Chapter 100 — A New Command
"The incident has been thoroughly investigated. Vice-Captain Saberlin, along with a number of officers on the Vigilance, attempted to incite a mutiny in Leningrad, driven by dissatisfaction with our socialist system. They imprisoned Captain Portuline and other loyal officers," Andropov reported calmly to Brezhnev in the Kremlin. "However, the loyal crew, under Portuline's leadership, regained control. Saberlin and his accomplices have been detained and are currently held at the local KGB office awaiting formal charges."
Brezhnev did not hesitate. "Bring them to Moscow. They are to be tried by the Supreme Military Court and sentenced to death for treason. The Vigilance's crew must be disbanded and reassigned to other bases. As for Portuline, move him to a staff position within the Naval Command. The Vigilance will be reclassified as a frigate and transferred to the Pacific Fleet under a new crew."
It was the expected solution: swift, controlled, and focused on appearances. The mutiny had been suppressed. The guilty would be punished. The vessel and crew would vanish into bureaucratic obscurity.
But Andropov said nothing.
He had expected as much from Brezhnev. The General Secretary wasn't interested in why the mutiny happened—only that it didn't make it to Western headlines. There was no reflection, no inquiry into the deeper rot within the system. Just another patch on a crumbling façade.
As Andropov walked out of the Kremlin, he kept his face composed. But inside, he was boiling.
They had nearly killed his grandson.
All because Kirilenko and others wanted to tighten their grip. They had overstepped—again.
Back at the KGB headquarters, Andropov's aide Krukov was waiting. He handed Andropov a folder. "Chairman, we've tracked increased activity between Timofey Mozgov and the British Embassy."
Timofey Mozgov.
Kirilenko's son-in-law.
Andropov's gaze narrowed. So, Andrei had been right. He had said: If you want to strike at your enemies, start with those close to them.
Mozgov had taken multiple trips abroad, often to London. Each time, he came back with vague reports, unspecific outcomes, and more glowing tales about Western lifestyles.
"Monitor him closely," Andropov said coldly. "If he even breathes a plan to leave the country again, arrest him. And prepare the paperwork. We'll charge him with attempting to defect and leaking sensitive material."
The sword was unsheathed.
---
Time swept forward. 1977 dawned.
In the world beyond the Iron Curtain, change surged. Jimmy Carter entered the White House. A tragic plane crash rocked the Canary Islands. Afghanistan's future trembled with coups and resistance.
But in Andrei's world, none of that mattered.
He had returned to the Far East.
After celebrating his wedding and attending the October Revolution parade in Moscow, Andrei had taken Yekaterina's advice—briefly—and rested. But as the new year began, he returned to the Sokolovka base, not expecting the whirlwind of change awaiting him.
Despite being away for more than a month, the base had only grown more orderly. His prior reforms—particularly the crackdown on maintenance department corruption—had reshaped the culture of the garrison. The old cliques had been dismantled. New ground crews worked with diligence and pride. Even the old-timers had fallen in line.
And there was other news, too.
Kozhedub, the former base commander, had been transferred.
His departure had been abrupt and quiet. He hadn't taken it well. Stripped of his power, isolated by the reforms, and under scrutiny due to his nephew's corruption case, Kozhedub had retreated to Moscow. Few at Sokolovka mourned his departure.
In fact, most were relieved.
"Andrei, you've been away a while. Everyone missed you." Colonel Ivanov, the 513th Regiment's commander, greeted him warmly.
"I didn't expect to be delayed so long," Andrei replied. "How has the regiment been? And the new base commander—when is he arriving?"
Ivanov blinked. "New base commander? Andrei, don't you know?"
Andrei frowned. "Know what?"
Ivanov grinned. "There's no new commander coming. You're it."
Andrei froze.
"What?"
"The order came in before New Year's. You're now officially the commander of Sokolovka base. Along with it, you've been promoted to colonel."
Colonel?
Base commander?
Andrei felt like the ground had shifted beneath his boots. "But—I'm a pilot. The base commander is in charge of logistics, not flight ops. And besides, I'm still the deputy regiment commander... This doesn't make sense."
Ivanov chuckled. "It does, to your superiors. They were very pleased with your handling of the base reforms. And word is, your role in that... sensitive incident with the Vigilance didn't go unnoticed."
Andrei didn't need to ask who they were.
Ustinov. Andropov.
One pulled the strings of the Ministry of Defense. The other ran the KGB. Together, they had given him this post—and maybe more.
Was it a promotion? A reward? Or a quiet way to remove him from danger after what happened?
Andrei didn't know yet.
But he did know this: Sokolovka was his now.
The sky over the Far East stretched wide above him. For now, he was grounded.
But his ascent was far from over.