Location: Dhagestan, South-russian border, February 2021
Winter’s last traces leave a lingering cold in the bones that no fire or khef will abate. I get up from under the tarp I have been using as a makeshift blanket and reach for a cigarette from the last crumpled pack of Marlboros next to my battered Swedish AK5 and wince as the first rays of dawn strike my unshaven face through the hole in the bombed out roof.
Warlord Moghabi’s been having trouble with IS militias teaming up with some of his local rivals, trying to finish the job the Russians started. He’s crazy as a fox and hands deep in the Afghan-trans-middle-eastern human smuggling ring and has ties to Boko Haram but he pays well and on time. When you are at the point in life that I am that matters.
Something buzzes deep within my Helicon Raccoon Mk 1 Tactical rugsack and I curse as I pull it out. “Who is it?,” Hawkeye asks. Loyal Hawkeye, a fellow survivor cast adrift on the wind of a hundred Balkan battlefields by the storm of operation Titanfall. We left a lot of good men behind on the sand back there.
It’s my codec. The frequency is sub 597 Khz, a defunct bandwith, all the modern military channels are in the gigahertz range to punch through the latest EW and ECM. As the transmission is established, I see the location tracker flash under the 12 inch screen in sickening green monochrome.
Finland. Location code 115-698-PETR3N0V. A mothballed ICBM second strike facility defunct since the Cold War. Code Name Death Frost Doom. Could this be? But that’s impossible.
The transmission starts. A metal platform. Snow pours down like grainy static in the cold winter night, transfixed by the glare of halogen lights. Out of the darkness of the Finnish Winter comes a battered Chinook transport helicopter, its paint chipped and faded from the wear and tear of a thousand battlefields. From its stainless steel innards steps a ghost from the past, like the vehicle that carried him, a relic from forgotten wars, abandoned by its owners.
Colonel Raggi in his greatcoat, bare-chested in the sub-zero cold, emerges from the chopper. He looks terrible. The years in an SJW re-education camp have left their mark on him, but instead of hollowing him out seems to have accumulated on his body in the form of extra mass. He adjusts his eye-patch. Only Colonel Raggi could gain weight in an SJW blacksite.
He should be dead. During Operation Titanfall we were left in Darfur, armed with only bayonets and hand-grenades, outnumbered five to one against a battalion of Spetznatz with artillery support. Operative ME2 had to be left behind. Some people still resent him for that. Let em whine. They don’t understand the pressure of command.
He spreads his hands, fingerless gloves outlined clearly against metal railings, and begins.
“We’ve been an auxilliary outfit more then a full-fledged operation. How I’ve operated this unit up until this point will not help it survive. There are changes that have to be made.”
His voice is hollowed out and gravelly by a million shouted orders but he forces through, the determination is habitual and unconscious, his will dense and immutable like the iron embers of expunged suns.
“Ten years ago I started this outfit, Fire Valkyrie, to be the next generation of OSR super soldiers. I thought it would be my last word on the battlefields of the modern world. You loved it. I spearheaded Operation Death Love Doom, fighting for eighteen hours straight in the frozen mud against Sino-Korean SJW human wave attacks. I thought I was going to be condemned in the press of all those who consider themselves civilized and dragged before the courts of the Hague. People were going to think this was going too far.
It brought more people in.
During Operation Fuck For Satan we attacked an NGO tanker that was affiliated with a clandestine human trafficking operation running all the way to the Ennies. They were going to say you can’t do this. But we did. Operation Towers Two we declared war on the American Military Industrial Complex and the American Dream.
I think most companies and most people would try to memory hole that kind of thing but…you have to accept it. You have to live with it.”
Hawkeye gets a tear in his eye and I subconsciously finger the bullet wounds, the scars, remembering every bit of shrapnel I took on the battlefields of the OSR, fighting for one man’s dream of freedom in a world of ruthless corporate greed and corrupt bureaucracy. The ugly reality necessary to uphold the dream of a free world.
“What is the future of Fire Valyrie as an Entity, as an Overall Project? We have kind of been doing stuff. There has been no plan, no strategy. We had no idea what the hell we were doing. Trying to not break down from one day to the next. That has got to change.
Here’s what I need from you:
I need more, and bigger offensives, more often and I’m stuck dealing with my projects and other people’s projects. I need a core collective. I need three COs, that are able to complete about fifteen operations, clandestine, about every quarter. I’m talking black ops, maximum 3 man, equipment OSP civilian target operations. These type of smaller objectives do not set the world on fire as far as attention because it’s the big, fancy offensives, that’s what the people really want. But it will keep the wheels greased.
I think there’s people out there, that can come up with something fresh, every month, that is Fire Valkyrie. That can do this. That’s what I need. I just need three of you that can do this.
And as far as payment, since its been seven months since the last engagement, well, things are stretching thin. So I can’t say here’s a bunch of money go work on it, I can only offer battlefield spoils. And I’ve never lost money on a war yet. You can get yourself a decent second income. You can get your name up on the lights, in the papers, on the bookshelves. Part of the Backbone that makes everything for Fire Valkyrie work. And some people crave that. Let’s get shit done.
But I also need artists. Because the way this works I am facing UN prosecution and they’ve cut off our credit lines across the entire Pacific and there’s not an armsdealer south of Moscow that will touch us. So I also need 3 artists, that are willing to work on OSP and battlefield spoils. 33% of all profits. COs, Artists, Me.
And if we can get 3 COs and 3 Artists that’s 12 new ops every year. The Machine Will Keep Going. That’s what I need. That’s what I am asking from you, so that the entire Fire Valkyrie project, is not constant feast or famine.
That’s what I am out here asking. I need creativity. I want pride in the work. I don’t need personal pride of ‘I need to seem strong.’ No. I am asking for help, and co-operation…”
He snickers to himself.
“…to build back better. So I need people that, not people that deliver the work. But that can deliver in a workmanlike fashion.
Because me sitting alone in my place is not what is going to deliver Project Fire Valyrie. I have spent enough time mourning. I have spent enough time hiding. And its time to get shit done. And done. And done.
People have been telling me that Mercenaries are dead. That the mercenary life is dead. But from what I’ve seen, and the amount of people that have been willing to pay for hired expertise versus the cost of a standing army, well, Mercenaries aren’t quite that dead let me tell you.
It doesn’t matter where you live. It doesn’t matter who you are. If you can carry a gun and share my dream of a nationstate of next generation OSR super soldiers, I don’t care what kind of weirdo you are. We are all soldiers here. There’s somebody out there thinking, could this be me? Well, do you want it to be you? All you need is the will, and the talent and the work.
We have an Empire to rebuild. We will have modules, tanks, our own atomics. We will carve a nation out of the wilderness of the Balkan. Lamentoria. Where men will not fight for corporate greed, but for our ideals. We will have a currency backed up not by gold, oil or the promises of a corrupt financial institution, but by the blood of those that would give their lives to defend it. There’s six of you out there: three Cos, three artists.
I need someone that’s Doom, I need someone that’s Black I need someone that’s Death. I need some Power Violence. Whoever you are. Let’s conquer the fucking world together. Again.
The Best. Is yet. To come.”
He shambles out into the utter blackness of the Finnish Winter Night, to merge the darkness of its substance with the darkness in his heart and impose his will upon its formless geometry. A mere seventeen minute broadcast to usher in a new and terrifying age for the nations of the OSR. Whoever you were, wherever you were, we all knew one thing. The long peace was over. War was coming.