Also by Christoffer Petersen

  A Trilogia da Gronelândia

  A Estrela do Gelo

  Bureau des Personnes disparues au Groenland

  Le Garçon à la Dent de Narval

  La Fille à la Langue de Corbeau

  Frisson arctique

  L’Eau de l’oubli

  Le Piège de l’Hiver

  La Fille du Chaman

  Le Palais de la Pleureuse

  Les Murmures de la Glace

  Voleur de Sang malgré lui

  Captain Erroneous Smith

  The Ice Circus

  Christoffer Petersen's Middle Grade and YA books

  The Starlighter

  Constable David Maratse short stories

  The Canine Prize

  Crime na Gronelândia

  Seremos Monstros

  Detective Freja Hansen

  Lost Swan

  End of the Line

  End of the Line

  Greenland Crime

  Seven Graves, One Winter

  Blood Floe

  We Shall Be Monsters

  Inside the Bear's Cage

  Whale Heart

  Warrior

  The Greenland Manifesto

  Greenland Full Throttle!

  Broken Arrow

  Greenland Missing Persons Short Stories

  Plain Clothes Problems

  The Ice Breaker Quandary

  Greenland Myth and Magic Stories for Christmas

  Northwind

  Konstabel Fenna Brongaard

  In Strange Hands

  Maratse

  Sept Tombes, Un Hiver

  Osoby zaginione na Grenlandii

  Chłopiec z zębem narwala

  Pessoas Desaparecidas da Gronelândia

  O Rapaz com o Dente de Narval

  Short Stories with a Big Bite

  Proof

  The Sirius Sledge Patrol

  Piteraq

  Wolf Crimes

  Paint the Devil: The Wolf in Denmark

  Lost in the Woods: The Wolf in Alaska

  Chernobyl Wolves: The Wolf in Ukraine

  Standalone

  Little Horrors

  Watch for more at Christoffer Petersen’s site.

  Contents

  Broken Arrow

  Author's Note

  Broken Arrow

  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  Broken Arrow

  Introducing

  Lieutenant Ukaliina “Sled Dog” Nakinngi

  Christoffer Petersen

  Author’s Note

  ~ Spoiler Alert: Top Gun (1986) ~

  I should dedicate this to my wife, Jane. I say should as I’m not entirely sure she would want the dedication for something that is so clearly inspired by Top Gun (1986), and the recent media hype about the sequel Top Gun: Maverick (2022). Jane has endured my love for the film for many years now, patiently and no doubt wearily listening when I announce I am going to watch Top Gun again, for the umpteenth time, and maybe this time Goose won’t die.

  Ah, spoiler alert.

  I started this story on the night I had tickets for the Top Gun: Maverick premiere (just the one ticket) and then finished it a few hours on my return from the movie. So it’s freshly baked, hopefully fun, and laced with my own take on a scene that might, I say might, fit with the movie, but with my own Greenlandic spin on things.

  Broken Arrow is so far from reality that readers should dispense with any and all concerns about technical details, appropriate character behaviour, and anything at all that might suggest that this could or would happen in real life. But once you’ve done that, then you’re all set. And Jane, if you’re reading this… this one’s for you!

  So, buckle up folks.

  Let’s go!

  Chris

  May 2022

  Denmark

  Broken Arrow

  Commander Jack Short, call sign Bourbon, checked his look in the dusty glass of the vending machine before entering Wild Aces, the bar of choice for guilty Saturday night pleasures. The pilots under his command considered the bar to be the unofficial officers’ club, albeit without the uniforms and ranks found on the base. Wild Aces was exactly that—wild, with the unwritten rule that what happened on the premises stayed on the premises, regardless of rank. Provided no one broke the law, the bar was considered an anything goes environment for letting off steam, or, in Commander Short’s case, having a quiet drink with a colleague with no fear of word getting back to his wife. Given the rowdy nature of the bar, it was unlikely anyone would notice the familiarity the commander and the base doctor—the dark-haired and ten years younger Captain Rachael Withers—shared in the booth along the far wall, but if they did, it would soon be forgotten, or upstaged by a prank, a brawl, or a wager.

  The commander drew a heady mix of sweat, beer, and testosterone into his lungs on his way into the bar. He nodded at two of the junior pilots slapping ten-dollar bills on the pool table, shared a rolling of the eyes with a group of more experienced pilots relaxing around a table to his right, and then raised two fingers for two beers when he caught the bartender’s eye.

  Commander Short preferred his beer in a glass and gave the bartender a tip when she remembered. The beer sloshed against the lip of each glass, a quarter of an inch from the top. But Commander Short carried his beer like he flew his planes, with the utmost precision and environmental awareness. Older officers would tell the up-and-coming pilots that if the grey-haired commander was disorientated, either in the air or on the ground, it could mean only one thing—that he was dead. And if Bourbon was dead, then the chances were high, you were too. The commander liked the story and liked to hear it told and retold on base, in the bar, at cookouts, and even at graduation ceremonies.

  Especially graduation ceremonies.

  A pilot’s lack of environmental awareness, either in the air or on the ground, was a strike against their name in the commander’s book, something neither he nor the pilot would ever forget. And if they did, the commander would remind them at the first opportunity. Which is why Lieutenant Ukaliina Nakinngi was top of the commander’s shit list when she bumped into him on the way to the bar, spilling half a beer onto his freshly pressed denim shirt.

  “Damn it, Nakinngi,” he said with a glare normally reserved for the gravest of offences. “Stay in your lane!”

  “Yes, sir,” Ukaliina said, adding half a salute before she remembered they were off duty, off base, and off the record. “I’ll be more careful.”

  The commander gave her another glare, followed by a brief elevator look taking in the young officer’s dusty jeans, and the aviator glasses hanging from the collar of her low-necked, dirty tank top. He bit back a comment about her appearance, and a second about standards, and made his way to the booth. The doctor met him halfway, smiled at Ukaliina, and then took her beer from the commander as the young Greenlandic officer continued to the bar. Someone thumbed a quarter into the juke box and the tension dissolved in the whine of an electric guitar.

  “You’re wet, Commander,” Withers said as they slid into the booth.

  “That damn sled dog,” he said, setting his glass on the table. “She’s got zero situational awareness. No discipline, and absolutely no control of her body.” He jabbed his finger to point at Ukaliina as she leaned in close to one of the locals, cupping the man’s square jaw in her palm as she brushed her lips against his.

  “She’s young,” Withers said.

  “She’s promiscuous.”

  “I see.” Withers shifted position, drawing a look from the commander as she moved a little further along the seat.

  “See what, Doctor?”

  Withers took a sip of beer, then nodded at two male pilots chatting up a couple of female nurses from the base. “I see more of your pilots being just as promiscuous as Lieutenant Nakinngi.”

  “But they’re my pilots,” the commander said.

  “And my nurses.” Withers shrugged, and said, “And I happen to know—whether they know it or not—that those same pilots of yours were with a different couple of nurses just last weekend. Promiscuity isn’t a male privilege, Commander.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “No, but you suggested as much with your comments about Lieutenant Nakinngi.”

  “She spilled beer on my shirt.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s not one of my pilots.” The commander sighed. “She’s on loan.”

  “Is that what you call the exchange program?”

  “Sure, you can call it that, but it’s a loan, and the interest rates are unreasonable at best. Nakinngi is a broken arrow—an atomic-sized accident just waiting to happen. If she...” The commander stopped mid-sentence. “You’re amused, Doctor.”

  “Yes,” she said, spluttering her beer as he frowned at her.

  “Might I ask why?”

  “Because Lieutenant Nakinngi—Sled Dog—is without a doubt, the most enjoyable blast of fresh air that has blown through this dusty old town in—oh, I don’t know—the last few centuries. She’s exotic, Jack,” Withers said as the commander rolled his eyes. “Have you ever met an Inuit aviator? And have you ever met a Greenlander? I mean before Nakinngi?”

  The commander took a sip of beer, avoiding the question, and then said, “I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

  “Acquainted?” Withers l aughed. “Damn it, Jack, if you weren’t so much fun in bed, I would have put you out to pasture months ago.” Withers bit her lip, then reached out to grasp the commander’s hand as he looked away. “Jack,” she said, tugging at his fingers, pulling him back. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  “It was.”

  “But some of it was deserved, and you know it.”

  The commander sighed, and said, “The promiscuity thing?”

  “That, and the way you judge all the female officers. It’s true,” she said, before he could answer. “But, as for being acquainted, I met Lieutenant Nakinngi for the first time this morning.”

  “She’s sick?”

  Withers shook her head. “You know I can’t tell you.”

  “But if it affected her…”

  “Operational status?” Withers shook her head. “Commander Short,” she said, switching to a firmer tone as she stood up. Withers pressed her glass to her chest and took a step away from the booth. “We might be off base, but if there was anything, anything, to report, I would have reported it.”

  “Doctor…”

  “No,” Withers said. “You don’t get to ask. But…” She leaned into the booth, lowered her voice, and said, “Seeing as you’re so intent on keeping this conversation on base, I’ll tell you, just to put you out of your misery. Lieutenant Nakinngi has a mild case of constipation. I prescribed her a laxative,” she said, curling her lips into a smile as the commander recoiled. “I can tell you how it works or I can leave it to your imagination. Your choice.”

  Withers took a step back and then pointed at the young officers horsing around the pool table.

  “If you need me, I’ll be over there, with the fun crowd.”

  “Rachael,” the commander said—curt, almost like an order.

  “That’s Captain Withers, Commander.”

  The commander reached for his beer, scowling over the lip of the glass as he watched the doctor walk away.

  Ukaliina Nakinngi plucked a ten-dollar bill from the pool table and tugged at the sides, snapping it tight a few times as she gave the previous owner a mischievous look with her big, brown eyes. She tucked the money inside the collar of her tank top and then reached for the man’s beer. She gripped the neck of the bottle between her fingers, took a long pull of beer, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “You know,” the man said. “If you were a man…”

  “If I was a man?” Ukaliina laughed. “Listen, Tom, if you were a man…”

  Lieutenant Tom Addleton, call sign Growler, lunged for his beer, only to stumble as Ukaliina skipped to one side. She bounced off another pilot—bigger than Tom, clapped her hand on his cheek as he scowled at her, and then blew him a kiss. The big man winked, then shooed her on her way, before casually tripping Addleton as he chased Ukaliina around the pool table.

  “Boys!” Withers said, as Addleton pushed himself to his feet, fists balled. The doctor stepped between the two pilots, promising them both another beer if they behaved like pilots.

  “She might be a pilot,” Addleton said, pointing at Ukaliina. “But she doesn’t know how to behave. Her mom never taught her, and her daddy…”

  “Was a drunk with a hangover who died of hypothermia when he curled up to sleep it off in a nice, warm, drift of snow.” Ukaliina took a step towards Addleton, eyes sparking. “What’s your excuse, Tom? Did your mother…”

  “Don’t you dare say her name.” Addleton jabbed a finger at Ukaliina, and she flashed him a cheeky grin for his pain.

  “Too bad she’s not here,” she said. “Then maybe someone could stand up for you.”

  “Say that again.” Addleton closed the gap between them, shrugging free of the big pilot’s grip as he tried to stop him. “I’m warning you. You say one more thing…”

  “And what?” Ukaliina lifted her chin. She leaned forward onto her tiptoes and stared into Addleton’s face. “You got something to prove, Tom? Or do they call you Growler because all you ever do is…”

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you, Nukini,” Addleton said, cutting her off.

  “That’s Nakinngi,” Ukaliina said. “But I’m going to let it go.” She rested on her heels and smiled. “We can settle this like gentlemen.”

  “I’m not playing pool with a trickster,” Addleton said. “Isn’t that what you believe in? Ravens and tricks, and all that?”

  “Imaqa,” Ukaliina said with a shrug. “But you’re too damned smart to fall for a trick, aren’t you, Tom?” Ukaliina grinned, giving Addleton time to respond, and then gestured at the pool table when she got tired of waiting. “How about another game of pool? Or are you a little strapped for cash?”

  She took a step back as Addleton started towards her.

  “Wait. My bad,” Ukaliina said. “How about a different wager? Double or nothing.”

  “You’ve got nothing I want,” Addleton said. “And I don’t need your money, Nukina.”

  “Right, I forgot. But how about this?” she said. Ukaliina backed away, bumped into one of the bar’s regulars, apologised, and then plucked a beer from the man’s table before dancing away.

  “I’m waiting,” Addleton said.

  “And I’m thinking,” Ukaliina said. She took a swig of beer, returned the bottle, and kissed the man on the cheek for his trouble.

  “You’re pretty loose and fast with those kisses, girl,” Addleton said.

  “That’s right. I am loose, and I am very fast,” she said. “Faster than you,” she added, with another of her trademark smiles. “And I can prove it.”

  “You can prove it?” Addleton laughed. “Sure you can.”

  “And I will,” Ukaliina said. “In a race. For honour, and a ten-dollar bill,” she said, plucking Addleton’s money from between her breasts.

  “I’ll take that bet,” Addleton said. He paused as the commander approached them, nodded once, and then turned to Ukaliina. “Name your steed.”

  “Steed?” Ukaliina frowned, and then brightened as she figured it out. “Right. I get it. Okay,” she said, tapping her bottom lip with her finger. “I’ll take my bike against anything you want.”

  “Fine,” Addleton said. “Your street bike, against the AV8B Harrier Jump Jet.”

  Addleton gave Ukaliina a shit-eating grin as he watched the colour drain from her face.

  “And I’ll take that bet,” the commander said, as he slapped a ten-dollar bill on the pool table.

  Ukaliina spent the rest of the night nursing what she imagined would be her last beer in California, as the stick jockeys at the bar thrashed out the rules of the one-sided race. But it was the commander’s bet that turned her stomach.

  “If you lose,” he whispered in her ear, once the wager was witnessed and confirmed as unfair, but legit, “you will request to be returned to your unit, and I will never see you again.”

  “And if I win?” Ukaliina said, chancing her luck, and embracing the informal atmosphere of Wild Aces.

  “You won’t,” he said. The commander chuckled as he left Ukaliina to brood with her last beer.

  “The commander can be a mean-hearted swine when you get on the wrong side of him,” Withers said as she sat down beside Ukaliina. “And he didn’t get where he is today by gambling. His career is built on sure bets, only.”

  “He never takes risks?”

  Withers shook her head. “He plays by the book, all the way. And he wins every time.”

  The doctor continued between sips of beer, but Ukaliina tuned out as she recalled all the chances she had taken to get from Greenland to America—the hard work, and the gambles, against all odds. She drifted back into the conversation at the bar as the pilots around Addleton agreed the jump jet had to start cold to give Ukaliina the minimum chance of gaining any ground on the ten-mile course.

  “Hey, Sled Dog?”

  Ukaliina looked up when they called her name.

  “Do you agree?”

  She raised her beer, caught Addleton’s eye, and then emptied the bottle in one last—perhaps her very last—swallow.

 

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