Think of Home
Early mornings in an Arctic Valkarian sea city are quiet and cold in November.
At four in the morning, a gentle vibration on Antonenko’s wristwatch signaled that the hour had arrived. He managed to sit on the edge of the bed. He exhaled involuntarily, his body protesting as he bent forward, sinking his face into both hands while resting his elbows on his knees. He did not want to leave Valeria’s side. Looking over, his eyes stopped on her uncovered shoulder, shimmering under the faint glow of a streetlamp.
As he slid slowly off the bed, the moment he left the edge, Valeria woke with a small gasp.
“It is time?”
“Yes.”
“So soon,” she murmured.
They whispered; they did not want to wake Jelena, their golden‑haired eleven‑year‑old daughter. She had school later.
They walked carefully, stepping on the wooden floorboards strategically, avoiding the ones that betrayed them with their out‑of‑tune creaks.
“Do you want me to prepare something for you before you leave?”
He looked at her before answering, wanting to remember her exactly as she was — her untidy hair, her body wrapped in a warm housecoat. This was where he would rather be.
“No,” he said, putting on his military blazer with the rank of General and the emblem of the VSSB on its left shoulder. “My driver is already waiting outside. I have a meeting with the president in thirty minutes.”
“Take this,” Valeria said, placing two small loaves of bread into a paper bag. She was not the kind of woman who failed to look after her family.
“Poppy‑seed rolls?”
“I made them yesterday…”
“But this is going to make me think of home.”
“Is that a bad thing? Volodia, think of home when you make decisions.”
General Antonenko smiled and kissed her cheek; they embraced. Then he noticed Jelena’s violin case.
“How are her violin lessons?”
“She’s learning Vivaldi. She wants to show you so badly.”
They stood there for a moment, in the middle of the room. Nothing else mattered. Then she pushed him gently.
“Go… go.”
“Bye, love,” Antonenko said as he crossed the threshold of their home and stepped outside, where a black SUV waited, half‑hidden in the steam rising from its exhaust.
“Think of home,” Valeria whispered from the door. She did not know if he heard.
The convoy had stopped; the confrontation between the unmanned vessels and the Admiral Fyodor Fyodorovich Ushakov had been witnessed by the Polyus. Its occupants watched, astonished, in whatever way they could.
Margaret, Clair, and Richard huddled by the window, trying to glimpse the wounded Ushakov. They had turned off the lights in their quarters to watch the scene unfold in detail. Thick smoke rose from the dying warship, carried sideways by the blizzard. Long fiery fingers stretched through the drifting snow, their yellow and orange reflections dancing across the vast icy surface of the Arctic.
Scores of indistinguishable human figures moved chaotically on the deck — like a silent black‑and‑white horror film — adding to the apocalyptic scene. The perfectly insulated windows of the Polyus forced them to listen only to their own breathing, quickened by emotion.
“I made a mistake,” Clair said, stepping away from the window, arms crossed in disapproval. “I should never have asked my editor to let me cover this expedition.”
Richard and Margaret looked at her face, illuminated by the glow of the inferno. They remained motionless; perhaps they were all thinking the same.
“…but I wanted to be the Amanpour of France… phew.”
“But you are the French Amanpour,” Richard said, his tone warm with recognition. “You’ve reported on every major European event. There’s no one like you.”
“Thanks, Richard. You’re very kind.” She shook her head. “This expedition isn’t entirely about science. The Moscow incident… then”—she pointed at Richard—“the Istanbul events… there are powerful forces at play.”
“I’m not afraid of death,” Margaret said. “But dying like this, locked in a room, unable to tell the world what’s happening… I feel like a cheat.”
“Because you’re telling the story after the fact? Sanitized?” Richard asked gently. “That’s when you write best — using undertones. I read your pieces on the African conflicts. So tactful, yet so precise.”
“Oh, I like him,” Clair said with a small laugh.
“Who is your role model, Margaret?” Richard asked, a soft smile on his face.
“Oh, so many… but BBC had a journalist — his interviews were legendary — Sir Peter Fairbridge.”
The room relaxed. For a moment, they looked at each other rather than at the Dantean scene unfolding outside.
“What made you take the pen, Richard?” Clair asked.
“I was fascinated by how Marie Colvin reported. So direct, uncompromising.”
They all nodded slowly.
“Is there a Miss Hardenburg?” Clair asked, teasing.
“Yes,” Richard answered with an open‑book smile.
The trio fell silent for a few seconds, then returned to the window.
On the bridge of the Ushakov, the first officer had delivered the casualty report. Through their boots they could feel the shuddering warship, resisting the fate of joining a long list of resting brothers at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. Captain Kolchak turned his gaze to the second officer.
“Can we keep her afloat?”
“The additional pumps from Admiral Potemkin are working at full capacity. The fire has been extinguished. The situation is critical but contained.”
Kolchak exhaled — We might have a chance, he thought.
“Have the wounded been evacuated to the Potemkin?”
“The most critical, Captain,” the first officer responded.
“My order was to evacuate all wounded!” Kolchak snapped.
“They were treated by the doctor but refused to leave their stations.”
“Okay, okay…” Kolchak made a conscious effort to remain calm. “As long as they do not become a liability… okay.”
“Captain — Captain Leonov on the coms.”
The Zorya had paused.
“Kolchak.” Captain Kolchak spoke sharply as he grabbed the auricular abruptly from the communications specialist.
“Captain, we are ready to commence towing as soon as you are ready.” Leonov’s voice carried across the bridge.
“Thank you, Captain Leonov…”
“Not at all… thank you,” Leonov interrupted, in a tone fitting the moment — difficult to explain. The line remained open a moment longer than needed, then went dead. Kolchak’s lips tightened, and he nodded. Leonov could not see it, but he knew.
“Communications.”
“Open.”
“Radar.”
“Nothing on the radar, Captain.”
“Weapons.”
“Ready.”
Deep in the guts of the Ushakov, some of the sailors prayed to their gods in the language of their mothers. Russia is a big country.
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