“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 you?” 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.
Survive.
“Enough, Inniki,” Maratse breathed. “I’m trying.”
Try harder.
Denmark
Part 9
________________________________
Petra kept the park on her right as she walked along Stockholmsgade, turning up her collar as a fresh May wind blew through the park, brushing her shoulders and teasing her hair as she turned left down Upsalagade. Petra stopped at the café on the corner of Lundsgade and waited, just as Inniki told her to. She sat on a stool at the table in the window, sipped her latte, checked her phone, and wondered what on Earth she had agreed to. And, more importantly, why? The smell of pizza dough and coffee beans drifted around the tables as Petra sent a text to Abella, reminding her to be nice to her sister, and that yes, mommy would be home before she was asleep. Knowing Inniki, that last part might be difficult, but Lauritz would just have to sit with the girls until Petra got home, provided he wasn’t running late, and the sitter had to wait even longer than agreed.
“Just another day in
