"The Little Diomede Affair" Chapter 3 for PicFic Tuesday June 30th.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Chapter 1
Chapter 2 Chapter 2 Continued.

The prompt:

After arriving at Anchorage; not wanting to waste time, Illya Kuryakin immediately chartered a flight with one of the local bush pilots. Their destination was the small town of Wales located along the coast of Cape Prince of Wales, on the western tip of the Seward Peninsula, and the closest bit of civilization to Little Diomede.

He’d done some reading on the flight up from what Alaskans called the lower 48; Cape Prince of Wales was the terminus of the Continental Divide, marking the division between the Pacific and Arctic coasts, as well as marking the limit between the Bering Sea and the Chukchi Sea. It was the eastern boundary of the Bering Strait, 51 miles opposite Cape Dezhnev, and the closest location adjacent to the Diomede Islands.

From there it was just over 25 miles across the water to Little Diomede but Kuryakin’s options were limited as to how to get there. By sea was out of the question as stormy seas were common in the area, often battering the island's rocky shores. It made travel to and from Diomede next to impossible at times. As his usual ill-luck would have, this was one of them. There were no ships traveling anywhere near the island because of the rough seas. Winter was approaching as well as the sea ice.

He learned of a helicopter shuttle that flew once a week doing a mail run and seeing to some needs of the islanders, but it wouldn’t arrive until the end of the week...he couldn’t wait that long.   He was sure THRUSH provided their own mode of transportation, no doubt ignoring the local population’s needs, but still that would do him no good.

Illya was tired, but pushed on; he grabbed a quick bite to eat...a moose burger with fries and a beer at a rural café located at the edge of town, overlooking the water.

The cold temperatures reminded him of home, and for a brief moment Illya let himself reminisce. Though life growing up in the Soviet Union for him was not all that happy, there were still moments which would still bring a smile to his face. There were days he would play with baby sister Katiya back behind the little red dacha they called home; usually it was tag, or chasing one of the chickens who’d escaped from the coop. He remembered Papa taking him hunting in such weather, even fishing in the Dneiper river before it froze over.

As he looked out at the view he could see a pod of humpback whales circling as they fed in the bay surrounded by a flock of screaching gulls, hoping to join in the bounty. It was a thrilling sight, one he hadn’t seen since his days in the navy, but he was not there for the view. His gaze shifted to a single engine red and white seaplane moored at a small dock.

He finished the rest of his food, swallowing the last of his beer and headed out the door, down towards the dock.

After a quick negotiation with the pilot who simply called himself ‘Wings,’ they took off for Little Diomede. It wasn’t a usual place that he flew, but as a bush pilot, a fare was a fare.

The trip was short, and the plane landed near the rocky shore line below the town of Diomede. There was no dock, and Illya had to dance along the rocky shore line until he made it to terra firma. He turned and gave Wings a thumbs up, watching as the plane moved away, finally gaining enough speed to glide across the water untill it took off.

The water’s edge was littered with detritus that most likely washed up in the rough waters that surrounded the island and made for a dreary, unwelcome sight.

Just off shore, several walruses, their heads bobbing up and down in the water, watched with curiosity.

The village hung on the side of a two-and-half square mile rock island scattered with boulders, where a slope of 45 degrees was considered gentle. That didn’t allow for a landing strip and the wind was near constant, strong, and cold.

There were no roads and barely foot trails as Illya climbed up the stony incline towards the village, seeing most of the weather-worn houses half supported on stilts, since the ground they were built upon was far from level.

He knew from his briefing packet that Diomede consisted of thirty or so homes, storage buildings and nothing else but a school and a few semi-official buildings, though there was little to indicate any sort of governmental infrastructure.The condition of many of the houses spoke poverty to him.

To his left he got a better look at a large, circular structure resembling a silo of sorts but wider, and not far from it was a helipad. This was the THRUSH addition to the landscape, of that he was sure.

As he entered the town he saw no one walking about; a few eyes gazed out from their windows before quickly closing their curtains, but a single brave soul opened what passed for a door and spoke to him.

It was made out of two pieces of plywood nailed together with two by twos and two by fours, and just a little piece of wire for a latch; this in a place where it could be 45 degrees below zero with the wind blowing from 60 to 80 knots for weeks at a time.

“You need some help Mister?” She was pretty, dark haired and her features hinted at having Inuit blood. Dressed in a heavy wool sweater, corduroy pants, boots and a thick red knit scarf wrapped around her neck; it accentuated the blush of her cheeks.

His needing a shave and the fact he was a bit disheveled from his travels made him look somewhat needy, he supposed. A few days growth of beard tended to give him a gaunt appearance and his tired blue eyes had a forlorn look to them.

“Please, I heard there is work here?” He let his native accent slip out.

“Vy russkiy.” (You are Russian)

“Da.”

“Quickly, come inside,” she cautiously looked about before waving him through the door with her hand,

Once inside Illya introduced himself as Nicholaí Semyonovich Dezhnev, telling the woman he was born in Uelen in the Soviet Union but lived here in Alaska most of his life... in many places as his family tended to be nomadic, preferring to live the solitary life of bush people. He’d last lived in Ketchikan, in the southern part of the state. He was here now in Diomede because he’d heard there was work, for good pay.

Uelen was famous for its walrus carvings, and Illya conveniently pulled a leather string out of from beneath his green and black flannel shirt. On it hung an old miniature carving of an arctic eagle. He’d picked it up in a trading post in Anchorage, thinking it might come in handy in backing up his cover story.

“This belonged to my father Semyon Ilyich.”

“It is beautiful Nicholaí. My name is Irina Lezarev, but folks here call me Ivy.”

Illya glanced around, noting the house, if you could call it that, was quite small though it had two stories.  Plain wood floors with a couple of throw rugs; the walls were covered by light colored wood paneling. A framed portrait of Jesus hanging beside a gun rack where several old Winchester rifles were nestled, no doubt for hunting seals, or even perhaps the stray polar bear.

There was the smell of mold, perhaps rotting wood along with the scent of kerosene from a Monitor...an oil burning heater, which sat in one corner of the room, The flue pipe ran up through the ceiling to the second floor and of course through the roof.

The furnishings were primitive, with a simple table and chairs, and a worn sofa. He noted there was a bookcase with a good number of books and magazines. He forced himself not to smile, as the simplicity of the place reminded him of his own apartment.

In front of one window stood an antiquated sewing machine, the kind run by pumping pedals with one’s feet. Next to it sat a large sewing basket, and another basket filled will balls of wool, and knitting needles.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Ivy. I noticed you were a little nervous before asking me inside. Is there something going on?”

“They're keeping an eye on us. They're very aware of us, as we are very aware of them.”

“And who are they to whom you are referring?”

“The people who came here just over six months ago; they’re the ones who are hiring.  Some of the men from the village took on work to build that...’thing’ near the helipad. A few of them have disappeared and now outsiders such as yourself have started showing up. Some have disappeared as well. There’s tunnels down there being dug into the bedrock, but I don’t know how they’re doing it, or so I hear. No one could ever lay pipes for plumbing because of the permafrost, that’s what we were told by the government.”

“Disappear?” He ignored what she said about the tunnels for the moment.

“People go down to work in there, and don’t come back up.”

Illya’s placid gaze changed as he raised his eyebrows.

“Ivy, I am sure there is nothing ominous going on,” Illya lied, knowing it was for the best.

He looked her straight in the eyes as he spoke.”They are probably just working hard at whatever it is they are doing. If they are working on some sort of tunnels, it will be difficult to cut into the bedrock of the island as you said because of the permafrost. Perhaps they are working on a way of installing pipes for the village?” His lies were smooth and they made her trust him. He could see by her reaction.

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Are you some sort of engineer?”

“I have many talents working with machinery, as well as with wood.”

The young woman gave a long sigh, composing herself before changing the subject.

Chapter 4

Comments

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Hmmmmmm. It's getting more intriguing by the chapter. I can't wait for tomorrow :-)

Oh, I loved the little detail of Illya putting his own name into his 'father's' name.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I figured using his own name in his cover would make it all easier. covers need to be kept simple but plausible, so one less name to remember.

Tomorrow will be another Illya chapter.

I was hoping this chapter wasn't too boring. I was really just trying to set the stage before IK disappears. I hope I painted a bleak enough picture of the island. The photos btw are actually of the village of Diomede. Lots of research in to this story.

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

You definitely painted a bleak picture, and with the photos, I know it's not a place I would want to live.

I finally got an idea, but as it's 11 pm, it won't get written until tomorrow.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thnks, look forward to reading it. Heck, Glenna posted next weeks prompt in a story today (chuckle) so posting your story tomorrow is fine by me.