James Rosone
The Gotland Deception
Author’s Note:
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Disclaimer: Although the story is based on events that could happen in the world, the story is entirely fictional and should be treated as such. This is a work of fiction. All events, characters, and organizations depicted are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. While this novel incorporates real-world military platforms, defense systems, technologies, and companies, all references are based solely on publicly available information as of the time of writing.
No company, government agency, or defense contractor has sponsored, endorsed, or contributed to the development of this book. The inclusion of specific weapons systems, autonomous platforms, unmanned vehicles, software systems, or commercial entities is for fictional and narrative purposes only. The scenarios depicted represent the author’s creative interpretation of how such technologies could be employed by US, allied, or adversarial forces in a future, hypothetical conflict.
Nothing in this book should be construed as reflecting actual plans, capabilities, or endorsements by any military, governmental, or corporate entity. All opinions expressed are solely those of the authors.
Chapter One:
The Dragon and the Bear
The cold bit deep, settling into Pan Min-jae’s bones. He knew this was a dangerous game, but he had played it for years, slipping in and out of places men like him were never meant to be. But tonight was different. Tonight, he had witnessed men of power rarely seen together — Kuznetsov, Zhang, Sokolov.
Something big is about to happen, he realized. But what?
Pan moved with haste after leaving the restaurant, his hands buried in the pockets of his wool coat. He turned the phone on, waiting for the familiar buzz in his hand to let him know it had connected to its satellite cellular network. His thumb twitched, cigarette trembling as he dragged deep, nicotine steadying his nerves. With a casual tap, he synced the parabolic mic in his glasses, the fifty-meter range capturing every whisper from the Shelby’s back room.
Next, he toggled to the encrypted messaging app on his phone to attach the photos and a short message to go along with the pictures of the men present at the restaurant — Kuznetsov mentioned Dragon Bear — something big is happening. Will transmit more soon. Then he pressed send.
There were more details to share, like the audio files the parabolic mic had captured, but these were much larger files, so he sent the photos first. He’d let the messaging app work on attaching the audio files after he’d retreated to his safe house, where he could take time to think about the meeting, the various men who were present, and what it all meant. If he was lucky, the camera built into his glasses might have recorded most of the meeting before he’d left.
Something about this meeting hadn’t felt right, and the longer he stayed at the restaurant, the more his instincts were screaming at him to run. As he continued to walk his countersurveillance route, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.
Too quick, he realized. Too close.
There was a shift in the air right before he heard the scrape of shoes. Pan perceived the low hum of a man flirting in Russian, and the subtle but unmistakable pull of someone moving in tandem with him.
Pan turned slightly and caught a glimpse of a couple laughing, swaying in the glow of streetlamps dotting the sidewalk. Then he thought he caught a momentary glint of light reflecting off the steel edge of a knife.
Just as Pan was reacting to the danger of a blade, pain lanced through his back, sharp and burning. His breathing locked. His legs buckled. A second thrust went deeper. Pan’s phone clattered to the pavement. His vision blurred, the darkness curling in as he clawed for the device, fingers trembling.
With all the strength he had left, he tried to reach for the phone — tried to transmit his intel. But a boot slid forward, pressing heavily against the device. The audible crunch of glass and plastic shattered his last hope of sending the message.
Just then, he heard a deep voice murmur above him. “He won’t be completing his spy mission tonight.”
The woman he’d spotted as part of the flirtatious couple knelt beside him and began to rifle through his pockets. The last thing Pan saw was the smirk on her face before the void swallowed him whole.
Kirill Andreyevich Kuznetsov swirled his vodka, watching the way the liquid caught the dim golden light. Around him, five men sat in quiet anticipation, their faces carved from stone, waiting for the final act of the evening.
The room smelled of cedar, old smoke, and history soaked into the very foundation of the building. Deals had been made here, wars whispered into existence over a toast and the flick of a wrist. It was such an unassuming place to hold such meetings that it had gone unnoticed until now.
The heavy oak door creaked open again, a momentary gust of frigid air sweeping into the room before it was promptly closed. The man entering was Dmitry Mirov, his deputy and head of Special Operations for National Security Affairs. The man better known as The Undertaker walked confidently toward them, his movements unhurried, his expression unreadable. He stepped around the table to Kuznetsov’s side and took his seat, then reached for his Beluga Epicure, downing the vodka before leaning in to whisper, his breath barely stirring the air.
“It’s taken care of. We have his phone.”
Kuznetsov’s lip twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile. He lifted his glass. “Good.”
Seated across from Kuznetsov was Zhang Weihao, the director of the Central National Security Commission. He slowly sipped tea, his expression carefully neutral.
Zhang studied Kuznetsov as if searching for the invisible strings he was pulling. The air in the room thickened, the weight of decisions made pressing upon them all.
“Let’s talk about Taiwan — you’re certain this strategy of yours will not interfere with our plans?” Kuznetsov asked Zhang, hoping for a straight answer. “Goryunov has spent years preparing for this. It can’t be derailed at the last minute.”
“You can be assured, Kuznetsov, that our wayward province will not derail the grand strategy,” Zhang said dismissively. “Besides, the naval units involved are not drawn from our North Sea Fleet. They have no impact or interaction with the Arctic operation.”
“Still, it is an unnecessary risk right before things begin,” Kuznetsov countered, unconvinced this sideshow wouldn’t bleed over into their carefully laid plans. Too much was at risk for this to fail at the last moment.
Zhang stared at him for a moment, not saying anything. “The time to settle the Taiwan issue is now,” he finally explained. “With our joint plan underway, Europe and America will be powerless to intervene — a hostage to circumstances beyond their control. Besides, the plan has been in motion for years. It is too far along for us to turn back.”