by Myke Cole
“You’re not going to . . .”
“No.” Mankiller turned back to him. “I am, and I wouldn’t mind some help.”
“They’re coming back.” Desmarais kept his voice level, but Mankiller could tell he was on the brink of an outburst. The fear and exhaustion were taking a toll on all of them. “We don’t have time for you to go mushing out into the bush.”
Mankiller understood that he was trying to protect his position, to stand up for Mankiller’s home and people, but it didn’t ease the anger rising in her at the thought of yet another white man sauntering into Dene treaty land and acting like he owned the place. She swallowed a retort and turned back toward the exit.
“I’ll help,” Ghaznavi said. “I imagine it’ll go faster with two.”
“What?” Desmarais’ jaw tensed. “You’re the director of SAD. We can’t afford to send you wandering off into the woods!”
Mankiller ignored him, nodded gratefully at Ghaznavi. “Yeah, it would. Thanks.”
“I’ll take point,” Reeves said, shouldering his carbine and casting an apologetic glance at Desmarais.
“No.” Ghaznavi stopped him with a wave. “We can’t afford to draw a shooter off the defenses. I’ll go.”
“Ma’am, it’s my job—” Reeves began.
“This is ridiculous—” Desmarais talked over them.
“Shut it, both of you.” Ghaznavi’s voice was just loud enough to ride over them. “We don’t have time. I’m not a pipe hitter and I’m not doing anything by staying here other than breaking Reeves’ concentration. Reeves, if I’m the director, then that means you do what I say, and I say you stay here.”
“You all stay here—” Desmarais said.
“Knock it off,” Ghaznavi interrupted him. “This isn’t just about supplies. If we’re going to beat those things, we need things of our own. Our thing”—she waved a hand at the lump of collapsed gray flesh that was Schweitzer—“is rather limp at the moment.”
“Hey,” Schweitzer said.
“Shut up,” she said. “If we’re to have a chance in hell, we not only need ammunition, food, and medical supplies, we need magic. The whole reason we’re in this fight is that there’s a source of it back in those woods somewhere.”
“What’s he going to do?” Desmarais rolled his eyes. “All our reporting indicates he only uses the stuff on animals.”
“How the fuck should I know?” Ghaznavi shot back. “This is magic. Everything is brand-spanking-new here. Maybe your reporting is wrong and he can conjure up a mortar team. Maybe these magic animals can spit 20mm rounds and fart propane. Maybe”—she gestured to Schweitzer—“he can get this one back on his feet. Any one of those things could change the game.”
“And maybe,” Desmarais said through clenched teeth, “he can’t do any of that, and you just drew off two shooters we desperately need in the fight.”
“Shooting what?” Ghaznavi asked. “Not sure if you’ve been paying attention, but we’re pretty much out of stuff to shoot.”
“Still doesn’t justify the risk of compromising the package.”
“Call the President.” Ghaznavi was already turning to go. “Or better yet, make yourself useful and ensure they don’t track us.”
“I can’t let you do this, ma’am—” Reeves began.
“Fuck yourself,” Ghaznavi said. “That’s an order.” She paused. “Actually, belay that on account of it being disgusting. New orders are for you to stay here and not bother me while I help the good sheriff here haul these fellas into the woods.” She turned to Mankiller. “Which way are we heading?”
Mankiller pointed vaguely to the northwest. “We hug the shore again but in the opposite direction from the mine. Cut off into the woods after that. Gonna be a long walk.”
“Okay,” Ghaznavi said. “Reeves, take Cort and go stir up some shit to the east.”
“Ma’am, there’s just two of us and we’re low on ammu . . .”
“You think I don’t know that? You’re the high-speed, low-drag, wind-tunnel-tested hard SAD operator here. Figure it out. Make bombs out of pinecones or something. I spent a lot of money training you. Time to make good on it.”
Mankiller felt her throat close. She’d made a similar call not long before. Her deputy’s brain-dead body was a testament to how it had ended. She was grateful Ghaznavi wasn’t looking at her. She wasn’t sure she could keep the dismay off her face. Leave it. It’s not your call. These are not your people.
“What if they come back while your boys are out?” Calmut asked.
“Then I guess they better hope you’re in a good mood,” Ghaznavi said. “Otherwise, you might put a hurting on them.”
Mankiller snorted laughter and left. With Ghaznavi at her side, some of the fatigue dropped away. She was determined to go on her own if that’s what it took, and she was glad to have someone to split the load. It wasn’t just the physical effort; Mankiller had never had a problem with work, no matter how grinding. The truth was that Mankiller’s reputation as a loner was unearned. Being quiet wasn’t the same as preferring your own company, and between the Army and her career after, Mankiller had ensured she was always surrounded by others. It was the real reason she worked so much. Not dedication to her job but a way to keep her mind from dwelling on the long hours alone in her house, waiting for the dawn.
The sledge was where Calmut had said it was, a half-rotten contraption held together by a few layers of moldering carpet fixed by tenpenny nails. The harness was still attached, only big enough for a single person. A jury-rigged knot of ancient rope was lashed on alongside, stiff and gray-green with mold.
“I’m not touching that rope,” Ghaznavi said. “I’ll get polio.”
“I’ll do the rope. You can wear the harness.”
“You sure it’ll hold? This whole thing looks ready to come apart.”
“Nope. Not sure we got much choice, though. Snowmobile makes too much noise. Not gonna wind up like Joe.” The mention of Yakecan sent a stab of grief through her. She swallowed it. Now was not the time.
“Don’t you have sled dogs out here?”
Mankiller smiled. “It’s not the nineteenth century. We got motors now. Only folks use dogs out here is for sports.”
“Well, maybe we could repurpose them.”
“Only kennel nearby was a quarter-klick up the highway, right where the bad guys are. I imagine if there’s any repurposin’, they already done it. Anyway, dogs make nearly as much noise as a snowmobile.”
Ghaznavi stood patiently while Mankiller slipped the harness over her, and then the sheriff looped the rotting ropes over her own shoulders. The parka provided ample padding, and Mankiller had grown up pulling sledges. She settled into the familiar weight, comforted by the whisper-scrape of the runners over the packed snow. She immediately felt the sledge listing on Ghaznavi’s side.
“You gotta pull even with me,” Mankiller said. “Otherwise, I’m gonna cramp one shoulder.”
“Heavier than I thought,” Ghaznavi grunted, but the sledge righted and they made better progress.
“You’ll get used to it,” Mankiller said. “Havin’ the fellas on it’ll make it easier.”
“How does adding weight make it easier?”
“Makes it sit down in the snow better. Moves smoother. You don’t have to compensate for the drift. You’ll see.” Privately, she had begun to worry. If Ghaznavi couldn’t keep pace, it would be worse than if Mankiller had gone alone. But the sledge pulled even to the station doorway at least, and Desmarais didn’t trouble them any further as they loaded Schweitzer and Yakecan on. Schweitzer’s limited use of his arms helped some, as he was able to make sure neither he nor Yakecan would slide off. “This lacks dignity,” Schweitzer groused.
“Shut up,” Ghaznavi said, handed him a pistol. “I presume you can still pull a trigger?”
“He bro
ke my spine, not my fingers,” Schweitzer said, taking it.
“Good.” Ghaznavi nodded. “Cover our six.”
She made a final trip into the station to pillage Calmut’s stock of supplies. The old man knew better than to trouble her about it.
When she turned to go, Reeves and Cort were already at the door, Calmut blustering at their shoulder. “They took all the propane,” he said. “We’re gonna freeze our asses off.”
“Well, that’s good,” Mankiller said. “Might be you freeze solid enough an’ the bullets’ll bounce off you.”
Reeves and Cort each shouldered cream-colored propane tanks and trotted off to the east. Mankiller was amazed at how fast Reeves was despite his prosthetic leg. “Good luck, boss,” Reeves said. “Hurry back.”
“Leave a light on for us.” Ghaznavi waved.
“That’s a bad idea,” Cort called over his shoulder. “Gives away our position.”
Mankiller and Ghaznavi watched them go, then looked at one another. “Ready?” Mankiller asked.
“No,” the SAD Director said, but she leaned into the harness anyway.
“Come on, ladies,” Schweitzer said, one arm draped protectively over Yakecan’s chest. “Mush.”
They mushed, and the weighted sled sat down in the snow, smooth and even, the gentle pressure across Mankiller’s shoulders making her feel at home, even as home dwindled in the distance.
They had reached the line of boathouses when they heard the first explosion. Mankiller’s years in EOD had taught her to identify explosions by sound, from the tinny clap of high-brisance military explosives to the dull whump of smokeless powder. This was somewhere in the middle but toward the low end. The propane tanks. Ghaznavi’s men stirring shit up as ordered. They paused for a moment, then leaned back into their harness, running the sled along the shore toward the thick tree line farther on.
A staccato string of pops from the direction of the explosions, like fireworks going off. Small-arms fire. “Looks like Frank and Ernest have attracted some attention,” Schweitzer said.
“Let’s hope it’s enough,” Ghaznavi said.
The ground rose as they neared the tree line. “We going to fit in there?” Ghaznavi asked.
“Yeah,” Mankiller said. “There’s a track.”
“How can you tell?” Ghaznavi asked. “Looks like it’s all snow.”
“Grew up here.” Mankiller shrugged.
“Mush,” Schweitzer repeated.
They bent their backs and trudged into the woods. Mankiller felt easier as the trees closed around them, cutting off the open sky and the creeping feeling of exposure. Mankiller felt the muscles in her back relaxing in spite of the sledge’s weight. The thick silence of the forest set in, broken only by their grunting breaths and the whispering of the sledge’s runners over the snow. The sounds of gunfire grew more distant, the pops farther apart. Mankiller silently prayed it was the sound of the Americans leading the enemy on a merry chase and not the station being overwhelmed. Yakecan’s face flashed in her memory, nodding as he accepted the radio, turned to head for the snowmobile. Following her orders.
“Your boys’ll be okay,” Mankiller said. The words were directed at Ghaznavi, but she knew she was talking to herself.
“They will or they won’t,” Ghaznavi said, shrugging her shoulders to better seat the harness, “but they signed up to do what they were told, no matter the odds. They can do as they like when they get out or when they die, whichever comes first.”
“I guess,” Mankiller said. She didn’t like Ghaznavi’s refusal to accept the platitude. The SAD Director’s honesty denied Mankiller a chance to make herself feel better.
Ghaznavi misread the tone as disapproval. “Don’t go thinking this is easy for me.”
Mankiller knew she should say something to ease the tension, but as happened so often, she couldn’t find the words.
In the end, Schweitzer broke the silence. “I’d beg to differ. I’ve been dead for months and it hasn’t stopped me from doing my job.”
Ghaznavi smiled at that, and Mankiller was grateful to put the topic behind them and lose herself in pulling the sledge. The trail hadn’t been broken since the last snowfall, and the runners slid easily over the thick crust. But that same snow made the walking nearly impossible, as each step broke through and sank six inches before the footing was firm enough to take the next. Before long, Mankiller was sweating freely in her parka. Ghaznavi moved to take off her hood but stopped at a warning from Mankiller. “You’ll feel good till your sweat freezes, and then you’ll be hatin’ life. Just let your gear soak it up.”
Twin fears hung over Mankiller’s head: that Ghaznavi wouldn’t be able to keep up, and that at any moment she would hear the sharp pop of a rifle and feel the burning of a round cutting through her.
But as with most fears, neither came to pass. Mankiller lost herself in the rhythm of the work, each lurching step, the sledge bumping along behind, the feel of the Alaskan thumping against her chest. She’d let off most of the ammunition during the last assault on the station, and there were only three rounds left. The last of the .375 ammunition. If it came to a gunfight, she’d need to make every shot count.
When the light began to fail, Mankiller stopped them in a clearing created by a frozen bog. She remembered catching toads there with Grampy when she was a girl, before he’d realized he had the inkoze and withdrew to the cabin where he’d lived ever since. Some of the exposed feeling returned at the sight of the deepening sky, but it was more than mitigated by the safety provided by her childhood memories. She knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of sanctuary.
“Reckon we’re far enough now,” Mankiller said, easing out of the ropes. “If they was gonna come, they’d ’a come already.”
Ghaznavi released the harness and sat down where she was, leaning gratefully against the sledge, finally showing her exhaustion.
“Didn’ push ya too hard, did I?” Mankiller asked, trying to keep the worry from her voice.
Ghaznavi gave her the finger, eyes closed.
“Pull me up and give me your rifle,” Schweitzer offered. “I’ll keep an eye out while you sleep.”
Mankiller hauled Schweitzer into a sitting position, his broken body propped against the sledge’s raised back. She gratefully unslung the Alaskan and handed it to him. “Only got three rounds, so don’ miss.”
“I suck at missing,” Schweitzer said, “sucked at it even when I was still breathing.”
“Are we far enough out that we can light a fire?” Ghaznavi asked. “I’m freezing my ass off here.”
“Nope,” Mankiller said, extending a hand to her. “And it’s only gonna get colder. We gotta keep Joe warm and each other. Lemme help you up. Let’s go snuggle on the sledge.”
Ghaznavi opened her eyes. “You’re serious.”
“’Fraid so. Gonna get real cold once we lose the light.”
“Can’t we just drag your guy over here? Or better yet, can’t you? I am in favor of any plan that doesn’t involve me having to move.”
“Sorry,” Mankiller said. “Don’ wanna lie in the snow. Sledge’ll keep us high and dry.”
Ghaznavi groaned, seized her hand, let Mankiller draw her to her feet. “I can’t believe I’m going to snuggle with a corpse.”
“You should be so lucky,” Schweitzer said. “I’m on overwatch. You living folks get comfortable.”
Mankiller curled around Yakecan like a lover, putting her head on his broad chest. She was amazed at the strength of his heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, half expected him to sit up and ask her what was going on. Ghaznavi tucked herself in alongside, wedged between Schweitzer’s leg and Yakecan’s, shivering. “It’ll warm up in a minute,” Mankiller said. “Body heat’s gotta build up.”
The trees blocked the worst of the breeze, and within a few mi
nutes, Mankiller felt cozy enough to give the fatigue rein. She drowsed, reassured by Schweitzer’s powerful senses and the sight of the Alaskan propped on his knee. The cold and the fear wouldn’t let her truly sleep, but the catnapping helped take the edge off her exhaustion. She started awake a few times, her mind translating cracking ice or a frozen branch bursting into distant gunfire or the footfall of an approaching enemy. It was frustrating, but it was a sight better than any rest she’d had since the enemy had shown up outside Fort Resolution, and she was grateful for it.
She wasn’t sure when she’d dropped off, only knew that it was full night when Schweitzer spoke, drawing her into consciousness. “Holy shit.”
There was something in his tone, bemusement and wonder rather than alarm, that kept her at ease. She slowly got to a sitting position, leaning on her elbow, propped on Yakecan’s broad chest.
Above them was a shimmering curtain of blue-green light, rippling and dancing across the patch of sky kept open by the bog. Mankiller had grown up seeing the curls of glowing fabric, and had long since stopped wondering at it, but the look on Schweitzer’s face, dead and stretched as it was, brought some of the old childhood joy back.
“Yaka nágÿs,” Mankiller said. “You never seen it before?”
“Only in pictures,” Schweitzer answered. “Before Patrick was born, Sarah and I used to talk about going to one of those resorts in the Yukon where you got a good chance of seeing the aurora.”
Mankiller looked up at the glimmering light curling and sinking toward the horizon. “Lotta different stories about ’em. Some of the Inuit think it’s bad. Grampy always told me it was the spirits of kids who died young, before they got to have any fun. The lights is them dancin’.”
“You believe that?” Ghaznavi asked, sitting up.
Mankiller shrugged. “Like I said, lotta different stories. That’s the one I like best.”
“It’s a good story,” Ghaznavi said. “I’m starving. Got anything to eat?”
Mankiller rummaged in her pocket, slapped a granola bar into Ghaznavi’s palm.
The SAD Director looked at it, blinked. “It’s not a roast duck.”
