“Cigarette?”
Maratse nodded.
“I thought so. And,” Walcott said, pressing a cigarette between Maratse’s lips and lighting it. “I know you don’t need your hands to smoke.” He slipped the last of Maratse’s cigarettes and his lighter back into his pocket. “It’s just us now.” Walcott glanced at the team waiting at the door before continuing. He turned back to Maratse, and said, “I’m sorry it had to turn out this way.”
Maratse sank onto his heels and puffed a small cloud of smoke above his head.
“Of course,” Walcott said. “I should have seen it coming. Your file…” He laughed. “All those flags and markers.” Another laugh. “If you didn’t speak English, and you weren’t a police constable, you would never have made the list. You could have lived the quiet life in one of the settlements.”
“Until,” Maratse said, speaking out of the side of his mouth, “you forced me to move.”
“Right.” Walcott snorted. “And what’s so bad about that? I mean, really, tell me, because I don’t get it, and I don’t get this,” he said, gesturing at the store. “Life out here is so very fragile. The store is practically bare.” He pointed at a flat screen television behind the counter. “You say you can buy modern things, but you can only get one channel on the TV. All the packets and cans of food have a government label on them, allowing them to be sold way after the best before date. Yes,” he said, nodding, “I saw that and got someone to explain it to me. You see…” Walcott lowered the rifle to the ground and crossed one leg over the other. “I’m not blind to how you live your life outside the city limits, I just don’t understand why you want to live like this.”
Maratse leaned forward and Walcott removed the last of his cigarette. He stubbed it out on the linoleum. Maratse watched him.
“Boss?” Isra waved from the counter.
“Just a minute.”
“I don’t think we have a minute. We should go.”
Walcott lifted his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked at her. “I said…”
“I know, but if we’re going to get on the helo, it has to be now.”
“Why?”
Isra tapped the trigger guard of her carbine as she looked at Maratse, then turned to Walcott. “If we don’t go right now, there’s going to be trouble.”
“What kind?”
“Police,” Maratse said. He tilted his head at the sound of an outboard motor roaring towards the shore.
“Fuck.” Walcott grabbed his rifle, clicked his fingers for Isra to join him, then curled his hand around Maratse’s arm, pulling him to his feet.
“It’s the young one,” Isra said, as she grabbed Maratse’s other arm. Together, they pulled him through the store to the door.
“Danielsen?”
“That’s the one,” Downs said. He waved them down the splintered steps to the ground, then signalled Mitchell to cover the rear. “There’s two in an inflatable, heading for the beach. The cutter is moving around to the east.” Downs pointed. “Towards the helicopter. The fog is lifting. You’ll see them any second.”
“Right,” Walcott said. “You’ve tried calling them?”
“On what?” Downs tapped the radio clipped to the shoulder of his tactical vest. “This is the team radio. We need VHF or something.”
“I have a radio,” Maratse said.
“What?” Downs frowned at him.
“In my jacket pocket.”
Isra let go of Maratse’s arm and pulled the radio from his pocket. She turned the dial to switch it on. “Channel?”
“Twelve.” Maratse nodded at the screen. “It’s already tuned in. Just push to…”
Isra cut him off. “I know how to use a fucking radio.”
“Easy,” Walcott said. “Give them a call.”
Isra lifted the radio to her mouth, then handed it to Walcott. “It’s better coming from you.”
Walcott took the radio. He held it for a second, then nodded. “Okay.” Walcott pressed the transmit button, and said, “This is Special Assistant Spenser Walcott calling the police cutter…” He looked at Maratse.
“Sisak.”
“Sisak,” Walcott said. “What are your intentions, over?”
“Tango,” Mitchell said. He dropped to one knee and pulled his carbine to his shoulder. “Twelve o’clock. Two cops. Armed. One of them has a rifle.”
“More behind,” Downs said, as he pushed past Walcott. “A woman with a rifle. There.” He pointed. “She just slipped behind that house.”
“Take it easy,” Walcott said. “Pick your targets. Isra?”
“What?”
“Take the constable.”
“Where?”
“To the helo,” Walcott said. “Walk slow. We’ll cover you.”
The radio crackled as Isra grabbed Maratse’s arm.
“Special Assistant Walcott, this is Sergeant Sullineq of the Greenland Police.”
“Yes?” Walcott said, keying the transmit button.
“We’re here to take Constable David Maratse into custody. We advise you not to interfere.”
“Into custody?” Walcott laughed as he replied. “That’s just what we’re doing, Sergeant. I suggest you let us continue, and then we can swap notes once we have the constable back in Nuuk.”
“That’s not possible,” Sullineq said.
“What’s not possible?” Walcott frowned as Danielsen and the second police officer drew nearer. “This is an IGA, matter, Sergeant. And if you check, I think you’ll find you work for me. So, if you want to save yourself a lot of embarrassment and paperwork, then I suggest you let us take Constable Maratse to the helicopter and we can take it from there.”
“Negative,” Sullineq said.
“What did you say, Sergeant?”
“I said that’s a negative.”
“What part?”
“Working for you.”
Walcott stared at the radio, barely registering Isra’s struggle as Maratse slipped free of her grip and dropped to the ground.
“What the hell?” he said, stumbling as Downs grabbed the back of his vest and pulled him down into the dirt. Isra aimed a kick at Maratse, only to curse as Mitchell shouted something about a grenade.
Part 8
________________________________
The grenade detonated with a magnesium flash that blinded Walcott and Isra, and a deafening bang that echoed in the fog as if the grenade had gone off inside a room. Isra rolled onto her side, raising her carbine, finger on the trigger. She blinked into the fog, working her jaw and shaking her head as she tried to compensate for the effects of the flashbang. Walcott knelt on the ground – one hand fumbling for the carbine slung around his body, the other clutching Maratse’s utility belt.
“Target left,” Downs shouted. “Ten o’clock. Firing.”
The last ring of the grenade evaporated with the first burst of bullets from Downs’ carbine. He added a second, then a third, chasing his target behind the house to the left of the IGA team.
“Target on the right,” Mitchell shouted. He opened up, emptying a full magazine into the side of the store, stitching the walls with bullets until the fog was full of flecks of red paint and wooden splinters. “They’re flanking us,” he said, changing magazines.
“Cool it, Mitchell,” Downs said. “Clear your head. Short, controlled bursts, okay?”
It was the last thing he said.
A single shot cracked through the fog, slapping into the back of Downs’ neck, in the gap between the top of his vest and the bottom of his helmet. The big IGA man crumpled to his knees, then toppled onto the ground. Isra dropped to one knee, pulled her carbine into her shoulder and emptied a magazine in the direction the shot had come from.
“Isra, stop firing,” Walcott shouted. “Isra. For God’s sake.”
Maratse rolled free of Walcott’s grip, just as a pistol bullet caught the IGA leader in the chest, throwing him onto his back.
“We’re exposed,” Isra yelled, changing mag
azines. “Mitchell. Cover me.”
Isra ran to the corner of the house opposite the store as Mitchell filled the air with lead in a wide arc. Each burst echoed between the buildings, adding smoke and cordite to the fog. Walcott sat up, shook his head, then fixed his helmet. He looked at his carbine, pressed his finger into the busted magazine where the bullet struck, then tugged the rifle from his chest. Walcott tossed his carbine to one side, drew his pistol, and grabbed Maratse.
“We’re going to the helo, Constable. Now, on your feet.”
Maratse struggled to stand, stumbling for balance as Walcott stuffed the end of his pistol into the constable’s back. They walked forward, into the fog, in the direction of the helicopter.
“They want Maratse,” Walcott said, calling out to the remains of his team. “I’ll get him to the chopper. Secure Downs’ body and I’ll send a team to pick you up.”
“You’re leaving us?” Isra shouted.
“They don’t want us, only him. It’s safer this way.”
“Safer my ass,” Mitchell said. He tugged a fresh magazine from the pouch at the front of his vest, slapped it home, then turned his carbine on Walcott and Maratse.
“Mitchell, stop,” Isra shouted. She cursed as Mitchell pulled the trigger, caught her breath when his carbine jammed, then put two bullets into the centre of his tactical vest, dropping him to the ground. “Go,” she said with a wave at Walcott. “Get out of here.”
Walcott nodded, then pushed Maratse forward, deeper into the fog. He clicked the team radio on his shoulder, ordering the helicopter crew to hold their fire as he approached.
“Your team is in trouble,” Maratse said, as Walcott hurried him along with another stab of the pistol into his back.
“No shit?” Walcott shifted his grip to the ties around Maratse’s wrists. “And no thanks to you.”
“I didn’t bring them here. I didn’t start the shooting.”
“No? But it’s strange, isn’t it, Constable? That wherever you go, there’s always trouble.” The whine of the helicopter engines starting up urged Walcott to pick up the pace. He tugged at Maratse’s wrists, forcing him to dip his head forward as they walked into the fog.
They stopped at the last house before an empty stretch of open ground to the helicopter. The exchange of fire continued behind them – single shots – more a statement than a serious effort to do harm.
“We’re coming to you now,” Walcott said into his radio, following up with a double click as the pilot confirmed they were ready and waiting. The roar of the rotors drowned out the last shots and short bursts of gunfire behind them, but not the single crack of a rifle bullet splitting the air in front of Walcott’s face before burying itself in the wall of the last house before the helicopter.
“Let him go,” Kamiila shouted, as she stepped out from behind the next house, the small .22 rifle steady in her grip as she aimed at Walcott’s head.
“You shot one of my men,” Walcott said, raising his voice to compete with the thunder of the helicopter. “That’s murder, young lady.”
“Naamik,” Kamiila said, as she stared at Walcott. “It’s revenge. An eye for an eye. You killed Nukappi. I killed one of yours. It’s over. Let David go.”
“Kamiila,” Maratse said.
She lowered the rifle just enough to look at Maratse, shaking her head before he could say anything more. “This is how it is now, David. It’s a fight, a struggle. We have to fight back, for what we love – our family, our homes, our country. We can’t just give up.”
“We’re not giving up,” Maratse said. “But there are other ways to fight.”
“Naamik,” she said. Another shake of her head.
“Listen to him, Kamiila,” Walcott said. “Be smart. You have to do what’s right.”
“We tried that,” she said, adjusting her aim. “This is the way now.”
Walcott’s radio crackled with the voice of the door gunner, confirming that he was on the ground and in position.
“Just give the word, and I’ll take her,” he said.
Walcott let go of Maratse’s wrists to click the transmit button. “Stand by,” he said, just as Maratse twisted away from him, scraping the side of his boot down Walcott’s shin, before following up with a kick to his groin.
“Run, Kamiila,” Maratse shouted, as a long burst from the gunner’s rifle cut through the fog and the thunder of the rotors, splintering the wall of the house above Kamiila’s head. She dropped and squirmed under the house, taking cover behind the stilts upon which the house was built, and the empty barrels and crates hidden beneath it.
Walcott recovered. He held his pistol in a tight grip – his arm straight as he gained his feet, then spat dust from his mouth. “Get on the fucking chopper, Constable,” he said, smacking Maratse’s face with the back of his hand. He turned, put two bullets into the ground beneath the house where Kamiila hid, then grabbed Maratse by the collar of his jacket. They ran to the helicopter. Walcott nodded at the door gunner as they passed him, then shoved Maratse up and into the aircraft.
“What about your team?” the gunner said, as he climbed in next to Walcott.
“We’re leaving,” Walcott said. “I’ll send another team to pick them up.”
“But, sir…” The gunner pointed into the fog. “They’re right there.”
Walcott shook his head. He pointed at the gunner’s position, and shouted, “You have your orders.” He pulled his helmet off and grabbed a headset, twisting the mic to his lips as he settled on a seat opposite Maratse. “Pilot, you’re clear for take-off.”
Maratse stared past Walcott, into the fog, and Walcott turned to look in the same direction. Isra, her carbine slung around the front of her body, stalked forward, dragging Downs’ body behind her with one hand curled around the grab loop at the back of his vest. Mitchell covered her from behind, walking backwards, until the change of pitch in the helicopter’s rotors turned his head, and he cursed into the team radio.
“Walcott, you cocksucker. Don’t you leave us.”
Maratse watched Walcott unclip the radio from his vest and toss it out of the helicopter. The wash of the rotors spun the radio into the fog as the pilot gained height, lifting the aircraft up above the houses and turning the helicopter for the return flight to the Coast Guard cutter Logan.
“Gun,” the gunner shouted. He pointed out of the window, then crossed the deck of the helicopter to the starboard side as the pilot turned. “The idiot is shooting at us.”
“What?” Walcott shifted position, sliding along the bench seat to look at Mitchell, just as the gunner shouted into the radio.
“Incoming.”
The muzzle of Mitchell’s carbine flashed as he pumped bullets at the helicopter. Maratse slid onto the floor as the pilot took evasive manoeuvres, jinking the helicopter to one side, as bullets from Mitchell’s carbine punched through the fuselage.
“We’re hit,” the pilot shouted, followed by an interchange of commands and checks between him and the co-pilot. “Strap in.”
Maratse lifted his head from the deck, mouthing a quick qujanaq as Walcott cut the ties around his wrists and helped him into his seat. He glimpsed Isra as she let go of Downs, pulled her pistol, and shot Mitchell in the head. But then she was gone in a swirl of dust and fog. Walcott tightened Maratse’s restraints, then struggled into his own, as the pilot gave the command to get ready to Brace! Brace! Brace!
The mountains stretching above Kussannaq filled Maratse’s view one second, followed by the opposite view of the houses below as the pilot fought the buck and twist of the helicopter. The gunner called out approximate distances – to the mountains, the sea, the settlement.
“Knock it off,” the pilot said. “Not helping.”
Maratse gripped the restraints across his chest. He looked at Walcott, caught his eye, and dipped his head. Just once.
“I’m sorry, David,” Walcott shouted. “Things got out of control.”
“I understand.”
“Do y
ou?” Walcott snorted. “Well, at least one of us does.”
The helicopter yawed to port as it began a slow but determined spin.
Walcott looked at Maratse, then closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the bucket seat.
“We’re going down,” the pilot said.
Maratse sank deeper into his seat. He fought the wind to grip the end of the strap across his left shoulder, pulling it as tight as he could, before doing the same with the strap on his right. The helicopter twisted in a tighter and tighter arc, forcing Maratse’s head onto his right shoulder. He stared through slitted eyelids at Walcott, saw the saliva streaming from the IGA man’s mouth and wondered if he was conscious.
Focus.
Maratse forced his head back as far as he could to look out of the window. The mountains flashed past, then the sea, the icebergs – everything taller than the fog chattered through his field of view, until he struggled to see more than a light grey, dark, almost black.
Survive.
“Going down.”
Maratse fought for one last look around the helicopter. He saw the door gunner, clinging to the straps of his harness, fighting with the buckle on his chest with one hand, as he gripped the handrail by the door with the other. Maratse shifted his gaze back to Walcott. The saliva on Walcott’s cheek was flecked with blood, as if he had bitten his tongue.
“This is it. Brace…”
Maratse closed his eyes, wincing at the first screech of the rotor tips against resilient Greenland granite, followed by the unholy rending of metal biting into the rock, tearing, splintering, and slicing through the side of the helicopter as it flew into the mountain, and the mountain ate it whole.
Survive.
The cockpit disintegrated as the helicopter slammed into the rock, flattening the pilots and thrusting angry fistfuls of jagged metal shards into the cabin, ripping through the canvas bucket seats, cutting restraints, and slicing into cheeks, shoulders, thighs, and…
Survive.
…Maratse’s arm.
Survive.
His shin.
Survive.
Across his brow.
Survive.
Maratse spat blood from his mouth and opened his eyes. He blinked in the cloud of dust, the haze of fumes, and the first curl of smoke. He turned his head and saw a tongue of fire licking the heather outside the helicopter.
Arctic Rising: A Constable Maratse Stand Alone novella (Guerrilla Greenland Book 3) Page 6
