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

Sergey Kuzmin, who’s the lieutenant in charge of BCH-3 sonar systems, wants to know what the hell is going on. According to Sergey, this sounds like one of Sablin’s little tricks. The pizda, pussy, has been sticking his nose into everybody’s business for the past five days.

Sergey Bogonets, who’d had Boris help play a trick on Bogomolov, storms out of his cabin, a deep scowl on his dark face. “The bastard wants to get back at us for the trick with the shower,” he says. “Just watch: When we get dressed up and back to the dining hall, there won’t be any meeting.”

But playing this kind of a joke on the ship’s officers at the end of a six-month rotation is a dangerous thing to do. There’ll be a lot of resentment that might spill over to the next rotation. What is not needed aboard a ship at sea, especially a warship at sea, is a group of officers who are holding a grudge. The safety of the ship depends on the complete and instantaneous cooperation of the entire crew.

But if it’s Sablin calling this meeting, then none of them have any choice but to snap to, like dutiful Communist sailors, and at least give the appearance of appreciating his lecture. The zampolit is the number-two officer aboard any Soviet warship. That means he answers only to the captain and no one else. And in political matters the zampolit is the supreme authority.

Curiously, the officers don’t particularly care for Sablin, but the sailors do, because this zampolit really listens and really seems to care about the welfare of the enlisted men. He’s an officer, but he’s sincere. The officers, however, who are educated, can tell the difference between being sincere and being genuinely brainwashed.

“Political classes were a fact of life,” Gindin says. “It felt foreign to us even though we’d been hearing the same things all of our lives. The lies we were being told never touched us, never got into our bones, never adhered to us. The classes were distant from reality, in a sense just another obligation.”

Most of the people aboard ship or in high school or in college felt stupid and degraded being forced to study this stuff.

Everybody knows it’s a lie.

But at the same time everyone lives the lie because it is the only life they know. “You believe in things,” Gindin says. “You are ready to put your life on the line for the ideals, and yet somewhere inside, maybe not consciously, but somewhere, you see things differently. But you can’t change things and you continue to live the way you are told to live.”

The story is that Sablin actually believes the Party line. He is an idealist who knows in his heart-of-hearts that a better life is just around the corner for all of them. If they just stick with the basic principles, if they just keep on working, keep trusting in Moscow, everything will work out fine.

“Hey, Boris, what the hell is going on?” Senior Lieutenant Oleg Sadkov wants to know. He’s the medical doctor and he’s just come up from the dispensary. He’s not much older than Gindin, maybe twenty-six, and is married with one daughter. Sadkov has never had a bad word to say about anyone—officers or enlisted—and everyone likes him because he’s easygoing, open, and honest. Besides that, he’s as skinny as a rail, and with his dark hair and thick mustache he looks like a teenager. No threat to anyone.

Before Gindin can answer, Senior Lieutenant Dimitry Smirnov comes out of his cabin with a deck of cards in his hand and a big grin on his face. He’s the chief navigator and commander of BCH-1 and normally keeps to himself, but this evening he’s just as puzzled as the other officers. Sablin’s called the meeting, Smirnov is sure of it, and he’s not going to give the prick the satisfaction of ruining everyone’s holiday.

Smirnov holds up the deck of cards. “Maybe we’ll have a game and the meeting will turn out okay after all.”

Eighteen officers, plus the captain, and eleven midshipmen are assigned to the Storozhevoy, but including the ones who were on duty at 1900, plus those few on leave, only the captain, eight officers, and four midshipmen are available for the meeting. None of them are happy.

“That’s okay with me,” Boris says. “But in two weeks I’m going to be home with my family. If that means sitting through a boring political meeting with our zampolit and earnestly enjoying what he has to say, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Of course nobody can disobey a direct order. Someone could call in sick, but Soviet naval officers do not operate that way. There’s the same sort of discipline in just about every navy. But there’s also the same sort of griping, including the Soviet navy.

“There’s no reason for this,” Captain Lieutenant Victor Vinokurov mutters half under his breath.

Gindin is near enough in the now-crowded corridor to hear this remark. “It’s Sablin.”