Chapter 95 — Crosshairs Over Leningrad
"No—Unit A was established just last year, and it's for counter-terrorism operations. This is a mutiny within the armed forces! It must be dealt with by the military itself! The Baltic naval aviation must be dispatched immediately to eliminate the warship!"
Kirilenko's voice echoed like gunfire through the Kremlin conference chamber.
His words were aimed, like a missile, at Defense Minister Dmitry Ustinov.
But Ustinov, as always, was unflappable. He didn't even raise his eyes from the note in front of him.
"We must handle this matter seriously," he replied slowly. "We must fully assess the consequences of all options. This is a major event—it is a moment to test our composure and resolve."
Old fox!
Kirilenko swore internally. None of them were fools, but Ustinov's ambiguity was maddening. He straddled the line between Andropov's KGB faction and Kirilenko's conservative bloc. He wore both hats depending on the wind's direction—and now, with the fate of the Politburo on the line, he played cautious neutrality.
The entire meeting had become a proxy war between Andropov and Kirilenko. Everyone present could see it. And no one wanted to choose sides until they knew who would win.
Kirilenko slammed his palm on the table.
"We must act quickly! If Saberlin is allowed to deliver his speech—if that is broadcast to the world—it will be the most humiliating moment in Soviet history! Gentlemen, this is not just a military crisis. It is a political one of the highest order!"
He didn't need to say what everyone already feared: this wasn't just a renegade warship—it was a time bomb, floating toward the symbolic heart of Soviet identity.
Leningrad.
The birthplace of the October Revolution.
Before anyone else could speak, the doors opened again.
Silence swept through the room.
Brezhnev walked in.
Grim. Stern. Unsmiling.
He didn't need to say a word—the entire Politburo rose from their chairs as instinctively as soldiers called to attention.
"What's the commotion?" Brezhnev asked, his voice cold as iron.
Kirilenko was quick to reply. "General Secretary, a mutiny has occurred aboard the Vigilance. It has changed course for Leningrad. The rebel officer intends to deliver a political address. We must act swiftly. I propose an immediate strike—aviation must sink the ship before it reaches the coast."
Brezhnev's expression changed the moment Leningrad was mentioned.
A mutiny was one thing.
But to sail into Leningrad—into the sacred city of Lenin's legacy—was a direct affront to the very ideology the USSR stood upon.
Brezhnev's voice, when it came, was devoid of hesitation.
"Order an airstrike. Destroy the ship. Immediately."
"Yes, General Secretary." Kirilenko's voice was smug with triumph. He didn't need to look at Andropov to know he had just landed a decisive blow.
Andropov sat motionless. His eyes lowered, his jaw clenched tight.
Inside, his blood boiled. He had power—enormous power—but not here. Not now. Not in this moment.
He couldn't even protect his own grandson.
———
Tucums Air Base – 20 km from Jurmala, Latvia
The alert sirens screamed into the frigid air.
The 668th Bomber Regiment launched into full combat mode. Men rushed through the hangars. Mechanics rolled out high-explosive bomb payloads. Armorers worked at speed, fitting the aging Yak-28 bombers with deadly cargo.
An encrypted directive from the 15th Air Army's command HQ arrived with chilling clarity:
> FOREIGN WARSHIP HAS INTRUDED INTO SOVIET TERRITORIAL WATERS
EQUIPPED WITH WASP-M AIR DEFENSE SYSTEMS
THREAT PROXIMITY TO LENINGRAD ESTABLISHED
LAUNCH STRIKE TO NEUTRALIZE TARGET WITH MAXIMUM SPEED AND FORCE
No mention of mutiny.
No mention that it was the Vigilance—a Soviet ship.
Just a "foreign" intruder.
Two Yak-28 bombers were scrambled within minutes. Engines ignited with a high-pitched roar. Their mission: perform a low-altitude strike on a suspected enemy vessel near a power station along the Gulf of Finland.
It was no drill.
———
In the sky, the two Yak-28s sliced through the Baltic dusk.
The regimental commander and his second-in-command sat tight in their cockpits, running final systems checks.
Their radar equipment was primitive by NATO standards, but the Proposal-2 radar bombing sight could still detect large metallic hulls—warships—against the gray sea below.
In the back of the lead aircraft, the navigator peered through the glass nose.
Nothing yet.
Just fog.
Just churning sea.
But the coordinates matched the intelligence briefing—there had to be something.
The pilot clicked his comms.
"Maintain 500-meter altitude. Begin sweeping search pattern. Prepare to open bomb bay doors on confirmation."
They flew low, skimming the sea surface, every vibration of turbulence magnified in their stomachs.
The visibility was poor. Fog rolled thick and wet over the water, refracting the moonlight into an eerie blur.
Suddenly, the radar pulsed.
"Contact—bearing 022, range 4 kilometers," the navigator barked. "Possible warship. Low silhouette."
The pilot squinted through the glass canopy.
There.
A shape in the mist. Angular. Steel-gray. Anchored beside a shadowed coastline.
"Target in sight," the pilot muttered.
"Ready bomb release."
What they didn't know—couldn't possibly know—was that this was the Vigilance.
A Soviet ship.
With Soviet sailors aboard.
With a captive Soviet captain.
And with a child—Andropov's grandson—locked in the ship's hold.