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

74. VLADIVOSTOK

This summer afternoon nearly two years after the mutiny the gentle Pacific breezes blow unusually warm in the harbor. A lot of people are out and about along the Korabelnaya Naberezhnaya Ulitsa, the main thoroughfare right on Golden Horn Bay. The winter was long and bitter, so no one wants to stay indoors unless absolutely necessary. Vendors are selling everything from ice cream to kvass, a mildly alcoholic drink, like watery beer.

The ships and submarines are lined up in precise rows at their docks on the Pacific Fleet base, their flags snapping crisply even in the light breeze, activity bustling on nearly every deck.

Gindin has been demoted one rank to lieutenant and has been assigned to work at the navy fire department in Kaliningrad. He was accused of being a coward, a disgrace to the Rodina, for not doing a better job training his men, for allowing himself to be arrested and locked up, for not making a better effort to stop the mutiny, for not willingly giving his life to save the ship.

The captain and all the other officers who had voted with the black backgammon pieces were demoted to sailors, got the same sort of punishment, except for Firsov, who was blackballed. Most of the enlisted men got exactly what Sablin had promised them: They were held for several months but then were discharged from the navy and allowed to go home. Only Alexander Shein was given an eight-year sentence at hard labor and a small fine.

Immediately after the incident, when they were taken back to Riga for their initial questioning, Gindin met his roommate, Vladimir Firsov, at the KGB’s Riga headquarters. The meeting was short and awkward, although the two men embraced warmly.

Standing on the dock now, looking at the warships, Gindin wonders why he didn’t ask his friend what had happened that night. Why had he voted to go along with Sablin’s mutiny, and then later why had he jumped ship?

Even though Gindin called Vladimir’s parents in Leningrad and asked that a message be passed along, he hasn’t seen or heard from Firsov since then. Perhaps it’s for the best.

After the dust had settled from thirty days of interrogations, Gindin and the others were made to sign a classified document promising never to talk to anyone about the mutiny. It was a KGB order, so everyone, including Gindin, took it seriously and signed without hesitation.

He has been assigned to be a fireman; it is a dead-end career in the navy that will lead to nothing as a civilian. All of his plans, all of his hard work at the academy and out in the fleet, have gone down the drain. Blotted out by the insane act of one man.

Gindin has taken a leave and come out here to the Far East to visit with his sister, Ella, and her husband, Vladimir Simchuk, his brother-in law just a few years ahead of him who had recommended the academy.

No one knows why Boris has been reassigned from his job as an engineer aboard a ship to a job as a commander of a small fire station, but rumors are still flying through the fleet about an incident aboard a Baltic Fleet ASW ship.

Gindin can’t explain his side of the story, of course, but if his brother-in-law knows or suspects something, he’s shown no sign of it. In fact, Vladimir has been just as open and kind and loving toward Boris as his sister has been. Family ties are very strong here.

Vladimir, who is a captain third rank, with a Ph.D. in military engineering, has invited Gindin to come to the base and take a tour of the ships. He’s left Boris’s name with the guards at the gate, to whom Gindin shows his military ID. He’s been allowed inside and has been directed to the docks.

But he’s standing, slack jawed, his heart in his throat, his stomach burning, looking up at a ship. No pride has been taken by the captain or crew. Rust weeps from fittings here and there. The paint has faded in big splotches, and nothing has been done about it. Patches have been sloppily welded into the steel plating of the hull. And his flags don’t seem to be as bright or snap as crisply as those on the other ships.

For just a moment Gindin was happy to see the ship.

“For that second or two it was like a reunion of old friends,” Gindin recalls. “We were happy to see each other after so long a time separated us.”

But then everything comes back in a sad, hopeless rush, and Gindin wants to turn away, but he can’t. He’s mesmerized by the ship and by his memories.

The numbers have been changed, but the name on the hull near the stern is the same. Storozhevoy.

No one had been hurt in the attacks that morning, except for Sablin, who received the gunshot wound in his leg. And after everything was over, Gindin had heard by rumors that Sablin had been tried and found guilty of treason and gotten his nine ounces from the KGB.

So now it was truly over.

A lieutenant comes to the rail and spots Gindin staring at the ship. “Hey, you, pizda, what are you looking at?”

Gindin slowly shakes his head. “Nothing, sir,” he says, and he turns and walks away without looking back.