On the doorstep of his apartment he went over everything again. It seemed a scene wouldn’t be avoidable, but he wouldn’t back down. He made a dark look and opened the door ready for a fight.
From the nine and a half square meters apartment – very luxurious, he had waited for one for four years while living in a dirty tent– was occupied by a two-story military bunk bed, a small neat dining table and three big stacks of newspapers that reached to the ceiling. Would he have been an old bachelor that mountain would have already buried him. But fifteen years ago he had met Yelena, who tolerated the dusty old papers in their small apartment, kept them in order and away from the stove; otherwise this mountain would have transformed itself into to a papery Pompeii long ago.
She also tolerated so many other things. The endless alarming parts from newspapers with titles like “The arms race goes on”, “Americans test anti-rocket system”, “Our rocket shield grows”, “Farewell to peace” and “The time for patience is over” that covered all of the walls like wallpaper; him staying all night hovering over a stack of notebooks, a gnawed on pen in his hand – using electrical light instead of candles, no option with all the newspaper around; his jesting nickname, that he carried with pride, but that evoked a joking smile by everyone else that said it.
She tolerated so much, but not everything. Not his juvenile eagerness and curiosity, that brought him into the middle of a storm every time there – and that with almost 60 years of experience! Nor the ease with what he accepts all the orders from above, without thinking about the last expedition that had almost cost his life.
If he had died… he didn’t want to think about it.
When Homer left for guard’s duty once a week, she never remained in the house. She fled with her troubled thoughts to the neighbors or went to work, even if she didn’t had to – it didn’t matter where, everywhere was fine if it distracted her from thinking that her husband had already died, laying on the ground, dead and cold. She thought that his typical male composure regarding death was stupid, egoistic, yes, even criminal.
Fate had wanted it that she had already returned from work to change her clothes. She had put her arms through the sleeves of her patched jacket when he entered. Her dark, slightly grayed hair – she hadn’t even turned 50 – was tousled and you could see fear in her brown eyes. “Kolya… did something happen? I thought you had guard duty till late in the night?
His courage to start his argumentation dissolved immediately. Of course this time others were responsible, he could have said that they forced him, with clean consciences. But now he hesitated.
Maybe he should calm her down first and mention it later – casually – during dinner?
“I am asking just one thing from you: Don’t lie to me.” she warned him as she stared at his desperate, wandering eyes.
“Lena,” he started. “I have to tell you something…”
“Did somebody…“ she asked the most important, most feared question right away. Did somebody die, but she didn’t spoke it out loud, like if she feared that her words would make it happen.
“No! No…” Homer shook his head and added: “The freed me from guard duty. They are sending me to the Serpuchovskaya. Don’t think it will be dangerous.”
“But…” Yelena didn’t know what to say. “But that is… did they already return, the…”
“It is all nonsense.” he interrupted her hastily. “There is nothing”. The conversation turned into an unexpected direction. Instead dealing with curses that he is trying to play a hero and wait for a good moment of reconciliation, he now had to face a far harder test.
Yelena turned away, stepped to the table, put the salt from the table somewhere else and smoothed a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “I had a dream…” she stopped and cleared her throat.
“You always have one.”
“A bad one.” she said stubbornly. Then she started crying.
“What? What am I… it’s an order.” He stuttered and stroked over her fingers. He realized that his tirades weren’t worth a cent now.
“The one-eyed should go himself! She called out angrily and moved her hand away. “Oh that devil with his beret! They can only boss around others… What does he have to lose? He is married to his rifle! What does he know?”
When you make a women cry, the only thing left is to hold her in your arms. Homer was ashamed of himself, he was really sorry. But it was too easy to give in now, to swear that he won’t follow that order, to calm her down and dry her tears – and to remember this missed chance forever. Maybe the last chance in his long life.
So he remained silent.
It was time to gather the officers and instruct them further. But the colonel was still sitting in his office.
The cigarette smoke didn’t even bother him anymore, but it still tempted him.
While the commander of the station moved his finger along the line of the Sevastopolskaya on his map of the Metro and was whispering to himself, sunken in thoughts, Denis Michailovitsch tried to understand what was behind Hunters mysterious return at the Sevastopolskaya. Why did he decide to settle down here and why did he wear his helmet in public almost all the time? That all meant that Istomin was right: Hunter was hiding from something and he had chosen the southern guard post as his hiding place. There he replaced a complete brigade and had become irreplaceable. Whoever demanded his return, whatever price had been placed on his head, neither Istomin or the colonel would have given him up.
His hiding place was brilliant. There were no strangers at the Sevastopolskaya and compared to other caravans that traveled to the “big Metro”, everyone passing through this station kept their tongue behind their teeth. In this small Sparta that desperately held on to their small piece of earth on the end of the world, it was the most important thing to be reliable and relentless in battle. Here secrets still meant something.
But why did Hunter give all this up again? Why did he travel to Hanza out of his free will and risked being recognized? He had volunteered for this operation; Istomin wouldn’t have dared to think about appointing it to him. It probably wasn’t the fate of the lost recon unit that interested the brigadier.
He didn’t fight for the Sevastopolskaya because he loved the station so much, but because of his own reasons that were only known to him.
Maybe he had to fulfill an assignment? That would explain a lot of things: His sudden appearance, his secrecy, the stamina with which he holds the guard post and of course his decision to leave for the Serpuchovskaya immediately.
But then why did he forbade him to inform the others? Who could have sent him expect for them?
No, that was impossible. He was one of the Order. A man that dozens, if not hundreds of people – including Denis Michailovitsch – owed their lives to, who wouldn’t be able to commit treason.
But was this Hunter that had appeared out of the void the same? If he worked for somebody did he receive a signal?
Did that mean that the disappearance of the recon unit was no accident, but a well planned operation?
And what part did the brigadier play in all of this?
The colonel strongly shook his head, as if he wanted to shake away his suspicions that hang on him like leeches, becoming bigger and bigger. Why would he think this about a man that saved his live?
Hunter had served the station without any mistakes and he had never given him the slightest reason for doubts. Thus Denis Michailovitsch forbade himself to think about the brigadier as a deserter, spy or something else.
He had made his decision. “Another tea and then I will go to the boys,” he said overly energetic and snapped his fingers.