Do you dance?
Ilse cradles her father’s bleeding torso until the EMS people arrive, rocking back and forth – beset by grief like a character in a Greek tragedy. They take his lifeless corpse and carefully zip it into a specially sealed body bag for funeral preparations.
The Wedding is off. The Gods have spoken. Ilse believes murder is an Omen. A bad Omen.
Vikings believed that events could be Omens – and that Omens were signs from the Gods. Omens could foretell events, guide decisions and warn of impending danger. Often the sudden appearance of special animals – like Wolves or Ravens – was interpreted as an Omen from Odin. If these animals suddenly appeared before a Battle, it might portend an indication of who would be chosen for Valhalla.
Omens were interpreted by the Godi. They were spiritual initiates of Divination – interpreting esoteric meanings from natural phenomena and dreams. Female Voelvas – Seers – were called upon to foresee future events and clarify or amplify Omen interpretations while in a chemical-induced trance. Mushrooms and arcane woodlands substances were often employed to alter their consciousness and trigger their mystical awareness. Voelvas were also called upon to Cast Runes – throw Rune Sticks and interpret the symbols that revealed themselves by facing upwards.
Ilse will soon consult the Godi – and his most prescient Voelva at the Uppsala Gamla. Her name is Hankha. She is 80 years old. Most refer to her – affectionately – as Baba Hankha. But first – she has business to attend to. Things are moving fast.
Varang security guys in the dense forests surrounding the Gamla Preserve have just found a sniper rifle stashed behind a fallen tree trunk in the Northwest area where they are concentrating their search. It’s a Barrett MK22MRAD / SOCOM firing a .338 Norman Magnum round. That’s a “kill” bullet. Standard US Marine issue. Anders Sommerlund didn’t have a chance in Hell surviving a throat shot with a .338; it’s Game Over from the start. Whoever wants him dead has got their wish.
Urgent chatter over the Coms announce that a Varang drone swarm has zeroed in on a Mercedes van idling on a disused logging road about a kilometer beyond the Galma Preserve in the Northwesterly map arc. They’re picking up an infra-red signal running Hell-bent for the vehicle – and converging on it. The Varang Warriors are within line-of-sight distance.
Ilse’s ears burn when she hears their report. Three Russian words:
“WE GOT HIM”.
Her response is brief – and also in Russian.
“HOLD HIM! I WANT HIM ALIVE! WE’LL BE THERE SOON. ACKNOWLEDGE! OVER.”
Hansen – still trying to swallow his new “identity” – stands in the foreboding shadow and eternal stillness of the Gamla. He studies his Bride-to-Be carefully. She’s like some unpublished Stephen King story – “The Many Faces of Ilse”. Just how many personalities are in there? He’s not diggin’ what he sees. He’s starting to think that “Hansen”… ain’t Heinlein at all. And with each passing minute he’s feeling more and more like Heinlein. The guy from ‘Jersey.
She turns her attention to about a dozen well-dressed BratvaRus men congregating at the base of the pathway, smoking and intensely conversing among themselves. They’re waiting to their meet with her. A Supreme Chieftain – Hetman – of NordTur Nobility just got murdered in front of them – on Pagan hallowed ground, no less! By Norse Codex, vengeance for the act falls to his offspring. They are there to make certain justice is done.
The decibels of their confab are building – they’re almost yelling at each other. They’re impatient. They’re obviously men of authority, unaccustomed to waiting for anyone – but their restraint is grounded in the respect they had for Ilse’s father and their collective revulsion at the trauma Ilse has just endured. Hansen can hear them heatedly debating in Russian. Some gesture with their hands – others pace about and contort their faces into masks of anger and defiance. Hansen isn’t impressed…they’re street thugs in Brioni suits. He knows the type.
“I’ll be right back,” Isle said. “I got this.”
She’s got a strange look about her. Vengeance. She confidently strides down the path barefoot. Her clothes are thoroughly smeared with her father’s blood. She’s “waving the bloody red flag” with both hands – laying it on thick.
Ilse yells instructions to her guards. Her voice is all business.
“GET US TACTICAL CLOTHING AND WEAPONS IMMEDIATELY FROM VARANG ARMORERS! THEIR TRUCK IS IN THE SERVICE YARD!”
For the first time since she’d clued him in about her world, Hansen is getting a glimpse of Ilse Sommerlund, MD that he’d never laid eyes on before. It’s educational, to say the least. This girl is dark.
What followed unfolds as if he’s watching it on Netflix.
Ilse embraces each gentleman and each, in turn, kiss her cheeks. Very European. Hanson hears them talk rapid-fire Russian – to which she responds quickly and emphatically. She’s firm but respectful. She addresses them as equals. They don’t argue…as much as they jockey for position. They’re dancing some strange “Power Gavotte”. They negotiate. This is transactional as much as it is objective driven. They are doing business. Where there’s this kind of wheeling and dealing, you can bet money is changing hands. More Russian words…more back and forth. Finally, they are in accord. Ilse has played them like violins. She’s not been intimidated or cowed. She’s won by sheer force of her personality and will. Her family’s Honor has been shaken – and she’s just convinced the “Board of Directors” that she’s got the Balls to dish out a Texas-sized payback.
All heads are shaking in the affirmative. Everybody again takes her hands and, each, in sequence, smile and kiss her cheeks. Like they’re paying homage. The BratvaRus bigwigs stride off, satisfied that their transaction is properly concluded.
Ilse has just been “Made”.
The BratvaRus have “anointed” her. Elevated her rank now that her father has “retired” from his seat at the table. Hansen has investigated enough New Jersey Mafia wiseguys to recognize an “investiture” when he sees one. All that is missing here is the background Godfather music score.
She makes her way back up to Hansen – and deftly catches a black bag of tactical gear her Shieldmaiden throws at her like a forward for the New England Patriots football team. His Varang Groomsman Jancek hands him an identical bag. Varang Outfitters are already passing out properly sized tactical boots and Glock 19 handguns in belts with extra magazines.
Ilse barks out orders like a Special Forces Commando.
“ALRIGHT – TIME TO SUIT UP AND NUT UP!”
“AT THE REAR OF THE GAMLA ARE KITCHEN SERVICE ROOMS – CHANGE THERE. MOVE YOUR ASSES! BRING YOUR AXES AND A ROLL OF PARACORD! YOU GOT TEN MINUTES!”
Everyone responds in a loud voice.
“JA, HERSIR!!!”
The words mean “Yes, Commander!”
Everybody came here today expecting Ilse to be touched by the nurturing hand of Freyja. But now she has become Angrboda – The Witch Mother. The wife of Loki, The Trickster. Their offspring? Jörmungandr, a snake-like beast that will trigger Ragnarok. The end of the world.
Bottom line?
Ilse now has power. Like Loki, she is now The Trickster. She has been elevated to rank of a NordTur “Hetman” (Chieftain) under protection of the BratvaRus and the BratvaVarang. And Hansen has witnessed it all as a detached spectator. A detached – but very concerned – spectator. And one question keeps circling in his brain.
“What the Hell have I gotten myself into here?”
In no time at all they’re all sprinting up into the Northwest quadrant-arc of the Gamla Forest Preserve, following a signal from the Varang advance teams. The coms finally break silence.
“Team NWHardrataOne have the Mercedes Van in our gunsights. Vapor from the exhaust pipe confirms it’s idling. InfraRed signatures inside show four bodies…. instructions, please”.
Ilse barks her response on the fly while she’s leaping over forest debris and fallen tree trunks.
“GET PRIMARY TARGET NOW! ONCE HE’S IN CUSTODY BLOW THE VAN! COPY?”
Their response was immediate.
“JA, HERSIR!!!”
It’s all being recorded by an overhead drone. Hansen looks over his bodyguard Jancek’s shoulder at the small drone video screen. A wobbly human figure is weaving his way through thick trees and is suddenly waylaid by guys in ghillie suits – shaggy, 3D camouflage outfits made to blend into surrounding foliage and hide soldiers on maneuvers. They no sooner body-slam the runner into the hard earth when the van explodes into a fireball of orange flames. The runner knows his exit is impossible and that all hope of rescue is lost.
As he and Ilse’s team make their way to the apprehension site, Hansen studies what was his girl. Her face is hard, unforgiving – fixed in stone. She’s got one thing on her mind – to get to the shooter.
Within minutes they’re looking into his face.
He’s swarthy, olive-skinned, black haired and sweating profusely. He dressed in jeans, a filthy shirt, denim jacket and running sneakers – not exactly tactical – but perfect to drive off in a van to a local pub and wait out the local police activity. The Varang forest crew holding the guy zip tie his hands together in front of him and sit him up against a tree stump. His face is defiant. Ilse approaches. She tries English first.
“DO YOU DANCE? WHAT….YOU’RE NOT THE TALKATIVE TYPE? TELL ME WHO ORDERED YOU TO KILL MY FATHER!”
The guy doesn’t respond. He keeps his defiant stare. She tries again – in Russian. No response. Finally, she tries in German.
Suddenly, Jancek reaches out to grab Hansen’s shoulder and pulls him back towards him.
Before Hansen can look at Jancek, Ilse pulls her battle axe from her waist belt and whacks it down on the guy’s left ankle, severing his foot. He screams hysterically, then grimaces as he watches blood furiously pump out of his lower leg.
“PARACORD THAT WOUND!”, barks Ilse.
Varang guards hurriedly fashion a tourniquet out of paracord to stanch his bleeding. The man is writhing, desperately trying to cope with what is happening to him. Ilse menacingly hovers over him and kicks away his severed foot, a disgusted look on her face.
“LET’S TRY THIS AGAIN. I WANT TO KNOW WHO ORDERED YOU TO KILL MY FATHER…WHO WAS THE PAYMASTER…AND WHO DID YOU DIRECTLY DEAL WITH?”
The man is squirming in pain. Ilse stands on his tied-off stump with her right tactical boot. He screams in agony as she rocks it back and forth.
“I’M WAITING!”
Finally, he responds – in English. “Go….fu_k yourself, whore.”
“WRONG ANSWER!”
In a flash of speed Ilse slams her axe down yet again. His right foot rolls away oozing blood. The Varang Guards tie off another paracord tourniquet.
“I’M A DOCTOR! I CAN DO THIS ALL DAY LONG! I KNOW EXACTLY WHERE TO CUT AND WHAT TO REMOVE NEXT. YOU WON’T DIE FOR HOURS! I PROMISE YOU…”
The guy is now terrified and screaming, twisting his spine at almost unimaginable angles. He’s bitten through the insides of his mouth and is now puking blood.
Hansen moves forward, reaching out to touch Ilse. Jancek restrains him with an iron grip and pulls him back. Ilse glares at him.
“IF THIS IS TOO MUCH FOR YOU, HANSEN – LEAVE! WE INTERROGATE PRISONERS DIFFERENTLY HERE…”
Ilse turns once again to the poor bastard in front of her.
“PULL FORWARD HIS HANDS – ONE AT A TIME!”
The guy starts screaming at the top of his lungs, pulling back his zip-tied hands from the cold grip of the Varang guards with every ounce of strength he can muster. It’s all to no avail.
“ONE MORE TIME…ANSWER MY QUESTIONS! AFTER YOUR HANDS WE CUT OFF YOUR BALL SACK! AFTER YOUR BALL SACK, WE TAKE YOUR EYES AND THEN YOUR TEETH”.
Hansen can’t take it anymore. He’s a cop. Cops don’t allow this kind of shit. He can’t decide what disgusts him more – seeing this man dismembered or watching Ilse wield the axe that slowly tortures him to death. He turns and walks back to the Gamla – hearing the man scream over and over again behind him. Jancek follows like a loyal dog.
It’s all too medieval. He’s caught up in a world that he doesn’t understand and involved with a woman that’s – frankly – crazy. Bat-Shit Nuts.
Half-way back to the Gamla, Hansen leans up against a fallen tree trunk and throws up. He sits down on the Forest floor and holds his head. He’s disgusted at what he’s becoming. He’s selling himself out for a few bucks, slowly getting sucked in. He’s becoming a Bent Cop. The Bratvas and NordTur can shove this up their asses. And that goes for his psycho-bitch Ilse, too.
This jet-set life ain’t worth the price.
Hansen is no more. His short-lived faux identity is floating in the puke that he’s just upchucked on a fallen tree. He is Heinlein again – and he’s wandered too far from New Jersey.
Time to go home.
Copyright 2025, Jon Croft and his Assignees
www.bogironpatriot.com
www.bogironslav.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
- Hansen
- tactical gear – and keep your axes. Bring about 30 boot lengths of rope.
- CNN Report OTRAG
