He steps back inside, relief washing over him at least for the moment. But they have a long way to go before they’re out of trouble. “Tell me when we’re lined up with the channel,” he orders Maksimenko. The buoys marking the path downriver will show up clearly on the radar screen.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” the sailor stammers. The collision was his fault and he is afraid of the consequences for himself.
“Don’t worry about it, Oleg. Just tell me when we are lined up with the channel. This is very important.”
“Da,” Maksimenko responds, and he turns back to his radar set as the Storozhevoy’s bows continue to swing around to the north.
The bridge door is open to the corridor that leads aft and down. Even this far up Sablin can hear the commotion below. Each time the Storozhevoy got under way there was a great deal of activity as the crew jumped to their stations and carried out their duties. But this sounds different to Sablin. Not as ordered. More chaotic. It’s disquieting, and certainly not how he imagined their departure on what he thinks is a grand and noble endeavor.
“We’re coming into the channel now, sir!” Maksimenko calls out.
“Very well,” Sablin says. “Ease your helm, Viktor.” It’s the same kind of command Sablin has heard Potulniy give countless times before, only the captain never used an ordinary sailor’s first name.
Soloviev straightens the helm, and the Storozhevoy slips into the groove that will guide them the fifteen kilometers or so to the mouth of the river. From there they will have to get around the islands of Saaremaa and Hiiumaa before they will be well out into the gulf and where Sablin figures he will be able to breathe a real sigh of relief.
Firsov’s jumping ship bothers Sablin more than he cares to admit at this moment; he’s just too busy to think about it. But it’s there, like a nagging toothache that will not go away. Conning a ship the size of the Storozhevoy in the open sea is a piece of cake. Simply set a course and speed, dial in the autopilot, and keep a sharp radar and visual lookout. But driving a ship down a narrow river, at night, in the fog, with a heavy current running, while all around are moored vessels and God only knows what other hazards on and below the surface, is something else entirely. This sort of an endeavor takes not only the cooperation of the entire bridge and engine room crew but also a knowledgeable, experienced man in command, whose entire mind is on the job at hand.
It’s something Sablin is not, and he is acutely aware of his lacking.
“We’re lined up with the fairway, sir!” Maksimenko calls out. He’s lined up the buoys on the radar screen.
“Are you certain?” Sablin demands.
“Yes, sir!”
Sablin reaches over to the engine telegraph and signals for all ahead full. It takes several moments for the gas turbine crew to respond, and he is just about to pick up the phone to call down there when the answering bells sound. The Storozhevoy’s engines spool up and their speed quickly rises.
In calm seas the two main engines can drive the ship to around 24 knots, but with the current propelling them downriver their actual speed over the bottom rises to 30 knots.
“We’re going way too fast, Captain,” Soloviev warns.
There is no other choice. They have to get out of here as soon as humanly possible. “Steady as you go, Viktor,” Sablin orders. “Keep us in the channel!” he calls to Maksimenko.
Sablin feels like a maniac on a carnival ride that has run amok. There is no way to get off.
Soloviev is muttering something under his breath. He is peering out the big forward windows trying to spot the lit buoys before they run over them or, worse yet, drift out of the channel. If he drives the Storozhevoy aground at this speed, not only will the ship sustain crippling damage, but it’s also a safe bet that there will be casualties among the crew. Possibly even deaths.
Maksimenko suddenly looks up from the hooded radar screen as if he’s just stuck his finger in an electric socket. “Eb tvoiu mat,” he swears, and he reaches up for a handhold to brace himself.
Sablin’s blood runs cold. “What is it?” he demands.
“A ship!” the sailor stammers weakly.
Soloviev spots the looming shape of a big ship directly in their path at the same time as Sablin and, before the order can be given, hauls the wheel hard over to the right.
The Storozhevoy heels sharply to starboard, probably well past twenty degrees, which is extreme even for a warship, and Sablin is only just in time to grab a handhold to stop from being propelled across the bridge and dashed against the bulkhead.
From below they can hear the sounds of equipment and loose gear flying all over the place, crashing into stanchions and walls with tremendous noises. Men are shouting in anger.
If they were under battle stations orders they would have taken preparations for such violent evasive maneuvers, but they’d been given no warning.
Sablin manages to regain his balance as the Storozhevoy looks to clear the very large ship now sliding rapidly off to port. He is a tanker leaving the dock and just coming into the fairway to head out to sea.
If Soloviev had not been paying attention they would have slammed their bows directly into the side of the ship. It would have been a disaster. The tanker would probably have exploded, and there almost certainly would have been the bodies of a lot of incinerated sailors floating in the river, but there would have been civilian casualties ashore as well.
“Bring us back into the channel,” Sablin orders softly. He’s suddenly not very sure of his voice. His mouth is dry.
Soloviev doesn’t say a word as he brings the Storozhevoy back on course.
Away from the lights of downtown Riga, it seems as if the fog has cleared a little. In any event, they are able to pick out the buoys marking the fairway by eye.
Sablin had planned to shut down the ship’s radar once they had cleared the river and were out into the gulf. He was enough of a naval officer to understand at least rudimentary battle tactics. If their radar sets were banging away, whoever the fleet sent out after them would be able to home in on them. Besides, Maksimenko was too nervous to do a very good job.
“Shut down the radar, Oleg,” Sablin ordered.
“Sir?”
“Turn the radar set off. We don’t want anyone picking up our signals.”
Maksimenko shuts off the power as Sablin picks up the intercom handset and keys the push-to-talk switch.
“This is your zampolit speaking.” His voice is broadcast to every compartment aboard ship. “All hands—boevaya trevoga—man your battle stations. All hands, man your battle stations.”
“But, sir, we have no rockets or ammunition,” Soloviev points out.
“It’s all right,” Sablin says calmly, the first major crisis behind them. “They need something to keep them busy.”
37. FIRSOV
Standing on the quay watching the Storozhevoy disappear into the fog, Firsov figures that if he had not waited so long to abandon ship and sound the alarm, none of this would be happening.
The petty officer who brought Firsov ashore from the submarine is still there on the launch watching the same thing. He and the two sailors on the crew cannot believe what they are witnessing. First the Storozhevoy crashed into a mooring bouy, and then he very nearly collided with a gasoline tanker leaving the dock.