Chapter 97 — Dawn Over Kronstadt
"Right full rudder!"
Saberlin barked the command, but his voice was raw, stripped of the fire it once held. Another bomb screamed down from the sky, vanishing into the black fog over the Baltic.
Boom!
It detonated well off course—nearly a hundred meters away. The water erupted in a white plume. The warship rocked, but remained unharmed.
Saberlin blinked. Why are they missing?
He looked upward, then toward the sea. The Yak-28s were circling again, but their attack pattern was irregular, almost hesitant. Could they be… deliberately avoiding us?
A flicker of hope ignited in his chest.
Maybe they sympathized with his cause.
Maybe they understood.
Maybe they, too, were waiting for a real revolution.
He stared toward the ghostly shore in the distance. Twenty more kilometers. If he could just reach Leningrad, seize the Naval Headquarters, and get his hands on a working transmitter—then everything would change.
Then the footsteps came.
Heavy. Rapid. Too many.
Saberlin turned slowly.
The hatch behind him burst open—and in marched Portuline.
No longer a prisoner.
No longer silent.
A tide of sailors followed behind, all armed with AKM rifles. Cold determination burned in their eyes. Their weapons rose as one.
"Saberlin," Portuline's voice rang with authority, "you traitor."
Saberlin staggered back a step, stunned. "Captain… You escaped?"
"I led this ship. You stole it."
"I'm no traitor," Saberlin shot back, defiant. "I sought an uprising—to awaken the people! I've risked everything for the truth!"
"Truth?" Portuline stepped forward. "You betrayed the people you claimed to defend. You claim to stand for reform—but you hijacked the very institution that keeps the Motherland safe. If you succeed, it won't be change you bring—it will be collapse."
"Andre is right," Andrei interrupted from behind the column of sailors, carrying little Ivan in his arms. "There are problems in the Soviet Union. But this? This will only shatter the country."
He looked directly at Saberlin, his voice cutting.
"You're not a revolutionary. You're a gambler. A political opportunist with a martyr complex."
"I took an oath…" Saberlin said hoarsely.
"And broke it," Andrei snapped. "You don't save a house by setting it on fire."
Then the bomb hit.
A deep-throated explosion cracked the fog as shrapnel tore through the air. The deck trembled violently. The blast had landed just twenty meters off the starboard beam. Windows shattered, alarms blared, men dove to the floor.
Saberlin fell, too—but Portuline was up instantly, rifle raised.
"Secure the bridge. Seize Saberlin and his comrades!"
The sailors moved fast. Saberlin, dazed and bleeding from the temple, tried to stand—but strong arms grabbed him and slammed him against the console. He didn't resist. He simply stared at the sea. Defeated.
Portuline stood again, gripping the railing tightly. He had taken back his ship.
But the danger wasn't over.
The radios were fried. The bombers circling above had no way of knowing that the rebellion had ended. The Vigilance could still be destroyed at any moment.
Then came a voice—calm, firm.
"Launch flares," Andrei said. "Red ones. They'll see. They'll understand."
Portuline nodded without hesitation.
Minutes later, glowing streaks shot upward from the decks of the Vigilance, bursting high in the foggy air.
Onboard the Yak-28s, both crews jolted upright.
"Flares!" shouted the navigator. "Red ones—those are friendly signals!"
The pilots pulled back on their control sticks. The bomb bays closed.
"Abort run. Return to base."
Below, the warship drifted through mist—scarred but afloat.
———
Kremlin, 03:00 Hours
No one had left the chamber.
The air was thick with smoke and anxiety.
The old wall clock ticked louder than ever.
Andropov sat motionless, eyes red, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.
Then the door opened.
A confidential secretary stepped in, clipboard in hand.
"Report received," he said to the room.
"Lieutenant Colonel Portuline and several loyal officers have regained control of the Vigilance. Vice-Captain Saberlin and his supporters have been arrested. The ship has entered the naval port at Kronstadt and is now under direct control of the Baltic Fleet."
The silence was deafening.
Then—
A long, slow exhale from Andropov. He leaned forward, pinched out the cigarette, and rose to his feet.
He turned to Brezhnev, voice like steel.
"Comrade General Secretary. I request permission to go to Leningrad in person."
"To oversee the arrest and trial of the mutineers."
Brezhnev looked at him.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded once.
"Go," he said.
And just like that—Yuri Andropov began his walk into history.