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

“You want to be an engineer, I can get you into the academy,” Boris’s brother-in-law, Vladimir Simchuk, said one evening over dinner.

“Gas turbines,” Boris said. He’d already been having the dreams.

The St. Petersburg Military Engineering Academy is in Pushkin, but the locals call it Tsarskoye Selo because the last tsar had his summer residence there. It’s a lovely little town whose palaces and gorgeous parks, which are especially spectacular with the changing leaves in the fall, were created in the eighteenth century by the empresses Elizabeth and Catherine the Great.

Vladimir was in his fifth year at the academy and was doing very well. His grades were good, he was on the school’s weight-lifting team—a sport that Gindin had practically made a career of in high school—and, best of all, the head of Vladimir’s rota, or company, Captain Third Rank Spartak Svetlov, agreed to put in a good word for Boris.

The academy, which only dates back to a few years after the revolution, is located on a few acres of prime parkland near the Catherine Palace and was home in those days to fifteen hundred engineering students taking the five-year courses.

In order to be accepted out of high school, Boris had to take and pass five tests: verbal and written mathematics, verbal physics, literature, and sports fitness, plus an extensive physical exam. Dumb, sick students are not accepted. This is the elite school. He gets a decent mark in physics and does very well on the other four. His grades are good enough to ask for any five-year course of study he wants. Steam Turbines, Diesels, Submarines, or the newest, most glamorous, sexiest course of all, Gas Turbines. With gas turbines his advancement in the navy will be rapid, and once he retires his career as a civilian will also be all but guaranteed.

That was the easy part. The second, biggest hurdle was meeting with Admiral Nikolaev who was the head of the academy, and two of his officers: the faculty commander and the assistant for military training.

It was mid-August in Pushkin, pleasant, not too hot, the fall colors already beginning to show, when Gindin showed up for his interview in the school’s Administration Building. It was a big conference room with three large windows through which the sun streamed. Immediately to the left was a long table, behind which sat the three officers.

“You did well on your exams, Comrade Gindin,” Admiral Nikolaev complimented Boris. The admiral is an old man, in his mid-sixties, with a longtime active navy career behind him. The students think of him as a father, because he is stern but warm and friendly. If you have a problem, the admiral will listen.

The other officers on the interviewing commission weren’t so nice; in fact, the colonel who was Admiral Nikolaev’s assistant for military training had never served in the active navy and was a mean, condescending man. Everyone in the school knew that if you happened to meet him on the street, you’d better cross over to the other side before he noticed you, because he was sure to find some fault and send you to your rota captain for disciplinary action.

The main thing the admiral and his two officers want from Gindin is the promise that he is ready to dedicate his life to serving his country. That means dedicated to giving his life for the Rodina, Mother Russia. Shedding his blood for the Soviet Union if need be.

Gindin is young, just seventeen, the navy is the glamour service: prestige, an impeccable reputation. Its officers are considered to be a part of the Russian elite that got its start with Peter the Great, who established the navy and, therefore, Russia as a world power.

This moment is the very beginning of Gindin’s life.

“Da,” he enthusiastically responds. Yes, he will dedicate his life to the Rodina; he will shed his blood for the Motherland if called upon to do so. As a gas turbine engineer, taking care of the power plants aboard the newest, most modern ships anywhere on earth.

But he had not counted on one fatal flaw. Despite his Russian passport, the admiral and his officers know that Gindin is a Jew. It was his first, though not last, experience that being a Jew in the Soviet Union meant fewer choices. Here at the academy it meant that sometimes you had to step out of someone else’s way so that his career could advance.

“We have no room for you in Gas Turbines, Comrade Gindin,” the colonel says, with a smirk. “You will be joining the diesel facility.”

Gindin nods dumbly. No other choice is open for him, not really. The diesel curriculum is easier, but it has less prestige and less opportunitiy than gas turbines. And since the gas turbine major is tougher, only the guys who did the best on the exams get chosen. This knocks the wind out of Gindin’s sails, because he knows he did very well. But he keeps his mouth shut because no one here is interested in his side of the story. He figures that he should consider himself lucky that he was accepted at all. Lucky and grateful.