Read Online Mutiny: The True Events That Inspired The Hunt For Red October by Boris Gindin, David Hagberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Boris Gindin, David Hagberg
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hand, and always genuinely interested in what a man’s job is and how he does it.
Like this morning at breakfast.
Gindin has some vague premonitions this morning, but he does not connect them to the captain or to Sablin or to the marked differences between the two officers. He just has this unsettling feeling of unrest, and he thinks that most everyone else aboard feels the same way to one degree or another. But he can’t put his finger on it.
When he tried to talk to Potulniy about his fears a couple hours ago, the captain dismissed him out of hand.
“Stick to your duties, Boris,” the captain said. “Do your job correctly, supervise your crew, make sure that they’re physically and mentally fit, and everything else will take care of itself.”
It’s as if the captain is so distant from his crew that he doesn’t know what’s really going on aboard his own ship. But that’s not true, either.
They were on their way down to Cuba, and Gindin, like every other officer aboard, did normal duty rotations, which were four hours on, four hours on standby, and four hours off. The rotations were changed each month, so you didn’t always get the same shifts.
On this night, Gindin had the midnight to 4:00 A.M. rotation with two gas turbine specialists, two motor/diesel men, one steam/fuel sailor, and one electrician. These were all young kids, and with nothing much happening on the graveyard shift and their last meal at nine in the evening, they would get hungry. And as stomachs growl, ingenuity increases.
Gindin’s crew wants to know if he’d like something to eat. Of course he says yes, and he’s led aft to the machinery room, where two of the gas turbine engines are turning over. Somehow the men have gotten some potatoes from the galley, some oil, and a frying pan. Each turbine develops a hot spot on its upper casing and they are using one of them to fry up the potatoes. Gindin knows he’s supposed to put a stop to this business, and his sailors know it, too. They’re all standing there, looking at him expectantly, waiting for the shoe to drop, but the smell of the frying potatoes is almost too much to bear.
Anyway, Gindin is not much older than his men, it’s the middle of the night, there is no safety issue to worry about, the engines are runningnormally and he’s hungry, too. So he says, “Sure,” and the meal is nothing short of fantastic, almost as good as the kinds of snacks he’d had with his dad, picking mushrooms in the woods.
A couple of days later Gindin is called up to the bridge. “We have a small problem, Boris,” the captain starts out pleasantly enough, but Gindin’s stomach does a slow roll. He has a pretty good idea what’s coming next. The cook has been complaining to Potulniy that potatoes keep disappearing and he doesn’t know where. Every night Gindin’s inventive sailors sneak up to the pantry area where the potatoes are kept under lock and key. These are the engineering crew, so it’s no trouble for them to break into the locked boxes, steal some potatoes, and then fix the locks so no one can tell what’s happened.
The only bad luck was that the captain was wandering around the ship in the middle of the night and passing the machinery room smelled the frying potatoes.
“They’re young boys and they were hungry,” Gindin admits. “And I had some, too, sir.”
Potulniy barely smiles. “It will not happen again, Boris. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Captain,” Gindin replies.
So the captain
was
aware of what was going on aboard his ship, but the difference between him and Sablin was that the
zampolit
would have understood and probably would have joined the men for an early-morning snack of fried potatoes if for no other reason than to find out how the crew was doing.
But there’s something about Russians that’s fairly well universal, if not practically eternal: They’re usually more complicated than they seem at first glance. Certainly after four and a
Like this morning at breakfast.
Gindin has some vague premonitions this morning, but he does not connect them to the captain or to Sablin or to the marked differences between the two officers. He just has this unsettling feeling of unrest, and he thinks that most everyone else aboard feels the same way to one degree or another. But he can’t put his finger on it.
When he tried to talk to Potulniy about his fears a couple hours ago, the captain dismissed him out of hand.
“Stick to your duties, Boris,” the captain said. “Do your job correctly, supervise your crew, make sure that they’re physically and mentally fit, and everything else will take care of itself.”
It’s as if the captain is so distant from his crew that he doesn’t know what’s really going on aboard his own ship. But that’s not true, either.
They were on their way down to Cuba, and Gindin, like every other officer aboard, did normal duty rotations, which were four hours on, four hours on standby, and four hours off. The rotations were changed each month, so you didn’t always get the same shifts.
On this night, Gindin had the midnight to 4:00 A.M. rotation with two gas turbine specialists, two motor/diesel men, one steam/fuel sailor, and one electrician. These were all young kids, and with nothing much happening on the graveyard shift and their last meal at nine in the evening, they would get hungry. And as stomachs growl, ingenuity increases.
Gindin’s crew wants to know if he’d like something to eat. Of course he says yes, and he’s led aft to the machinery room, where two of the gas turbine engines are turning over. Somehow the men have gotten some potatoes from the galley, some oil, and a frying pan. Each turbine develops a hot spot on its upper casing and they are using one of them to fry up the potatoes. Gindin knows he’s supposed to put a stop to this business, and his sailors know it, too. They’re all standing there, looking at him expectantly, waiting for the shoe to drop, but the smell of the frying potatoes is almost too much to bear.
Anyway, Gindin is not much older than his men, it’s the middle of the night, there is no safety issue to worry about, the engines are runningnormally and he’s hungry, too. So he says, “Sure,” and the meal is nothing short of fantastic, almost as good as the kinds of snacks he’d had with his dad, picking mushrooms in the woods.
A couple of days later Gindin is called up to the bridge. “We have a small problem, Boris,” the captain starts out pleasantly enough, but Gindin’s stomach does a slow roll. He has a pretty good idea what’s coming next. The cook has been complaining to Potulniy that potatoes keep disappearing and he doesn’t know where. Every night Gindin’s inventive sailors sneak up to the pantry area where the potatoes are kept under lock and key. These are the engineering crew, so it’s no trouble for them to break into the locked boxes, steal some potatoes, and then fix the locks so no one can tell what’s happened.
The only bad luck was that the captain was wandering around the ship in the middle of the night and passing the machinery room smelled the frying potatoes.
“They’re young boys and they were hungry,” Gindin admits. “And I had some, too, sir.”
Potulniy barely smiles. “It will not happen again, Boris. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Captain,” Gindin replies.
So the captain
was
aware of what was going on aboard his ship, but the difference between him and Sablin was that the
zampolit
would have understood and probably would have joined the men for an early-morning snack of fried potatoes if for no other reason than to find out how the crew was doing.
But there’s something about Russians that’s fairly well universal, if not practically eternal: They’re usually more complicated than they seem at first glance. Certainly after four and a
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