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

“A ship, which your squadron will stop,” Teplov says. He raises a hand to silence Makarov’s next question. All the pilots are looking at Teplov, some of them with their mouths half-open in astonishment. “This is not war, I assure you. Your mission is to prevent a war, and the orders come from Minister of Defense Grechko himself. Do I make myself clear?”

Makarov nods. “Yes, sir,” he says, though Teplov’s order is anything but clear.

62. THE BRIDGE

“Sir, it looks as if all the ships that were following us have fallen back,” Maksimenko says.

“Thank God,” Sablin says softly. Like everyone else aboard, he is deeply shaken. He had convinced himself that no Russian would fire on them. Yet the foredeck and starboard side are chewed up by cannon fire from one of the Yaks. And it looks as if one of the ships trailing them was hit by a bomb.

It’s insanity. What could those pilots be thinking?

“What about the aircraft that fired on us?” he demands, and he can hear the unsteadiness in his voice.

“They’re circling overhead,” Maksimenko responds. His voice is shaky, too. “They actually shot at us.”

“It was just a warning,” Sablin assures Maksimenko and Soloviev and Shein. “If they had meant to stop us or even destroy us they could have done it easily. But they didn’t.”

“I think we should stop now and surrender,” Soloviev says.

“Are any of the airplanes or ships making an attack run toward us at this moment?”

Maksimenko shakes his head. “No, sir. But I agree; I think that we should surrender before something worse happens.”

Sablin has been trying not to listen to the garble of radio traffic they’re picking up on the VHF set. But it’s impossible to ignore. Someone who identified himself as Minister of Defense Grechko has repeatedly warned the Storozhevoy not to sail beyond the twentieth meridian or they will be attacked.

But they’re still nearly one hundred kilometers away from that position. In any event, Sablin plans to make his turn to the north and then the northeast by then, to shape his course up into the Gulf of Finland and, from there, Leningrad.

If they can survive that long. Just a couple more hours.

He walks to the port wing and steps outside. The KGB patrol vessels are somewhere behind, lost in the fog that has persisted even though the sun is up. It’s very cold, and he thinks that he can smell the odors of exploded ordnance and hot jagged steel plating where the shells hit.

No major damage has been done, but looking toward the chewed-up foredeck he knows that Potulniy will go ballistic when he sees what has been done to his ship.

One reasonably clear voice comes over the VHF radio. It is a ship, and it must be close. “Storozhevoy, Storozhevoy, this is Patrol Vessel…” The name of the ship is garbled. “…now or you will be destroyed.”

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.

63. SU-24 SQUADRON

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.