“Daniels, bring me that platter for the root vegetables,” Brenner called out, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Command Sergeant Major Eric Daniels appeared with a carved wooden serving board, grinning at the sight of his battalion commander playing Viking chef. The gesture wasn’t lost on anyone — here was their leader, on what might be the eve of history, personally preparing a feast for his officers.
The Vidhave’s staff had outdone themselves, transforming the eco lodge’s pavilion into something from the sagas. Overhead, strings of warm lights crisscrossed between the timber beams like stars caught in a net, while strategically placed torches cast dancing shadows that evoked ancient mead halls. The long wooden tables — already part of the pavilion’s rustic charm — now bore checkered cloths weighted with platters of grilled root vegetables, lingonberry sauce, and fresh rye bread. Swedish and American soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder, passing bottles of Gotlands Bryggeri and sharing stories that bridged a thousand years of warrior tradition. Colonel Lindqvist moved among them like a Norse chieftain, his weathered face bright with satisfaction at seeing his idea brought to life — two militaries becoming one force over fire and fellowship, the eternal bond of those who stand watch against the darkness.
Captain Alex Mercer stood near the rough-hewn bar the Vidhave staff had improvised, nursing a Gotlands Bryggeri as he watched the evening unfold. The unusually warm air carried the scent of juniper smoke and grilling meat across the pavilion, where Swedish and American officers had begun finding their seats at the long tables. Colonel Anders Lindqvist approached through the amber torchlight, moving with the confident grace of a man on his own ground.
“Your battalion commander knows his way around a grill,” Lindqvist observed, accepting the beer Mercer offered. His eyes tracked Brenner’s movements — the practiced efficiency, the care with each cut of meat.
“Rangers lead the way, sir. Even at Viking feasts,” Mercer replied, noting how Lindqvist’s weathered face cracked into a genuine smile.
“We shall see if your Texas beef can stand against our island elk,” the colonel said, but his tone held warmth rather than challenge.
Mercer watched his fellow officers settling in — Captain Elin Boström had cornered Major Holt near the pavilion’s edge, her hands already sketching IRIS-T integration patterns in the air. Captain Joran Lindholm and CSM Daniels had found common ground over tank warfare, their animated gestures suggesting they were refighting some past battle. Even now, with platters of food appearing on the tables, the shop talk persisted — until First Sergeant Walcott materialized with fresh beers and gentle admonishments about leaving work for tomorrow.
“Gather round!” Brenner’s voice carried across the pavilion as he set down his spatula. The conversations gradually died as officers drifted toward the tables, Americans and Swedes intermingling naturally now after weeks of joint preparation.
As they took their seats, Mercer found himself between Sergeant First Class Holloway and a Swedish Home Guard captain, the tables groaning under the weight of the feast — grilled elk steaks, wild boar sausages, root vegetables charred to perfection, fresh bread, and bowls of lingonberry sauce that gleamed like garnets in the torchlight.
Colonel Lindqvist rose slowly, beer in hand, waiting for the last conversations to fade. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of centuries.
“There is an old saga,” he began, his English touched with the rhythm of his native Swedish, “about a king who asked his warriors why they fought. One said for gold. Another for glory. But the wisest warrior said, ‘I fight for what stands behind me, not what lies ahead.’”
The pavilion had gone completely silent, even the crackling of the torches seeming to pause.
“Look around you,” Lindqvist continued, gesturing to the mixed gathering. “Americans who left families five thousand miles away. Swedes who could be home with their children tonight. Why are we here?”
He let the question hang in the warm air before continuing.
“We are the sons and daughters of Vikings, of Minutemen, of those who stood at Thermopylae and Valley Forge. Different flags, same blood — the blood of those who stand between the darkness and the light.” His voice grew stronger. “We train for peace, yes. We hope for it. But when the storm comes — and it will come — we become what we must become.”
Mercer felt the truth of it in his bones. Around him, faces had grown serious, the weight of history and purpose settling over them like armor.
“Behind us,” Lindqvist said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the pavilion, “are our children playing in gardens. Our wives sleeping peacefully. Our parents growing old in freedom. That is why we become savage when we must. Not because we love what is in front of us, but because we love what is behind us.”
He raised his beer higher.
“To the warriors of Gotland. To the Sky Soldiers of America. To the brotherhood forged in preparation for battles we pray never come.” His eyes swept the gathering. “But if they do come, may our enemies learn why free men have always been the fiercest fighters — because we choose to be here. We choose to stand watch. We choose to be the shield.”
“Skål!” the Swedish officers roared.
“Airborne!” the Americans responded.
As they drank, Mercer caught Brenner’s eye across the table. His battalion commander gave an almost imperceptible nod — this was why they’d organized tonight. Not just to eat and drink, but to forge something deeper. Tomorrow they’d be back to patrol schedules and defensive positions. But tonight, under the stars and torchlight, they were becoming what they’d need to be if the worst happened.
The feast continued late into the evening, stories flowing as freely as the beer — tales of Swedish winters and Texas summers, of tank battles in Iraq and peacekeeping in Kosovo, of fathers who’d stood watch on this same island during the Cold War. History and present merging over fire and fellowship, creating something new from traditions old as warfare itself.
When they finally departed into the warm night, walking back to their scattered positions, Mercer knew something fundamental had shifted. They were no longer allies coordinating a defense. They were brothers preparing to hold the line.
Captain Alex Mercer sat in the darkened briefing room, watching the EUCOM J2 representative cycle through classified slides. The room held only company commanders and above. These were the American and Swedish officers who needed to understand the bigger picture beyond Gotland’s shores.
“Gentlemen, what you’re seeing is acceleration across all domains,” the briefer, a Marine colonel, stated flatly. “Yesterday, PRC Foreign Minister Qiao announced that their Baltic naval facility is now fully operational. They’re claiming it’s to protect shipping from increased piracy and secure their Arctic passage interests.”
The slide changed to show Kaliningrad’s expanded facilities.
“Additionally, they’ve reactivated the old Chernyakhovsk Air Base. Officially, it’s a training facility for nations purchasing Chinese military aircraft. Unofficially, it’s a forward operating base ninety minutes from every Baltic capital.”
Mercer noticed Colonel Lindqvist’s jaw tighten at that assessment.
“Here’s where it gets interesting,” the briefer continued. “NSA and GCHQ intercepts indicate growing friction within EDEP leadership. Russian intelligence is expressing alarm at the scope of Chinese force deployment to the Leningrad district. SVR reports describe PLA units billeting in civilian areas due to insufficient military housing — something Moscow didn’t anticipate or approve.”