Mutiny: The True Events That Inspired The Hunt For Red October (29 page)

She was the
Windy Luck,
her skipper Arne Larsen. Early in the afternoon one of the crewmen spotted a small, open motorboat coming up behind them from the east. Larsen came out on deck as the motor-boat came alongside.

“Sind Sie Kommunists?”
the man in the boat shouted in German. Are you Communists?

He was the only person on the boat, and he appeared to be frightened
out of his skull and half-delirious with exposure and probably hunger and thirst.

“No, we are a Danish fishing vessel!” Larsen called back. “Where do you come from? What are you doing out here?”

“I’m from Lithuania,” the man explained. “I am defecting to Sweden, but I’m out of food and water and very nearly out of gas, and I’m cold and very tired. Can you help me?”

“Yes, of course!” Larsen shouted down to the man. He motioned for his crew to bring the man aboard and take the motorboat in tow.

“God bless you!” the defector cried. “Are we far from Sweden?”

“Only a few hours,” Larsen assured him.

“I’ve been making my plans for a long time,” the Lithuanian explained. “I thought I had enough gas and food and water to make the crossing. But I ran into a headwind, and the seas were too big, so I was slowed down.” He shook his head. “I would not have made it without you.”

The crew pulled in their nets as Larsen brought the bow of the
Windy Luck
around to the west on a direct bearing for the Swedish coast and increased power to cruising speed.

Within a half hour a fast-moving ship appeared from astern on the horizon. Larsen added a little more power, but it soon became apparent that the ship chasing them could not be outrun and that he was a warship. As he got closer Larsen identified the ship as a Russian Shershen fast-attack hydrofoil boat, and what’s worse, it was flying a green ensign with the hammer and sickle, which meant it was a KGB coast guard boat.

But these were international waters, so the Russians had no jurisdiction. Larsen did not reduce speed or alter his course, but he ordered the Lithuanian defector to go below and hide in one of the cabins.

Within a half hour the KGB boat pulled alongside the
Windy Luck
and an officer came out on deck and raised a megaphone. “Heave to!” the officer shouted in Russian.

Larsen ignored the command.

The officer said something to another officer at the open door to the bridge, and within seconds several sailors scrambled out on deck manning a pair of 30mm guns.

Suddenly the KGB patrol boat veered directly into the
Windy Luck’s
stern, just brushing her with a glancing blow.

“Heave to; we mean to board you,” the Russian officer ordered, this time in English. “If you do not comply we will open fire.”

Larsen threw up his hands. There was nothing he could do. He cut power, and as soon as his boat had slowed down, four Soviet officers armed with pistols scrambled aboard.

“We will search the ship,” one of them told Larsen.

“These are international waters!” Larsen shouted. “You have no rights!”

The officer smirked and nodded toward the KGB warship. “We give the orders here.”

Within five minutes the Lithuanian defector was found and brought up on deck.
“Auf Wiedersehen,”
he said as he was hustled aboard the KGB ship.

The KGB took the man’s motorboat in tow and within a half hour they were gone over the horizon. Poor bastard, Larsen thought. But at least that’s the end of it for us.

But that wasn’t to be the end of it, because the KGB has not only a long arm; it also has a very long memory.

Three weeks later another Danish fishing vessel, this one the
Thomas Moeller,
fishing for salmon well within Swedish waters, was rammed by a Soviet warship and nearly sunk. After the collision, the Soviets plowed through the fishing nets and then took off, not bothering to see if there were any injuries or to offer any help.

The incident was a clear warning to all Danish fishermen that trying to help Soviet defectors could be a very risky business.

If Sablin knows these stories and countless others of a similar nature, which he very well may have, he is not deterred as the mooring lines are cut and the engines are engaged.

The
Storozhevoy
shudders as if he is a racehorse that has thrown off his reins, heading toward a future that no one can predict, except that the KGB will undoubtedly play a major role in how it all turns out.

Sablin looks out the bridge windows, the fog still so thick that he can’t see much of anything beyond the bows. But there are enough buoys marking the safe passage downriver that making it out to the open sea won’t be impossible.

But only if their luck holds.

The problem Sablin faces is that if this business of his fails, he and his crew will either be destroyed at sea or fall into the hands of the KGB. The only hope is to get out into the open sea and send his tape by radio over the public broadcast bands to anybody who will listen. At that point their fate will rest in the hands of the people.

He signals for all ahead slow, and almost immediately the two marching engines spool up and the
Storozhevoy
begins to move.

Seaman Oleg Maksimenko is standing by at the navigation radar to help them pick their way downriver in the fog. But first they have to get out of the tight spot they are in, wedged between the Alpha submarine and a frigate, plus all the other warships and tenders at anchor or on moorings downriver. The tide is running out now, giving them a 6-knot boost in speed in return for taking away some of their maneuverability.

Petty Officer First Class Viktor Soloviev is steering the ship, and although he’s the best helmsman aboard, he is extremely nervous. All of them are a hairbreadth away from disaster, and he more than anyone
else aboard knows it. A collision with another boat under these conditions is almost certain.

“We must go slower, Captain,” Soloviev tells Sablin. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Steady,” Sablin orders. “Are we clear?” he asks Maksimenko at the radar.

“I can’t tell yet!” the seaman shouts. He is nervous as hell. This job normally would be done by a petty officer or even a warrant officer, not a rating. Maksimenko wants to be home planting potatoes in the garden, not taking responsibility for an entire ship like this. He looks up and Sablin is saying something. Maksimenko figures the only way he’ll ever get home to the garden is to do what he’s told.

“Can we turn?” Sablin shouts.

Maksimenko tries to make some sense of what he is seeing on the radar screen, but everything is confusing.
“Da!”
he calls out. “We may turn now.”

Sablin is also caught up in the moment, and he doesn’t stop to think that perhaps the sailor is merely telling him what he wants to hear. “Turn hard to port now,” he gives the order to Soloviev, who puts the wheel hard over.

The
Storozhevoy’s
bows come around smartly and there is a collision. They have hit something! Not such a hard blow that they will have to stop here or even sink in the river, but they have hit something.

The ship seems to shudder, then shrug off the hit, and immediately begins to accelerate into the left turn, which will put their bows facing downriver.

Sablin cannot live with the possibility that by his actions he not only has damaged a Soviet navy ship but also might have hurt someone. He tears open the hatch on the starboard side and rushes out onto the wing and looks over the side. They are rapidly leaving their mooring barrel and the Alpha submarine rocking in their wake. They evidently struck a glancing blow to the blue-striped barrel, but so far as Sablin can tell no damage has been done, and it’s not even likely that
the crew aboard the submarine has taken notice of the small wake. He takes a deep breath of the cold night air, as if it’s his last.

He steps back inside, relief washing over him at least for the moment. But they have a long way to go before they’re out of trouble. “Tell me when we’re lined up with the channel,” he orders Maksimenko. The buoys marking the path downriver will show up clearly on the radar screen.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” the sailor stammers. The collision was his fault and he is afraid of the consequences for himself.

“Don’t worry about it, Oleg. Just tell me when we are lined up with the channel. This is very important.”

“Da,”
Maksimenko responds, and he turns back to his radar set as the
Storozhevoy’s
bows continue to swing around to the north.

The bridge door is open to the corridor that leads aft and down. Even this far up Sablin can hear the commotion below. Each time the
Storozhevoy
got under way there was a great deal of activity as the crew jumped to their stations and carried out their duties. But this sounds different to Sablin. Not as ordered. More chaotic. It’s disquieting, and certainly not how he imagined their departure on what he thinks is a grand and noble endeavor.

“We’re coming into the channel now, sir!” Maksimenko calls out.

“Very well,” Sablin says. “Ease your helm, Viktor.” It’s the same kind of command Sablin has heard Potulniy give countless times before, only the captain never used an ordinary sailor’s first name.

Soloviev straightens the helm, and the
Storozhevoy
slips into the groove that will guide them the fifteen kilometers or so to the mouth of the river. From there they will have to get around the islands of Saaremaa and Hiiumaa before they will be well out into the gulf and where Sablin figures he will be able to breathe a real sigh of relief.

Firsov’s jumping ship bothers Sablin more than he cares to admit at this moment; he’s just too busy to think about it. But it’s there, like a nagging toothache that will not go away. Conning a ship the size of the
Storozhevoy
in the open sea is a piece of cake. Simply set a course and
speed, dial in the autopilot, and keep a sharp radar and visual lookout. But driving a ship down a narrow river, at night, in the fog, with a heavy current running, while all around are moored vessels and God only knows what other hazards on and below the surface, is something else entirely. This sort of an endeavor takes not only the cooperation of the entire bridge and engine room crew but also a knowledgeable, experienced man in command, whose entire mind is on the job at hand.

It’s something Sablin is not, and he is acutely aware of his lacking.

“We’re lined up with the fairway, sir!” Maksimenko calls out. He’s lined up the buoys on the radar screen.

“Are you certain?” Sablin demands.

“Yes, sir!”

Sablin reaches over to the engine telegraph and signals for all ahead full. It takes several moments for the gas turbine crew to respond, and he is just about to pick up the phone to call down there when the answering bells sound. The
Storozhevoy’s
engines spool up and their speed quickly rises.

In calm seas the two main engines can drive the ship to around 24 knots, but with the current propelling them downriver their actual speed over the bottom rises to 30 knots.

“We’re going way too fast, Captain,” Soloviev warns.

There is no other choice. They have to get out of here as soon as humanly possible. “Steady as you go, Viktor,” Sablin orders. “Keep us in the channel!” he calls to Maksimenko.

Sablin feels like a maniac on a carnival ride that has run amok. There is no way to get off.

Soloviev is muttering something under his breath. He is peering out the big forward windows trying to spot the lit buoys before they run over them or, worse yet, drift out of the channel. If he drives the
Storozhevoy
aground at this speed, not only will the ship sustain crippling damage, but it’s also a safe bet that there will be casualties among the crew. Possibly even deaths.

Maksimenko suddenly looks up from the hooded radar screen as if
he’s just stuck his finger in an electric socket.
“Eb tvoiu mat,”
he swears, and he reaches up for a handhold to brace himself.

Sablin’s blood runs cold. “What is it?” he demands.

“A ship!” the sailor stammers weakly.

Soloviev spots the looming shape of a big ship directly in their path at the same time as Sablin and, before the order can be given, hauls the wheel hard over to the right.

The
Storozhevoy
heels sharply to starboard, probably well past twenty degrees, which is extreme even for a warship, and Sablin is only just in time to grab a handhold to stop from being propelled across the bridge and dashed against the bulkhead.

From below they can hear the sounds of equipment and loose gear flying all over the place, crashing into stanchions and walls with tremendous noises. Men are shouting in anger.

If they were under battle stations orders they would have taken preparations for such violent evasive maneuvers, but they’d been given no warning.

Sablin manages to regain his balance as the
Storozhevoy
looks to clear the very large ship now sliding rapidly off to port. He is a tanker leaving the dock and just coming into the fairway to head out to sea.

If Soloviev had not been paying attention they would have slammed their bows directly into the side of the ship. It would have been a disaster. The tanker would probably have exploded, and there almost certainly would have been the bodies of a lot of incinerated sailors floating in the river, but there would have been civilian casualties ashore as well.