“It happens,” Maratse said.
“Aap. All the time.”
Maratse turned to his left to look at the fjord, now covered in a thick blanket of fog. “Tell me what happened in Kussannaq.”
Kilaasi’s face twisted into a grimace before he began. “They came fast, with ships and a helicopter.”
“Ships? More than one?”
“Aap. The big American ship with lots of small boats. And Sisak.”
“Sisak III?”
Kilaasi nodded. “But they just sat there, watching.”
“They didn’t send anyone ashore?”
“Naamik.”
“And they stayed?”
“They’re still there. They saw everything. When the man grabbed Innuina, they came a little closer. But still, they didn’t land. We saw them from the path.” Kilaasi pointed to the bend in the path curving around the mountain leading to Kussannaq. “Until we came around the corner. But now… the fog.”
“Hmm.” Maratse took a step back, tilting his head as if he could see around the corner.
“Are they still Greenland police?” Kilaasi asked. “Aboard Sisak.”
“Iiji.”
“And you? Are you still police?”
Maratse dropped his pack onto the ground and nodded.
“Then you should talk to them.”
“I will.”
Kilaasi dug his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small handheld VHF unit. He pressed it into Maratse’s hand, and said, “Talk to them.” Maratse twisted the dial to turn the unit on, but Kilaasi reached out to stop him. “No signal. Save the battery. Use it when you get further down the path.”
“I will.” Maratse stuffed the radio into his jacket pocket.
Kilaasi chuckled as he watched him.
“It’s funny,” he said.
“What is?”
Kilaasi nodded at Maratse’s jacket. “Now we’ve met, it makes sense. Your stories on the radio.” Another chuckle. “Your jacket is a police jacket.”
“Iiji.”
“But it looks… It smells like a fisherman’s jacket. And now the stories make sense. Only a hunter could talk about ice the way you do, or a fisherman about the sea. I understand now.” He looked along the path to where Kamiila sat watching them. “She understands.”
“She thinks I should do more than tell stories.”
“You will,” Kilaasi said. “Stories are where it begins.”
Maratse caught the older man’s eye and frowned. “Where it begins?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Constable.” Kilaasi pointed at the bend in the path. “Go and talk to your colleagues. Rouse them into action.”
“They work for the Americans now.”
“On paper.” Kilaasi shrugged. “But here…” He pressed his wrinkled fist to his chest. “They are still Greenland. Talk to them. They will help you. I will stay with the girls. I’ll look after them.” Kilaasi’s thin lips stretched into a gappy smile.
“You’ll look after them?”
“I will pretend to. Kamiila is a good girl, a strong woman. She will pretend to let me.”
Maratse shook Kilaasi’s hand, thanked him for the radio, and then dipped his head in a brief farewell.
“Keep telling your stories, Constable,” Kilaasi said, as Maratse walked away. “They give us hope.”
Maratse took a last look at Kamiila, then turned to walk along the path curving around the mountain, down to the fjord, and Kussannaq. Like all the settlements in Greenland, Kussannaq was full of stories bleached into the weathered wood of the houses, packed into the dry earth, twisting on the wind through tall Arctic grasses. Maratse curled his fingers around the dial of the radio in his pocket, as he wondered what to say.
It will be all right. You’ll see.
“How do you know?”
I know. Trust me.
Maratse shook his head, wondering how and when he let Inniki in, only to remember the window box in Kapisillit, their daily walk around the houses, and the way she had grabbed her rifle – without hesitation – to protect her life, and her greatest love: her country.
Trust me.
“Iiji,” he said. “I do.”
The fog curled around Kussannaq, giving Maratse little more than a minute to observe the settlement before the houses shrank into the blanket of grey. He tugged the radio from his pocket, turned the dial to switch the unit on, then changed the frequency to channel 16. He pressed the transmit button, speaking in Greenlandic, as he called the police cutter Sisak III.
“Received.” The radio crackled to life. “Go to channel 12.”
Maratse changed channels, then paused as he considered what to say, and how much.
Constable Aqqa Danielsen beat him to it, bringing a smile to Maratse’s face as the younger constable’s voice and Greenlandic words boomed out of the speaker. “Good to hear you, Qilingatsaq. What do you need?”
Maratse’s smile stretched into a laugh as Danielsen addressed him with his Greenlandic name. Everyone – Kamiila, Danielsen, even Kilaasi – seemed to be just a few steps ahead of him.
Catch up, David.
“I know,” he whispered, before pressing the button to transmit. “I’m thinking of coming down to the settlement.”
Maratse let go of the button to wait for Danielsen’s response.
“Ah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Are you close?”
“Close enough.”
“Then we can meet.”
“Also, not a good idea. You need to think about this.”
Maratse lowered the radio. He tapped the thick antenna against his thigh. Everyone else was thinking about the bigger picture, while he was just reacting as he always did.
“It’s what I know,” he whispered, suddenly curious at the thump of something on the wind. “It’s what I do best.”
It occurred to him then, just as it occurred to Kilaasi, there was a reason Maratse’s stories resonated with his people, especially those in the sledge dog districts above the Arctic Circle and on the east coast. Hunters, while they were adept at reading the signs, often reacted to reports of whales in an open lead, or a herd of reindeer that strayed into difficult terrain. They reacted to any given situation, with little and often no time for planning.
Start planning.
“I know.”
It’s the only way.
“I need a plan,” Maratse said. He lifted the radio to his face, pressed the transmit button, and repeated himself.
Danielsen agreed, but Maratse lost the rest of the constable’s transmission as the thumping he heard earlier, returned, amplified by the fog.
“I have to go,” Maratse said. He switched the radio off and stuffed it into his pocket.
The thumping deepened into a fast rhythmic thud thud thud, stabbing through the fog, reverberating in the mountains. Maratse knelt and pressed his palm on a large, smooth rock. He felt the thud of the approaching helicopter through the granite – not yet visible, but close.
Maratse glanced back up the path, calculating the distance to Kamiila and the handful of residents from Kussannaq. They would hear the helicopter too, if they hadn’t already.
Think.
“I’m thinking.” Maratse looked along the path to Kussannaq. The path led downhill. It would be quicker to run to the settlement and, “Safer to lead the helicopter away.”
You’re not thinking.
Maratse pushed Inniki’s voice out of his head, tightened the utility belt around his waist, and removed the pistol from the holster at his hip. He checked the magazine, slid the pistol back into the holster and tightened the loop and snap across the grip.
“Sometimes you can’t think, you just have to react.” Maratse flattened his lips into a grim smile. Reacting was what he did best.
Hunter.
“Iiji,” Maratse said, and ran.
The thunder of the helicopter’s rotors rumbled in the mountains, filling the air above Maratse’s head
as he ran down the path to Kussannaq. He ran into the fog, felt the chill of its wispy grip on his cheeks, on the back of his neck, and he drew it to him, recognising its familiar touch, willing it to grow thicker still – a shroud to hide within.
Don’t say shroud.
Maratse stopped at the side of the first house, turning his head as the helicopter hovered before landing. The rotor wash cast grit and dried grass in his face. Maratse narrowed his eyes to slits, staring into the fog as he tried to recall the open patch of land on which they had landed on his first IGA mission to Kussannaq. He turned his head to the right – remembering, just as he slipped his hand to his pistol, popping the loop of the holster – preparing.
Think.
“I’m thinking.”
Maratse titled his head as the roar and the pitch of the rotors changed. He imagined it landing, then caught the first flash of the Coast Guard red and white livery on the helicopter’s fuselage through the fog, followed by black shadows leaping from the doors, rifles tucked into their shoulders as they approached the houses.
Maratse licked the grit from his bottom lip, taking a second more to think as the helicopter pilot shut down the engines and the rotors slowed from a roar to a low growl followed by a slow squealing spin.
The shadows materialised, closer now, revealing four determined operators clad in tactical gear, faces hidden behind masks, heads obscured by ballistic helmets.
Not helping. Think faster.
Maratse pulled back as they approached, then picked his way along the side of the house, judging the distance to the next one as he tried to recall the position of each house and utility building in Kussannaq. He remembered the store, close to the oil tanks and the chain-link fence surrounding them. The beach wasn’t far from the tanks, and like every beach in every settlement in Greenland, it would be littered with small boats.
As per the IGA’s instructions, residents were allowed little more than one bag for clothes and personal items, and another for children’s toys. Everything else was to be left behind.
“Abandoned,” Maratse whispered as he jogged across the gap between the buildings.
A shout accompanied by the metallic click of a weapon, gave Maratse an extra surge of energy, as he pushed for the beach, confident now that he had a plan, that he was thinking, and that for a second or more, he felt confident that he knew exactly what to do.
Until the first shots cracked through the fog, and the hunter suddenly understood what it was to be hunted.
Part 7
________________________________
The walls of the wooden house splintered under a blister of bullets, forcing Maratse to the ground. He crawled through the dirt around the side of the house, then made a second sprint for the store. More bullets thwacked into the packed earth at his heels, then punched through the steps as Maratse climbed them. Maratse put his shoulder to the door and tumbled inside the store, almost chiding himself for not trying the handle first to see if it was unlocked. He scrabbled to the counter, boots sliding and squealing on the linoleum floor, until he found a moment’s pause and some protection – long enough to take a breath and draw his pistol. Less than a week ago, Walcott had put him on an IGA team to help encourage the residents of Kussannaq to leave their homes in favour of modern apartments in Maniitsoq. Now that same team was doing its best to remove Maratse from Kussannaq – permanently. Maratse peered around the corner of the counter, gripped his pistol in both hands, and fired twice at the shadows approaching the door.
Permanent, he thought, works both ways.
Maratse fired again, then retreated deeper into the store, ducking his head and running for cover, as the IGA team reduced the store front to sawdust and splinters with returning fire. Thoughts of reaching the beach and a boat slipped from Maratse’s mind, as he studied the back of the store, wondering if the office at the rear had a door or a window, or if the storeroom contained anything useful behind the padlock that secured it.
Three more bursts of bullets forced Maratse to the floor. He crawled towards the storeroom, rolled onto his back, and blasted the padlock from the door. He kicked the door open and squirmed inside.
The storeroom shelves were bare, with little more than tinned goods, pasta, and winter clothes. The more interesting and immediately useful items were at the rear. Maratse ignored the shouts from the front of the store as the IGA team entered. He holstered his pistol and picked up the hunting rifle, slipping his fingers around the bolt, before reaching up to the sill of a thin window – too thin to crawl through – for boxes of ammunition. Maratse pressed the bullets into the magazine clip as Walcott called to him.
“You can’t get out that way, David.”
Maratse ignored him.
“But there is another way. Less violent. More reasonable.”
Maratse slid the magazine into the rifle with a click, worked the bolt to chamber the first round, then slung the rifle over his shoulder as he spied the shotgun poking out of a barrel for broomsticks and boathooks in the corner of the storeroom. He grabbed a box of shells from the windowsill, then reached over to tug the shotgun out of the barrel.
“David?”
Think.
Maratse frowned as he slid three shells into the pump-action shotgun. Walcott was a threat, but Inniki’s voice was a distraction he didn’t need. He tried to ignore both, jacking one shell into the chamber of the shotgun before ducking down behind the shelves.
“We need to talk, Constable. Things have got out of hand. But it’s not too late to repair the damage.”
Maratse opened his mouth, curling his tongue around a name: Nukappi, as he considered asking Walcott how he could repair that damage.
“I’m sorry about the young man,” Walcott said, as if reading Maratse’s thoughts. “It’s tragic. But he had a gun, David. He pointed it at the helicopter. There was no other course of action available. The crew did what they had to do. It’s regrettable. I wish it hadn’t happened. But it did. He’s dead. But no one else has to die, David. We can stop this.”
Maratse leaned into the shelves, then called out, “You shot at me.”
“Yes. Yes, we did.” Walcott moved closer to the storeroom, giving Maratse a glimpse of his body as he crossed in front of the door. “But you shot back, David. That doesn’t help. And now…” Walcott lowered his voice, forcing Maratse to concentrate to hear him. “Now you’re stuck in the broom cupboard. There’s nowhere to go. We have you covered. If you just throw your pistol out of the door, and then…”
Walcott paused as Maratse tossed his pistol through the gap in the door.
“That’s good, David. I knew you could be reasonable.”
Maratse thought about what Kamiila said on the mountain – something about fighting. The fight for Greenland had waged to a greater or lesser degree through the years, for as long as he could remember, but actually fighting, physically, with weapons... Maratse struggled to recall ever thinking it would come to that. And yet, everything about the new reality, the sudden way the people of Greenland had been thrust into accepting Greenland’s new present and uncertain future – that fight was different.
You must be different.
Inniki was back, and her insistence brought a smile to Maratse’s lips. He glanced at the window, wondering if Inniki would have tried to crawl through it, or if she would have gone out blazing, just as he intended to do, now that they thought he was unarmed.
“But that’s not me,” he whispered, lowering the shotgun. “I must be different.”
He looked up as the IGA team scuffled around the door. He caught a flicker of movement as one of the team picked up his pistol. Maratse slid the shotgun onto the shelf, then tugged the rifle from around his chest. He put it on the shelf next to the shotgun.
Different, he realised, was open to personal interpretation. Should he act differently to how he normally acted? Or should he simply be different? Since his first assignment with IGA, and even before then, when guarding Inniki Rasmussen, Maratse w
as different from the American administration. But more than that. He was Greenlandic, different by his very nature, influenced by the nature around him. There was a time to hunt and kill, when food was needed, or game was plentiful. And in those moments, for a very brief moment, violent acts were necessary.
“But not today,” he whispered, standing up. “There are other ways to fight.”
“He’s coming out,” Mitchell said. “I see him.”
Maratse saw him too, although the mask and helmet obscured the IGA operator’s features. His shoulders, however, were just as broad. Maratse pressed his lips into a thin smile as he remembered tackling Mitchell to the ground when he chased Nukappi onto the beach.
“Take it slow, Constable,” Walcott said.
“Iiji.” Maratse raised his hands in front of his chest, palms pointing out. He kept his eyes on Mitchell – the craziest member of the IGA team, focusing on him alone as he opened the storeroom door with the toe of his boot and stepped out into the store.
“Knees.”
Mitchell took a step forward, jabbing the barrel of his carbine at Maratse’s chest. Maratse sank to the floor, still focused on Mitchell as another member of the team grabbed Maratse’s hands, tugged his arms behind his back, and looped two interlocked plastic ties around his wrists.
“He’s secure,” Isra said. She slapped Maratse on the back of his head before stepping back, clearing the way for Walcott.
“Well.” Walcott sighed as he removed his helmet. “This makes things easier.” He pressed his hand on the barrel of Mitchell’s rifle, nodding for the younger IGA man to step back.
“We’ll be outside,” Isra said. She clicked her fingers in front of Mitchell’s face, breaking the spell Maratse seemed to have cast on him, and pushed him to the front of the store. Downs muttered something as they approached, but the words were lost, as Walcott grabbed a chair from the office and placed it in front of Maratse. He rested his carbine across his knees and then reached into Maratse’s chest pocket.
Arctic Rising: A Constable Maratse Stand Alone novella (Guerrilla Greenland Book 3) Page 5