Arctic Rising: A Constable Maratse Stand Alone novella (Guerrilla Greenland Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Arctic Rising

  Introductory Note

  Real People

  Location

  Insert

  Map: Greenland

  Arctic Rising

  Greenland

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Denmark

  Part 3

  Greenland

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7

  Part 8

  Denmark

  Part 9

  Greenland

  Part 10

  Denmark

  Part 11

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  About the Author

  By the same Author

  Copyright Information

  Arctic Rising

  A Constable David Maratse stand-alone novella

  set in Greenland

  Don’t miss novellas 1 and 2 in the series:

  Arctic State

  Arctic Rebel

  by Christoffer Petersen

  Introductory Note

  ________________________________

  Times have changed since I was inspired to write Arctic State, the first novella in the Guerrilla Greenland series. President Trump suggested he would buy Greenland in 2019. The global political climate has changed since then, but like the climate, Greenland is still getting hotter, even more so in these novellas.

  Arctic Rising continues the alternate timeline begun in Arctic State, in which we find Constable David Maratse coming to terms with a very different Greenland, now under American administration. What started as a fictional knee-jerk reaction to a real life suggestion has developed into an exploration of what ifs, as I explore this idea of an unlikely but not entirely impossible Greenland.

  It’s all made up, of course. It’s not real. But what if and what happens next? Well, I’m working on those two questions, exploring different ideas and themes in novella length, and I’m encouraged by your interest in this series.

  I must reiterate that this series follows an alternate timeline than my other fictional Greenland stories. Especially as a certain character decided she wanted a cameo role at least. Of course, knowing her, it’s likely that she will get more involved as the story develops, for better or worse, one novella at a time.

  I never intended to write more than one novella. But now I have begun, I imagine each story to be an episode in a longer saga. The main storyline in Arctic Rising does end in this novella, but as you will see, it will continue in the next novella in the series: Arctic Recoil.

  Thank you for your continued interest in this series. I sincerely hope it will always be pure fiction.

  Chris

  March 2021

  Denmark

  Real People

  not

  Real Estate

  Location

  Location

  Location

  Arctic Rising

  Greenland

  Part 1

  ________________________________

  The specifications for the secure briefing room at the custom-built offices of the Office of Intermediary Greenlandic Affairs were, for lack of a better word, specific. The briefing room should be built in the foundations of the building, just like a protective bunker. The Greenland granite, however, had forced the contractors to find an alternative solution, as nothing short of dropping a bunker-busting bomb on the building site was going to put the secure briefing room anywhere below the first floor. Some whispered it was a sign. Under the circumstances, and only a few months into the job, Special Assistant Spenser Walcott was inclined to agree, albeit privately.

  He stopped at the briefing room door, used the reflective surface of the palm print security panel as a mirror to fix his tie, then pressed his palm to the screen. The door buzzed, then clicked open. Walcott stepped into what the contractors described as the airlock, emptied his pockets into the tray on the guard’s table, then signed in. The guard opened the inner door and waved him into the briefing room with little more than spare change in Walcott’s pockets, and a mask of professional apathy stretched across his pasty white face.

  “The mic is muted,” said the tech assistant inside the briefing room. She presented Walcott with a remote barely thicker than a ballpoint pen, instructed him on its use, and then retreated from the room. Walcott glanced over his shoulder as the door locked with a dull click, and then turned to face the screens filling the far wall of the square room. The lights dimmed and the screens clicked on one by one as the meeting began.

  “Have a seat, Walcott.”

  “Yes, sir,” Walcott said, as IGA boss Hal Arnold waved from the centre screen.

  “You got my text?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you know who’s joining us?”

  “Bernice Day from Homeland Security,” Walcott said, as a black woman settled in front of the camera on the screen to Arnold’s right.

  “Keaton Marsden,” said a younger white man from the screen above Day. “Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

  “Hello Walcott,” Day said. Her screen went blank for a second as she fiddled with her camera. “I’ve asked Jasper from Homeland Security Investigations to join us. You know Jasper?”

  “No, ma’am,” Walcott said. He nodded at the screen below her as Jasper Ibbot’s camera beamed the image of a portly white man into the briefing room.

  The most interesting screen was the one below Arnold. The camera was obscured, leaving little more than a blurry outline that could have been a face. Or a football, Walcott thought. The microphone icon pulsed to reveal an open connection, despite the anonymous features of the man or woman behind the camera.

  Man, Walcott realised, as the mystery guest introduced himself.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said in a deep voice as Walcott sat down at the desk in front of the screens. “But if you have any questions, you can call me Eagle.”

  Perfect. We have a spook in the house. Walcott nodded, then sat silently, waiting for the meeting to begin.

  “All right,” Arnold said. “That’s the who’s who over with. Let’s get down to business.”

  “Before you begin, Hal,” Day said, leaning closer to her camera. “I want to remind everyone that since the Edwards article was reprinted in the Post and the Times, you can bet that Washington has its eyes on this godforsaken rock, now more than ever.” She leaned back in her seat. “I’m getting a lot of heat on this. We need results.”

  “You’ll have them, Bernie,” Arnold said. “Isn’t that right, Walcott?”

  If only it was that simple. Walcott dipped his head as if to nod, but caught himself glancing at Eagle’s screen, as he wondered how the briefing was going to play out, and what decisions had already been made. Without my knowledge.

  “Walcott?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Perhaps you could bring us up to speed?”

  “I can do that.” Walcott shuffled in his seat, then pressed his hands against the edge of the desk, as if bracing himself for what was to come. “My role at the IGA…”

  “What is that again?” Ibbot said, as he shuffled some papers on his desk. “Inter- something or other…”

  “The Office of Intermediary Greenlandic Affairs,” Arnold said. “IGA for short.”

  “It’s an office? Not a department?”

  “Gentlemen,” Day said. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

  Walcott took his cue and continu
ed. “I’m primarily responsible for the relocation of the locals from the settlements and small villages to the larger towns and the capital.” He took a beat, before adding, “That’s Nuuk. It’s where we’re based.”

  “So, IGA is administrative?”

  “For the most part,” Walcott said, turning to Marsden. “I have a couple of teams visiting the settlements to instruct the residents to move. Helping them where necessary.”

  “Forced relocation?”

  “No, sir.” Walcott turned to Ibbot. “Not officially.”

  “Walcott is being discreet,” Arnold said, lifting his hand to stave off a response from his subordinate. “IGA is facilitating the move to the towns and the city – there is only one.” Arnold paused as a ripple of laughter filtered through the speakers. “It’s really something that the Greenland government and the Danes were trying to push through, but they lacked determination and will. Walcott has both. That’s why he’s heading up the teams responsible for moving the natives.”

  “Natives?” Day shook her head. “Did I hear you right, Hal?”

  “You heard me.” Arnold shifted his gaze to the right, giving Walcott an idea of the position of Bernice Day’s image on the screen in Arnold’s office. “Does the terminology make you squeamish?”

  “Not me, and not this administration,” she said. “But let’s keep the colonial crap between us, okay?”

  Arnold gave her a flat smile before turning back to his camera. “Regardless, the Danes failed to get it done. We’re applying a more aggressive strategy with more incentives. Honestly, it’s a good deal. We just need to convince the… people, that it’s a good deal for them.”

  “They need convincing?” Ibbot snorted. “The reports I’ve been reading…” Another snort. “These people shit in a bucket, for God’s sake. What the hell is that about?”

  “Plumbing is an issue in the settlements,” Walcott said.

  “It’s an issue?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Explain.”

  “Pipes are built above ground.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the permafrost, or the granite. Either way, it’s too expensive and impracticable to put drains and running water into the settlements. The smaller towns have water, but they’re mostly still shitting in buckets. They’re collected once a week. In the settlements, drinking water is stored in a tank. Although, I’ve heard a lot of people still collect ice to melt for drinking.”

  “And,” Arnold said, “we’re moving them into modern accommodation with central heating, plumbing, running water – the whole nine yards.”

  “But you’ve hit a speed bump,” Day said, turning her attention to Walcott. “Explain that if you will.”

  “It’s more of a who,” Walcott said. “Constable…”

  “David Maratse?” Marsden said, lifting a report from his desk. “I’ve been doing some reading. You hired him, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. I brought him in for a 360. His file was full of flags and markers…”

  “Like a grad student’s textbook,” Day said. “We’ve all seen the file. Tell us about the man.”

  “Well…” Walcott shuffled in his seat. “To be honest, he was almost perfect. He speaks three languages – four if you include the eastern dialect. He had a lot of references, but…”

  “He has a history of recklessness,” Marsden said. “I told you. I’ve done my homework.”

  Walcott took a breath. “Right. That’s true. His file is not exemplary, but he got the job done. He has a history of acting in the grey areas. But always for the benefit of the people – even the criminal element.”

  “You respect him?” Day said. She tilted her head to one side, waiting for a response.

  “I do.”

  “Even now?”

  Walcott nodded. “I think it would be a mistake not to.”

  “He’s your speed bump,” Day said.

  “Yes.”

  She looked down, reading something beyond the camera’s view. “His first assignment was to a settlement called…”

  “Kussannaq,” Walcott said. “It’s difficult to pronounce.”

  Day lifted her head to stare at him before continuing. “You assigned him to a team of three IGA officers.”

  “One administrative officer…”

  “Isra El-Hashem.”

  “Yes. Together with two security officers.” Walcott looked at Arnold. “Mitchell and Downs had some problems on a previous operation. Some cultural interference. I put Maratse on their team to prevent the same thing happening again.”

  “But El-Hashem was concerned,” Day said.

  Walcott nodded. “She thought Maratse had an attitude. She didn’t trust him. In fact, I think it’s fair to say none of the IGA trust the locals. I mean, why should they?”

  “And yet, you’re using locals like Maratse to carry out IGA orders.”

  “To translate IGA orders, ma’am.”

  “None of your staff speak Greenlandic?”

  “No,” Walcott said, adding, “It’s a tough language to grasp.”

  “Forcing you to trust people like Maratse.”

  “He’s a police constable.” Walcott shrugged. “I took a chance. There’s not really any alternative.”

  “What about the Danes?” Marsden said. “No translators?”

  “No,” Walcott said. He paused. “If I may speak freely?”

  Day waved her hand. “Go ahead.”

  Walcott glanced at the anonymous screen as he took a breath. “Once the details of the sale of Greenland and the handover were worked out, I think the Danes were happy to withdraw.”

  “Happy?”

  “Yeah, that might not be the most appropriate word, but they didn’t provide any assistance. Maybe that was our fault. We just assumed we could step in and work our magic.”

  Ibbot snorted, almost masking the soft chuckle from Eagle.

  “Walcott,” Day said. “Never let me hear you say that again. Understood?”

  “Bernie,” Arnold said. “What Spenser means is…”

  “Let me stop you right there, Hal. We’ve all read the reports, so let’s cut to the chase. Constable Maratse chose not to translate the IGA message. El-Hashem says as much in her report. She thinks he told them something else. Furthermore, Maratse’s first assignment put him in direct contact with a known dissident.” Day checked her notes. “Inniki Rasmussen – expelled from Greenland and currently living in Copenhagen. Given the content of her podcasts, it’s clear to me that she filled Maratse’s head with thoughts of rebellion. And then…” Day jabbed a finger at the camera. “Walcott gave him the opportunity to disseminate thoughts among the natives.” Day filled the silence with a long breath that whispered through the speakers. “I mean, we gave him a helicopter, for Christ’s sake.”

  Walcott gripped the desk in anticipation of the reprimand coming his way.

  “Clearly, some poor decisions were made,” Arnold said.

  “Poor decisions?” Day laughed. “This same constable busted a fugitive out of a Coast Guard cutter brig, stole a motorboat, and vanished.”

  “Not quite,” Arnold said. “We apprehended the fugitive in the mountains.”

  “You apprehended bits of him, Hal. He’s going to need a closed coffin…”

  “The family doesn’t know,” Walcott said. “In fact, we haven’t recovered the body.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Well, don’t try too hard.” Day ran her hand through her hair as she thought. “Okay, tell me about the radio.”

  “Maratse is using radio shacks in the mountains to talk to the people,” Walcott said.

  “Turn him off,” Ibbot said.

  “It’s not that simple.” Walcott leaned forward over the desk to look at the camera. “The radio shacks are an integral part of the telecommunications infrastructure. They are remotely powered.”

  “Cut the damn Internet.”

  Walcott sig
hed, as if explaining something to a small child. “The locals aren’t listening to Maratse on their phones or computers. They’re using actual radios.”

  “Transistors?”

  “And VHF in the fishing trawlers, including handheld units.” Walcott leaned back in his seat, waving an arm to one side as if encompassing the whole of Greenland. “Every family has at least one VHF or radio in the house. We can’t jam the signal.”

  “Then take out the shacks,” Ibbot said.

  “And in doing so, we cripple our own communications along with the country’s. These shacks bounce signals through the mountains. The only alternative is to switch to satellite communications. That’s expensive. And given my budget…” Walcott shook his head. “We can’t do it.”

  “Then there’s only one thing left,” Day said. “One course of action.”

  Walcott turned to look at her screen.

  “Flatten your speed bump.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Day looked directly into the camera, and said, “As of now, Constable David Maratse is a High Value Target. Removing him is top priority.”

  “You want us to bring him in?”

  “Yes, Hal. Bring him in. Whole, or in pieces, I don’t care. But I want him removed within seventy-two hours.”

  “Three days?” Walcott said.

  Day nodded. “After which, if you have failed, other measures will be brought into play.” She shifted her gaze to another screen. “Farran?”

  “It’s Eagle, ma’am.” A shadow flickered across the screen of the anonymous member of the group, followed by a gradual sharpening of the picture as Eagle removed a length of tape from the camera’s lens. “But now that we’re all acquainted…”

  Walcott studied the man as he came into focus, noting his thick hair, grey at the sides, stretching down to the salt and pepper beard filling out an otherwise gaunt face. Farran’s pale blue eyes were almost glacier white.

  “What can you do, Farran?” Day asked.

  Farran smiled, and said, “I have some moves I can make. But…” He pointed a stubby finger at the camera. “Let’s give IGA the benefit of the doubt. In the meantime, I’ll put some things into play.”