Mutiny: The True Events That Inspired The Hunt For Red October (37 page)

The Swedish National Defence Radio Establishment,
Försvarets radioanstalt,
or the FRA, is responsible for signal intelligence and works closely with the Swedish intelligence service, the SI regiment. Ever since the middle of WWII, the FRA has been electronically eavesdropping on its neighbors, most especially the Russians.

The sophisticated organizations headquarters is at Lovon, just west of Stockholm, but it maintains listening posts at such places as
Ostergarn on Gotland Island, which is just two hundred kilometers to the west-southwest of the mouth of the Gulf of Riga.

At this moment the
Storozhevoy
is about 125 kilometers away, on a heading that would appear to be taking him directly toward Stockholm.

Doris Sampsonn, a radar intecept and evaluation officer at the FRA’s Ostergarn station, suddenly sits up at her console. The room is small and dimly lit in red. A half-dozen other Electronic Intelligence (ELINT) officers man their consoles; only the murmur of the air-conditioning fan and the muted hum of low conversations mar the almost churchlike silence.

Sampsonn is receiving a strong shipborne radar signal from the southern edge of the Irben Channel, and it’s definitely a military set. A Soviet military set.

The FRA, which is a civilian organization, works under the umbrella of the Ministry of Defence. They’d been warned early this morning of some unusual activity in the Gulf of Riga, on the surface and in the air. Also, they’d been given the heads-up that the Russians were filling the airwaves with all sorts of wild, frantic messages.

Something big is in the works, and all of Sweden’s military and civilian ELINT capabilities have been placed on high alert. It’s possible, no matter how unlikely, that the Soviet Union is making its long-feared run on NATO. But they have to be sure before they sound the alarm.

Sampsonn adjusts a few controls on her console and brings up a list of Soviet warships. Each ship’s radar suite broadcasts a signal that’s different from every other ship.

She is an experienced intecept operator, but it takes her the better part of a half hour to finally come up with a positive identification and exact location.

A hotline phone connects her directly with the ELINT duty operator at FRA Headquarters at Lovon. “Sir, this is Doris Sampsonn, intercept officer at Ostergarn Station.”

“Go ahead,” the duty operator replies crisply. It’s been a busy morning.

“I’ve identified the lead Soviet ship that just came out of the Irben Channel. She’s an ASW frigate, the
Storozhevoy.”
Sampsonn makes another adjustment to her console. “She is on a course of three-two-zero degrees, making thirty knots.”

“The bastard is heading right at us,” the duty operator said. “What’s her present position?”

Sampsonn picked it off her screen. “Fifty-seven degrees, fifty-three minutes north latitude, twenty-one degrees, ten minutes east longitude.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. She’s just the lead ship. There are at least one dozen military sets radiating behind her, moving out of the gulf. I think the Russians are chasing after the
Storozhevoy.
Or maybe it’s an exercise.”

“Let’s hope you’re right about the latter,” the duty operator says. “Keep a sharp eye.”

“Will do,” Sampsonn says. It’s been a long morning already, and it doesn’t look as if the situation will ease up any time soon.

Although it’s not part of her job to listen in on Russian military communications frequencies, Sampsonn’s ELINT console is capable of not only detecting and identifying radar signals but also intercepting Russian military traffic. Anyway, one of her many talents is a near-perfect fluency in Russian. She was raised by her grandmother on her mother’s side, who was from Leningrad. From time to time Sampsonn does a little eavesdropping on the side.

She dons a set of headphones and switches to one of the main ship-to-ship channels that Baltic Fleet Headquarters uses. Normally most broadcasts are encrypted, but this morning they are broadcasting in the clear.

The channel is choked with what sounds like the frantic messages from frightened men. Sampsonn sits forward and presses the headphones a little tighter to her ears, her heart starting to accelerate.

“What the hell is going on?” she mutters.

“Storozhevoy, Storozhevoy,
this is the coastal patrol vessel
Smirnov
off your port quarter,” the VHF radio on the overhead blares. “Immediately shut down your engines and prepare to be boarded.”

Soloviev and Maksimenko are looking at Sablin, waiting for him to respond, to say something or do something, anything.

But in Sablin’s estimation there is nothing they can say or do, except continue on their present course and speed. As soon as they reach international waters they will be relatively safe. But as soon as they can clear the Ristna peninsula on the western side of Hiiumaa Island they can start to make their turn away from Sweden and make directly for the Gulf of Finland, at the end of which is Leningrad.

Once they make it that far, no one in Fleet Headquarters or in Moscow will be able to misunderstand Sablin’s intentions.

Sablin doesn’t reach for the radio. Instead he goes over to the hatch that opens outside to the port wing, but he doesn’t go outside. Only KGB patrol boats have names; all the others merely have numbers.
The navy considers it a little pretentious to name such small vessels. Such a sentiment does not bother the KGB.

The
Smirnov
is a Pchela-class fast-attack hydrofoil boat capable of much higher speeds than the
Storozhevoy
can manage. He’s only twenty-five meters on deck, with a crew of twelve, but he is armed with four 23mm cannons, with which the gunners could take out the
Storozhevoy’s
bridge. He’s also equipped with depth charges that could be laid out ahead of the
Storozhevoy.

More important, the KGB boat has sophisticated radar and communications equipment. By now every military unit in the Soviet Union knows, or at least thinks it does, exactly where the
Storozhevoy
is headed: to Sweden, where Sablin and his mutineers mean to defect.

It’s galling to Sablin that he cannot make them believe he’s no traitor. But he knows that nothing he can say will convince them. He simply has to suvive long enough to make the turn toward Leningrad. But that seemes like a million light-years from here.

“Storozhevoy, Storozhevoy,
this is
Smirnov;
respond,” the order comes over the radio.

“Maybe we should answer them,” Maksimenko suggests fearfully.

“There’ll be no further radio messages from this ship,” Sablin says, not taking his eyes off the KGB boat.

He can see the
Smirnov’s
skipper and two others on the bridge and several crewmen on deck, two men manning each cannon. They mean business.

“Captain, we have two more patrol boats coming up fast from astern,” Maksimenko says from the radar set.

“How soon before they reach us?” Sablin wants to know. Another KGB crewman has come up on deck. He raises a light gun and begins signaling. It’s in Morse code, something Sablin was good at in the academy.

S-T-O-R-O-Z-H-E-V-O-Y, H-E-A-V-E T-O. P-R-E-P-A-R-E T-O B-E B-O-A-R-D-E-D.

Even three small patrol boats don’t worry Sablin much. It’s the aircraft probably on their way that bother him.

He looks up into the sky, but nothing is heading their way at that moment.

Perhaps his message broadcast to the Soviet people is finally having the effect that Sablin intended. For the first time since the radio message from Fleet Headquarters, Sablin truly believes they will succeed.

It’s a heady feeling.

A couple of KGB parol boats can’t do a thing to a warship the size of the
Storozhevoy,
and the fleet steaming through the Gulf of Riga will never catch up with them. He wants to dance a jig or clap his hands.

Wait until Nina finds out that he has succeeded. All of the Soviet Union will thank him, but what is even more important is his wife’s approval.

Brezhnev and Grechko are keeping their distance from Gorshkov. The navy belongs to the admiral; in fact, it was he who almost single-handedly invented the modern Soviet maritime force, so that’s no stretch. But Gorshkov is on his own in this situation. It’s almost as if he has contracted the bubonic plague and no one wants to help him lest they become infected, too.

He has had no time to move from the small Kremlin office adjacent to Brehznevs conference room. The general staff has answered the recall, but all Gorshkov needs is the telephone that connects him with Navy Headquarters, with KGB Headquarters, and with Vice Admiral Kosov at Baltic Fleet Headquarters in Kaliningrad.

“I have recalled the Tu-16s,” Kosov is saying.

Gorshkov knows this, because fleet communications have been patched to his phone. “Why did you give that order?” he demands, though he has a fair idea of the answer.

“The Tupolevs are not needed. They’re too big, and not accurate enough for a ship as small as the
Storozhevoy.”

“What are you sending in their place? The fleet will not catch up in time before the bastards reach Sweden, and they’ve ignored lawful orders from the KGB patrol boats.”

“A squadron of Yak-28s will be taking off momentarily. They’ll reach the
Storozhevoy
in about fifteen minutes’ flying time.”

Gorshkov thinks for a moment about the consequences of sending so many warships and fighter-bombers out into the international waters of the Baltic. Should one of the fighters fire on the wrong ship, a civilian, commercial vessel or, God forbid, a warship from another country, the situation could spiral totally out of control.

“Who will be in charge of the flight?” Gorshkov wants to know.

“The air wing commander Sergei Guliayev is personally taking charge,” Kosov says. He has been handed the responsibility for stopping the
Storozhevoy,
thus easing some of the burden from Gorshkov. And in turn Kosov has transferred some of the burden to an air wing commander. It’s called covering your ass, and Soviet commanders are consummate professionals at the game.

Defense Minister Grechko walks in at that moment and sits down across the table from Gorshkov. Grechko is sweating, though the room is cool.

“Keep me informed,” Gorshkov tells Vice Admiral Kosov.

“Yes, sir.”

Gorshkov puts down the phone and looks at the defense minister.

“Is the situation under conrol yet, Admiral?” Grechko wants to know.

“Vice Admiral Kosov is a good man. He assures me that he has everything under control, and that the
Storozhevoy
will be neutralized within the hour.”

Grechko sits forward all of a sudden and slams his open palm on the table, the noise fast and sharp. “Not neutralized, Admiral, destroyed!”

The KGB patrol boat
Smirnov
has used semaphore flags, international signal flags, and red flares from a Very pistol. Just now an officer is on the port deck, just below the bridge, shouting orders through a bullhorn, his voice so highly amplified that it is distorted beyond all understanding.

Sablin stands at the port wing hatch. The officer with the bullhorn and the skipper and helmsman on the bridge can see his face in the window, just as he can see theirs. Less than fifty meters separates the two vessels. And now that the fog has lifted momentarily he can see the two other KGB patrol boats trailing one hundred meters aft.

It must be frustrating for them, Sablin thinks. They have been given the job of stopping a ship, but nothing they have done has had the slightest effect. He wonders what they will eventually put in their reports and how they will answer the questions from their superiors.

“Why did you fail to stop the mutineers?”

“Where was your initiative?”

“You are trained officers of the KGB; why is it that you didn’t carry out your orders?”

In some small measure Sablin may feel sorry for the men on the three patrol boats. After all, they are good Russians, just like the
Storozhevoy’s
officers and crew. He sincerely wishes that there were some way for him to help absolve the patrol boats’ crews for their failure this morning. But nothing like that is possible.

“Bljad,”
Maksimenko swears softly. He’s done a lot of that in the past hour.

Sablin turns away from the window. “What is it now, Oleg?”

The same kid calls from CIC: “We should surrender now, Captain,” he says.

“You turned the radar on again?” he shouts into the handset.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I had to make sure. I’m showing war planes heading our way. Very fast.”

“Can you tell what kind of aircraft these are?”

“Yak-28s.”

“I know this name,” Sablin says. “I think NATO calls them Brewer. Are they jet fighters?”

“They’re bombers. Meant to attack ships like ours. They’re coming out to sink us. We’re all going to die.”

“We’re not going to die,” Sablin says sharply. “I promise you that no one will die this morning.”

“If we don’t follow their orders, if we don’t heave to right now and let the KGB board us, they’ll drop bombs until we sink to the bottom and drown.”

“If someone was going to attack us, the KGB boats out there would already have put warning shots across our bows.” Sablin looks out at the KGB vessel alongside. “They could also put a few cannon rounds through our windows and destroy us and the bridge, but they haven’t done that, either.” He looks over at Shein. “I’m telling all of you that no Russian will fire on this ship.”

“I don’t know …” The CIC operator trails off.

“If the tables were reversed would we shoot at another Russian ship?” Sablin wants to know.

“If we were ordered to do it,” the midshipman says.

“Even if we were ordered to do it, Captain Potulniy would never pull the trigger.”

“He’s not here,” the boy says defiantly. “I say that we stop right now.”

“Well, I’m here,” Sablin retorts. “And we will maintain our course and speed.”