Chapter 96 — The Little Saboteur
"Damn it—it had to be Vrsov!"
Saberlin's voice echoed through the Vigilance's dimly lit bridge, his fist slamming into the steel bulkhead. The mutiny was teetering on the edge of collapse, and he knew it. He had prepared everything: the manifesto, the speech, the camera. He had even recorded his message, sitting proud and righteous before the lens, ready to rouse the nation.
Then it all went wrong.
As soon as power was switched on, sparks flew. The radio panel smoked. Seconds later, the entire communications bay was dead—burnt out. And worse: there was water inside the cabinet. Someone had sabotaged it.
The failsafe tripped, sparing the rest of the ship from an electrical fire, but the damage was done. Saberlin's hopes of broadcasting from the anchorage vanished with the smoke.
He had only one option left: sail into Leningrad itself, storm the naval command center, and deliver the speech from there. Risky, but the only way forward. Maybe Vrsov drowned. Maybe not. Either way, the die was cast.
"Set course—Leningrad. Full speed," he ordered, voice grim.
Fog blanketed the sea like a death shroud. Visibility was under one kilometer. The Vigilance steamed ahead with all lights off, cutting a silent path across the Gulf of Finland.
But the moment of calm didn't last.
"Aircraft detected!" a radar operator shouted. "Two contacts, approaching fast—low altitude. Possibly bombers!"
Saberlin's face turned pale.
Bombers? Already?
His mind raced. Was it coincidence? Routine patrols? Or had Vrsov succeeded?
"Prepare air defense—load Wasp launchers, but do not fire unless I give the order."
He hesitated. He couldn't bring himself to fire on Soviet aircraft—not yet. That would be true treason. A line that couldn't be uncrossed.
The next sound was unmistakable.
The shriek of bombs falling through air.
"Hard port—left rudder full! Now!" Saberlin barked.
The Vigilance heaved violently to port. The 30-knot momentum amplified the tilt, nearly capsizing the entire vessel. The deck groaned. Bulkheads trembled. Inside the ship, chaos exploded.
A thunderous BOOM erupted as a bomb struck the water just 60 meters off the starboard bow. Towering plumes of water erupted skyward. Spray pelted the bridge like shrapnel.
In the ship's lower levels, sailors were thrown like dolls. Crates slid, equipment toppled, men shouted in confusion. It was the kind of turn only done during extreme sea trials—never in combat.
And then—fortune struck.
Or rather, Shain struck.
Inside the dark lower hold, the bulky guard who had been watching over Captain Portuline and the others was dozing in exhaustion. He hadn't slept in days, constantly on edge. The sudden lurch sent him sprawling, and his head cracked hard against the bulkhead. Dazed and bleeding, the ring of keys on his belt clattered to the floor—right near a small set of eyes.
Ivan.
The boy had been waiting patiently. Hiding. Watching. When the guard slumped over, Ivan moved fast.
He snatched the keys, turned them one by one, and with a triumphant click—the door opened.
Andrei was the first out, scooping the boy into his arms.
"Ivan! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Uncle Andrei," Ivan grinned. "That big guy didn't even go to the bathroom. I waited so long! But I followed the captain's plan—and I broke the radio too!"
Captain Portuline barreled out behind them, wasting no time with questions.
"To the armory!" he shouted to the freed officers. "Get weapons—we're retaking the ship!"
Saberlin had lied. Manipulated them. He had used Portuline's trust and the crew's naivety to hijack a warship. Now, Portuline would restore order—with steel if necessary.
But none of it would've been possible without one boy.
Earlier, while Saberlin had been preparing his speech, Portuline had whispered to Ivan through the ventilation shaft—describing the layout, the access hatches, the radio equipment compartment. It was a gamble, but one they had to take.
And Ivan hadn't hesitated.
He crawled through the air duct like a rat through a sewer—small enough to fit where no adult could follow. He found the radio, climbed atop the cabinet, unzipped, and—sabotage complete.
Now, the plan's second half had worked: the guard was down, and the door was open.
Andrei hugged the boy tightly, emotions swirling in his chest.
Fear.
Relief.
Pride.
"Ivan," he whispered, "you're incredible."
"Am I a hero now?" Ivan asked, eyes shining.
Andrei nodded, voice thick. "Yes. Yes, you are."
On the upper decks, the second bombing run was already forming overhead.
The Vigilance's clock was running out. But below, something had begun—a counter-revolt.
Portuline now had the element of surprise.
And he had a secret weapon:
A barefoot, grinning little saboteur named Ivan.