- Author: Christoffer Petersen
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A Constable David Maratse stand-alone novella
set in Greenland
Don’t miss novellas 1 and 2 in the series:
by Christoffer Petersen
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.
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?”
“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.
“Perhaps you could bring us up to speed?”
“I can do that.” Walcott shuffled in his seat, then pressed his