The Only Gods We Know, Ch 1: Bifrost's Echo

Asgard's Armada arrives. Valkyrie pilot Brynja Vingfalk must clear a hostile landing zone in an uncharted alien system.

Pressed against the chill of the viewport, Brynja Vingfalk traced the runic etchings in the star-dusted plasteel, the thrum of the FTL drive a familiar, almost soporific drone before the inevitable shitstorm of a new conquest. The Hrafnfljúga, her Valkyrie transport, was just another airframe in the spear-pointed, glorious clusterfuck of the Asgardian Armada, a glinting mote of divine intent about to punch through the veil into some uncharted black. For centuries, since the REMFs back on Midgard decided their gods were no longer cost-effective, this op had been whispered, then blueprinted, then hammered into reality in the great orbital shipyards ringing Asgard. New AO. New real estate to claim, to bring under the Allfather's ROE.

Brynja’s gauntleted fingers, inscribed with glowing power runes, found the comforting curve of her spear, Storm-Singer, racked against the bulkhead. Its haft, supposedly carved from a branch of Yggdrasil - a detail she filed under "high-level bullshit" - felt solid, thrumming faintly with the ship's drive core. She could almost smell the consecrated lubrication oils, a scent that always yanked her back to the Valkyrie A-school grounds - sweat, cordite, and the thin, sharp air of Asgard's goddamn peaks.

“Where the sun’s a myth, and the moon’s a bad rumor…” she muttered, a fragment of an old Lay of Seeking, one her mother, a hard-ass Valkyrie in her own right, used to hum before kicking in doors. The words felt right, a pre-mission prayer. This wasn't just another deployment; it was a sacred duty, a long-range patrol to ensure their race, their gods, didn’t just fade to black. Because what were gods without believers, without worlds to project their power onto? Just dust bunnies in the cosmic void.

A theatrical, almost too-practiced movement snagged her attention. Astrid Vingthor'sdotter, her oldest rival and, when the chips were down, her most reliable wingman, was fussing with the clasp on her ornate vambrace. Even in the dim combat lighting of the bridge, Astrid’s blue-blood arrogance was unmistakable, her features sharp as a well-honed trench knife. That competitive fire, as constant as a failing generator on a long deployment, danced in her ice-blue eyes. “Getting antsy for first contact, Brynja?” Astrid’s voice was a low, challenging purr. “Or just admiring the Allfather’s fresh target map before we redraw it in blood and fire?”

Brynja allowed herself a tight, humorless smirk. “Just ensuring my fire solutions are locked, Astrid. Some of us prefer surgical strikes over… area denial by enthusiasm.” The familiar jab was met with a familiar, haughty tilt of Astrid’s chin. It was their ritual, this constant, verbal sparring, a way to keep their edges sharp. Underneath it was a bond forged in a thousand simulated hells and live-fire exercises, an understanding that transcended rank or who your daddy knew back on Asgard.

Further aft, Sigrun Iron-Hand, Brynja’s second, stood like a goddamn mountain, her broad shoulders unbent by centuries of this shit. She wasn't checking her warpaint, Brynja knew, but the power conduits of her heavy Ægis-pattern shield, making sure every defensive rune pulsed with go-juice. Sigrun was the anchor of their element, her blunt pragmatism the necessary counter to Astrid’s glory-hounding and Brynja’s own tendency to overthink the OPORD. A curt nod from Sigrun was all the confirmation Brynja needed that their immediate fire team was good to go.

And the FNGs, Hrist and Mist, on their first real combat deployment. Hrist was practically vibrating near the tactical holotank, her knuckles white where she gripped the console’s edge, her boot face flushed with a nearly feverish combat high. Brynja remembered that feeling, the intoxicating cocktail of shit-your-pants terror and kill-em-all elation before the first rounds went downrange. Mist, in contrast, was a study in absolute stillness, her gaze locked on the chronometer, her expression unreadable. She was the quiet professional, the analyst, the one who’d spot the IED everyone else missed. Brynja felt a well-known surge of responsibility for them both, these new trigger-pullers, so eager to earn their blood stripes.

“Bifrost disengagement imminent,” the ship’s Navigator, Kjell, a grizzled old void-dog, announced from his station, his voice a gravelly rumble that could strip paint. His beard, braided with tarnished silver campaign rings from shitholes now relegated to historical archives, was almost as impressive as his star charts. “All hands, brace for reversion to normal space. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

The customary pre-combat tension coiled in Brynja’s gut. Not fear - that was for boots and REMFs - but the warrior’s hyper-awareness before contact. She widened her stance, her hand instinctively going to Storm-Singer. The whine of the FTL drive pitched higher, a banshee wail that vibrated through the deck plates and into her fillings. The star-dusted plasteel of the viewport shimmered. The streaks of impossible light outside contorted, then… tore.

A gut-wrenching lurch, a moment of profound disorientation as real-space physics reasserted themselves like a kick to the teeth. Her inner ear screamed in protest, a wave of nausea ruthlessly suppressed by years of conditioning. The ship shuddered, a colossal beast shaking off the trans-dimensional static. The high-pitched whine died, replaced by the deeper thrum of sublight engines and the sudden, almost deafening cacophony of system diagnostics and inter-ship comms chatter erupting across the command net.

And the stars.

The view beyond the port was no longer a smeared mess of FTL travel, but a fixed, goddamn breathtaking panorama of a new, alien sky. A trinary sun system blazed in the distance - a furious crimson, a brilliant sapphire, a smaller, hotter white - casting complex, disorienting shadows across a scattering of unidentified planets and a vast, glittering asteroid field. This was it. The Jötunngrip Cluster, as some four-eyed staff puke in Asgard Astrography had already designated it. Untouched. Unclaimed. Waiting for the door-kickers.

Brynja felt the weight of Asgard’s mission directive settle on her, a well-worn pressure, a sacred tasking. Her expression hardened. The lullaby was over. Time to go to work.

A chime, sharp and commanding, resonated through the Hrafnfljúga. A soft, runic glow emanated from the central dais on the bridge, the space usually reserved for the 3D tactical holomap. Within moments, the light solidified, coalescing into the towering, almost painfully impressive holographic figures of the Aesir high command - a fleet-wide C2 conference call. Even as mere light-constructs, their presence was a palpable force, a wave of divine static that washed over Brynja and the others, stilling the low hum of post-jump systems checks. She and her element snapped to a parade-ground version of attention, their focus absolute.

Dominating the assembly, even in ethereal form, was Odin Allfather, CINCFLEET himself. His single eye, burning with an ancient, all-seeing light, seemed to pierce through the holographic medium, assessing every warrior, every airframe in his vast armada. His ravens, Huginn and Muninn - "Thought" and "Memory," if you believed the official bullshit - weren't present in the projection, but Brynja could almost feel their spectral overflight, intel and after-action reports winging their way through the ships. His beard, long and grey as a forgotten battlefield, flowed over a breastplate of black, unadorned meta-steel that seemed to drink the ambient light. A profound, instinctual submission welled within her, an unshakeable adherence to the chain of command that had guided Asgard for eons. He was the architect of this grand clusterfuck, the visionary who had looked beyond the dwindling logistics of their past to a future resupply point amongst these new stars.

To Odin’s right stood Thor, God of Thunder, CENTCOM for this particular shitshow, his holographic form crackling with barely suppressed kinetic energy. Mjolnir was slung at his belt, yet its power was an almost visible corona around him. His red beard bristled with raw vitality, and his eyes, bright and fierce, scanned the assembled trigger-pullers with a commander’s pride. Her own combat readiness spiked at the sight of him. He was the hammer of Asgard, the joyous goddamn fury of a full-scale artillery barrage, and the ultimate CO for every warrior who served under their banner. She knew Hrist, beside her, was practically vibrating with hero-worship.

On Odin’s other side stood Tyr, the One-Handed God of War and Justice, J3 Operations. His projected image was stern, disciplined, the map of a thousand campaigns etched into his noble, scarred features. His remaining hand rested on the pommel of a massive, unadorned broadsword that had likely tasted more blood than any river on Midgard. Brynja respected Tyr; his strategic mind was a weapon in itself, his courage legendary. He was the embodiment of martial order, the steady hand that executed the Allfather's strategic intent.

Arrayed slightly behind them were other high-ranking deities. Freyja, Mistress of Seidr, probably head of Intel and PsyOps, her beauty radiant even as a projection, her expression thoughtful, her eyes holding a depth of ancient, arcane knowledge that always made Brynja feel the vast, unknowable shittiness of the cosmos. Brynja knew Freyja commanded her own special operations units and was a force of nature in her own right, her counsel often a counterpoint to the more direct, kinetic solutions favored by Thor and Tyr. Frigga, Queen of Asgard, stood with regal serenity, her gaze calm and encompassing, a symbol of the home front, the quiet strength that paid the bills. Then there was Baldr the Bright, his form seemingly radiating a gentle luminescence, his expression earnest and full of a hopeful anticipation that Brynja found both naive and a little fucking sad. He represented the "hearts and minds" part of the doctrine, the light they were supposedly here to spread. Right.

And Loki. His holographic image was, as always, a goddamn enigma. He stood slightly apart, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed the assembly. His eyes, sharp and intelligent as a hungry void-shark, seemed to miss nothing, cataloging every reaction, every twitch. His presence, as always, engendered a slight prickle of unease in Brynja - not fear, exactly, but the feeling of a loose cannon on a very crowded deck. He was the wild card, the shadow in the Allfather's grand plan, yet undeniably part of the command structure.

Commander Geirskögul’s hologram stood amongst the other senior line officers, her posture one of unwavering readiness, her gaze fixed on Odin. A surge of professional respect coursed through Brynja; Geirskögul was a commander who led from the objective, whose courage and tactical acumen were drilled into every Valkyrie.

A profound, disciplined silence held the assembled fleet. Then, Odin Allfather spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it resonated through every ship, every soul, as if piped directly into their neural interfaces.

“Warriors of Asgard!” The ancient words, though transmitted via secure comms, carried the weight of millennia. “For generations, we have monitored the degradation of our operational support base on Midgard. That AO is no longer viable. But Asgard endures! Our strategic imperative requires new theaters of operation, new resource depots, new populations to integrate into our sphere of influence!”

His single eye swept across them. “Beyond this navigational hazard,” he gestured to the alien stars, “lie countless undeveloped systems, ripe for exploitation or mired in sub-optimal governance. They await the firm application of Asgardian doctrine and logistical superiority. This is not mere conquest, though secure objectives we shall! This is a strategic imperative. We bring not subjugation, but an optimized command and control structure! We offer not servitude, but integration into the Nine Worlds’ proven operational framework, a new grand strategy executed with courage and illuminated by divine authority!” The official doctrine resonated deep within her. He calls it optimizing our operational framework, she thought, a bitter tang to the idea. We call it not fading into a myth. This was the core of her Valkyrie oath, the mission she was trained to execute.

“We are the shockwave that sanitizes, the beacon that dispels ambiguity! We are the authors of after-action reports yet to be filed! This Jötunngrip Cluster is merely the initial insertion point! Go forth and secure it in the name of Asgard! For the Allfather! For the long-term viability of our operational capacity!”

A thunderous, disciplined roar of "Hooah!" - or its Asgardian equivalent - a clash of holographic weapons on shields, echoed through the fleet, a silent wave of pure, unwavering mission focus. Brynja found herself gripping Storm-Singer tighter, her heart rate elevated, combat instincts kicking in.

Then Thor stepped forward, his projected form seeming to swell with raw power. “Warriors! Valkyries, my Shield-Sisters!” His voice was a booming, infectious war cry. “The Allfather speaks of strategic necessity, and he is goddamn right! But objectives aren't handed to you on a silver platter; they are seized! They are carved out of hostile territory with superior firepower and the unyielding fighting spirit of an Asgardian warrior! These new AOs offer us challenges! They offer resistance! And I say to that - bring it on! What is mission accomplishment without a significant expenditure of enemy resources? What is peace through strength without the memory of a decisive, kinetic engagement to achieve it?”

He grinned, a fierce, joyous expression. “You, my Valkyries!” His gaze seemed to find Brynja, Astrid, all of them. “You are the sharpened tip of Asgard’s spear! First in, last out! Show these new systems the meaning of overwhelming firepower! Let your battle cries be the last goddamn thing they hear! Fight with discipline, fight with ferocity, and bring credit to your units, your houses, and to Asgard!” Another wave of acclamation, this one more visceral, more purely martial, swept the assembly. Brynja felt Astrid beside her tense with barely suppressed aggression.

Finally, Tyr’s stern image advanced. His voice was calm, precise, cutting through the lingering adrenaline. “Commanders, SITREP. Initial OPORDs are now active. Phase One: Secure FOB Himinbjörg on designated Class-M moon. Conduct comprehensive ISR sweep of the Jötunngrip system. Identify primary resource nodes and assess indigenous population centers and technological signatures. First contact protocols will be executed per standing directive: offer of peaceful integration under Asgardian sovereignty. Any hostile response will be met with maximum prejudice.” His gaze was unyielding. “Chain of command is sacrosanct. Fire discipline will be maintained. Subsequent FRAGOs will be disseminated through your unit commanders. The Allfather has spoken. Valhalla awaits the effective. Dismissed.”

The holographic figures shimmered and vanished, leaving Brynja and her element on the bridge of the Hrafnfljúga. The echoes of divine orders still hung in the recycled air. The high-level strategic bullshit was over. Now came the hard, dirty work of tactical execution.

Commander Geirskögul “The Stern” was already there, her holographic image standing before the main holotable. It was sent from her flagship, Freyja’s Talon. Even as a projection of light, her presence was strong. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back in a tight warrior’s knot, and her eyes, the color of a winter sky, saw everything. Brynja felt her usual respect; Geirskögul had led Valkyries in battles Brynja had only read about in stories, and she had a wisdom that came from fighting.

"Alright, Sky-Reavers, listen up," Commander Geirskögul’s voice was sharp, cutting through the low hum of the ready-room. No honorifics, no fluff. The holotable flared, projecting a topographical overlay of the Jötunngrip system, the targeted moon - an ugly, pockmarked rock orbiting a gas giant - pulsing red. "Phase One OPORD is green. Objective: establish FOB Himinbjörg. Third Wing, that’s us, provides CAS and void superiority for First Cohort’s insertion and initial perimeter consolidation. Clear?"

Brynja gave a mental nod. Close Air Support during a hot LZ. Standard Valkyrie meat and mead, but always a shit-show waiting to happen on unfamiliar ground.

"Flight Lead Brynja," Geirskögul’s gaze, even holographic, felt like it could bore through plasteel. "Stormbringers draw point for LZ Sector Sjau. Intel pings anomalous energy signatures - could be geological, could be hostile C2, could be a damn nest of space-badgers for all we know. Your tasking: ISR-strike. ID all structures, bio-signatures, or fixed emplacements. Neutralize direct threats to troop transports on final. Rules of Engagement: do not engage superior enemy elements without direct authorization from myself or Tyr-actual. Your primary is clear lanes for the ground-pounders. Got it?"

"Solid copy, Commander," Brynja replied, her voice level. Sector Seven. Anomalous sigs. The usual pre-mission intel black hole. Classic.

Geirskögul continued, rattling off assignments to other squadron leads - LZ Sector Fimm, LZ Sector Níu - each designation a terse Asgardian numeral, each a potential kill-zone. Brynja barely registered them, her focus already laser-locked on Sjau. She flicked a glance at her people. Astrid, predictably, had that gleam in her eye, the one that meant "anomalous" was a synonym for "high-value target." Sigrun’s face was stone, probably already running threat assessments and contingency plans. Hrist was practically bouncing in her flight suit. Mist was still, her fingers tapping a silent rhythm on her thigh, processing.

"Quartermaster Róta confirms all Sky-Reaver airframes are retrofitted with the new Auspex-Plus sensor suites and ‘Gungnir-Lite’ penetrators," Geirskögul added. "Pre-flight your goddamn systems. Any burn?"

Silence. Geirskögul didn't do "any questions" like some pampered Aesir noble giving a lecture. "Any burn?" meant speak now or forever hold your peace and deal with the consequences.

None came. As the Commander’s hologram winked out, Brynja brought up Sector Sjau on their local holotable. The terrain model showed a jagged, crater-pocked hellscape.

"Alright, Stormbringers, listen up," Brynja’s tone mirrored Geirskögul’s - all business. "Ingress formation: staggered diamond. Hrist, Mist, you're slot and trail, focus on sensor painting and CIWS coverage for the element. Sigrun, you’re my immediate number two, starboard. Astrid, port flank, wider ISR sweep, but maintain element integrity. I’ve got lead."

Astrid’s eyebrow arched. "Sector Sjau, Brynja? Smells like they're feeding us to the Garmr, hoping we’ll at least bloody its nose for them."

"Could be," Brynja admitted, her voice flat. "Which is why we go in hard and smart, not loud and stupid. Those energy sigs could be anything from dormant geothermal vents to a dug-in ADA battery. Sigrun, initial terrain assessment, quick and dirty?"

Sigrun’s finger stabbed at a series of deep, shadowed canyons on the holomap. "Dead ground here, and here. Perfect for masked approaches or ambush sites. If they’ve got anything nasty waiting, that’s where it’ll be. Recommend high-angle attack vector, use crater ridgelines for terrain masking on final approach."

"Concur," Brynja said. "Hrist, Mist, I want continuous, overlapping Auspex sweeps. You ping anything - atmospheric shears, off-nominal energy spikes, even unusual seismic tremors - you call it. No silent heroes, you copy?" Hrist gave a sharp nod, Mist a quiet, "Roger that, Lead."

"And if we find something… 'target rich'?" Astrid purred, that dangerous glint back in her eyes.

"Then you log it and report, per the OPORD," Brynja said, her gaze firm. "We clear the LZ, Astrid. We don’t go looking for a fight unless it finds us or it’s about to smoke a transport full of grunts. There’ll be plenty of shooting to go around before this little Midgard-forsaken rock is secure. You read me?" She knew Astrid’s aristocratic blood and Valkyrie pride chafed under restrictive ROE, but discipline in a new AO was non-negotiable.

She ran a final systems check on her personal datapad, verifying her Vindbitr's combat systems were hot, her personal energy shield diagnostics green. Storm-Singer was already hard-locked in its cockpit rack, ready for immediate deployment. The familiar pressure of her Valkyrie combat armor, molded to her form over centuries, was less a burden and more a second skin. The recycled air in the ready-room, tinged with the faint, metallic scent of charged power cells and her own focused adrenaline, was the breath of readiness. She was locked and loaded. They all were. The endless drills, the blood-soaked sagas of their ancestors, the Allfather’s divine will - it all came down to this. Point. Click. Kill.

The lullaby was ancient history. The first violent chord of war’s overture was about to be struck.

***

The launch bay of the Hrafnfljúga was a goddamn three-ring circus of roaring thrusters, flashing guidance runes, and the double-time stomp of Asgardian flight deck crews. Deckhands in reinforced, oil-stained leathers and composite plating scurried between the sleek, winged profiles of the Valkyrie void-fighters, running final systems checks, their faces illuminated by the pulsing blue-white glare of engine ignitions. The air thrummed with raw power, a potent, head-buzzing cocktail of arcane energy and advanced Gungnir-tech. Brynja felt the vibrations through the soles of her combat boots, a pre-launch tremor she knew in her bones, one that always signaled the transition from hurry-up-and-wait to balls-to-the-wall.

She swung into the cockpit of her airframe, the Vindbitr - callsign "Wind-Biter." The custom-molded seat, lined with resilient Jotun-hide, fit her like a second skin. With practiced, economical motions, she jacked her armor’s neural uplink into the fighter’s main bus. The cockpit canopy, a transparent plasteel-celestial bronze laminate stronger than any mundane alloy, hissed shut, sealing her inside her personal war machine. Runic HUD elements flickered to life across her visor, projecting flight telemetry, sensor data, and tactical overlays directly into her field of vision. The fighter was now an extension of her will, its control surfaces her limbs, its Gungnir-Lite energy lances the righteous, hard-hitting anger of Asgard.

A final comms check. “Stormbringer Actual to element. Systems green. Report status by numbers.”

“Stormbringer Two, Astrid. Green board, itching for contact, Lead.” Astrid’s voice, even filtered through the comms, still held that confident, almost challenging drawl. Brynja could picture her in her own bird, Sólarljómi - callsign "Sun-Gleam," probably already running mental gun-camera footage.

“Stormbringer Three, Sigrun. All systems nominal, flight controls responsive.” Sigrun’s voice was a calm, steady baseline. Her airframe, Skjaldmær - callsign "Shield-Maiden" - was, like its pilot, built to take a beating and keep on trucking.

“Stormbringer Four, Hrist! Board is green, green, green! Ready to burn sky, Lead!” Hrist’s enthusiasm was almost a physical force, even if it made Brynja crack a rare, internal smirk at the FNG’s eagerness.

“Stormbringer Five, Mist. Systems optimal. Awaiting your vector, Lead.” Mist’s voice was quiet, precise. All business.

“Solid copy all. Weapons safe until hostile declaration or direct threat. Good hunting, Stormbringers,” Brynja said, her voice betraying none of the complex cocktail of adrenaline, focus, and the immense goddamn weight of their mission directive churning inside her.

She saw Gunnr, the Valkyrie Infantry Liaison, giving a sharp, affirmative nod from the LSO platform overlooking the launch bay. Gunnr was already kitted out in heavier, ground-pounder assault armor, her usual spear swapped for a formidable energy axe designed for breaching hardened targets. Her war was different - brutal, up-close, room-to-room CQB. "Clear the LZ for us, Shield-Maiden," Gunnr’s voice crackled over a shared tactical channel, a familiar pre-assault phrase. Brynja gave a curt dip of her fighter’s nose in reply. Different MOS, same goddamn objective.

The launch director’s runic sequence flashed green on her main HUD. Magnetic clamps disengaged with a percussive thunk-clack that she felt through the Vindbitr's airframe. The catapult system engaged, a surge of raw, brutal G-force pressing Brynja back into her acceleration couch, even with the inertial dampeners straining. For a breathtaking, gut-wrenching moment, she was a projectile, shot down the launch tube like a Valkyrie arrow loosed from Asgard’s own bow.

Then, clear.

The Vindbitr punched out from the Hrafnfljúga's belly into the silent, cold, unforgiving vacuum of the Jötunngrip system. Below, the massive, multi-hued disc of the gas giant loomed, its stormy atmosphere a swirling, chaotic canvas of alien beauty. Its barren moon, soon-to-be FOB Himinbjörg, was a pockmarked sphere of grey and shadow, their primary objective. Around her, the other Stormbringers materialized from the carrier, their fighters like silver raptors taking to an unfamiliar hunting ground. Astrid’s Sólarljómi expertly slid into formation on her port wing, a flash of aristocratic daredevilry in her initial vector correction. Sigrun’s Skjaldmær was a reassuring, solid presence on her starboard. Hrist and Mist, still relatively new to full fleet deployment formations, were a little less precise but held their assigned slots with grim determination.

Brynja took a fractional second to absorb the battlespace. The Asgardian Armada, a goddamn breathtaking constellation of divine warships, spread out in a disciplined battle formation behind them. Ornate battlecruisers resembling spacefaring longships of old, their prows carved into snarling, mythical beasts, bristled with energy cannons and missile tubes. Sleek destroyers, nimble frigates, and the colossal carriers like the Hrafnfljúga itself, all forged with that unique, potent blend of runic magic and cutting-edge Gungnir-tech that was Asgard's signature. It was a sight designed to inspire awe in allies and shit-your-pants terror in anyone stupid enough to be designated hostile. Today, their mission was to generate the latter.

Her gaze shifted to the designated LZ on the approaching moon. The rugged, shadowed terrain of Sector Sjau was resolving into sharper detail. It looked deceptively fucking peaceful from this range. “Stormbringers, tighten it up, combat spread,” she ordered, her voice sharp and authoritative over the comms. “Commencing descent to reconnaissance altitude. Heads on a swivel, check your six. For Asgard.”

A chorus of "Roger that" and "Wilco, Lead" answered her. With a surge of her main thrusters, Brynja led her element down towards the alien moon, a spearhead of divine will plunging into the goddamn unknown. The first real test was imminent. The high-level bullshit speeches were over; the age of new sagas, written in plasma fire and starlight, had just begun.

***

A Glossary of Military Terms Used

• ADA (Battery)

  • Meaning: Anti-Aircraft Artillery. A weapons system designed to shoot down enemy aircraft. In this context, it refers to ground-based defenses that would target Brynja's squadron.

  • (Real-world term)

• AO (Area of Operations)

  • Meaning: A defined geographical area where a commander is assigned the responsibility and authority to conduct military operations.

  • (Real-world term)

• A-School

  • Meaning: In the U.S. Navy/Coast Guard, "A" School is the advanced, job-specific training a service member receives after basic training (boot camp). For Brynja, it was her initial Valkyrie flight school.

  • (Real-world term)

• Boots

  • Meaning: Slang for new, inexperienced personnel, fresh out of basic training (boot camp).

  • (Real-world slang)

• C2

  • Meaning: Command and Control. The exercise of authority and direction by a commander over assigned forces to accomplish a mission.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• CAS (Close Air Support)

  • Meaning: Air action by fixed-wing or rotary-wing aircraft against hostile targets that are in close proximity to friendly forces. Essentially, providing air cover for troops on the ground.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• CENTCOM

  • Meaning: Central Command. In the story, this is Thor's title for this specific operation.

  • (Fictionalized use of a real-world acronym for a U.S. Unified Combatant Command)

• CINCFLEET

  • Meaning: Commander-in-Chief, Fleet. Odin's title, signifying his supreme command over the entire Asgardian Armada.

  • (Fictionalized use of a historical, real-world naval title)

• CIWS (Close-In Weapon System)

  • Meaning: Pronounced "see-whiz." A point-defense weapon system for detecting and destroying short-range incoming missiles and enemy aircraft. Often a rapid-firing rotary cannon.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• CO (Commanding Officer)

  • Meaning: The officer in command of a military unit.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• Contact

  • Meaning: The moment of engaging or detecting the enemy.

  • (Real-world term)

• CQB (Close-Quarters Battle)

  • Meaning: Fighting in confined spaces, such as room-to-room clearing inside a building.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• Door-Kickers / Ground-Pounders

  • Meaning: Slang for infantry soldiers, whose job involves direct, on-the-ground combat.

  • (Real-world slang)

• Element

  • Meaning: A small tactical unit or subdivision of a larger unit. In aviation, it often refers to a pair of aircraft. Brynja's "element" is her immediate fire team of five.

  • (Real-world term)

• FNG (Fing New Guy)*

  • Meaning: A derogatory but common slang term for a soldier who is new to a unit or combat zone.

  • (Real-world slang)

• FOB (Forward Operating Base)

  • Meaning: A secured, forward military position, often a temporary outpost, used to support tactical operations. FOB Himinbjörg is the objective.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• FRAGO (Fragmentary Order)

  • Meaning: An abbreviated operations order, usually issued daily, that updates or modifies a previously issued order.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• Hot LZ (Landing Zone)

  • Meaning: A landing zone that is currently under enemy fire.

  • (Real-world slang)

• Hooah!

  • Meaning: A battle cry or expression of high morale, most commonly associated with the U.S. Army.

  • (Real-world term)

• HUD (Heads-Up Display)

  • Meaning: A transparent display that presents data without requiring users to look away from their usual viewpoints. In Brynja's helmet, it projects targeting and flight info onto her visor.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• ISR (Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance)

  • Meaning: A mission to collect information about enemy forces or an area of operations.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• J3 Operations

  • Meaning: The "Operations" directorate of a joint military staff. The "J-codes" (J1-J9) denote different staff functions (e.g., J1 is Personnel, J2 is Intelligence). Tyr's title marks him as the chief of operations for the entire armada.

  • (Fictionalized use of a real-world staff structure)

• Kinetic

  • Meaning: A common military euphemism for actions involving lethal force, i.e., violent, active combat. A "kinetic engagement" is a firefight.

  • (Real-world euphemism)

• LSO (Landing Signal Officer)

  • Meaning: A naval aviator responsible for the safe and expeditious recovery of aircraft on an aircraft carrier. Gunnr is serving this role on the Hrafnfljúga.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• MOS (Military Occupational Specialty)

  • Meaning: A code that specifies a job role in the military. Brynja's is a pilot; Gunnr's is infantry.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• OPORD (Operations Order)

  • Meaning: A formal plan issued by a commander to subordinate commanders for the purpose of executing a coordinated operation.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• PsyOps (Psychological Operations)

  • Meaning: Operations designed to convey selected information and indicators to audiences to influence their emotions, motives, and objective reasoning.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• REMF (Rear Echelon Motherfer)*

  • Meaning: Derogatory slang used by front-line combat troops to refer to personnel who serve in support roles far from the fighting.

  • (Real-world slang)

• ROE (Rules of Engagement)

  • Meaning: Directives that define the circumstances, conditions, degree, and manner in which the use of force may be applied. They dictate when a soldier is or is not allowed to shoot.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• SITREP (Situation Report)

  • Meaning: A concise report of the current military situation.

  • (Real-world acronym)

• Void Superiority

  • Meaning: The space-based equivalent of "Air Superiority"—the degree of dominance in a space battle that permits one side to conduct operations without prohibitive interference from opposing forces.

  • (Fictional term)