s like an electric prod between his shoulder blades.

“No, sir.”

“What are you talking about?” Vice Admiral Kosov shouts. “Put the captain on, immediately! That’s an order!”

“I’m sorry, sir; I cannot do that.”

“Who is this?” Kosov demands.

“Captain Third Rank Valery Sablin, sir. I am temporarily in command of the
Storozhevoy.”

“Mutiny?”

“Sir, I have to announce that the
Storozhevoy
is no longer a part of the Baltic Fleet. This ship is now a free and independent territory, no longer under the authority of the Soviet Union.”

Soloviev, Maksimenko, and Shein are staring at Sablin.

“Now listen to me, mister!” the admiral shouts. “You will stop immediately and drop your anchor. This is a direct order. Do you understand me?”

Sablin hesitates again before he keys the microphone. Until last night and this morning he’s never disobeyed a direct order. He’s preached the Party line his entire career. He has been a good Communist. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I cannot comply with that order.”

“Report your situation, Sablin.”

“Respectfully, sir, I cannot do that, either.”

“You will do as you’re told—”

Sablin keys his mike, stepping over the vice admiral’s transmission. “Sir, since this ship is no longer apart of the Baltic Fleet, I am no longer under your command. I am no longer accountable to you. I have sent my message to the Soviet people, and now it is up to them to respond.”

“Sablin!” Vice Admiral Kosov shouts.

“Storozhevoy,
out,” Sablin radios. He replaces the microphone on its bracket and turns off the VHF radio. There will be no further communications.

Soloviev disagrees. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to switch off the radio, sir,” he says.

Sablin looks at him.

“We don’t have to answer. But if someone who wants to help tries to reach us, we should be ready to acknowledge.”

Soloviev is right, of course, and Sablin reaches up and switches the radio on, but he turns down the volume.

Gorshkov is seated at a desk in a small office adjacent to Brezhnev’s conference room, connected by telephone to Vice Admiral Kosov. The transmissions to and from the
Storozhevoy
have been patched to the telephone circuit. The Fleet Admiral has heard everything.

“It’s definitely mutiny,” Kosov says. “The man must be insane.”

“Da,”
Gorshkov replies dourly. This is not like the old days, when his officers obeyed their commands without hesitation. He’s heard that the Soviet navy is trying to learn a lesson from the Americans and British. The Soviet navy is supposed to become the “thinking man’s” navy, whatever that means. It’s a mystery to him, where the time has gone, and he has to wonder if the incident now unfolding aboard the
Storozhevoy
is a portent of the end of the Soviet regime, just as the mutiny aboard the
Potemkin
signaled the beginning of the end for the tsars.

“What are your orders, sir?” Kosov wants to know.

Gorshkov thinks that this will be a big responsibility for a mere chief of staff. But in this incident at this moment in time the responsibility will
be given to any officer willing to take it. “The order is to hunt for the
Storozhevoy
and sink him before he reaches Sweden.”

“What about the officers and crew? Surely not all of them have gone along with this insanity. Captain Potulniy is apparently under arrest. And there are others.”

“The mutineers have given up their right to our consideration, and Captain Potulniy should never have allowed his ship to be taken from him. Find the
Storozhevoy,
Admiral, and kill him. That order comes directly from Secretary Brezhnev.”

Kosov is momentarily taken aback. “He knows?”

“Yes, and in the next few hours half of Moscow will probably know,” Gorshkov says. “Carry out your orders, Admiral. Quickly.”

“Yes, sir,” Kosov replies, and the connection is broken.

Gorshkov puts the phone down. Now that the order has been given he could drive back out to the dacha, return to his apartment on Arbat Street, or go to his office. But if there is to be an assault on the Kremlin, he wants to be here.

For the first time he’d seen genuine fear in the eyes of the Party General Secretary, and it was disquieting. It was like this during what the Americans called the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the fear was in Khrushchev’s eyes. And the reasons were the same: Both men were afraid of making the one mistake that not only would cost them their jobs but also could cost the Soviet system its very existence.

Russians are a passionate people. It had been decades since crowds had marched in protest in Red Square, but it could happen again. A military command structure is only as good as the willingness of its officers to obey orders. And any government, even one so powerful as the Soviet Union’s, is only as strong as the confidence of its citizens in the status quo.

The young mutineer aboard the
Storozhevoy
meant to destroy this confidence, by seizing the ship and sending his message to the people.

Thank God it had been broadcast in code.

But Sablin could very well discover that error and retransmit the message, this time en clair. That was the major reason Brezhnev had ordered the
Storozhevoy
found and destroyed, before the message was sent again.

It’s after six in the morning. Some of the officers are curled up on the deck, asleep, and Gindin wishes that he could be like them. He is bone weary, but he can’t shut down his thoughts about what happened last night in the midshipmen’s dining hall.

Sablin’s incredible speech, unbelievable then, is even more unbelievable now. Their only chance is to reach Swedish waters before Fleet Headquarters sends a force out here to either stop them or sink them.

Kuzmin, who’s been lying in a corner, gets up, comes over, and sits down on the deck next to Gindin. He looks just as worried as Gindin feels. “I can’t sleep,” Kuzmin says.

“Neither can I,” Gindin replies.

Kuzmin looks over at the hatch to the corridor. “It feels like we’re in the open sea.”

“I think so.”

Kuzmin nods toward the hatch. “Anything from those pricks with the guns?”

“Not for the last few hours.”

“Do you think maybe they’re gone?” Kuzmin asks. “I don’t mean from just out in the corridor, but maybe they decided to abandon ship. We could be down here all alone.”