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

Brezhnev and Grechko have been notified that a matter of urgent national interest has unexpectedly come up. If the telephone calls had come from almost anyone else other than Admiral Gorshkov’s personal aide, the caller would have already been on his or her way to the prison at Lefortovo to answer questions about his or her sanity. Waking the Party General Secretary and the minister of defense at this ungodly hour is tantamount to suicide.

However, Gorshkov is not a man to be trifled with. If he were to declare that the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, the Communist Party and all Soviet military forces would seriously consider resetting their clocks.

The armed, uniformed guards in front of the Council of Ministers Block come to attention and salute the admiral as he gets out of his car and enters the building, which is all but deserted this morning. Two other long, black ZIL limousines are parked in front, one of them Brezhnev’s, the other Grechko’s.

Striding down the long corridor on the third floor, Gorshkov’s footfalls sound like pistol shots, echoing off the ornate walls and vaulted ceilings. His staff have been awakened and are on their way to their offices here in Moscow. He has received confirmation that the captains of every ship, submarine, and tender in Riga have been notified to light off their engines and stand by to sail on his orders. And the commanders of the various units of the Baltic Fleet Air Wing have been rousted out of their beds as well.

All the way in from his dacha Gorshkov tried to make sense out of the situation. The zampolit of a warship had arrested his captain and some of the officers and mutinied.

Some of the officers.

In Gorshkov’s mind that can only mean that the other officers must be going along with the insanity. And since the ship actually started his engines, slipped his moorings, and headed downriver to the gulf, a good portion of the crew must also be in league with the traitor.

It beggars the imagination. What does the fool think he can accomplish? Even if the ship actually reaches Sweden and the zampolit and the officers and crew who have gone along with his scheme ask for asylum, the Swedes will never grant it. The traitors would be on their way back to Moscow within twenty-four hours of reaching Swedish waters.

Brezhnev’s personal secretary, a pinch-faced older man whom Gorshkov has never seen wearing anything other than a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie, comes out of the small conference room adjacent to Brezhnev’s office and beckons.

“The Party General Secretary is waiting for you, Admiral.”

“Da,” Gorshkov says, brushing past the man and entering the conference room where Brezhnev and Grechko are seated at the small mahogany table.

The door is closed and Gorshkov takes his seat across from the two men, who are drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. Both of them appear to be hungover, and in fact Brezhnev is probably drunk. They’re both dressed in dark suits, but neither is wearing a tie.

“We’re here at your request, Sergei,” Grechko says. “What fire has got your ass?”

“We have a mutiny on our hands,” Gorshkov says without preamble.

Brezhnev’s eyes come into focus. “Mutiny?” he says. “What nonsense are you talking about?”

For the next five minutes Gorshkov explains to the Party General Secretary and minister of defense everything that he knows to this point. Neither man interrupts, but it becomes clear that both of them, especially Brezhnev, are frightened. Theirs is the same initial reaction that Gorshkov had.

Maintaining the status quo depends on a respect for the chain of command. When the system breaks down, the incident becomes like a virus that can quickly spread and destroy the entire body. The mutiny of the Potemkin, which led to the grand October Revolution in which the Soviet Union was born, is drilled into the head of every school-child; such a little thing to bring down the reign of the tsars.

“Do we know that the Storozhevoy has already reached the open sea?” Grechko asks. He has grasped the full implications before Brezhnev has.

“A reconnaissance aircraft is searching.”

“Has anyone tried to contact this fool?”

“Not yet. But that’s next.”

“So at this point we don’t know what he’s up to,” Brezhnev says. “He could be defecting, or he could just as easily be insane and plan on attacking us with his guns and missiles.”

“Either is a possibility,” Gorshkov concedes. “We don’t know yet.”

The telephone in front of Brezhnev rings, and he grabs it like a drowning man grabs at a life jacket. “Da.” He listens for a few moments, then looks up at Gorshkov. “Bring it in.”

“What is it?” Gorshkov asks when Brezhnev hangs up the phone.

“Your zampolit has broadcast a message to the people, from the ship.”

“Dear God,” Grechko mutters, but Brezhnev is actually grinning.

“But it’s in code. The idiot sent it in code on a military channel, so no one but our cryptologists can understand it.”