“So where the hell is this Jotnar place we’re shipping out to, anyway?” Doc asked, as he gunned his Ford F-150 pickup up Route 17 towards Jacksonville. The Marine base at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, was in the rearview mirror and Friday night off base was straight ahead.

Cowcatcher’s voice grew nasal, channeling his inner nerd. “Jotnar is not a place, I don’t think it is, anyway. More like a mythical thing from Norse mythology. Legendary giants, enemies of Odin and Thor, stuff like that. But alas, just another trailer park in-country mission code name steeped in lore.” Cowcatcher lived up to the crypto-linguistic mystique and Doc couldn’t help but grin. Marine Private First Class Peter “Cowcatcher” Kowalski could speak a number of Eastern European languages before he went to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey California, where he spent two years in intensive Pashto studies before working as a linguist in Marine combat units. Despite not having much in formal education beyond that, Cowcatcher was one of the smartest Marines Doc had ever met.

Casper “Doc” Lin was technically only an honorary Marine, tasked out to the Second Marine Expeditionary Force from the Navy, serving alongside Marines in combat and wearing a Fleet Marine Force pin that made him part of the extended USMC family. A graduate of the Special Operations Corpsman Program, Doc was qualified to serve with elite combat units, such as the newly formed, experimental unit dubbed “PSECTrops”, short for “Participating Select Elite Combat Troops”. Military acronyms have been ridiculous for a hundred years, Doc remembered thinking when he first heard the name. But the training offered in Project Jotnar was indeed unique, offering combat medic training in incredibly lifelike virtual reality simulations. When Doc got out of the military, he planned to go back to school near home in San Diego, to become a nurse practitioner and eventually open his own company that would provide training to paramedics and emergency room nurses, maybe pick up from government contracts as well.

Doc continued, “Well, they’ll deploy somewhere eventually and with a name like that, maybe Sweden? Norway?”

“I’d say Iceland.” Cowcatcher replied from the passenger seat. He spit into a styrofoam cup, working on his third dip of the day.

Doc winced. “Could be worse.” The two shared a knowing glance. Doc was with Cowcatcher when he earned his Purple Heart in Afghanistan, where he pulled chunks of shrapnel out of Cowcatcher’s thigh and gluteus when a rocket propelled grenade exploded against a wall directly behind their position.

Cowcatcher broke the silence. “Well, if it’s Iceland, I won’t be needin’ you to pull chunks of metal out of my ass.”

Doc didn’t miss a beat: “Maybe I’ll be pulling something else out of your ass.” The two laughed until they pulled into the slow Friday night traffic of North Marine Boulevard in Jacksonville, arriving at Spanky’s Sports Bar.

At Spanky’s, Doc and Cowcatcher met up with the other four members of PSECTrop Squad Durnir. At least half of the clientele at the sports bar were Marines. While Doc and Cowcatcher were physically nondescript and low-key introverts, two of their Durnir teammates blatantly stood out amongst the crowd.

First and foremost, their Air Force Combat Controller, Annika “Helchik” Helvig stood at the bar, taller then most of the men, wearing her golden hair as high and tight as any Marine. Helchik was a celebrity in the armed forces community, as she was the first female to pass the daunting physical and intellectual rigors of the Air Force’s Combat Control school. As a combat controller, Helchik’s skills were unique even within the special forces, as she was a licensed air traffic controller who could direct precision air strikes and artillery support from the front lines of enemy engagement. Helchik looked the part too. Five foot ten, striking Scandinavian features with bright blue eyes and the body off a powerlifter.

The other true specimen on Durnir was their squad leader, Staff Sergeant Rokuro “Roku” Silva. Born in Hawaii of Portuguese and Japanese American parentage, Roku had a racially ambiguous appearance that suited his Recon Marine career. With a beard, he could pass for Central Asian in a crowd, although the tribal sleeve tattoos on his left arm would stand out. Roku was tall, incredibly athletic and attracted plenty of attention at dives such as Spanky’s. Doc and Cowcatcher exchanged glances when they spotted teammate Lance Corporal Janice “Janissary” Ozdemir, watching jealously as Roku mingled with admiring women around the pool table.

Janissary, of Turkish American descent, was the teams heavy weapons specialist, trained in turret mounted weapons, grenade launchers, as well as 7.62 and 50 caliber machine guns. She was average height and stocky, with powerful shoulders and arms, built like a tank. Janissary had been in an emotional rut since her last tour in Afghanistan, consistently sullen and brooding. Doc had tried to reach out to her on a few occasions, but now kept his distance. She nursed a beer, standing alone, pretending to watch the Panthers game, but stealing glances around the bar, eyes often lingering on Roku.

Marine Corporal James “Shakewell” Wells came in late and creeped up behind the seated Cowcatcher and Doc watched him zigzag around in exaggerated stealth mode, smiling and gesturing for Doc to keep quiet. Shakewell then leapt into a rear naked choke and throttled a startled Cowcatcher, who tried to stand up and step one foot behind, duck and grab the hips of his unseen attacker, but instead fell to the ground with Shakewell, who took Cowcatcher’s back, tightened the chokehold and feigned ankle strikes towards Cowcatcher’s exposed groin. “Fuck you Shakes!” Cowcatcher gasped, as an amused crown gathered to watch. Even Janissary smiled.

Tall, lean, black—Shakewell hailed from San Diego, like Doc. But while Doc grew up in a struggling Chinese immigrant family, Shakewell hailed from the suburbs. His father was a doctor and his mother a professor at University of California San Diego. He was lighthearted and cheerful, a thrill seeker and adventurer who recently completed the Marine Scout Sniper course—his lifelong dream. Shakewell was on top of the world and wanted nothing more than to share the experience with his Marine brothers and sisters. Shakewell loved the Corps and seemed to excel at every task given him. A college graduate, Shakewell could have long ago applied to Marine Officer School, but instead chose to go the sniper route as a non-commissioned officer. Despite his outwardly cheery nature, there was something that drove Shakewell straight towards the fight, when he could have chosen a much easier life.

Roku moseyed over, peeled Shakewell of Cowcatcher with a chuckle, chiding, “you got ambushed by a fancy-ass rich kid, Cowcatcher” and bid the team gather around the video poker machine in the corner. “Guys check out our new should patch.” Roku said, to a collective “oooh” response. It was an olive drab shield with black border, nine black stars around the edge—four on each side and one on the top. Amidst the stars was the head of a stag, whose antlers reached out among the stars.

“What does it signify?” Doc asked.

Roku said, “I actually don’t know. But tomorrow the brass is taking Project Jotnar up a level, new facility off base outside Jacksonville. The tech contractor guys apparently made some big advance with the VR capabilities thanks to a new graphics chip they’ve developed.”

“The BitStriker guys, from Virginia,” Shakewell referenced the civilian subcontractor firm that was the partner—and source of funding—for Project Jotnar “there is not much on the web about them, just some mention of private angel investor funding and groundbreaking video card technology. The type of cards used for high-end video games, not like typical military tech.”

“They don’t really look like your typical IT guys in fact…” Janissary said.

“Well,” Roku jumped in, “they didn’t get this gig from being typical Silicon Valley types. Anyway, you all know how lucky we are to have this assignment, when we go back to our units we’re going to be golden, skills and experience no one else has. This is some serious new age special warfare shit.” Everyone seemed to agree to that. “Anyway, don’t get crushed every night this weekend, stay fresh and see you at 0800 on Monday.”

After two beers, only Doc and Cowcatcher were left from Durnir, standing in the parking lot. Cowcatcher loaded a fresh dip and said, “who knows what’s next for us buddy, something good bro I can feel it.”

“Didn’t you say some shit like that to me in Helmand Province?” Doc asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Cowcatcher laughed, “but this time for sure! No seriously bro we’re going to walk the Earth like the freaking Jotnar.”

“Like giants, sure.”

Cowcatcher paused and said, “you know, some say they weren’t actually giants, I mean physically, like maybe the Jotnar were just a different kind of god, different from guys like Thor and Odin.”

“And Loki right?” Doc asked. He loved Marvel everything, but history books, not so much.

Cowcatcher continued, “actually Loki was supposedly half Jotnar”, he spit out a stream of chew “and I’m half buzzed. PSECTrops what the fuck does that even mean. And, I’m a linguist for fuck sake. And the ‘P’ is for ‘Participating’, did I get that right? Seems to imply some form of consent and I don’t remember signing any waiver.”

Doc replied, “no waiver needed Marine, let’s get back to base.”