The bridge officer's face was drawn. "That was the FBI. They landed in Dutch Harbor. They said the turbulence was awful and it was a rough landing. Some equipment was damaged on the runway."

The ship shuddered as a large wave hit the bow. The rocking motion that had been long and gentle had intensified. Sheets of water cascaded down the windows, and the floor tipped under their feet.

Helen shrugged. "That's Alaska. Bad flights and damaged goods in shipping. That doesn't sound like terrible news."

The officer swallowed heavily. "There's more."

Helen made an impatient gesture. "Fine. What is it?"

"They aren't able to land on the ship. They aren't able to fly a helicopter to us in this wind speed and visibility. They said a landing on deck is too dangerous."

"Christ. What about a zodiac?"

"The swells are too high. They can't."

"Seaplane?"

"Same answer. Landing would be too dangerous in these swells."

"We can't stay in a holding pattern forever. This situation won't get easier."

"I know. I tried telling them, believe me. They have a SWAT team with them. I mean, their default is situations that aren't getting better on their own, right?" He was resting an elbow on his work station, massaging his forehead. "But they won't land. We have to make port."

Helen smiled wanly. "I don't love this. Let's be clear. But it looks like this is decided for us." She gestured to the assembled officers to circle up again. "All right, everyone." She clapped once. "We're making port in Dutch Harbor. Let's radio the FBI. We need to make sure the dock is closed, they're in the right position, and at the right time. They have to be all over this."

Everyone nodded.

"I don't want them to underestimate what we're up against, especially when they're cornered."

—---------------

Paul Owens stood on the tarmac at the tiny airport. The wind was sideways, and carrying torrents of water. His glasses were covered in rain. His FBI windbreaker was zipped to the chin and soaking through. He was a supervisory special agent. He wasn't always in the field, but this had the makings of a high profile case. Kidnapped kids, the Russian mafia, and deadly gunfights on a crowded high tech cruise boat.

That was one thing he loved about working at the FBI. Even in a state like Alaska with more mountains than people, you couldn't predict what you would see next. If you had told him he'd be standing next to a C130 in the middle of nowhere, Aleutians in the dark getting ready to rescue some rich kids, he wouldn't have believed you.

His senior special agent, Gatwa, walked toward him in the driving rain. His shoulders were hunched against the weather. He was tucking his head away like a turtle trying to hide from danger, thought Owens. They stood together for a second, staring at the tiny airport.

"The hell was Tom Madsen anyway?" Owens was staring at the flagpole lit by yellow sodium flood lights. They could hear the fabric flapping frantically in the wind.

"WHAT?" Yelled Gatwa.

"Tom Madsen! Why did they name the airport that?"

Gatwa inched forward and leaned his head to carry his voice. "Bush pilot. He crashed and died."

"The fuck? Isn't that bad luck? Naming an airport after a plane crash?"

Gatwa laughed. "Probably anywhere but Alaska."

A powder blue Ford cargo van pulled onto the tarmac. Its headlights looked yellow and feeble against the gloom. The van's door swung open hard in the wind, and smashed violently against its hinges.

A junior agent climbed out and joined them. He was wearing a disposable plastic poncho. He looked ridiculous, and miserable. A recent transfer from the Phoenix field office. He was a tall gangle of limbs, shaking visibly in the cold.

Owens glared at him. "Have you never opened a door in the wind? Christ, you'll break the damn thing."

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to the rental company."

"Yes, sir."

Another van, this one white, trundled over from the back of the C130. They could hear the hiss of tires on wet tarmac. It stopped by Owens, and the windows rolled down. A group of SWAT agents were seated inside, in camouflage fatigues. They were wearing helmets and tactical vests. Radio earpieces snaked out of their collars. They had "FBI" in large velcro letters on their vests. They had submachine guns and rifles resting between their legs, against the floor of the van.

The sliding door opened. An agent in a suit, overcoat, and black leather gloves climbed out. The hostage negotiator.

Owens laughed. "Had to get a ride, huh? Afraid of some rain?"

The man shook his head. "Always got jokes, huh Owens?" He slid the door closed again with a loud whoosh and a hollow metallic slam.

The driver of the SWAT van nodded at Owens. "We ready?"

Owens nodded. "Yeah. Let's roll out in five. We'll take up position at the dock. The ship is in radio contact. Their ETA is an hour thirty."

The driver's window slid closed, no further discussion.

—----------------

Aleksandr had been waiting in the cold van for some time. His seat was reclined, and he was laying in the shadow cast by the few lamps near the docks. He would usually be worried about being seen, but today was different. Nature was helping him. The van was rocking on its squeaky old springs in the gusts of wind. Sheets of rain were rolling down the windows and the windshield. Everything outside looked splotchy and indistinct through the wet windows and rain in the air. Everyone outside would be shielding their eyes against the weather. That is, if anyone ventured outside. He doubted they would.

Aleksandr was used to waiting. A lot of these jobs were mostly waiting. He started as a teenager, waiting as a lookout. Then he graduated to waiting to take pictures of the wrong guy walking into the wrong place. Or the right guy walking into the right place. Oleg was a little paranoid, so he liked to know what everyone was doing. Then he graduated to waiting in the corner of a seedy bar to trade things for cash. Happy enough with his performance, he was promoted to waiting to pull off bigger jobs. Some of those were violent, but the violence was always the brief period of a long sentence of waiting.

He looked back at his book. It was a battered copy of Dmitry Glukhovsky's 'Metro 2033.' He was transported to dilapidated metro tunnels outside of Moscow, where the survivors of a nuclear war had taken shelter.

A moment later, he was pulled back to the present by the hiss of tires on wet pavement. He heard the rumble of big American V8s. Two vans had pulled in close to him on the docks. One was white, the other a light blue. The engines shut off, one after the other. Their trails of exhaust were whisked away rapidly by the cold wind. They looked like rentals. He slunk a little lower in his seat and stowed his book. He craned his neck to try to get a better look from the side window.

The sliding door of one van opened with a swish and a clunk. A man in an FBI windbreaker stepped out. He slowly scanned the dock. His brow was furrowed. Then he set out walking. A slow, observant loop.

"Cука блять" muttered Aleksandr. He started his engine and pulled slowly away from the dock.