Rusty eased his Robinson helicopter toward the small airfield by Dutch Harbor. The helicopter was his pride and joy, and he knew it like the back of his hand. The two Russians were in the passenger seats, abuzz with energy. They had duffel bags at their feet, heavy with bundled money.

The wind was picking up. He knew a low pressure system was incoming, but knew he also had time to land in Dutch Harbor before it arrived. He had programmed his headset to receive National Weather Service alerts for his usual flight location. It came to life with a series of unpleasant tones, buzzes, and clicks. He knew some people called these sounds the 'duck farts,' which he loved. A robotic voice announced:

"This is a National Weather Service special marine warning announcement. A storm warning is in effect until tomorrow. A low pressure system is forming in the Bering region of Alaska. Winds are forecast at 50 miles per hour."

When the broadcast ended, Bogdan shifted in his seat. He had been looking out over the choppy ocean, and turned to look at Rusty. He spoke over the two-way headsets. "Rusty, you have been an excellent pilot. After we land in Dutch Harbor, we will go our separate ways. You will forget our faces, yes?"

Rusty nodded. "No need to remember. I need to get back to my life." He would obviously never forget today, but he knew the easiest solution was to get out of the situation as smoothly as he could. He did see one small opportunity. "But, I wouldn't turn down a fee for my services, now that you are well off."

Bogdan nodded. He could appreciate Rusty's directness. With a shrug, he unzipped the black duffel at his feet. He plucked a banded wad of cash from the top of the stack, and with a flick he tossed it forward.

Rusty nodded. "Thanks. It costs a lot to keep a helicopter in the air."

Below, the airfield came into view. They passed over the chain link fence, and saw a small row of crop dusters and helicopters below. A steel quonset hut sat to one side. A moment later, an asphalt circle came into view. It was worn, with the margins slowly turning to loose gravel. Rusty slowed the helicopter, and came to a stationary hover. They could feel the wind buffeting the helicopter. It was swaying as they hovered. Their heads were bobbing. Rusty eased the helicopter down and they touched down gently. He shut off the turbine and the cabin slowly quieted.

Bogdan stood up and slid the door open. He stepped down to the cold asphalt. He scanned around the airfield and saw that it was empty. The fenced perimeter was wide and mostly empty. He looked into the open door as Aleksandr reached into his coat. He reached for the handle and slid the door shut gently.

Randy looked at him with a question on his face. Inches behind his head, Aleksandr's pistol was hovering, steadily. Bogdan nodded at him, barely perceptible. There was a flash and a dull bang, muted by the plexiglass windows. Rusty's head exploded forward in a red mist. Chunks of the foam in his headrest were sprayed forward and floated down. The inside of the windshield was coated with a fine red spray. A single deformed bullet was lodged in the plexiglass. A small chunk of Rusty's scalp began to slowly slide down the inside of the windscreen, tracing a dark red line.

Aleksandr slid the door open and climbed out of the door. He slipped his gun into his coat. He covered his ears with both palms. "Блядь. That was way too loud. My ears hurt. They are ringing! Like a Сука Блядь."

Bogdan was unphased. "You'll get used to it. Now, go break open the hut. We need gasoline."

Aleksandr walked slowly to the hut, cupping and uncupping his ears. "I can barely hear for Гавно. They'd better not keep ringing like this." He got to the door, and saw that it was locked with a rusty padlock. He walked around the back of the hut, and found a chunk of deteriorating asphalt. He carried it with both hands, with some effort. He approached the door, and heaved it at the padlock. The asphalt broke in half. He grabbed a half, and hammered it against the lock again. The lock broke free and fell uselessly to the ground.

Bogdan opened the pilot's door of the helicopter, and fished his hand in Rusty's pocket. He pulled out his truck keys. He got to work walking the heavy duffel bags to the truck. He walked back and forth in a few trips, and then paused to lean against the truck.

Aleksandr peered into the hut. It was dark and dusty. He held up his phone and turned on the flashlight. In one corner he saw a lawn mower, below a warped shelf full of maintenance supplies. Next to it was a red plastic can of gasoline. Jackpot. He carried the can over to the helicopter. It sloshed. He opened the passenger door, and poured gasoline over the seats. He opened the pilot's door. Rusty had slumped sideways toward the center of the cockpit, silent and inert. He sloshed gasoline over Rusty, soaking his clothes and seat. Then, he threw the can into the empty passenger seat.

He stood back a pace, and waited a moment for the fumes to gather. He pulled a metal lighter from his pocket. He flicked the lid open with a loud click, and then lit it. He tossed the lighter underhand into the passenger compartment. With a dull whump the helicopter lit on fire. As he walked to the truck, the fire behind him grew taller and angrier.

The two Russians climbed into Rusty's truck. They started the engine, and a small pool of steamy exhaust grew behind it. They watched for a moment out of the windshield as the helicopter burned. The fire was bright, and they could see the wind fanning the flames. A column of smoke was beginning to form, trailing above the treetops.

Aleksandr sat up suddenly. "Блядь!"

"What?"

"I forgot to grab the wad of cash from his seat. The one we threw to him. What a waste."

Bogdan laughed. It was loud and wheezy in the small truck cab. "Горе луковое. How is it in English? A cry over spilt milk, right? Nothing to worry about. We have plenty."

—--------

Aboard the Cecaelia, there appeared to be a moment of calm. The investigation was underway, and the Russians had left the ship.

On the employee deck, a man in the sharp suit of a Steward's uniform sat in his bunk. His name tag read 'Dmitry.' Dmitry was an unremarkable looking man. He was quiet, and kept to himself. He was known for keeping his guests happy, but they generally forgot him when they left. He was middle aged, and built like a former athlete. His hair was sandy, and he wore wire rimmed glasses.

At his feet was a black duffel bag. He had been waiting to open it. It had been stashed in his wardrobe, a simple pine cabinet weathered from use. He took a breath, and then unzipped the bag. He already knew what he would find. It had been planned backward and forward. Rehearsed a dozen times. Oleg had insisted on it.

He still caught his breath when he saw the contents. Inside, there was a pair of submachine guns. PP-19, or the Vityaz. It was the standard issue submachine gun for the Russian military and police forces. It had a fire selector, so it could be placed in fully automatic mode. He pulled one out of the bag, and cradled it in his hands.

It had taken some effort to find them. Someone in Oleg's network had found a crooked quartermaster to sell them out of the official stocks. He wondered what they had to pay. Maybe it was just cash and vodka. Maybe something worse.

He unfolded the shoulder stock, which snapped in place with a reassuring click. He flipped the gun around in the dim light of his room and gave it an unhurried inspection. It was well oiled and spotlessly clean. No doubt someone on Oleg's team had done that. Certainly the crooked quartermaster wouldn't have been bothered. He inserted a 30-round magazine and racked the slide. He made sure the shoulder sling was firmly attached.

He screwed the removable silencer to the barrel. It was a simple, aluminum tube. Dmitry had seen the Hollywood movies. A gun with a silencer was impossibly quiet. Only a whisper you couldn't hear. He knew better. He had used one in the VDV, ages ago. It felt like a different life. In reality, a submachine gun with a silencer was like an industrial sewing machine. Mechanical, loud, and distinctive. Instead of putting garments together, it tore people into pieces. He thought it was fitting that assembly and disassembly could sound so similar.

Beneath the guns, he saw a stack of loaded magazines. They were black and glossy. They were stuck together, tip to tail. When you needed to reload, you could flip the empty one over and insert its full pair. He set the gun next to him on the bunk. It looked incongruous on the cheap, rough cotton sheets. A precision implement, on the shabby sheets of the bunk he hated. He had been working on the ship for months, playing the long game. He abhorred the crew quarters, and disdained doting on the rich and impatient guests. They were 'В сорочке родиться,' he thought. 'Born with a shirt.' Lucky people who didn't have to work for their success the way he did.

Next to the loaded magazines was a spiral bound book. He pulled it out and flipped it open. He saw glossy pages with full color pictures, and detailed descriptions. He had studied it before, but he settled in to read it again. It wouldn't hurt to know everything about the next phase.