As Jonathan approached the Swedish mainland, the fog began to thin, revealing more details of the coastline. His eyes scanned for a safe place to land. A small cove caught his attention—a few residential houses were clustered nearby. Part of the cove, however, was obscured behind a cluster of jagged rocks, creating a blind spot. Still, it looked safe enough for now.
“PRZEMEK, WAKE UP!” Jonathan shouted, his voice cutting through the damp air.
“Don’t yell, kurwa,” Przemek groaned, barely lifting his head. He had turned onto his side five minutes earlier to vomit into the sea.
“How do you feel?” Jonathan asked, trying to gauge his companion’s condition.
“Huge fucking headache,” Przemek muttered. “Still want to puke my guts out. And I swear I’ve lost one or two teeth.”
“At least you’re somewhat conscious,” Jonathan replied, his voice edged with relief. “Listen—how about we land on that beach over there, find an empty house, and take care of your mouth before figuring out what to do next?”
Przemek gave a weak nod, clearly too drained to argue.
Jonathan adjusted his paddling, steering them toward the cove. As they rounded a corner of harsh, jagged rocks, the rest of the beach came into view—and Jonathan’s stomach dropped.
Two boats lay beached on the sand, roughly ten to twenty meters apart. One was a Zodiac, the other a small sailboat. Scattered around the boats were bodies, some slumped over the hulls, others sprawled lifeless on the sand. None of the figures appeared armed, and it looked like they’d been there for a while.
Jonathan was still processing the scene when a sudden flash caught his eye. Instinctively, he ducked. A burst of machine gun fire erupted from the far left corner of the beach, the bullets slicing through the water just ahead of him and slamming into the surfboard. Splinters of fiberglass and wood whipped against Jonathan’s face, stinging like a thousand needles.
Before he could recover, another burst followed. This time, the bullets flew too high, hissing over their heads like shattered glass in a thunderstorm. Jonathan’s ears rang, and his pulse raced. They won’t miss a third time.
Przemek reacted first, rolling off the paddleboard and plunging headfirst into the icy water. Jonathan followed a second later, diving in as another volley shredded what remained of their fragile cover.
The shock of the freezing water hit Jonathan like a punch to the chest, stealing the air from his lungs. The saltwater seared the cut on his face, intensifying the pain. His soaked clothes and gear dragged him down, and panic threatened to overwhelm him as he struggled to orient himself.
Breaking the surface, he gulped in air, his breath ragged. He forced himself to kick toward the jagged rocks he’d spotted earlier, knowing they offered his only chance of survival. The shattered remnants of the surfboard floated a few meters away, still being riddled with bullets, providing some small measure of concealment.
“PRZEMEK!” Jonathan shouted, his voice hoarse with panic as he searched the water.
Through the chaos, he caught sight of Przemek’s boonie hat bobbing in and out of the waves. Fighting against the weight of his gear, Jonathan swam toward it, grabbing Przemek by the collar to haul his head above the surface.
Przemek coughed and sputtered, disoriented. One of his arms swung out wildly, smacking Jonathan in the face.
“Damn it, stop!” Jonathan barked, moving behind him to secure a grip under his arms. With Przemek leaning back against him, Jonathan kicked furiously toward the rocks, dragging them both through the frigid water.
Slowly, Przemek regained his senses and began kicking as well, easing some of the burden. Together, they swam on their backs, their breaths ragged and shallow. By some miracle, they reached the rocks and hauled themselves onto the jagged surface, collapsing in exhaustion.
The machine gun nest, about 300 meters away, fired a few more bursts, but the rounds ricocheted harmlessly off the rocks. Then, silence.
They lay there on their backs, gasping for air. Saltwater dripped from their soaked clothes and gear, the cold biting into their skin.
“How many do you think there are?” Przemek asked, his voice strained. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he was already checking his rifle, shaking out the seawater.
“There’s one machine gun nest on the far left corner of the beach,” Jonathan replied, pointing. “Haven’t seen or heard anyone else, but I can’t tell how many are inside.”
They unloaded their rifles, letting the water drain from the barrels. Jonathan’s hands trembled as he worked.
“Your rifle might fire the first round,” Przemek said grimly, “but there’s no guarantee it won’t jam. Use a dry mag if you’ve got one.”
Jonathan handed Przemek his driest magazine before peeking over the rocks to assess the situation. The machine gun nest was dug into the sand, with two figures visible inside. It had a clear view of the entire cove—a deadly ambush point.
“There’s no way around,” Jonathan muttered. “We either flank them through the hill on the left or charge straight through the shallows.”
Przemek rubbed his temples, still dazed. “If we flank them through the hill and leapfrog toward their position, we might make it.”
Jonathan hesitated, fear gnawing at him. But there wasn’t any other option. “Ja… let’s go,” he said, trying to sound confident.
“First, let’s give them a few rounds of anger, let them know we aint some push overs” Przemek said with a grim smile, blood pouring from his mouth.
He peeked over the rocks and fired a burst toward the nest. Jonathan followed, sending rounds in their direction before ducking back into cover as the machine gun roared to life again. The sound of bullets slamming into the rocks above their heads was deafening, but the two men remained focused.
They knew better than to stay still. The first rays of dawn began to seep into the world, casting long, soft shadows over the hillside. The mist that clung to the Swedish coast shimmered faintly in the pale light, but the growing warmth of the sunrise was still far off. The rising sun painted a delicate gradient of pink and gold in the eastern sky, but for Jonathan and Przemek, the beauty of it all felt miles away.
Despite the serene backdrop, the sound of gunfire tore through the early morning quiet. The world around them alternated between oppressive silence and deafening chaos. Being shot at wasn’t like it was in the movies. Even the most seasoned fighters knew better than to stay exposed, firing aimlessly. Your instincts screamed at you to duck, to find cover, to avoid that invisible razor’s edge of death that seemed to hum in the air. Bullets whizzed overhead, the distance between life and death measured in mere inches.
Jonathan and Przemek, battered and soaked to the bone, knew they couldn’t linger. The momentary relief of reaching the hilltop was already slipping away. They had to act before the gunners adjusted their fire. The rising light of dawn revealed faint tracer rounds cutting through the mist, striking the rocks or zipping just above them. From their elevated position, Jonathan watched as the machine gun fire continued relentlessly toward the boulders below.
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“They still think we’re behind those rocks,” Jonathan whispered. The absurdity of it almost made him laugh—hadn’t they checked their target?
The two men reached the crest of the hill and paused, catching their breath. The grassy knoll beneath them was damp with morning dew, and the faint chill of the night still clung to the air. Jonathan’s hands trembled as he inspected his kit, the wound on his face throbbing with every heartbeat. His breath misted in front of him, and he couldn’t help but glance at Przemek. Despite his obvious injuries—his swollen jaw, the exhaustion in his eyes—Przemek radiated an uncanny calmness.
Przemek’s voice was steady, even as the horizon brightened. “What were they thinking, putting that nest down the hill like that? Idiots. Do they even realize we’re not behind that rock anymore?”
Jonathan swallowed hard. “Are you sure we need to flank them? Can’t we just shoot from up here?”
Przemek shook his head. “We’ll shoot at them, yes, but we absolutely have to flank. That nest is dug in deep. Even if we hit them, they’ll just duck. You know how to leapfrog, right? You go first—I’ll suppress them. Once you’re halfway there, you lay down fire while I catch up.” He paused, rubbing his temple. “Let’s get this done fast. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a concussion.”
Jonathan’s mouth felt dry as he nodded.
Przemek reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a grenade. “Use this only after I start firing. We need to clear that gunner first.”
As the sun continued to rise, the pale light turned golden, illuminating the cove below. The beach now seemed even more exposed. Jonathan gripped the grenade tightly, the weight of it grounding him as fear clawed at his chest.
Przemek looked at him one last time. “Don’t be shy with your ammo. It’s better to run dry and live than to die with full mags. Focus. Don’t disappoint me, brother. You’ve got this.”
Jonathan took a deep breath, letting the cool morning air fill his lungs. He nodded.
Just as Przemek readied his rifle, a woman’s voice rang out, cutting through the morning stillness. She was yelling something in Swedish, her tone sharp and commanding. Both men froze, watching as she appeared down the street behind the machine gun nest. The soldiers in the nest turned toward her, their movements visible in the dim light.
“What the hell is she doing?” Jonathan whispered.
The soldiers swung the machine gun in her direction and opened fire. The rapid bursts shattered the quiet, bullets ripping through the SUV she had thrown herself behind. The car’s windows exploded into shards, and the house behind it was peppered with rounds.
“They’ve turned their backs,” Przemek muttered. “Now or never.”
Przemek rose to a crouch, steadied his aim, and fired three shots. The morning air cracked with the sound of gunfire as the machine gunner’s silhouette slumped forward.
Jonathan didn’t wait. He lobbed the grenade with all the strength he could muster. It landed just outside the nest, exploding in a deafening roar. Sand and debris flew into the air, and the camo netting covering the nest collapsed in a heap.
“Go!” Przemek yelled.
Jonathan sprinted forward, the cold morning air burning his lungs. The dew-soaked grass clung to his boots as he pushed through the hill’s downward slope. His heart pounded in his ears as he closed the distance to the nest.
Halfway there, he dropped to the ground, going prone as he fired his rifle toward the nest. Each shot was deliberate, his training kicking in despite the chaos. Behind him, Przemek took this as his signal to charge.
Przemek pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pounding in his skull. Despite the cluster headache and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, he forced his legs to move. The sun continued its slow ascent, bathing the battlefield in soft gold.
He sprinted past Jonathan, who was still laying down fire, and slid behind a parked car near the nest. Dropping to one knee, he took aim and fired several controlled bursts at the position.
For the soldiers in the nest, it must have felt like an unending storm of gunfire. Every time they tried to lift their heads, another volley forced them back down.
Jonathan saw Przemek’s position and took the opportunity to move up, sprinting toward him while reloading.
One of the soldiers in the nest panicked. Jonathan saw the figure scramble out of the trench, trying to make a run for the house they had shredded earlier.
Przemek didn’t hesitate. He adjusted his aim, firing three rounds. The shots hit the man’s ribs, puncturing his lungs. He collapsed face-first onto the pavement, gasping for air.
Before they could press the advantage, the machine gun roared back to life. But the fire was different now—wild, uncontrolled. The remaining soldier was firing blindly, sweeping the gun toward Jonathan’s general direction.
Jonathan dove behind a child’s sandpit, keeping his head low as bullets tore into the dirt around him. He rolled onto his stomach, steadied himself, and fired back, his rounds snapping toward the nest.
Przemek used the distraction to advance further, flanking the nest. He fired several rounds into the exposed position, aiming for the glowing red barrel of the machine gun. It was overheating, a clear sign of desperation.
“They’re losing it,” Przemek muttered to himself.
The soft light of dawn cast long shadows over the battlefield, the golden hues starkly contrasting the violence unfolding below.
Przemek saw Jonathan pinned down by the wild, erratic bursts of machine gun fire and knew he had to act. The morning sun had fully broken over the horizon now, its golden rays bathing the beach in a surreal glow. The rising light only made the chaos and violence feel more out of place, as if nature was trying to wash away the madness and restore calm. But there was no time for reflection—only survival.
Keeping low, Przemek flanked the nest, his boots crunching softly against the dew-soaked grass. He could see the red-hot barrel of the machine gun glowing ominously, its heat shimmering in the crisp morning air. The tracers were wild now, shooting high into the sky as the gunner inside fired without aim or purpose, consumed by panic.
Przemek reloaded his rifle as he pushed closer to the entrance. He crouched at the edge of the nest, his breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. As he peeked around the corner, a bullet zipped past his head, close enough for him to feel the air it displaced. He pulled back, his heart hammering.
Two left, he guessed. One man was blindly firing the machine gun, and the other was watching the entrance, desperate to hold their position. The nest itself was laughably small, no wider than an elevator, yet it seemed to hold an endless stream of bodies. Przemek could only assume that fear and desperation were keeping the shooters inside from abandoning their post entirely.
He steadied himself, his rifle ready, and shouted, “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE DEALING WITH, BROTHER?”
Before the words could even settle in the air, Przemek leaned around the corner and fired into the nest, aiming for where he knew the men would be. The gunfire echoed across the beach, sharp and violent. Screams erupted from inside the nest as his bullets found their marks. One of the men yelled something in Swedish, his voice a mix of pain and terror. Przemek fired another burst into the darkness, silencing him.
To Przemek, these soldiers weren’t better than wild animals. Whatever their reasons for attacking, they’d done so with no humanity, no mercy. Przemek and Jonathan returned the favor. Compassion had no place here. The violence they unleashed was unimaginable to the families who once lived peacefully in the homes behind them, but in the grand tapestry of human history, this brutality was tragically normal.
Jonathan joined Przemek at the nest, firing a few rounds into the dark interior as Przemek reloaded. Without missing a beat, Przemek let his rifle fall against his chest, secured by its sling, and reached for a grenade. He pulled the pin and lobbed it into the nest.
The explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet, sending sand, dirt, and shrapnel into the air. Pieces of equipment clattered onto the ground as the nest was obliterated. Przemek didn’t wait to confirm the results. He turned on his heel and walked toward the runner he had shot moments earlier.
The early morning sunlight illuminated the scene as Przemek approached the body. His rifle was still raised, its barrel smoking faintly from the gunfight. His boots crunched on the gravel road as he moved cautiously, scanning for any other threats.
As he neared the parked car, he saw movement—a figure huddled behind it. He raised his rifle, ready to fire, but stopped when he saw the person’s hands raised in surrender. It was the woman. She was lying flat on the grass, her hands clasped over her head. The same woman who had unwittingly helped them by drawing the soldiers’ attention earlier.
Przemek pointed his rifle at her, his expression hard. “Should I expect anyone else?” he asked in English, his voice rough and commanding.
“No,” she stammered, startled by the sudden switch to English. Her wide, terrified eyes locked with his. She looked too shocked to lie, too vulnerable to pose any real threat.
Przemek studied her for a moment, then lowered his rifle. He wanted to believe her. Something in her voice—or perhaps the sheer absurdity of her situation—made him trust that she wasn’t hiding anything.
With the immediate danger passed, the adrenaline that had fueled Przemek began to drain away. His knees felt weak, and his head throbbed with a sharp, relentless pain. He stumbled slightly before kneeling behind the car for support. The damp grass beneath him was cool, but it did little to ease his pounding headache or the nausea bubbling in his stomach.
As his body finally gave out, Przemek let himself slide down against the side of the car. The rifle hung limply from its sling as he leaned his head back, his vision blurring slightly. The warm morning light bathed his face, but it did little to comfort him as exhaustion overtook him. His eyes fluttered shut, and he passed out.