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

Five of his crew are there, running the engines, checking the control panel, and Gindin’s blood boils. He trained these men. He stood up for them when the captain complained about missing potatoes, when they didn’t want to get out of bed, and when they got Dear John letters from their girlfriends. He even got them early leaves when they finished installing the five new diesel engines at the last refit.

This is how they have repaid him.

He raises his gun and points it at the ones near the control panel.

At this point he is drenched with sweat, and he thinks that it won’t take much of a push to start him firing.

“Get away from the panel!” he shouts over the din of the turbines.

All the sailors look up when they hear his voice.

“Get away from the panel!” Gindin shouts again. “Over by the wall. Move it!”

All five immediately follow his orders, with relief, now that an officer is in charge again, mixed with fear.

As soon as they are standing facing the wall, Gindin leaps to the control panel and starts shutting down the engines. Immediately the whine of the turbines begins to decrease and the deafening noise winds down.

Keeping the pistol trained on his five sailors, he snatches the ship’s comm handset from its bracket. “Bridge, Engineering.”

Potulniy answers immediately. “Is everything okay down there?”

“Captain, I’ve shut down the engines.”

“Any casualties?”

“No, sir,” Gindin says. “Not yet. What about Captain Sablin?”

“He’s been neutralized, and I’m in command again.”

“Have you contacted Fleet Headquarters yet?”

“There’s no time! We’re under attack!”

“You have to call them, Captain!” Gindin shouts. “Before it’s too late!”

“Stay at your post, Boris,” Potulniy orders. “I may need the engines in a big hurry.”

“Yes, sir,” Gindin replies, and he replaces the handset.

He’s in a quandary just then. He can’t run his engines without the help of his crew, yet he can’t trust them. They’ve stabbed him in the back.

He wants to lash out with frustration. Like Potulniy, he suspects that his naval career is over. There’s nothing any of them can do now to change what has happened.

Gindin glances toward the overhead. He hopes that the captain can convince the fleet that he’s back in charge and to stop the attack.

Potulniy is their best hope for survival.

70. SU-24 SQUADRON

“Do you mean to sink him?” Ryzhkov asks.

Makarov looks over at his copilot/weapons officer and nods. “We have our orders.”

They’re flying low and slow, a few hundred meters above the waves, at around 400 knots. They cannot miss. The Storozhevoy is on fire and circling to port a couple of miles to the west. Perhaps the ship is slowing down, but at this speed and angle it’s hard for Makarov to be sure. Anyway, what he’s told his weaps is true; they do have their orders to stop the traitors.

If it means sinking the ship and killing the officers and crew, then so be it. The air force did not create this situation.

Makarov keys his helmet mike. “Unit Three, on my lead, let’s finish this.”

They are the next wave of attack jets that have not dropped their laser-guided bombs.

This time the Storozhevoy has no chance whatsoever to survive. Within a few minutes he and his crew will be at the bottom of the Baltic.

“Fighter squadrons attacking the Storozhevoy, this is Captain Anatoly Potulniy.”

Makarov slams his stick hard right and full forward, ignoring the urgent voice in his headset, and his jet peels off to starboard in a steep dive toward the ship he means to kill.

In thirty seconds it will be mission accomplished.

71. THE BRIDGE

It’s obvious that the commander of the strike force heading toward the Storozhevoy either didn’t receive Potulniy’s radio message or has chosen to ignore it. Either way, five Su-24s are heading right at his bows and will be in a position to release their bombs in a matter of seconds.

His rage toward Sablin has been replaced with fear for his ship. Not fear for his own life but a genuine concern for the Storozhevoy and all who’ve sailed him—including the mutineers.

He keys the VHF radio again. “Baltic Fleet Headquarters, this is Captain Anatoly Potulniy. The mutiny has been put down. Cease fire; cease fire! I am in command of the ship!”

“Who is this?” the radio blares.

Potulniy recognizes the voice of the chief of staff. “Admiral Kosov, it’s me: Potulniy. Can you recognize my voice?”

The radio is silent for several ominous seconds. Potulniy is staring out the windows, the jets looming ever larger.

“Report your situation,” the admiral demands.

“The mutiny has been put down, and I have regained command,”

Potulniy says in a rush. “My engines have been shut down and we are slowing to a stop. Call off the attack!”

Again the radio is ominously silent.

The jets are less than one hundred meters out.