Cecaelia: Danger in International Waters

1. Unalaska

Rusty Kowalski was reclined in his favorite chair in his modest manufactured home. It was raining in Dutch Harbor, and he could hear the gentle patter on his roof. The rain was streaking down the windows. He was warm and comfortable. His feet were up, and he was watching a well worn VHS copy of Top Gun on his tube television. The heat was purring away. He had a cold, sweating can of beer in his cup holder.

Rusty was in his mid-fifties. When he was a younger man, he had been in the Army during the Gulf War. Now, he had grown a little around the midsection. His hair had receded. He was still powerfully built, and he had a bright red goatee and mustache. Back in the war, it had just been a mustache. His squadron had given him the nickname Rusty because of his mustache, and it had stuck all this time.

Bogdan and Aleksandr parked their van three blocks away, and opened their doors into the rain.

"Ready?" Said Bogdan, in heavily accented English. He was the older of the two, in his forties. He was about six feet tall, and stocky. He had taken a leadership role over Aleksandr, who was his junior both in age and in the organization.

"Sure. Seems simple enough. Oleg gave us a solid plan." Alexsandr was shorter, and wiry. He was trying to put on a confident face, but he was jumpy.

Bodgan punched him in the arm. Aleksandr tipped sideways and caught himself. "Sure, Sasha. You're putting on a brave face. Maybe the walk in the fresh air will calm your nerves, though. We will be fine."

Bogdan and Aleksandr had come to Dutch Harbor a week before. They had flown from Brighton Beach, New York. Brighton Beach was a corner of Brooklyn that they called 'Little Odessa,' because of the number of Russians and Ukranians who called it home. They could both navigate the neighborhood in Russian, but more importantly they had a strong network there. Their employment relied on this network. Their boss, Oleg, wasn't due for a while. He sent them as an advance team to find a vehicle, a base of operations, and to get a feel for the place.

They had both eaten a hearty late lunch at Varenichnaya, their favorite restaurant in Brighton Beach. Plates of herring and potato, pelmeni with veal, borscht, a side of kasha and onions, and a steaming pot of tea. They knew these comforts wouldn't exist in Alaska, despite it being so close to Russia. Bogdan loved geography. He reasoned that you couldn't have a tie to Russia, the largest country in the world, without appreciating geography. It spanned two continents! Bogdan appreciated that Unalaka was further west than Hawaii. It was practically part of Siberia. It had been Russian once, after all. There was still an onion-domed small orthodox church.

They had flown from JFK airport as Konstantin and Fyodor, with beautifully forged passports. Someone in their organization had taken the time to beat them up a little bit, and forge a few entry stamps to the EU and Canada. They had spent two hours in Seattle, then back in the air to Anchorage. A short night there, and then into an old turboprop plane to Unalaska. The airport had one terminal building, a squat structure with a faded red metal roof. Once they were outside, Konstantin and Fyodor were torn up and tossed in the wastebasket.

The gravel at the margins of the road crunched under their feet. They were dressed in heavy, bulky fishermen's rain jackets in drab colors. Aleksandr was carrying a small black canvas tool bag. The rain dripped off the front rim of their hoods, in front of their eyes. There were no street lights. The neighborhood, if you could call it that, was a loose agglomeration of aging manufactured homes. They were spaced well apart at odd angles, and their driveways were all gravel. Too loud to approach by car. Many of the front yards had chain link fences and cars under tarps or on blocks.

They approached Rusty's house and continued on the damp grass to either side of the gravel. The steps on the porch were crooked, and gave slightly as they stepped. They had decided to knock. If there were peeping neighbors, it would cause less suspicion. Bogdan stood in front of the door, feet firmly planted. Aleksandr stood to the side, out of sight, with his gun drawn under his jacket. It was a well worn Tokarev, an old Soviet military sidearm. Bodan knocked, four staccato loud raps.