The outskirts of Unalaska was growing dark as evening approached. The wind was blowing. Tall conifers in the distance were swaying and shaking. Rain was falling in growing sheets.

Oleg, Aleksandr, and Bogdan couldn't see the growing dark. The warehouse had no windows. Technically, 'Net Shed #3' had one window by the door. The ancient double hung window had been painted over and the panes replaced with plywood. They could hear the rain. It danced on the metal skin of the warehouse. The sound echoed against the large empty space and the hard concrete floors.

Oleg sat behind his wooden work bench. A laptop was open in front of him. Aleksandr and Bodgan were sitting in the uncomfortable folding chairs opposite. Bogdan was trying his best to find comfort. His legs were stretched straight out ahead, and he was leaning back. The dim overhead light fixture cast large shadows over the entire scene. An oil shop heater was buzzing, keeping the room barely warm.

Oleg leaned forward and shut the laptop. "Bodya, I have good news and bad news."

Bogdan sat upright. "Yes, boss."

Oleg smiled. "Good news or bad news first?"

Bogdan smirked. "What's the five word summary for Russian history? 'And then, it got worse.' So, let's have the bad first."

Aleksandr laughed. It echoed against the walls. He stopped quickly under a harsh glare from Oleg. Bogdan should have known that Oleg was a nationalist.

Oleg cleared his throat. "Fine. The bad news is that the ship isn't docking. Pavel and Dmitry are stuck on board."

"Пиздец." Aleksandr sighed.

Oleg held up his hand placatingly. "Sasha, relax. Always with the language."

"Sorry, boss."

Bogdan shrugged. "There are still ways we can win. What's the good news?"

Oleg smiled again. "I like your thinking, Bodya. We aren't done until we're done. The good news is, your efforts worked. I checked the ADS-B tracker. The Coast Guard made an unscheduled landing in the grass next to the hospital here in town. I think they unloaded someone. You must be a good shot."

"Luck. But thanks boss."

Oleg pushed the laptop away. "Modesty. It's a good feature. Nice work either way." He stood up from his stool, adjusted his wool cap, and began to pace. "We need to think about what to do now. If Dmitry and Pavel can't get off the ship, we are finished. I wasn't just checking on the Coast Guard. There is a cargo plane. A C-130, taking off from an air base in Alaska and coming for us. I think it is the FBI. We have a timer ticking down before they arrive."

Aleksandr sat forward. "Поживём — увидим"

Oleg turned to him. "Exactly. We will live, and we will see. So, how do we get them to dock? Is there a way forward?"

There was a long silence. Oleg continued to pace. His footfalls echoed gently. Aleksandr stared at the cold floor. Bogdan tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. He could see the faint glimmer of the metal siding, between rough boards.

Bodgan cleared his throat. The other two looked at him. "There could be a medical emergency."

Oleg nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Something dire. They have a medical bay on board, we know that. But it's not equipped for much. They are close enough to the harbor that they might dock to allow an ambulance to meet them."

Bogdan met his gaze. "Even better with the weather."

"Ah, true. If the winds are bad enough, an ambulance would be the only option. Ok. What else?"

Aleksandr broke the next quiet pause. "They can't stabilize the ship if the power is down. The passengers would be tossed around in this weather."

"Hm." He continued pacing. "True, Sasha. But the same power loss would make it hard for them to dock."

Bogdan tilted his head. "Is the Coast Guard returning to the ship?"

Bogdan stopped. "Yes. They were just lifting off when I checked. I think so. Why?"

"We got on with a helicopter. They could leave with one."

Aleksandr whistled. It echoed harshly. Then he laughed a cynical short chuckle.

Oleg shot him a hard glance again. "Sahsa, we are gathering ideas. Let him continue."

Bogdan raised his hands. "Look, it's not unreasonable. We know the Coast Guard is returning with a partial crew. At least one was injured. They're not at their full strength. If we put up some resistance, we might be able to take their helicopter. Obviously it has tracking. It's about as risky as stealing a police car." He looked between the two men, gauging their reaction. "But, they could land again and burn it, just like Rusty's. No one else will want to fly in this weather."

Oleg stopped pacing. His cold eyes scanned between both of the men. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Thank you for this. You've given me some ideas. I have a plan now. We will need to move some things forward sooner than I wanted, but it's no problem."

He walked over to Aleksandr, his steps echoing on the concrete. He took a long, measured breath. He put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Sasha, I need you to be in position at the dock. In case this works."

Aleksandr nodded. He stood up quickly and adjusted his coat. "Of course, авторите́т." He nodded and walked out the door.

Aleksandr braced himself against the now-sideways sheets of rain. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his hood around his face. He climbed in the cold, rusted van. The engine started with a grind and a clatter. A loose belt made a shrieking sound and then stopped. Exhaust steam trailed away behind him in the cold wind. He eased through a long five-point turn in the old fishing net yard, and nosed the van toward the gate.​​ He keyed in the code, 0-5-0-9. The gate shuddered and a mass of rain shook loose from the chain link. It slowly opened and he drove to the docks.

—---------

Five couples sat in a loose circle in the Wayfarer's Lounge. The sound of light conversation and tinkling glassware filled the large space. It was muffled by the layers of overlapping antique rugs beneath their feet. Beyond, they could hear the whine of a coffee grinder as a small line of passengers waited for an after dinner espresso.

Around them, passengers were walking with cocktails. They were still dressed for dinner, in suits and black dresses. They were making their way slowly out of the dining room full of Chateau Lafite Rothschild, medium rare steak, and bleu cheese. They were blushed with alcohol and holding more.

The guests around them were completely oblivious to their torment. A woman was silently crying. Her shoulders were moving, and she was crumpled forward. Her husband was slowly stroking her back with his open hand, in an empty gesture of comfort. He was scanning the milling guests with a look of barely concealed rage.

'How could they keep drinking and making merry while my son is missing?' He thought. 'The bastards.' He closed his eyes and rolled his head around to calm himself. He counted while taking deep, measured breaths. He knew the other guests had no idea what was happening. How bad things really were. How could they? The news hadn't been shared with the rest of the ship. He figured it was for fear of panic, after the mob that had formed the day before. A group of passengers had whipped themselves in a frenzy about some stolen money from the Casino, or so he heard. He wondered if the two things were related. How could one ship have so much calamity?

He was an ER doctor, and used to panic and pressure. He also knew that one night could be quiet, and the next could be a full moon filled with gunshot wounds and unspeakable trauma. Maybe they just had the luck of a full moon.

Across the circle, a middle aged woman stood up and paced. She was still wearing a long, elegant silk dress from dinner. She was wearing red-soled heels and holding a small clutch. She turned sideways to make her way out of the group, and continued to walk around them in a big loop.

The man continued to scan the group. Everyone was moving somehow. They were rocking, crying, or pacing. He thought back to his cardiology course. In the 1950s, a pair of cardiologists, Friedman and Rosenman, made an interesting discovery. They had to bring an upholsterer to their practice waiting room to repair the chairs all the time. Once a month, at least. One day, an upholsterer told them, "what the hell is going on with your patients? No one wears out chairs like this." The edges of the seats, literally, were shredded like they'd been chewed by beavers. The pieces fit into place, and they discovered the 'Type A' personality. High achievers are nervous fidgeters. They're stressed. And they get heart disease. He smiled to himself and looked at his chair. He wondered what kind of budget the cruise had for upholstery.

His thought was interrupted by a clamor of dinging and chiming. The entire circle snapped to attention and pulled their phones from clutches and pockets. The glow lit their faces like a small carousel. A man stood up suddenly and fought to keep his balance. A woman dropped her phone on the floor with a dull thud, and collapsed into her partner with a wail. She sobbed uncontrollably.

The man's phone buzzed in his suit coat pocket. He unfolded his reading glasses and perched them on his nose. He pulled out the phone and began to read the green bubble.

"We have your son Hassan. He is safe, for now. He will remain safe if you follow our instructions to the letter. Tomorrow, we will send you the amount of your ransom and wire instructions for the funds.

We know all about you and your family. We have taken your standing into account with our ransom, which we consider fair and reasonable. If you fail to deliver, we will use the rest of our knowledge and hurt the rest of your family outside the ship. We think your sister Darya in Irvine, California will find this less than ideal."

His mouth stood open. He had known what was happening. He wasn't a fool. But to see the message in front of him cemented things. Made it a reality. There was a phrase in Farsi. 'Khak bar saram' he thought. 'Bury my head in dirt.' It made no sense in English, but to him it meant something unspeakably terrible had happened, and he was responsible. He deserved to bury his head in filth. His heart sank. His wife leaned over and buried her face in his chest.

To his left, the standing man began to shout. He was waving his hands. He was breathing hard. His face was red. "What the fuck is happening?! I can't just sit here while they have Bradford. What are we going to do?"

The rest of the circle had collapsed. They were eaning on their partners. They were hyperventilating or crying.

The standing man leaned down and put his palms on his knees. He looked at the group, meeting their eyes. "Get the hell up."

There was silence. He continued. "I mean it. Get the hell up! Do you want to take this sitting down?"

—--------------

Aleksandr eased the rusty van into place at the docks. He turned the engine off. Through the windshield, he could see the water and the slowly darkening horizon covered in rapidly moving clouds. He could hear the steady rhythm of rain on the long metal roof. He settled in to wait.