The Only Gods We Know, Ch 3: The Price of Feathers

The scent of victory was cold void, sterilized plasteel, the faint, lingering musk of xeno fear. Days post-kinetic operations against Objective Skraeling and the subsequent decimation of the K'tharr flotilla, Commander Geirskögul had tasked the Stormbringers, along with other Valkyrie elements, with the shit-detail of "sanitation and salvage" within AO Jörmungandr. A polite fucking euphemism, Brynja knew, for ensuring no K'tharr stragglers could form a viable insurgency and for picking through the wreckage of their defeated enemy for anything remotely useful to the Allfather's ever-expanding logistical footprint.

Her Vindbitr sliced silently through a debris field that, according to the pre-assault intel, had been a K'tharr resupply node. Twisted structural members, ruptured pressure hulls venting their last whisper of atmosphere into ghostly, expanding nebulae, and the occasional, flash-frozen K'tharr KIA tumbling in an eternal, macabre ballet – these were the new navigational hazards in this "pacified" sector. The initial combat high, the fierce, clean joy of a direct action engagement, had long since flatlined, leaving behind the gritty residue of protracted mop-up duty.

"Anything on your Auspex, Mist?" Brynja's voice was flat, devoid of inflection over the squadron net.

"Minimal returns, Lead," Mist replied, her tone as precise and uninflected as a targeting computer. "Residual EM signatures from expended K'tharr munitions. Some trace bio-signatures consistent with indigenous void-carrion – likely local space-critters already on the Battle Damage Assessment (BDA). No coherent hostile vessel signatures above micro-thruster output."

"Maintain sweep patterns," Brynja ordered. "High Command wants this sector declared 'sanitized' by EOD." End of Day. Another box to check.

Astrid's voice, uncharacteristically subdued, crackled through the comms. "A far cry from hitting their C2 node, eh, Brynja? Sifting through their goddamn garbage like common… well, like common REMF scavengers ourselves." There was a distinct note of aristocratic distaste in her tone.

"War ain't always shield-wall charges and glorious last stands, Astrid," Sigrun rumbled from Stormbringer Three, her voice like grinding stones. "Sometimes it's just policing up the goddamn brass. Someone's gotta do it."

"Copy that, Sigrun," came Hrist's voice from Stormbringer Four, flat and professional. "But doesn't make the work any less tedious."

Brynja silently concurred with Sigrun. This was part of the deal too, the unglamorous, shit-smeared underbelly of "bringing order to the stars."

They passed a larger asteroid, one flank catastrophically breached by what looked like a direct hit from an Asgardian capital ship's main particle cannon. Inside its hollowed core, Brynja's external sensors painted a dim picture of K'tharr habitation – crude sleeping pallets woven from metallic fibers, dented storage containers fashioned from salvaged plating, the general detritus of a life lived on the ragged edge of nothing.

"Lead, Stormbringer Five," Mist's voice cut in, sharper this time, a definite alert tone. "Detecting a faint, heavily shielded energy signature, deep within designated asteroid cluster Kappa-Níu-Tveir. Very low output, consistent with minimal life support systems, but definitely artificial. And it wasn't on the initial pre-assault ISR pass."

Brynja brought her Vindbitr around in a smooth, economical arc, her tactical overlay highlighting the designated cluster – a dense knot of smaller, unremarkable rocks that looked like a thousand other such clusters in the Drifts. "Hrist, Astrid, on my wing. Sigrun, Mist, establish overwatch, cover our six. Let's go take a peek. Weapons tight, but be ready to go hot."

They navigated the treacherous asteroid field, their fighters maneuvering with the ingrained precision of countless hours in the simulators and live-fire ranges. The energy signature was indeed faint, almost lost in the background cosmic radiation, a whisper in a hurricane. It emanated from a narrow fissure on the shadowed side of a particularly unremarkable asteroid, a crack barely wide enough for a K'tharr scout skiff to slip through.

"No active defensive emplacements detected," Mist reported, her voice calm. "The energy signature is… fluctuating. Degraded. Almost like a failing power core."

Brynja brought her fighter to a near-hover close to the fissure. "Going in for a visual. Maintain sensor lock. Call out any change in status." She eased the Vindbitr into the narrow opening, its powerful sensor lamps cutting through the abyssal gloom like probing scalpels.

Inside, the asteroid was hollowed out, a small, natural cavern that had been crudely expanded. Huddled in the dim, flickering emergency lighting were K'tharr. Females, their plumage duller and frames slighter than the combatants they'd faced, were protectively surrounding three or four very young clutchlings – tiny, featherless avian forms chirping in raw, naked fear. A single, ancient-looking male, his feathers sparse, one wing clearly broken and grotesquely set, stood defiantly before them, wielding a rusted metal pipe like it was Gungnir itself. Their "vessel" was little more than a battered, scorched escape pod, its drive clearly FUBAR, its life support systems coughing their last.

A wave of something cold and professionally uncomfortable washed over Brynja. These were non-combatants, EPWs in waiting, survivors clinging to a failing lifeline. Her orders flashed in her mind. Report all K'tharr presence for 'processing.' Internment. Interrogation. Ensuring long-term regional stability. Another fucking euphemism.

"Lead, status? What's your visual?" Astrid's voice, edged with impatience.

Brynja hesitated, a fractional pause that felt like an eternity. She thought of Graal-Talon's defiant, bloody last stand, fighting for his people, his kin. Weren't these his kin too? "It's… negative contact, Astrid," she said, her voice carefully modulated, flat, professional. "Looks like some derelict K'tharr mining equipment. Power core is failing, probably just geological interference kicking off the energy readings."

"Mining equipment?" Astrid sounded skeptical, even over the comms. "Are you sure, Brynja? OPORD states report all K'tharr activity, confirmed or suspected."

"I am sure, Stormbringer Two," Brynja replied, a harder, almost brittle edge to her voice now, daring a challenge. "The asteroid itself appears geologically unstable. Continued presence in this vicinity poses an unnecessary risk to airframes. Designate Sector Kappa-Níu-Tveir as hazardous, no further investigation warranted. We're RTB to the rally point."

There was a beat of charged silence over the net. She could almost feel Astrid's incredulous stare burning through the void. Sigrun, predictably, remained silent, but Brynja knew her old friend, her NCO-equivalent in all but name, would have picked up on the slight tremor in her voice, the subtle but definite deviation from by-the-book procedure.

"Roger that, Lead," Astrid said finally, her tone clipped, unreadable – surprise? Disapproval? Brynja didn't know, and for a dangerous, fleeting moment, didn't particularly give a damn.

She backed the Vindbitr out of the crevice, the image of the terrified K'tharr younglings and their defiant, broken guardian seared into her operational memory like a weapon malfunction warning. A falsified report. An act of insubordination. A secret she would carry, another entry in a log no one would ever see. A hairline crack forming in the plasteel of her certainty.

***

The raw, utilitarian shithole that was FOB Himinbjörg was a goddamn jarring comedown from the ornate, over-engineered grandeur of the Asgardian fleet. Prefabricated hab-units of dull grey alloy, slapped together by combat engineers working double shifts, dotted the barren moonscape, connected by temporary, pressurized canvas tunnels that flapped in the non-existent wind. The thin, alien atmosphere, barely breathable even with full-face respirators, whipped regolith dust around the hastily constructed landing pads where Valkyrie airframes and infantry troop-haulers were being hot-refueled and re-armed. Time to stretch her legs, get some ground truth.

She found Gunnr, the Valkyrie Infantry Liaison, near a makeshift Battalion Aid Station where Asgardian medics, their white fatigues already stained with soot and xeno gore, worked with grim, focused intensity. Gunnr, her heavy ground-assault carapace caked with dust and scored by near-miss energy blasts, looked rode hard and put away wet.

"Brynja," Gunnr greeted her with a weary nod, wiping sweat and grime from her forehead with the back of a gauntleted hand. "Decided to slum it with the mud-crunchers, eh?"

"Something like that, Gunnr. SITREP on First Cohort?"

Gunnr's face tightened, the lines around her eyes deepening. "We secured the objectives. Cleared the nests. But the K'tharr… fuckin' savages fought like cornered Garmrs for every goddamn tunnel, every shithole chamber. IEDs, VBIEDs, suicide charges with shivs made of sharpened scrap. A lot of 'em had their clutchlings nearby. Makes a warrior fight with a different kind of… desperate. Doesn't matter if they got feathers or fur." She gestured with her chin towards a row of stretchers laid out near a collection point, some occupied by groaning Asgardian grunts, others covered with stark white body bags.

Brynja's gaze lingered on the covered forms. Acceptable attrition. A REMF buzzword that meant nothing here.

"Their tech was crude as fuck," Gunnr continued, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "But their sheer desperation was a force multiplier. Intel even found evidence they were trying to rig some of their larger asteroid hulks as kinetic impactors. Crazy bastards. Resourceful, though, gotta give 'em that."

Nearby, a gaggle of Asgardian S4 loggies, probably under the distant, micromanaging eye of Quartermaster Róta, were meticulously inventorying salvaged K'tharr materiel. Most of it was indeed scrap – bent plating, fried circuit boards, primitive projectile weapons that wouldn't dent Valkyrie armor. But occasionally, Brynja saw them set aside an item with more interest: a shard of unfamiliar crystalline alloy that hummed with a faint, contained energy; a surprisingly advanced power cell of non-Asgardian design; a fragment of a stellar cartography unit displaying constellations unknown even to Asgard's deep-space ISR platforms. Not K'tharr-made. Scavenged. Looted. The galaxy was bigger. More complex.

Her attention was drawn to a heavily guarded concertina-wire enclosure at the edge of the FOB – the EPW collection point. Inside, about a score of K'tharr prisoners were huddled together, their feathered forms trembling, their sharp avian eyes darting with the wild, cornered desperation of caged predators who knew the cage was all that stood between them and the void. They were a pathetic, bedraggled sight, some clearly wounded, their proud plumage matted with dirt, blood, and their own shit. Yet, even in their fear, Brynja saw a spark of something hard and unyielding, a refusal to completely break. An old male, probably a surviving sub-chieftain, met her gaze directly, his one good eye burning with a silent, defiant hatred that needed no translation.

A strange, unwelcome heat prickled at the back of her neck—an acknowledgment of a shared warrior ethos, however asymmetric, now extinguished or caged. These were the "grateful recipients" of Loki's "benevolent liberation" package. She turned away, the image of the captive K'tharr hard-case, proud even in his defeat and covered in his own filth, adding another layer to the complex, unsettling aftertaste of their "victory."

***

Aboard the Hrafnfljúga, a semblance of post-op routine settled in, or at least the version of "normal" you got on a warship between kinetic engagements. The Stormbringers were stood down for a mandatory crew rest cycle. Brynja found them in the Valkyrie common area – a surprisingly comfortable compartment for a combat vessel, with decently padded acceleration couches, a dispenser that squirted out nutritional paste that vaguely approximated Asgardian mead if you squinted and held your breath, and viewports offering a goddamn mind-blowing panorama of the Jötunngrip system. R&R, Asgardian style.

Hrist was holding court with a gaggle of equally FNG Valkyries from another squadron, her hands making exaggerated swooping and diving motions as she recounted her first confirmed K'tharr splash. The raw combat high was still there, but Brynja noted a new, harder glint in her eyes, a slight tremor in her voice when she described a near-miss that almost bought her a one-way ticket to Valhalla. The first op had etched its initial stress fractures onto her boot enthusiasm.

Astrid, lounging with an air of aristocratic ennui that probably pissed off half the enlisted Valkyries, was captivating a different audience with her after-action report of the Skraeling Rock boarding party. Her narrative was, as always, polished and probably bullshit by about twenty percent for dramatic effect, but Brynja could see the genuine pride in her friend's bearing. Astrid had performed, had validated her blue-blood status with trigger time, and she was soaking up the kudos. Yet, even in Astrid's triumph, Brynja sensed a subtle shift – a certain grim, almost predatory satisfaction that hadn't been there before, a hint of the up-close-and-personal violence she had both witnessed and dished out.

Mist sat apart, predictably, her datapad glowing softly in her lap. She wasn't sketching abstract star patterns or penning poetry this time, Brynja noted. Instead, her screen showed detailed anatomical schematics of K'tharr talons, wing articulation diagrams, and notes on the crude but surprisingly effective mechanics of their scavenged projectile weapons. The analyst was dissecting the enemy, running her own private BDA, trying to understand their TTPs even after they were no longer a viable threat. She looked up as Brynja approached, offering a small, thoughtful almost-smile. "Their airframe designs are fascinatingly sub-optimal, Brynja," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the common room chatter. "Yet they achieved limited operational effectiveness through sheer, desperate improvisation."

Sigrun, meanwhile, was sharing a battered hip flask of something undoubtedly high-octane and definitely not regulation-issue with a group of older, saltier Valkyrie veterans, their occasional guttural laughter rumbling through the compartment. They were swapping war stories, not from this recent clusterfuck, but from half-forgotten shitshows on dying worlds from a previous operational cycle, tales filled with black humor and a shared, unspoken understanding of war's inherent goddamn absurdities. Sigrun caught Brynja's eye and raised her flask in a silent, knowing salute.

Brynja, however, found little solace in the forced camaraderie or the rehashed war stories. The raw footage of the campaign replayed in her head on a continuous loop: Graal-Talon's defiant, hate-filled glare as he went down; the terrified K'tharr clutchlings in that hidden bolthole; the burning, impotent fury in the eyes of the EPWs on FOB Himinbjörg. Her decision to falsify the SITREP on the hidden K'tharr family felt like a small, warm ember in the growing ice-slick of her thoughts, yet it was also a clear violation of protocol, a direct contravention of the Allfather's standing orders, however minor in the grand scheme of things. This programmed 'glory,' this 'righteousness'… it was mud and blood and lies.

She mumbled an excuse and made her way to the Hrafnfljúga's forward observation dome, seeking a moment of blessed goddamn silence. The vast, indifferent expanse of the Jötunngrip system spread before her, its trinary suns casting long, eerie, disorienting shadows across the distant, as-yet-unconquered worlds. It was beautiful, terrifying, and utterly fucking alien.

A flicker on the fleet-wide comm system, a priority alert tone, announced an incoming transmission. Odin's voice, or maybe Tyr's, would soon fill the ship, likely a commendation for the recent "successful neutralization of hostile elements" and the FRAGO for the next target package. The great, relentless, unstoppable machine of Asgardian conquest was already spooling up for its next move, indifferent to the grit and blood and moral compromises required to keep its gears turning.

Brynja closed her eyes for a moment, the familiar weight of her spear, Storm-Singer, suddenly feeling heavier than it ever had before, like it was forged from lead instead of celestial bronze. The taste of victory was bitter ash, the phantom scent of burnt feathers on the indifferent solar wind.

***

The "all-hands" summons came three solar cycles after AO Jörmungandr was officially declared "pacified." All active-duty personnel across the Asgardian Expeditionary Force were piped to observe a fleet-wide address. Brynja found herself once more on the bridge of the Hrafnfljúga, alongside Sigrun and a few other off-duty Valkyries, watching as the central command dais shimmered to life, projecting the imposing holographic figure of Tyr, God of War and Justice, J3 Operations. His one good hand rested on the pommel of his massive, unadorned broadsword. The Allfather, it seemed, preferred to delegate these interim "attaboy" briefings, his own pronouncements reserved for major strategic shifts or when shit really hit the fan.

Tyr's voice, stern and resonant as a funeral drum, filled the bridge. "Warriors of Asgard! The initial operational test in this new celestial theater has been met, and you have validated your lineage and training! AO Jörmungandr, formerly a haven for piracy and sub-optimal indigenous activity, now rests under the benevolent administration of the Allfather."

Brynja listened, her expression carefully neutral, a mask of professional attentiveness. "Sub-optimal indigenous activity." She thought of Graal-Talon's desperate, doomed last stand, of the K'tharr clutchlings cowering in that forgotten bolthole.

"The K'tharr Nomads," Tyr continued, his gaze sweeping across his unseen, fleet-wide audience, "a race mired in resource-deprived squalor and driven by base survivalist instinct, have been presented with a clear pathway to a more structured and productive existence. Through your valor, Valkyries, through the unyielding courage of our Einherjar shock troops and the steadfast professionalism of our fleet elements, order has been imposed upon chaos. Those K'tharr elements who wisely chose to integrate with Asgard's command structure will, in due course, realize the benefits of optimized resource allocation and doctrinal purpose. Those who demonstrated continued hostile intent… have been decisively neutralized by Asgardian kinetic solutions."

The rhetoric was heroic, by-the-book inspiring, much like Odin's initial pre-deployment brief. Brynja could almost feel Hrist, wherever she was viewing this transmission, puffing up with righteous pride. The words landed like spent shell casings—cold, empty. The officialese gliding over the terror, the CQB takedowns, the body bags. She recognized the smooth, persuasive cadence of Loki's PsyOps influence in the speech's architecture, a silken glove expertly fitted over an iron fucking fist.

Tyr went on to acknowledge specific acts of combat effectiveness, citing Valkyrie wings and Einherjar cohorts that had exceeded operational parameters. "Valkyrie Astrid Vingthor'sdotter," Tyr announced, and Brynja saw Astrid, standing near another console, subtly adjust her posture, a flicker of hard-won triumph in her eyes. "For exceptional courage under fire and tactical initiative during the direct action against K'tharr C2 node Skraeling Rock, you are hereby awarded the Star of Mettle, Third Class. Your actions reflect credit upon your lineage and the Valkyrie corps."

A polite, disciplined, almost perfunctory ripple of digital applause sounded through the fleet comms. Astrid accepted the commendation with a graceful, proud inclination of her head, though Brynja caught the subtle release of tension in her shoulders—the unconscious exhale of someone who had carried the weight of proving herself worthy of her bloodline and finally, finally had the validation she'd craved. The relief was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that familiar calculating gleam as she likely strategized her path to Second Class.

As Tyr concluded, a pressure built behind Brynja's sternum. A small, hard point of friction. The sanitized narrative scraped against ground truth with the sound of tearing metal. She flicked a glance at Sigrun, who stood stoically beside her, her weathered face an unreadable mask. Yet Brynja caught something in the set of her old friend's jaw—a tightness that hadn't been there before, as if Sigrun were grinding her teeth against words she couldn't, or wouldn't, speak. Had Sigrun picked up on the same hollow ring in Tyr's pronouncements? The same disconnect between the sanitized glory and the messy reality they'd lived through?

She then caught Mist's eye across the bridge; the younger Valkyrie was looking down at her datapad, her expression thoughtful, almost troubled. When Mist glanced up, meeting Brynja's gaze for just a moment, there was something sharp and questioning in her eyes—the look of an analyst who had run the numbers and found them wanting. For a fractional, almost imperceptible second, Brynja wondered if Mist, with her razor-sharp analytical mind, was also running a critical deconstruction of the official narrative, comparing it to her own meticulously gathered sensor data and BDA. The moment passed, Mist looking away and offering a brief, enigmatic almost-smile before returning her attention to her datapad, but the seeds of doubt had been planted.

The warrior ethos was still there, the sense of duty was still deeply ingrained, but it was no longer pure, no longer an unquestionable article of faith.

The fleet-wide "attaboy" broadcast was still a recent memory when the FRAGO dropped for all Valkyrie wing and squadron leads. Brynja found herself once more in the familiar holographic presence of Commander Geirskögul in their wing's ready room. The Commander, as always, cut straight to the goddamn chase.

"Sky-Reavers," Geirskögul began, her gaze sweeping over them like a targeting reticle, "initial pacification of AO Jörmungandr is complete. FOB Himinbjörg is green-for-go and will serve as our primary staging area and logistical hub in this sector. High Command has designated our next primary objective."

The holotable at the center of the room, which had previously displayed the asteroid-strewn clusterfuck of the Drifts, now resolved into the image of a vibrant, lush planet, swathed in swirling clouds of viridian and gold. It was an oceanic world, dotted with massive, continent-sized landmasses choked with what appeared to be colossal, alien megaflora.

"This is designated Objective Iðunn," Geirskögul stated, her tone flat but with an undercurrent of something Brynja couldn't quite decipher – operational anticipation? Professional caution? "It is the primary inhabited celestial body of the Myco-Symbiont species. Initial long-range ISR indicates a complex, interconnected global ecosystem. Bio-signatures are abundant, almost overwhelming the Auspex suites. However, there are no discernible signs of advanced technology comparable to even the K'tharr's scavenged fleet. No detectable energy weapon signatures, no orbital platforms, no significant metallic structural returns beyond trace geological elements."

Brynja studied the image. It was beautiful, in a wild, untamed, and probably lethal sort of way. So different from the cold, harsh rock of the Drifts or the barren, regolith-dusted moon of FOB Himinbjörg.

"Our mission directive," Geirskögul continued, "is to establish a secure LZ, make contact with the dominant Myco-Symbiont command and control – believed to be a form of planetary collective consciousness designated 'Root-Mind' – and offer them integration into the Asgardian sphere of influence. Given their apparent lack of advanced kinetic or energy-based weaponry, initial enemy TTPs are anticipated to be… biological or environmental in nature."

Biological resistance. Environmental warfare. Brynja's mind, already grappling with the murky ROE and questionable ethics of the K'tharr op, now had to re-calibrate for an entirely new kind of shitstorm. This wouldn't be a furball of airframes and energy lances, but potentially a ground-and-pound slog against the planet itself, against an enemy whose very nature was alien to their doctrinal understanding of armed conflict.

"Stormbringer Lead," Geirskögul's eyes locked onto Brynja. "Your element will be part of the initial atmospheric insertion package. Your tasking: aerial reconnaissance over designated LZs, identification and neutralization of any immediate biological threats – aggressive megafauna, hazardous atmospheric conditions, defensive flora. You will provide CAS for the first wave of infantry ISR teams. Expect dense jungle canopy, severely restricted visibility, and unpredictable environmental hazards. Pack your bug spray."

Brynja nodded, her mind already shifting from the K'tharr's void-based TTPs to the potential horrors of a sentient, hostile jungle. Outwardly, she was the picture of a calm, professional Valkyrie officer. "Solid copy, Commander. Stormbringers will be wheels up on your mark." The words came easily, the ingrained, Pavlovian response of a lifetime of military service. The great, grinding machine of war was indeed moving forward, and she was a vital, if increasingly thoughtful and goddamn uneasy, component.

As the briefing concluded and the image of Geirskögul faded, Brynja turned to leave, her gaze lingering for a moment on the holographic depiction of Objective Iðunn. It looked so peaceful, so vibrant, so fucking green. A pang of something akin to pre-mission regret, quickly and ruthlessly suppressed, touched her.

Adrenaline had been replaced by grim resolve. The price of feathers was paid. Now, she thought, watching the green world spin, came the price of roots and spores.

***

Military Acronyms & Jargons

• AO (Area of Operations): A real-world military term for a defined geographical area where a commander is responsible for military operations. In the text: AO Jörmungandr.

• BDA (Battle Damage Assessment): The official analysis of the damage inflicted on a target after an attack. Mist conducts her own private BDA on K'tharr technology.

• C2 (Command and Control): The exercise of authority and direction by a commander over assigned forces. A C2 Node is a critical hub, like a command ship or facility, from which a commander operates.

• CAS (Close Air Support): Air strikes from aircraft against enemy targets that are close to friendly ground forces.

• EPW (Enemy Prisoner of War): The official designation for captured enemy combatants.

• EOD (End of Day): Used here as a deadline, meaning work must be completed by the end of the current duty cycle.

• FOB (Forward Operating Base): A secured, forward-deployed military base used to support tactical operations. In the text: FOB Himinbjörg.

• FRAGO (Fragmentary Order): A shortened military order that modifies or adds to a previously issued order. Used to disseminate timely changes to missions or tasks.

• IED (Improvised Explosive Device): A homemade bomb used in unconventional warfare.

• ISR (Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance): The coordinated acquisition and analysis of information to support military operations. An ISR Pass refers to a sweep of an area by sensor platforms.

• J3 (Operations Directorate): In a joint military staff (like NATO's), the "J3" is the staff section responsible for planning and executing operations. Designating Tyr as "J3 Operations" lends real-world military structure to the Asgardian command.

• KIA (Killed In Action): A formal casualty classification for a combatant who has been killed in action.

• LZ (Landing Zone): A designated area where aircraft can land, often to deploy or extract troops and supplies.

• OPORD (Operations Order): A formal, detailed plan for a military operation.

• PsyOps (Psychological Operations): Operations designed to influence the emotions, motives, and reasoning of foreign audiences, including enemy forces.

• RTB (Return to Base): A standard directive for aircraft and units to return to their point of origin or home base.

• S4 (Logistics): The staff section in a battalion or brigade responsible for logistics—supply, maintenance, transportation, etc. Loggies is common slang for logistics personnel.

• SITREP (Situation Report): A concise report providing an update on the current military situation.

• TTPs (Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures): The specific methods and patterns of operation employed by a military force.

Military Slang & Idioms

• Airframe: A common term for the physical body or structure of an aircraft.

• Brass: Slang for spent shell casings. "Policing up the brass" is a literal duty (cleaning a firing range) and a metaphor for the tedious clean-up work after a battle.

• Clusterfuck: Profane but extremely common military slang for a situation that has gone completely, chaotically wrong.

• Cover our six: Slang for "watch our back," derived from telling time on a clock face, where 12 o'clock is forward and 6 o'clock is directly behind.

• FNG (Fucking New Guy): Derogatory slang for a new, inexperienced member of a unit.

• FUBAR (Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition/Repair): Slang for something that is catastrophically damaged or a situation that is hopelessly chaotic.

• Go Hot: A command authorizing the use of live weapons. The opposite of "weapons tight."

• Ground Truth: Intelligence slang for the real facts and conditions on the ground, as opposed to what is being reported or assumed by higher command.

• Lead: A common callsign for a flight or element leader.

• Mop-up / Mopping-up: The final phase of an operation, involving clearing remaining enemy resistance after the primary objectives have been met.

• Mud-crunchers / Grunts: Slang terms for infantry soldiers.

• REMF (Rear Echelon Motherfucker): A derogatory term used by front-line combat soldiers for personnel who serve in safer, non-combat roles in the rear.

• Shit-detail: Slang for an unpleasant, undesirable, and often menial task or assignment.

• Splash: Air combat slang for a confirmed kill of an enemy aircraft.

• Trigger Time: Slang for direct combat experience.

• Weapons Tight: A command limiting a soldier's ability to fire. They may only fire if fired upon or directly ordered to.

• Wheels Up: Aviation slang for the moment an aircraft takes off.