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

scoured the slope in front of her. Three ptarmigan, fooled by the cooler altitude into their winter whites, pecked at the ground barely one hundred metres away. Kamiila slipped the rifle from her shoulder and slid to the ground like a soft wave slipping onto the beach. She pulled her rifle to her shoulder, tucked her cheek against the stock, then sighted on the closest and fattest of the birds.
Hunting was in Kamiila’s family. It was a part of every family she knew, from the youngest to the oldest. She was one of the few girls – now women – from Kussannaq who had continued to hunt long after her father passed away. He had taken Kamiila and her friends into the mountains, teaching them how to shoot and skin a bird, when their own fathers preferred to teach their sons. Kamiila didn’t remember thinking about that as a girl, and as a woman, she couldn’t care less. Her father had taught her to hunt and shoot, encouraging her to continue when he became sick.
“When you think you’re good at something…” he had said.
Kamiila applied just enough pressure to the trigger to loose the bullet from the rifle, removing the ptarmigan’s head with a single, clean shot.
“… you’re only just beginning.”
“Qujanaq, ataata,” Kamiila whispered, as the two remaining ptarmigan took flight. She slung her rifle across her chest and walked down the slope to retrieve the dead bird.
The mountain wind pressed against her slim frame on the walk back to the radio shack. She dipped her head forward and opened her mouth, gasping in the gusts, laughing, almost choking as the wind tried to expel all the air from her lungs. She reached the shack, ducked out of the wind and stepped onto the deck, clumping along it in her boots until she stopped to press her ear to the door.
Kamiila smiled at the sound of someone snoring inside.
“Wake up, Constable,” she said, as she yanked the door open.
Constable David Maratse rubbed his eyes and looked up as Kamiila slipped her rifle off her back and slumped into the chair opposite him. He ran scarred fingers through his thick black hair, and said, “I’m awake.”
“Really?”
“Iiji.”
“Dinner,” she said, tossing the ptarmigan onto the table beside the microphone.
Maratse blinked in the light from the open door and studied the dead bird. “Hmm.”
“Hmm? Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“Good shot.”
“One hundred metres,” Kamiila said. She leaned forward to check the safety on the rifle then settled back into her chair. “What about you?”
Maratse gestured at the radio. “I was talking about dogs.”
“Again?”
“It’s what I know.”
“But Greenland is much, much, more than dogs and sledging, Constable.”
“I know.”
“Besides, you should talk about the struggle.”
“I am.”
“Aap, but you need to be more direct. Folksy stories about the good old days aren’t enough.”
“Hmm.”
Kamiila smiled and said, “You’re tired. Let’s eat.”
Maratse looked out of the door, then at his watch. “We should move.”
“We should. We’ll eat later.”
Maratse got up, then stopped as Kamiila made no move to follow him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“There’s something,” he said. He blinked again, then tilted his head to one side. “Something about you.”
“Aap,” she said, waiting.
“Your hair.”
“Finally.”
“It’s shorter.”
“And?”
Maratse nodded. “It suits you.”
Kamiila turned her head to one side, and then the other. “Did I miss something?”
“What?”
“Clumps. Sticky out bits.”
“It’s fine.”
Kamiila sighed, shaking her head as she stood up. “Okay then. Let’s leave it at that.” She looked around the room. “Got everything?”
“Iiji.” Maratse walked the short distance to the corner and picked up his pack. He tugged it onto his shoulder, then leaned across the table to turn off the radio set.
“And how long were you on for?”
“Two hours. Imaqa.”
“And how long were snoring?”
“Thirty minutes…”
“Imaqa…”
“Maybe longer.”
“It’ll do. It’s a long walk to the next radio.” Kamiila reached under her sweater to tug the map out of her shirt pocket. She spread it on the table and used a pencil to point at their position, the settlement of Kussannaq at the bottom of the mountain, and the path across the ridges to the next shack almost ten kilometres further east. “It’s the original shack, before they realised the location of this one was easier to get to.”
“They can land a helicopter on the slope,” Maratse said.
“Which is why we should go to the old shack, before they try landing next to this one.”
Kamiila folded the map, stuffed it into her pocket, and picked up the rifle. She slung it across her chest as Maratse tightened his pack. Kamiila pressed the ptarmigan into Maratse’s hands, then watched as he pulled a length of twine from the pocket of his police jacket. Maratse looped the twine around the bird’s feet, then hooked it through the belt of his backpack. He nodded he was ready and Kamiila led the way out of the shack.
“Nukappi would have enjoyed this,” she said, nodding at the mountain panorama stretching all around them as she closed the door. Kamiila slid the bolt to lock the door, picked up her pack, and then joined Maratse on the path leading along the eastern ridge to the slope.
“He sees it,” Maratse said, as they walked beside each other.
“You think so?”
“Iiji.” Maratse lit a cigarette and rolled it into the gap between his teeth in the side of his mouth. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, grinning as Kamiila ducked to one side, then the other to escape his smoke.
“The wind has bothered me all morning. But now when I need it the most…”
Maratse shrugged. “You can walk ahead of me. I’ll follow.”
Kamiila thought for a second, then jogged a few steps ahead of him. “You’ll run out soon, anyway. Then we can walk together.”
Maratse raised his eyebrows in the silent Greenlandic yes.
He watched Kamiila stride out along the ridge, observing the way she settled the rifle alongside her pack, tucking one hand under the stock to hold it in place, rather than strapping it to the side. He puffed at his cigarette as he thought, curious at the way Kamiila walked like a hunter