Mutiny: The True Events That Inspired The Hunt For Red October (19 page)

Not all men who go to sea are superstitious, but most of them are, and sitting in the midshipmen’s dining hall, facing Sablin, Gindin is
remembering that launching day on the dock at Yantar Zavod 820 with a certain amount of dread. Maybe he was right after all.

But that day in Kaliningrad there is no time for that kind of a sentiment. Nadezhda Potulniy swings the bottle again and this time it breaks, to everyone’s relief. Once the
Storozhevoy
is in the water the work gets more intense.

In the first place, the remainder of the crew come to live aboard, which means that in addition to testing, aligning, and adjusting the myriad of systems, the officers—including Gindin—must teach their sailors everything, which includes showing them where and what the equipment is, how it works, and what they need to do to service it. He has to prepare the written instructions for all of those tasks as well, explain where each man’s post is, what his responsibilities are, and what his duties are under every circumstance imaginable.

In addition to getting the ship ready for sea, getting settled in, getting to know one another, the officers must teach their three-hour political indoctrination classes every second Monday, come rain or shine, come commissioning or war.

Four months later they sail the fifty kilometers west-southwest to their base at Baltiysk, where Potulniy assembles his crew on the dock for a brief ceremony with the commander of the Division of Big Antisubmarine Ships,
Bolshykh protivolodochnykhn korablejj,
Bpk Captain Second Rank Gennadi Zhuravlev. They’re all wearing their holiday uniforms because the
Storozhevoy
is being formally accepted into the division and readied for the shakedown process that will finally get him prepared for his first rotation. The testing and training become intense. The sooner the ship is certified, the sooner he can put out to sea to help defend the Motherland.

The
Storozhevoy
spends much of his time tied up at the dock while his systems and his crew are shaken out, but he also puts out to sea in the Baltic, sometimes for just a few hours, sometimes for a few days, no matter the weather. Every single system, down to the last nut and bolt,
the last soldered connection, the last paper chart and pair of binoculars, the last set of parallel rulers, must be aboard and must be just right.

Then, finally, the blessed day the crew has been working for arrives. The
Storozhevoy
is given his final sign-off. His sailing orders. He is ready to put out to sea on his first six-month rotation.

The
Storozhevoy
is a warship.

When Gindin looks back on his twelve years of service in the Soviet navy it is with a certain amount of nostalgia and pride, even though his career ended badly and even though at its best his career was hard. There was almost continuous training, dealing with recalcitrant sailors, working long hours, no social life, putting up with the political indoctrination. Not very glamorous. In fact, at times Gindin had to wonder what was so good about the life of a Soviet navy officer.

“I always liked mechanics,” Gindin says. “It runs in my blood. I was never afraid to roll up my shirtsleeves and do the dirty jobs. I could work for hours and never notice where the time went. I enjoyed working with my hands. It wasn’t often you’d see people who were happy with their lives. But I was.”

Gindin has a growing love affair with the
Storozhevoy
from the moment he first lays eyes on him at the shipyard. Each time Gindin steps off the ship and walks away, he has to stop on the dock so that he can turn around and look at the
Storozhevoy.
Gindin knows everything there is to know about the ship, which makes him love him all the more.

To a true sailor a ship is more than just a collection of nuts and bolts, engines and pumps, wires and gauges, hatches and portholes, ladders and companionways. He is a living, breathing being that, very much like a high-class society woman, needs constant attention. That is perhaps why in most navies a ship is referred to as a
she.

The
Storozhevoy
is in the Atlantic on the way home from his first rotation. In addition to the two marching gas turbines and the two boost engines, there are five much smaller diesel engines aboard that provide electrical power. After nearly six months at sea one of the diesels has broken down, and Gindin has used all the spare parts he’s managed to hoard. The diesel will not run properly, so he shuts it down so that it won’t damage itself beyond repair. If that happens the engine will have to be scrapped and Gindin will have a lot of explaining to do.

He gives his crew strict orders that under no circumstances will they start diesel number three. But there are two problems. The first is that according to regulations these engines have a five-thousand-hour life span before they should be rebuilt or replaced. That’s about one six-month rotation, plus a little safety margin. As with all things Moscow dictates, if a piece of machinery doesn’t live up to its expectations, the factory where it is built will not be found at fault, but the men who’ve been given the thing will be held accountable. The fact that this engine quit before its scheduled time is Gindin’s fault.

His solution is simple. His men will continue to log the engine’s hours in the book as if it were running. That way when they get back to base at Baltiysk diesel number three will have performed up to expectations and can be rebuilt or replaced. This is another system in the Soviet navy that works, despite regulations.

The second problem is Gindin’s sailors. These are the same young boys who steal potatoes so they can have midnight snacks because they’re hungry. The same guys who carry heavy wrenches back and forth so that they can get out of work. The very same kids who won’t get out of bed in the morning because they claim their fathers are alcoholics. They’re country bumpkins,
muzhiks,
and
prostofiljas,
but they
are as curious and inventive when the need arises as they are usually bored. Just about every minute of every hour of every day and night of their lives is scheduled for them. They have to do something or they’ll go crazy. It’s called
ispytyvat’ sud’bu,
or, testing fate, pushing the envelope, just to see what happens.

It’s early afternoon of a lovely day. Gindin has gone up to his cabin to get a technical book when Igor Sheskin, one of his sailors, comes rushing up the companionway, all out of breath and red faced, screaming something about diesel number three.

Gindin jumps off his chair. “What are you talking about?” he demands.

“We can’t stop it!” Sheskin shouts. “It’s gone crazy!” He’s a blond kid with broad shoulders, one of Gindin’s best men. Sheskin is one of those born mechanics, a guy who knows how to use his hands.

There’s no time to ask questions. Gindin slams past the sailor and races headlong down the passageway and the stairs to the motor room. When he gets there, diesel number three is working like it’s been invaded by an evil spirit. It’s shaking nearly off its motor mounts, making crazy noises, belching smoke, and the RPMs are steadily increasing. The engine means to tear itself to pieces, and when it blows it will be like a bomb sending a spray of hot oil and jagged metal pieces in all directions. The motor room will be destroyed, and every wide-eyed sailor in the compartment will be cut to shreds. But none of these boys, not even Sheskin, know what to do.

Gindin has no time to think about the consequences. He rushes up to the engine and hits the
EMERGENCY STOP
button, with absolutely no effect. Diesel number three has a malevolent mind of its own.

He tries closing down the fuel distribution line, but that has no effect, either. Apparently the engine is siphoning fuel from one of the other distribution lines.

Finally Gindin yanks the handle that controls the air intake line, and almost immediately diesel number three begins to sputter and die, its RPMs slowly coming down and stopping.

The relative silence in the compartment is nearly deafening. Gindin is sure that his sailors can hear his heart slamming against his rib cage as he tries to catch his breath. He wants to tear into these guys. He’d given very specific orders that diesel number three was not to be started for any reason. For just
this
reason. If the engine had blown apart there would have been a lot of casualties down here, and all of them would have been on his shoulders.

At that moment he feels like slamming his fist in someone’s face. But Gindin is an officer and a gentleman.

Gindin has his sailors line up at attention and demands to know who started diesel number three and why. No one speaks up.

Gindin asks again, and still not one of his sailors speaks up.

Gindin has to go down the line, looking each sailor in the eye as he asks the same questions: “Did you start the engine, and if you did, why?”

Finally Andrey Bazhanov looks down and nods. “I did it,” he says.

Gindin holds himself in check. “I gave orders not to start diesel number three. Why did you disobey?”

“I knew something was wrong with the engine. I just wanted to see how it would work if it was started.”

Gindin reads the sailor the riot act. Bazhanov was young, he was bored, and he wanted to do something, anything, to make his day a little more interesting. They’re all warned that if something like this ever happens again, the guilty sailor will be court-martialed. Probably sent to prison!

Everyone learned a lesson that day. Gindin’s sailors learned that they were to obey orders at all times, and Gindin learned that he has to keep his ear to the ground and his eyes open so that he will know what is going on with his crew and his ship.

Another link has been forged in a chain that binds them together. Gindin does not report the incident to the captain. This hiccup in BCH-5 will stay there, and the sailors appreciate it.

The little incident will come back to pay big benefits at the very end of that same rotation when the
Storozhevoy
returns to his base at

Baltiysk. According to the engine logs, all five diesels have completed their scheduled life spans. They are to be replaced in the fitting-out process. This job, however, has to be done
before
Gindin or any of his sailors can go on leave. They’ve been on rotation for six months; everyone just wants to get off the ship, no matter how much they may love him, and go home.

Gindin reports to the assistant division commander who is in charge of all mechanical equipment. Replacing the five diesels should take one month, maybe a week or two more. It’s how long other crews have needed to get the job done.

“So, Senior Lieutenant, you may begin scheduling your crew’s leaves in thirty to forty-five days,” the guy says with a smile. “Good luck.”

Back aboard, Gindin calls a meeting with the six sailors responsible for the diesels to tell them that they can go on leave only after the diesels have been replaced. The sooner the job is finished, the sooner they can go home.

Everyone is eager to get started. This is a very well-motivated bunch of young men.

In order to remove a diesel engine from the ship, all of its supporting systems need to be disconnected, which includes the fuel lines, oil lines, air lines, and electrical cables. Gindin organizes a series of wooden crates in which the parts from each support system, for each diesel, will be labeled and stored after they have been thoroughly cleaned and checked.

Once that job is started, Gindin marches over to the building where the replacement diesels are stored and holds out a bag containing three bottles of
spirt,
the nearly universal Soviet naval scrip, in front of the depot manager.

“I want my five diesel engines delivered without delay,” Gindin says. “Is this possible?” Usually it takes three to four weeks for a delivery.

The manager grabs the bag and nods enthusiastically. “Lieutenant, if you give me twenty-four hours’ notice, you will have your diesels.”

Seven days later, the old diesels have been completely disconnected, and Gindin calls the depot manager, who is as good as his word. The next day his crew shows up with a lifting crane to remove the old engines and deliver the new ones.

Seven days after that, all the supporting systems have been reconnected and the five new diesels have been run up and checked out.

Gindin reports back to the assistant division commander that the work is done, but the guy doesn’t believe it.

“That’s impossible,” he sputters.

“Please, sir,” Gindin says, smiling. “Stop by yourself and check our work.”

Already Gindin has the reputation at Baltiysk as the young senior lieutenant who is almost always walking around with a grin on his face. The assistant division commander doesn’t have to put up with this kind of shit. “In the first place, Lieutenant, it takes twice that long just to get new diesels delivered, let alone installed.”

The grin on Gindin’s face widens. He can’t help himself. This is fun. “I insist, sir. Come see for yourself.”

The assistant division commander does just that, and he can’t believe his eyes. The five diesels have been installed, and they are running perfectly. Without another word he signs leave papers for Gindin and his sailors and storms off the ship and back to his office, wondering where the hell he went wrong.

The loyalty of Gindin’s crew is the barrel of still another gun that Gindin is looking down facing Zampolit Sablin in the midshipmen’s dining hall. The
Storozhevoy
may be his master, but his crew is the ship’s servant and Gindin needs to take care of both in any way he can.

But the situation is more complex than that. It’s not the ship, officers, and crew as separate entities that must work and live together. They’re three legs of a triangle,
ship-officers-crew,
that function together as a single entity. It’s another of the relationships that most civilians can’t appreciate at the gut level but that anyone who has ever served aboard a warship understands immediately.

At this moment on an early November evening aboard the
Storozhevoy,
faced with such a monumentally impossible decision, Gindin can perhaps be forgiven if he allows his mind to drift a little. He’s barely treading water in a monstrous ocean. In the troughs all he can see is black water in which he will surely drown. But at the tops of the waves he catches tantalizing glimpses of the base at Baltiysk, near enough to the home of the Baltic Fleet at Kaliningrad to be a safe haven.