David Hagberg - Mutiny - The True Events That Inspired The Hunt for Red October

“This is a holiday; what’s the problem?” one of the other officers asks. Gindin isn’t sure who it is, but the others grumble their agreement.

There is a tightening in Sablin’s eyes, as if he is a little uncertain what to do next. Gindin has never seen this look of hesitancy on the zampolit’s face before, and it adds to Boris’s already tense mood.

Something wasn’t right. But Sablin was a senior officer and they had to follow the chain of command. If he said there was to be a meeting of all officers, then there was no questioning such an order. But all of them thought it was a damned odd thing just then.

All of a sudden Sablin stops his fidgeting and stands a little taller, his shoulders squared, his expression set. It’s as if he’s made a difficult decision and he’s just realized that it’s the right one. He blinks as if he’s coming out of a sleep, but he is not smiling, and this is the most disturbing thing of all. The Sablin standing in the middle of the room, facing the eight officers and six midshipmen, isn’t the Sablin whom they have come to know. He is a completely different man, all of a sudden.

“His face did not reflect any holiday mood,” Gindin relates. “There wasn’t so much as a hint of a smile, or some kind of friendliness, his usual sociable self. Nothing like that. He was different. It was like seeing another side of him that we’d never seen before.”

Gindin looks around the room at the other officers, and he can see that they share his misgivings.

“What I am saying to you tonight, and what I am asking you to do, is not a betrayal of the Rodina. I want to make that very clear. I’m simply making a political declaration about the bureaucracy and the corruption that has taken over our country.

“Everyone here knows exactly what I am talking about. The great principles of Marx and Lenin have been totally perverted by the Central Committee of the Communist Party.”

Gindin cannot believe what he is hearing. He glances over at Firsov and then at the other officers, and he can see by their expressions that they are as confused as he is. Is this some sort of a test that Sablin is giving them? To find out how deep their loyalty to the Motherland runs?

“You know that all Russians are not treated equally. You can see that very problem here aboard ship, and everywhere you go you can see that the poor dumb muzhiks never have their day in court. They never have the same rights as we do.”

Firsov catches Gindin’s eye and he shrugs. Eb tvoiu mat, what the fuck is going on?

Gindin shakes his head, completely baffled. It’s even possible that Sablin has lost his mind. It’s happened to other sailors and officers during or just after a difficult rotation. Maybe Sablin is having troubles at home with his family. Maybe he’s just found out that he has an illness. Maybe cancer.

“Each of us has to admit, to honestly confess, that we have no control whatsoever over what happens in the Kremlin or anywhere else in the Soviet Union. That means we can’t do a thing to help fix the problems the Rodina is faced with. We are powerless to force our state and political institutions to make right what is wrong.”

Gindin suddenly begins to get a glimmer of where Sablin is going with this speech, and his blood runs cold. There is a sharp, hard knot in the pit of his stomach that feels like a ball of molten steel.

For the first time in his life Gindin is truly frightened to the depth of his soul. Not only for himself but also for all of his fellow officers in this room, including Sablin, who most certainly has lost his mind to even hint at criticizing the Party.

It’s treason!

“I have studied the problem for a long time. Our leaders over the past fifty years have done nothing more than produce a system in which the Russian people are trapped in a foul atmosphere where they are required to blindly follow orders with never a question.

“We live in a system of censorship and tyranny where everyone is afraid to make any criticisms of the Party, even though we can all plainly see that the Party has lied to us. Is lying to us!”

“Just wait a second,” someone from Gindin’s left shouts. Maybe it’s Kuzmin, but whoever it is, he’s angry.

Some of the others are grumbling, too.

Sablin holds up a hand for silence, and after a few seconds the room settles down.

“The system needs to be changed, Comrades. We are quick to make jokes, but we are just as quick to shed tears when we think of the future of the Rodina. The situation in our country has become dangerous. The Party tells us that everything is fine, yet the people can see that is a lie. The older people are afraid to speak up for fear of losing their pensions. And the young people like you know the difference between Party slogans and Party deeds.”

“What are you saying, Comrade zampolit?” one of the officers asks.

“The system must be changed in order for us to achieve the true democracy that Lenin promised us,” Sablin says, his voice clear and firm, totally without doubts. “The Party must be overthrown. It is time again for revolution.”

Gindin is more than shocked, he is stunned. No one talks about these things. No one is allowed, by law, to talk about these things. Even to think this way is treason. Even to listen this way is treason. To be in the same room with a man talking this way is treason.

Still, Gindin holds out the slim hope that the zampolit is merely testing their loyalty to the Communist government and to the Party. He is the political officer, after all, and it is his job to find out whom to trust. But not this way.

Sadkov is half off his seat, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set, but again Sablin holds up a hand to calm them down.

“How can you even suggest such a thing?” the doctor shouts.

“You’re the political officer aboard this ship! You’re a Communist and a member of the Bolshevik Party.”

“It’s because I am a good Communist that I am raising my voice—,” Sablin tries to interrupt, but Sadkov won’t hear it.

“Where were you raised? How can you even talk about these things?” Sadkov shouts. He looks at the other officers for their support. “This is against our country’s morals!”

Proshutinsky jumps to his feet. “Enough of this!” he shouts. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”

Senior Lieutenant Vinogradov gets up. He, too, has had enough, and he’s going to leave.

“Sit down!” Sablin cries. “Right now! That’s an order!”

For a very long, pregnant moment, no one in the room moves a muscle. But ever so slowly Sadkov sits down, followed by Proshutinsky and Vinogradov. Sablin is a superior officer. His orders are to be obeyed. It’s the same system in every military organization.

Gindin cannot comprehend what is happening. Everything he’s grown up with as a good Russian, everything he has been taught in the academy, and everything he’s learned aboard ship tells him that the situation he finds himself in is not possible.

Gindin wonders if Sablin is trying to defect to the West. It has happened before, though nothing was ever officially published about such treasonous acts. But everybody knows that things like that happen. And everybody knows what the punishment is. It’s called Russian insurance. Nine ounces. In other words, a 9mm bullet to the back of the head.

A strange, uneasy silence descends upon the midshipmen’s mess. Everyone is sitting down, looking at Sablin, and he’s standing up looking at them.

“I want to sail the Storozhevoy to Kronshtadt,” he tells us. It’s about six hundred kilometers to the northeast and is at the entrance to Leningrad.

No one says a thing. None of them know what to say.