Stanislav Petrov

Serpukhov-15 is a small military townlet about 80 miles (130 km) south of Moscow. It’s sparse, dotted with evergreens, stoically rectangular warehouses, and several giant gray domes. A skeleton of the capital city, bleached through and through.

On the night of September 26, 1983, it’s quiet. The Russian winter has not yet sunk its teeth into the soil, but wisps of wind snake around the white walls of the domes. The moon is almost full in the sky, watching the base with pale anticipation.

The commander’s chair

Three weeks earlier the Soviet Union had shot down South Korean Air Lines flight 007 with two air-to-air missiles near Sakhalin Island, Russia, killing all 269 people on board, including U.S. Congressman Lawrence McDonald of Georgia. Russian authorities claimed that the plane had strayed from its intended route and intruded on Soviet airspace to gather intelligence for the United States, but there was no direct evidence for this assertion. U.S. President Ronald Reagan described the strike as “an act of barbarism,” and NATO responded with a show of military exercises, including the deployment of new intermediate-range ballistic missiles, which Soviet Defense Minister Dmitry Ustinov characterized as a “means for a first strike.”

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Now it’s midnight at Serpukhov-15, and few soldiers are still awake, aside from those tasked with monitoring enemy activity. In an underground bunker beneath the ghostly pines, 44-year-old Stanislav Yevgrafovich Petrov, a lieutenant colonel in the Soviet Air Defense Forces, leans back in the commander’s chair. His day job requires him to troubleshoot the main computer, which processes satellite data. Tonight he has been called in to replace a senior combat officer who could not assume watch duty. In the company of only buttons and beeps in the massive bunker, Petrov watches a screen that has not changed for hours. A man of the utmost patience has met his match. Petrov’s blue eyes threaten to glaze over, and his bushy eyebrows droop. Dark curls begin to slip out of combed-back hair.

A siren pierces through the bunker, rattling his skull. This siren can only mean one thing. Petrov’s main screen goes red, and he takes a few seconds to piece the bright letters together. They signify a missile launch. His blood freezes in his veins, and his breath catches in his throat. The screen changes to indicate a strike. Fifteen seconds later, another signal. Five nuclear missiles in total, straight from an American base in North Dakota.

The officer

Stanislav Petrov was born on September 7, 1939, near Vladivostok, Russia. His father, Yevgraf, served the Soviet Union as a fighter pilot in World War II, and his mother, whose name has been lost, was a nurse. He grew up in a cold, abusive household but “with the sensibilities of an artist,” according to novelist and historian Dan McEwen. As a teenager, Petrov was forced by his parents to enlist, but military training officers had quickly recognized his creative and technical talents. Petrov enrolled at the Kiev Higher Engineering Radio-Technical College of the Soviet Air Force and worked in an air defense research facility upon graduation. The Russian military has been compared to a stringent machine, one that presses and packages up its men. In training it replaces soldiers’ creativity and critical thinking skills with unquestioning loyalty and strict protocol adherence.

While stationed in the Far East region, Petrov met Raisa, a cinema operator at a military base in Kamchatka. The two fell in love and married in 1973. They had a son, Dmitry, and a daughter, Yelena, both of whom went on to live private lives. According to Dmitry, his father was a modest man who held his family dear, despite his abusive upbringing. He never spoke to his family about his work. Dmitry was 12 years old, sound asleep at home on the night of September 26, 1983.

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Sitting in the commander’s chair, Petrov wears the weight of the world around his uniform collar, electronic maps flashing before him. If the Russian air force is an arm prepared to raise its fist, Petrov is the elbow. Systems indicate that the reliability of information is at its highest level.

“All I had to do was to reach for the phone; to raise the direct line to our top commanders—but I couldn’t move. I felt like I was sitting on a hot frying pan,” Petrov later recalled to BBC News Russian.

He sits on the frying pan for about five minutes. Protocol dictates that he report immediate threat. If he does so, commanders will likely initiate a Russian nuclear attack on the United States. Protocol dictates Armageddon.

Having helped design the bunker and some of its technology, Petrov knows the system is not 100 percent foolproof. He has a gut feeling, an intuition more piercing than the siren in his ears. He reasons that “when people start a war, they don’t start it with only five missiles,” as he later told The Washington Post.

The call

According to Petrov, there is no rule allotting officers time to think before reporting a strike. He calculates that the odds of the nuclear strike being real were about 50 percent. Acting as calmly as one can act when challenging a potential apocalypse, Petrov categorizes the threat as a false alarm.

He is unsure of his decision, but it is his decision, not any machine’s. He knows that “nobody would be able to correct my mistake if I had made one,” as he told the BBC decades later, in 2013. And he definitely knows that he doesn’t “want to be the one responsible for starting a third world war,” as he said to Time in 2015. If he is wrong, the missiles will strike within the next few minutes. If he is wrong, he likely will not live to be reprimanded.

Petrov is the only man on his team who has received a formal civilian education; his colleagues are all “professional soldiers” taught to “give and obey orders.” He will come to believe that if anyone else had been in that chair, they would have raised the alarm.

The fallout

After the longest minutes of Petrov’s life, he is still breathing, meaning the warning was false. The technology, called Oko satellites, mistakenly perceived sunlight on high altitude clouds as ballistic missile engine exhaust.

“Can you imagine? It was as though a child had been playing with a vanity mirror, throwing around the sun’s reflection,” he explained to Time. “And by chance that blinding light landed right in the center of the system’s eye.”

In his old age, Petrov spoke in low tones, often casting his gaze downward. He had pale skin, thin lips, and a down-turned tip nose. He typically kept his mouth closed when forced to pose for photographs, but when he did smile, he showed dimples in both cheeks.

It is impossible for nuclear historians to overstate the importance of Petrov’s reaction to the warning. They understand that his calm analysis averted catastrophe. In the documentary The Red Button (2011), American nuclear security expert Bruce G. Blair explains that the U.S.-U.S.S.R relationship in 1983 had deteriorated to the point where the Soviet Union “was on hair-trigger alert” and “very nervous and prone to mistakes and accidents.” The Soviets were expecting the worst, and Petrov was not immune to fear and vigilance. Yet he remained skeptical, a thoughtful scientist, according to Blair.

In the days after his decision, Petrov is reprimanded for failing to record the event in his logbook. He remains in the bunker for the next three days while a special Soviet commission investigates the event. He stays awake, blue eyes locked on the computer screen and heartbeat locked inside his chest. Finally, he returns home quiet and exhausted. He sleeps.

Over the next few months, Petrov tries to keep the incident a secret. Decades later, in his 2013 interview with the BBC, he explained that it was “shameful for the Soviet army that our system failed in this way.” Petrov believes that the flaws his decision exposed in the Soviets’ warning system became a liability for his superiors. He is reassigned and denied promotions. The next year he retires from the military to work for a research institute again and experiences a mental health crisis.

The legacy

Petrov and his fellow Soviets keep the affair as silent as possible for about 10 years. Only after the Soviet Union’s collapse does word leak out. In 1996, articles detailing the incident begin appearing in Russian newspapers and rocket across the sky toward foreign soil. Western media responds with gratitude to Petrov for his levelheadedness. In a 1998 memoir, Yuri Votintsev, a retired commander of the Soviet air defense, finally credits Petrov for taking the “correct actions” in one of the most harrowing nuclear incidents of the Cold War.

Scholars and civilians worldwide begin to hail Petrov as a hero. But he brushes it off, claiming, “I was just at the right place at the right time.”

Petrov retires from the research institution to care for his wife as she battles cancer. After she passes away in 1997, he lives alone in Fryazino, a suburb of Moscow, with his army pension. At one point he resorts to growing potatoes to feed himself. He is haunted by the affair, claiming that nuclear weapons require human actions and that “a person can always make a mistake.”

Petrov argues that only the complete elimination of nuclear weapons by all countries will spare the world from an eventual strike. Petrov does not trust people, nor does he trust machines. What he trusts least of all is a person who becomes a cog in a machine.

On May 21, 2004, the San Francisco-based Association of World Citizens honors Petrov with a modest fundraising campaign and a trophy for averting all-out nuclear war. In 2014 he becomes the subject of the documentary The Man Who Saved the World by Danish director Peter Anthony. Stanislav Petrov is not commonly listed among the world’s most influential historical figures, most prominent military service members, or even most famous Russians. Such an honor belongs largely to those who did press the red button, who pulled the trigger, who signed the law, who turned the world upside down rather than held it together.

A heavy smoker, Petrov falls ill in November 2016 and is soon hospitalized with intestinal problems. On May 19, 2017, he dies of hypostatic pneumonia at age 77. For four months only family members know of his death. He is survived by his two children, two grandchildren, and the entire human race.