The Eternal War rapidly changes to bring about domination of every aspect of existence only possible through death or greater individual sovereignty and rights.
The Eternal War | Doctrine | Change
"Operation Shadowfall"
Valencia, Spain
The night was thick with humidity, the kind that seeped into the bones and made every breath feel heavy. Prince Peter Romanov crouched behind a crumbling stone wall, the rough texture pressing against his back. The earpiece in his left ear remained silent. No breaking radio cover, no chance to ask questions, everyone in their place, everyone doing their job, including me, thought Peter.
The safehouse stood before him, a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky, nestled in the shadow of the Sierra Calderona. Inside, conspirators who’d dared to target the Duquesna’s grandchildren awaited their fate. Three confirmed within. Surveillance showed no exterior guards, no CCTV cameras present. Maybe a pressure plate, a microswitch on the gate, stay off the paths he thought.
Overhead, two man-portable drones loitered, not audible at ground level. Initially one was flown to watch the safe house for the team to study the target. The second drone being launched with a suite of electronic monitoring devices to observe the background radio frequency signature. As parts of the team were moved into place, the team monitored for any change in electronic signature to indicate those within or sentries external to the building area were being alerted to the team’s approach. If the team didn’t move fast, then the situation would become noisy regardless and the activation of cell phone calls would light up the display as the public was disturbed in their sleep. No, we don’t want that, remembered Peter from training.
A video feed of thermal imagery and night vision relayed to the team on the ground. You don’t want dogs to bark. When the team moved kinetically, the drones would monitor for any response, person’s fleeing the building. Even a light being switched on in a building adjacent may indicate the team not observing noise and light discipline correctly. We don’t want attention, thought Peter, we’re ghost’s in the night. Bertrand grabbed Peter’s elbow, whispering into his ear, “Peter, you’re doing well. If you aren’t certain or something disturbs you, it’s your decision Peter, calling it off will not be a loss of face.”
Peter’s heart pounded, not from fear—he had faced danger before—but from the weight of command. This was his first operation as a leader, and the knights around him, seasoned warriors of The Order, all highly experienced, watched him with a mixture of expectation and skepticism. He sensed their watching gaze, judging every move, every decision.
Bertrand Von Mises, his mentor and a overall mission commander, knelt beside him. The older man’s presence was both a comfort and a challenge. "Leadership isn’t given; it’s earned," Bertrand’s presence whispered, his posture carrying the weight of decades of experience. "Every decision tonight will echo through your life and theirs, make it happen Peter, do us proud," he’d said to Peter on their way out of the vehicle. Make decisions and know when they are required, Peter remembered.
Peter nodded, his mind racing. He recalled the intelligence briefing: human intel from informants, signals intercepts from encrypted communications, satellite imagery showing the safehouse’s layout. It was a puzzle, and he was the one who had to piece it together. Inferential analysis as they say.
Nothing for it now! They’re on target and it’s his call to make, right or wrong. Bertrand tapped Peter on the shoulder as rehearsed. Peter pressed his radio headset pressel and paused. "Assault Commander, thirty seconds, mark," Peter said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
The Assault Commander, a grizzled veteran with scars that told stories of countless battles, acknowledged. "Team moving, Your Highness." As soon as Peter had spoken, the side door of an electrical company van opened. Two darkened figures emerged from the van, each man carrying a backpack with battery powered pneumatic unit connected to a pneumatic piston known as a door spreader. The men approached the safe house door and placed the door pistons, one horizontal and one vertical. At the same time, a team of eight men approached from the left side of the front door.
As Peter counted down the thirty seconds to breach he glanced at the Intelligence Analyst, who had set up a mobile workstation under the cover of darkness. "We need everything—documents, devices, anything that can lead us to their backers." If we’re presented with physical hard copy, drawings, we’re taking it.
"Understood," the analyst replied, his fingers already dancing over the keyboard.
Peter whispered to himself “five, four, three, two, one.” Without further direction the breacher team spread the door open and with a push the door fell off its hinges and the eight men entered the house. The team moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine, clearing each room. Outside, two subtle claps of silenced gunfire, barely audible were heard as Bertrand and Peter entered the building. Ninety seconds later, in the kitchen to the rear of the house, Peter stood before a trembling suspect, the man’s eyes wide with fear, a gun leveled steadily at his head.
"Who pays for this?" Peter demanded, his voice cold and commanding, in perfect Imperial Spanish. "Who ordered the hit?"
"I don’t know," the man stammered, his voice shaking. "We get paid. Transfers from Paris."
"Show me," Peter said, motioning to the analyst. Data streamed onto the screen, Peter looked intently, scrolling through a payment log. Peter pointed at the screen, “This payment here, it’s every month, look it varies in amount. Peter turned to the analyst. “Can we get details on this payment. “A chateau to the south of Paris with a company front providing concrete,” the hacker, analyst responds.
Bertrand’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Good. Every lead is a thread. Pull carefully, and the tapestry will reveal itself."
Peter nodded, but inside, he felt a surge of doubt. Was he ready for this? Could he truly lead these men, earn their respect, and uncover the conspiracy that threatened not just the Duquesna’s family but the very fabric of their world?
Paris, France
The Chateau stood like a beacon of wealth and power, its golden lights reflecting off the manicured gardens. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the murmur of conversations that shaped the world. Peter, dressed in a tailored suit that felt like a second skin, moved through the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged. His years in investment banking had taught him how to blend in, how to listen without being noticed. Well, and he’d been born to it, having been taught the manners of royalty since before his earliest memories. Not that anyone here would know that.
Bertrand had briefed him earlier: "These are the money men, the ones who fund the shadows. Find out who’s pulling the strings. Listen for a while. You know how to talk money. Ask some general questions. Test the response. Don’t believe you’ll get anywhere without a drink to lubricate the situation. It’s expected. It’s all being watched, nevertheless, take your chances as they present to you. You’re on the guest list but you’re still a nobody in their world. Just remember, not everyone always plays their best game, a word, a sentence, a gesture sometimes is enough for your effort in one evening."
Peter’s target was a banker with ties to the conspirators. He positioned himself near a group discussing "reindustrialization" and "population management." The words sent a chill down his spine. These were not mere economic terms; they were euphemisms for control, for a vision of the world where people were numbers to be managed. They reiterated his thinking before that fateful night in Singapore. The very thinking led to that night and its shocking wake up call.
"Excuse me," Peter said, stepping into the circle with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Using his height and size and blonde hair and blue eyes to dazzle. "That sounds ambitious." When Peter smiled, a flood of memories rushed into his thoughts, his early childhood, family occasions, looking up at his mother and father as they entertained family and friends. The drawing room or as father sometimes as said the “withdrawing room.” Painful memories of a life long gone, but the little subtle movements remembered.
Peter recalled sitting in big comfy chairs. The center of the room being the elegant fireplace. Peter observed his mother and father interacting with people, good people, smiles and laughter. Peter recalled hearing his father talk of concerns, his country, his people, his supporters and foes. Never far, his mother would stand, her smile, her elegance, her warmth but something he would only understand much later was her strength, formidable, a powerful woman, here was the seat of power.
Peter returned from thought as he stood in front of his target. The banker’s eyes narrowed, but Peter’s charm was disarming. "It’s a new era of efficiency," the man replied, his voice smooth. "Europe and the world must adapt or be left behind."
"Who could possibly lead such a broad vision?" Peter pressed, keeping his tone casual.
"Visionaries," the banker murmured. "In Germany. They have the technology to make it happen." An image of labor camps flashed in Peter’s thoughts. The same old story, when your finances are spent, free labor is the next step to replenish the funds. “You bastard”, thought Peter. Peter quickly recalled a conversation with Bertrand, he had been troubled by, an unknown that he had called the 4th Reich. Not proven but Bertrand recalled anomalies that had taken place in decades previous that he said all pointed to the emergence of characters of the past. Bertrand didn’t have first hand experience but his mentor’s did, his training sat on the experiences of the time members of the Order faced the 3rd Reich, first hand. “Do you really believe they faded away”, Bertrand had said on a number of occasions in conversation with Peter.
Before Peter could probe further, the Assault Commander’s voice crackled in his earpiece: "That’s enough. Security’s starting to look at and into you. Move."
Peter excused himself and slipped away, his mind racing. The team made its departures from the Chateau in staggered intervals. Each group stopping at prearranged locations to check for electronic surveillance, driving around Paris for two hours to confirm no one was followed, running SDR’s. The team eventually made their rendezvous by foot in a forest ten kilometers east of Charles de Gaulle airport. The analyst having taken the time in their departure from the Chateau to sift through stolen data on a tablet.
"Funds are being routed to Munich," the analyst said. "A tech firm. Subtle front on their web-page, project management, pay-roll, office security, access control, power controls and distribution technologies."
"Power?" Peter half asked, his stomach tightening. “Some big clients?” “Governmental?”
"Control systems," the analyst corrected. "Population scale, is the supposition."
Bertrand’s tone was grim as he joined them. "As suspected, this is bigger than a simple assassination plot over assets. These’re architects of a new order, one where humanity is subjugated to their will. Large scale electrical power distribution, capital scale projects, major industrial sites. We’ve seen where this goes or attempts to go, and that’s a very dark and malevolently genocidal place."
“The slaver mind is never defeated.” Peter states, definitively but exhaustingly, looking at the analyst before looking away to the horizon of both the earth and the future.
Peter felt a weight settle on his shoulders. The conspiracy is never just about power; it’s about reshaping the world in a way that strips away freedom and dignity. A return to slavery, at least for the masses. Here stood Peter at a moment in history. A time that wouldn’t feature in any history book. He reflected for a moment on his brief meeting with the resentful, obviously a resentful. He had to do what he could to stop it, but the path ahead was fraught with danger and far more than a few hard moral quandaries.
Munich, Germany
The tech lab in Munich was a fortress of glass and steel, a monument to human ingenuity—and, as Peter would soon discover, to human hubris. The knights and he moved like shadows, the Assault Commander leading the way with a silence that spoke of countless operations. Guards fell without a sound, their bodies carefully placed out of sight. Camera and detection systems jammed momentarily. All of it timed to the tenth of a second. This target had required a technical team just to get to the front gate let alone enter the building.
Inside the server room, Peter and the analyst worked quickly. The room was filled with the hum of machines, the air cool and sterile. Nozzles in the roof protruded as part of the dry fire suppression system, or so the door notice said. More than one system being duel purpose, fire and life suppression. The entire team inside the server room wore respirators with chemical filters. Peter also wore a gas monitor. It was not uncommon for such systems to form a deterrent against those determined to go to such lengths as access to a server or file room, with all their secrets.
Peter’s eyes scanned the terminal on the small functional desk, equipment, drones with surveillance capabilities, neural interfaces and AI engines that could control or manipulate human behavior. His stomach churned at the implications. This was not just technology; it was total and absolute enslavement, a way to strip away free will.
"Got it," the analyst said, pulling files from the server. "Deployment plans for London, Paris, Berlin. And something else—what appears to be an alliance."
"What alliance?" Peter asked, his voice calm and careful to not show emotion. This was not the time and place for emotions.
"Bertrand, please, your opinion, is this the Reich - the Organization - you’ve spoken of," the analyst said, his brow furrowing. "Whomever it is, they’re funding this, but not alone."
Bertrand stepped into the room, his face with a mask like the others within. "The Reich? Why do you ask?”
“There are implications of historical accounts.” The analyst stated as he looked up to Bertrand standing over him.
Peter shook his head. He understood what historical accounts were, and those invisibly behind them. "What has you believe this?"
The team exchanged uneasy glances. The Assault Commander broke the silence. "We need to move. Now." “The tech Team are being counter-hacked.”
As they exfiltrated, Peter’s mind raced. The Reich—whispers of their current existence had been dismissed as legend, but here was proof. They were modern history’s puppeteers, and now they were moving assets and exerting power to finalize a new world order. The weight of this knowledge pressed down on Peter, but he pushed it aside. There was no time for fear; only action.
There was something else there, however, in all the stolen data. The historical account reference of the analyst. The gossamers of a thread of something went back far further, back to Rome, mid Rome, to the beginning of Empire. Some of the accounts traced back not the known and suspected assets of the 4th Reich but to the Papal States remnants and to Rome, the Vatican Bank. Oh, none of it directly, of course. But there for those who know how to look, those with their own autists who love to dig.
Over the past four years, and yet still, with the use of AI and autists, the Order had looked at its own records and histories which had consistently been showing a gap in the recognition of external influences across centuries. The current analysis suggested that these external influences were not random in nature but an unknown and yet unseen power faction. This recent development had troubled Bertrand and others of The Order particularly in knowing that this power faction could have dated as far back the first Roman emperor. The concern being, what and who can sustain that long hidden?
All of this, The Orders efforts to understand its own records and the attained information from the raids, implied the 4th Reich itself, as vast and insidiously embedded and powerful as it is, may not be the ultimate power, the ultimate influence. Markov had understood these things, his blankets and kernels and processes and chains. It’s not what can be seen, nor that which can be inferred which is often the power. No, real power is that which influences but is never seen. That which does not direct but merely shapes, plotting out in advance how to recover and continue forward should any line of effort fail. Those who understand history cannot be forced, merely guided and shaped, are the real powers.