By 0900, the Polish HET crews had arrived. Torres watched the first M1300 Heavy Equipment Transporter back up to Alpha-21, its hydraulic ramps lowering with a mechanical whine.
“Easy with my baby!” Torres called out as Polish operators guided his tank onto the flatbed.
Torres’s counterpart was right to be nervous. Loading seventy tons of tank onto a transporter required millimeter precision. One wrong move and you’d throw a track or worse.
“Your men seem competent,” Novak observed, watching the Polish crew work.
Major Kowalski nodded with pride. “They move our Leopards and K2 Black Panthers regularly. American tanks are heavier, but the principle is the same.”
Alpha-22’s turn came next. Torres climbed up beside the Polish loadmaster, a grizzled sergeant who looked like he’d been doing this since the Cold War.
“Beautiful machine,” the Pole said in accented English, patting the Abrams’s armor. “Much heavier than our tanks.”
“She’ll ride steady?”
“Of course. We secure with twelve-point tie-downs. Could drive upside-down and she wouldn’t budge.” He grinned, gold tooth catching the morning sun.
Torres watched Burke guide Boone up the ramps, tracks clanking on steel. The tank settled onto the flatbed with a satisfied groan of hydraulics.
“Perfect,” the loadmaster declared. “Now we chain her down.”
The process was repeated for each tank. By 1030, all four Abrams sat secured on their transporters. The Ripsaws, lighter and more compact, loaded faster onto smaller flatbeds.
“Convoy brief in five,” Kowalski announced.
They gathered near the lead Polish escort vehicle, a Rosomak APC bristling with antennas. Captain Sikora spread a laminated map on the hood of a vehicle.
“Gentlemen, our route.” Sikora traced the highways with a laser pointer. “A1 to Grudzi, then S6 north to Słupsk, finally S11 to Drawsko. Total distance three hundred twenty kilometers.”
“Anticipated threats?” Novak asked.
“Minimal. Some anti-NATO graffiti reported near Tczew. Possible protesters at the Słupsk interchange. Local police will clear them before we arrive.”
“How about speed? What are we allowed to travel?” asked Novak nervously.
Captain Sikora calmly replied. “Sixty kilometers per hour maximum. EU road regulations. The transporters are heavy — we don’t want to damage civilian infrastructure.”
Torres calculated. Five hours minimum, plus stops. They’d reach Drawsko well after dark.
“Rest stops every ninety minutes,” Sikora continued. “Designated truck stops only. Your soldiers remain with vehicles at all times.”
“What about security during transport and at the rest stops?” Torres asked before Novak could.
Sikora seemed unfazed by their questions as he continued to calmly respond to them. “Two Rosomaks front, two rear. Police coordination at major intersections. Polish Police have a SWAT team on standby, though we expect no issues.”
Famous last words, Torres thought.
“Questions? No? Then mount up. We depart in twenty minutes.” Sikora wrapped up the briefing as he gathered up his map and notebook.
Torres found Burke prepping their escort JLTV. They’d ride separately from the tanks, standard procedure for road moves.
“You good to drive first shift?” Torres asked.
“Roger. Munoz wants to ride turret.”
“Negative,” Torres replied. “Too visible. We’re guests here, not occupiers. Windows up, weapons concealed.”
Burke nodded. “Munoz won’t like it.”
“Munoz will survive. Make sure everyone has water and snacks. Long ride ahead.”
Torres’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Maria: “Kids off to school. Sophia made honor roll!”
He smiled, then typed back: “Tell her I’m proud. Miss you all.”
“Miss you too. Stay safe over there.”
He pocketed the phone without responding. Safe was relative when you were moving seventy-ton tanks across a continent balanced on a knife’s edge.
“Sergeant Torres!” Kowalski waved from his command vehicle. “Ride with me for the first leg? I’d like to discuss integration procedures.”
Torres looked at Novak, who nodded. “Go ahead, Sergeant. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
The Polish major’s vehicle was surprisingly comfortable — cushioned seats, climate control, even cup holders. It was the lap of luxury compared to American trucks.
“Coffee?” asked Kowalski, offering a thermos as they pulled onto the highway.
“Thanks.” Torres accepted gratefully. It was proper coffee, not the motor oil Americans usually brewed.
Behind them, the convoy stretched half a kilometer. There were four tank transporters, four Ripsaw carriers, escort vehicles, and support trucks. They were a steel serpent winding through Poland.
“Your first time moving through Poland?” Kowalski asked.
“Did a rotation here in 2018,” Torres replied. “Just training then.”
“Ah, simpler times.” The major navigated through Gdańsk’s industrial district. “Now we have Russian troops in Belarus, Chinese advisors in Kaliningrad, and everyone pretending this is normal.”
“You think it kicks off?” Torres pressed.
Kowalski considered. “My grandfather fought the Nazis. My father prepared to fight the Soviets. I hoped my son would know peace.” He shrugged. “History has other plans.”
They passed graffiti on a warehouse wall. “NATO GO HOME” was lettered in red spray paint. It was fresh, by the look of it.
“Ignore that,” Kowalski said quickly. “Russian propaganda. Most Poles remember what occupation means.”
But Torres noticed the major’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
The highway opened up, with the Baltic coastline visible to their right. The convoy maintained perfect spacing, with Polish efficiency on display. Torres found himself relaxing slightly.
His phone buzzed. It was a text from Burke: “All good back here. Munoz sulking about the turret.”
“Tell him I’ll buy him a pierogi in Drawsko,” Torres replied.
They made their first stop at a truck stop near Tczew. Torres supervised the tie-down checks while Polish military police kept curious civilians at a distance. A few truckers took photos, but there were no incidents.
“Smooth so far,” Novak commented, stretching his legs.
“Long way to go yet, LT,” Torres replied.
Back on the road, Kowalski grew more talkative. He talked about his son, who had served in the Polish Army’s 16th Mechanized Division. His wife apparently taught school in Warsaw. Normal life continued, despite the gathering storm.
“You have children?” the major asked.
“Four. Oldest is fourteen, youngest is six,” Torres answered.
“Difficult, being away,” said Kowalski.
“Part of the job,” said Torres, even though his heart felt a familiar ache. Miguel’s tournament was in three days. Sophia was working on her quinceañera planning. Life moved on without him.
They passed through Słupsk without incident, the promised protesters nowhere in sight. Either Polish intelligence was wrong, or local police had been very efficient.
“Two hours to Drawsko,” Kowalski announced as they turned onto S11.
The landscape changed, and coastal plains gave way to forests and lakes. The sun dropped toward the horizon, painting everything gold.
Beautiful country, Torres admitted to himself. Worth defending.
His phone rang. It was Captain Morrison.
“Torres, you tracking our position?”
“Yes, sir. ETA 1900 hours.”
“Good. Ripsaw briefing pushed to 2100. Division commander wants to address everyone first. Mandatory formation at 2000.”