Arctic Rising: A Constable Maratse Stand Alone novella (Guerrilla Greenland Book 3) by Christoffer Petersen (books for 6 year olds to read themselves txt) 📗

His left shoulder came free as the canvas strap, severed by a shard of metal, frayed and snapped. Maratse rolled free of the restraints, slapping the quick-release button at his waist. He slid onto the deck, biting back the pain from the gash in his right arm and shin. Blood streamed from the cut in his brow, and he wiped it from his eyes, blinking in the smoke from the fire as he took stock of his immediate surroundings.

Survive.

Maratse looked to his right, blinking again as he tried to figure out what was wrong with the door gunner, only to realise that the man’s head was still in the helmet between his legs. Maratse heaved his last meal onto the deck, wiped his mouth, then used the seats to pull himself to his knees. He knocked Walcott’s knee as he stood, then reached down to release the IGA leader’s safety restraints. Walcott slumped forward. Maratse pressed two fingers to Walcott’s neck, searching for a pulse, then curled his hand around the grab loop at the back of Walcott’s vest.

“We have to go,” he said.

Naamik. You have to go, David.

Maratse pushed Inniki’s voice from his head as he dragged Walcott to the door. What was left of the cockpit and the pilots was partly buried – concertinaed. Flattened. Gone. But the rest of the aircraft was level. Maratse cried out as he dropped down to the ground. He swore as he stood, spurred on by the flames licking the tail of the helicopter, stretching towards the cabin. He grabbed the loop on Walcott’s vest, heaved him out of the wreckage, then fell, pulling the American on top of him. The flames leaped from the tail to the cabin, singeing Walcott’s hair, until Maratse shoved the IGA man off his chest, rolling him to the side, away from the flames. The steep mountainside and gravity helped, as Walcott toppled over the lip of a granite ledge and thumped onto the one below it. Maratse rolled away from the flames, over the lip, and landed on top of Walcott. The flames stretched above them, and Maratse watched the orange and yellow tongues as they scorched the parts of the helicopter he could see, the parts that were still whole.

“Constable,” Walcott groaned.

“Iiji?”

“Get off me.”

Maratse rolled off Walcott and into the heather. The fire roared above them. He grabbed the vest loop again and pulled Walcott further from the flames, ignoring his protests, turning a deaf ear to collarbone and broken.

“Have to get clear,” Maratse said.

Walcott muttered something and then passed out. Maratse dragged him another ten metres, rolling him when the mountain allowed, before twisting and pulling him until Walcott sat with his back against a boulder. Walcott opened his eyes and stared at Maratse.

“You could have left me.”

Maratse dropped onto his side. Blood streamed from the gash on his forehead. He tipped his head back to let it run through his hair and into the heather.

“Eeqqi,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

“What about the crew?”

“Gone.”

“Okay,” Walcott said. “I’m sorry. I had orders.”

Maratse lifted his head, caught Walcott’s eye. He watched him as he spoke.

“I was supposed to bring you in, Constable. You caused all kinds of problems. You had to be stopped.”

“I talked on the radio.”

“Yes.” Walcott gritted his teeth as he probed his collarbone with his finger. “Propaganda.”

“Hmm,” Maratse said. “I talked about hunting, about dogs, about toilet buckets…”

Walcott grimaced and said, “Please, David, don’t make me laugh.” Followed by, “It’s still propaganda. Even the shit buckets.”

A flash of light and the crump of an explosion made them jump. Maratse lifted his head, then dropped back onto the heather. “I can’t see from here.”

“External fuel tank,” Walcott said. “Maybe.” He turned his head to look down the mountain. “You should go.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

Walcott laughed. “You should. Besides, they’ll be looking for me now, for the helicopter. It’s best you go.”

“You’re just going to let me?”

“Constable…” Walcott waved his hand weakly at his body. “I’m hardly going to stop you. Just go. Deep into the mountains.”

Maratse pushed himself to his feet. He pressed his hand to his head, wiped more blood from his eyes, then took a last look at Walcott. “You’ll come looking for me,” he said.

“Someone will.”

“Then it will never end.”

Walcott tilted his head and looked up. “You really are the most reluctant guerrilla I’ve ever met.”

“Have you met many others?”

“None.” Walcott shook his head. “But let me give you some advice, for what it’s worth.”

Maratse shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then nodded.

“If this is going to work – this insurrection, you need to up your game, Constable.”

“Up my game?”

“Right, I could have said get with the program. Either way, you just need to put your heart into it. That shouldn’t be hard for you. You have a big heart, David. Of course, that could be the problem, right there. You care too much.”

“I care about the people. Is that wrong?”

“No, it’s not wrong. But if you’re going to lead them, or at least inspire them, you need to put a little distance between you and them. And no,” he said, as Maratse started to speak. “I don’t mean hiding in a radio shack in the mountains. I don’t mean physical distance. You just need to learn not to care. At least, not so much.” Walcott looked at the frown on Maratse’s face and laughed. “Yeah, that’s going to be difficult for you.”

Maratse turned his head as the wind blew a thick finger of smoke down the mountain. He wrinkled his nose, snatching scent pockets of cold earth, juniper leaves, and traces of copper from his blood within the smoke. He looked down at Walcott.

“Why are you saying this? Why are you helping me?”

“It’s not help, Constable. It’s advice. And I’m telling you because you just dragged my ass out of a burning helicopter.” He sighed. “It’s the least I can do. Now…” He pointed down the mountain. “You should go. And you should keep going. Find that