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

Sablin and the others look up at the VHF radio as if it were a bomb on the verge of exploding.

“This is Captain Neipert from Liepaje; stop now, or we will fire on you.”

Sablin had never heard of this captain, but Liepaje was a Soviet naval base in Latvia. Sablin takes the microphone off its bracket and keys the push-to-talk switch. For just an instant he doesn’t know what to say. But then it comes to him.

“Listen to me, my friend. We are Russians together. We are not traitors to our Rodina. We will be changing course very soon, to the north and then the northeast. We are not heading to Sweden. We are heading to Leningrad.”

“Stop now.”

“I cannot do that.”

“Then change course now.”

“I will as soon as we reach the shipping channel,” Sablin radioed.

“Bridge, CIC,” the intercom blares.

Sablin grabs the hand set. “What?”

“I’m painting at least twenty aircraft approaching at a high rate of speed. I think they might be the new Sukhoi-24s.”

Sablin replaces the microphone, ending his conversation with captain Neipert, his heart in his throat. “I don’t know this airplane.”

“I don’t, either, but I heard one of the officers talking, maybe it was Lieutenant Firsov, saying that the navy might get the new jet.” Maksimenko looks up. “They’re ship killers.”

A shiver runs up Sablin’s spine. He turns to Soloviev. “What is our present course?”

“Two-nine-zero, sir.”

That’s almost directly toward Stockholm. But it’s still too soon to make the turn to the north. He has to make a decision, and make it fast, before those jets reach them.

Russians might shoot up their foredeck or even fire a few cannon shells into their side. But no Russian will destroy a Russian ship and kill fellow Russians.

It is an article of faith that will soon be put to the test.

“Steady on that course,” Sablin orders.

Captain Makarov glances over at Lieutenant Aleksandr Ryzhkov, his copilot/weapons officer flying right seat. This mission is totally impossible, and Makarov can see that Ryzhkov feels the same way.

Ten minutes ago they received their final orders. They were given vectors to the Storozhevoy heading toward Sweden. When they reached the ship they were to bomb him and send him to the bottom with all hands.

Even if the crew had mutinied and was trying to defect to the West, it would only be a matter of a few hours before the Swedes would send the ship home. If the Storozhevoy could somehow reach the United States it might be a different story. But Sweden would never go head-to-head with the Soviet Union.

“They have ship-to-air missiles,” Ryzhkov said on the way out. “What happens if we’re targeted and they shoot at us?”

“It won’t happen,” Makarov had replied gruffly.

“Da, Ivan, but what happens if they do?”

“In that case, we would have to drop our bombs. We wouldn’t have a choice.”

“Do we have a choice now?” Ryzhkov asks.

Although Sablin can see the blue sky straight overhead, the dense fog near the surface of the water persists. It must make it difficult for the aircraft pilots circling above them. Mistakes have already been made, and more are likely.

He’s gone back out on the port wing, and he can see the thick column of smoke rising up into the sky from well back. It was the ship hit by mistake. He sincerely hopes that there were no casualties, although he doesn’t know how that is possible.

It astounds him that Russians could fire on fellow Russians. It has seriously shaken his belief that they have a chance of pulling this off, and for the first time since this morning he is seriously considering stopping and surrendering.

He has been considering what sorts of arguments he can use so that he will be the only one punished. But he has come to the sad conclusion that everyone will be blamed for the mutiny, even Potulniy for losing his ship.

It’s the Soviet way.

“Captain!” Maksimensko calls from the inside. He sounds even more shaken up than he has all morning.

Sablin goes back onto the bridge. “What is it now?”

Soloviev nods toward the VHF radio. “Listen, sir.”

For several seconds Sablin has a hard time separating individual voices from the garble. But then it starts to become clear that he is hearing transmissions between the Su-24s and their controller back at Tukums Air Force Base, and between the squadron leader in the air and the pilots of the other aircraft.

“…leaving one thousand meters. We have to get lower; from up here we can’t tell one ship from the other.”

“You are cleared for low-altitude flight operations at your discretion,” another voice comes clear.

“Able Section, we go first, acknowledge.”

Several aircraft respond in rapid order.

“Control, Squadron Leader, request permission to release weapons.”

“Squadron Leader, Control, you have permission to release your weapons.”

“Able Section, arm your weapons. We have permission to release.”

Maksimenko’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “They’re going to attack us for sure this time.”

Sablin is at a loss as to what to do.

“Captain, what are your orders?” Soloviev asks. He, too, is frightened.

“Listen to this,” Ryzhkov says excitedly. He’s momentarily switched to Baltic Fleet’s tactical channel.

Makarov is about to push his stick forward to commence the attack run when he hears someone identifying himself as Minister of Defense Grechko.

“Storozhevoy, you will stop immediately. Do you understand?”

The squadron is approaching the point where Makarov must either start his attack run or do a fly-by and come around.

The Storozhevoy does not answer.

“Storozhevoy, this is Minister of Defense Grechko. You will stop immediately. Acknowledge.”

There is no answer from the ship.

“Captain Makarov, can you hear me?”

Makarov keys his helmet microphone. “Yes, sir.”

“You have my authorization to begin your attack run. Do it now!”

“Acknowledged,” Makarov says, and he slams his stick forward and to the right, sending his aircraft into a steep turning dive.

“They’re attacking us!” Maksimenko shouts, stepping away from the radar set.

Sablin has heard the radio messages, as well as the warning and orders from the minister of defense, with his own ears, yet he still cannot accept what is about to happen. Russians attacking Russians goes against everything he has ever believed.

Attacking traitors or officers guilty of treason is something completely different from what is happening here. The Storozhevoy is unarmed. He has no ammunition and no missiles with which to defend himself. The crew is helpless.

All Sablin wants is to send his message to the Soviet people and let them decide their future. Is that too much to ask the Kremlin? One voice among millions. Nothing more than that.

Something hits the starboard side of the ship with a tremendous bang that nearly knocks Sablin and the others off their feet.

Almost immediately more sledgehammer blows hit the ship, this time on both port and starboard sides.

Sablin looks up in time to see at least six jet aircraft bracketing either side of the Storozhevoy, bright pinpoints of lights coming from beneath the aircraft as they fire their cannons. The shells slam into the ship now so fast that it becomes impossible to think, let alone issue an order.

As the jets roar past just a few meters above the level of the bridge the banshee scream of the jet engines all but blots out even the noise of the incoming shells impacting against the ship’s hull.