“Roger, sir. Any word on Third Platoon?” asked Torres.
“Delayed again,” Morrison explained. “German rail workers threatened a strike. They’re trying to route through Czech Republic.”
More complications. Torres wondered if the delays were coincidence or something deliberate.
“Oh, and, Sergeant?” Morrison’s tone shifted. “Good work in Gdańsk. Major Kowalski sent positive feedback about your professionalism.”
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“Keep it up. Morrison out.”
Kowalski smiled. “I may have mentioned your excellence to my liaison.”
“Appreciated, Major.”
“Professional courtesy. Your country sends its best to help defend ours. The least we can do is acknowledge it.”
They crested a hill, and Drawsko Pomorskie sprawled before them. The training area’s lights twinkled in the gathering dusk.
Almost there.
“Final stop,” Kowalski announced over the convoy net. “Fuel and tie-down check before we enter the training area.”
The truck stop was military-controlled, and Polish MPs were already in position. The convoy pulled in with practiced precision.
Torres dismounted, his legs stiff from sitting. He walked the line of transporters, checking each tank. Alpha-22 sat patient and massive, waiting to be unleashed.
“How’re we looking, Burke?” asked Torres.
“Solid, Sergeant. No issues. The boys are ready to get these beasts off the trucks.”
“Soon enough,” Torres replied with a smile. “We’ll offload at first light. Tonight’s about getting settled.”
He checked his watch: 1830. Thirty minutes to Drawsko, then it would be a scramble to prepare for the division commander’s brief.
“Mount up!” Kowalski called. “Final push!”
The convoy rolled through Drawsko’s main gate as darkness fell. Security was tight — Polish and American MPs checked credentials, swept mirrors beneath vehicles, and utilized dogs to sniff for explosives.
“Welcome to Fort Trump,” someone muttered over the radio, using the unofficial nickname for the expanded American presence.
They followed guides to the armor assembly area. Even in darkness, Torres could see the buildup. Rows of vehicles and stacks of equipment were the infrastructure of deterrence.
“Tomorrow, we offload,” Kowalski said as they parked. “Tonight, we rest. Your barracks are in Area 7, Building 42.”
Torres shook the major’s hand. “Thanks for the smooth ride.”
“My pleasure. We’ll work well together, I think.”
Torres gathered his platoon as they dismounted. He saw tired faces, but they were still alert.
Good soldiers, he thought with pride.
“Outstanding movement, men. Grab your gear, find your bunks. Formation at 1950 in the company area. Look sharp — division commander’s watching.”
They dispersed into the night. Torres lingered, looking at the tanks on their transporters. Tomorrow they’d roll off, ready to train… and ready to fight, if necessary.
His phone buzzed. It was Maria again. “Kids in bed. Carlos asked if tanks have beds too. I told him tanks sleep standing up.”
Tores smiled and typed, “Smart kid. Tanks do sleep standing up. Give them all a kiss from me.”
“Already did. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He pocketed the phone and headed for the barracks. Whatever the division commander had to say, whatever was building in the east, would wait until tomorrow.
Tonight, he had soldiers to take care of. The rest was above his pay grade.
But as he walked through the Polish night, past tanks and robots and the machinery of modern war, Torres couldn’t shake the feeling that pay grades wouldn’t matter much longer.
Something was coming. They all felt it.
The question was when.
Chapter Fifteen:
Enemy Within
The rooftop lot was empty, except for a single Toyota sedan with a black duffel in the trunk and a view of the city lights below. Cuī Zemin stood with his back to the rail, face half lit by the orange glow from a flickering lamp overhead. As always, he was still… watchful. The wind tugged at his long coat.
“You’re looking well,” he said, eyes scanning Hao Lei’s face.
Hao nodded stiffly. “They kept me seventy-two hours. No formal charges. Just questions.”
“No bruises,” Cuī observed.
“Not on the outside.”
Gao Rong stepped forward, shifting his weight. “We heard your diplomatic channels worked fast.”
Cuī didn’t confirm or deny it. “The arrests were unfortunate. But instructive. Taipei blinked. International media turned your footage into a feature. Hong Kong diaspora pages picked it up. BBC called it a ‘soft uprising.’”
He pulled a folder from inside his coat and laid it on the car’s hood. “Time to scale the model,” he said.
Gao flipped it open. Inside were maps — National Taiwan University, Kaohsiung Medical University, Tamkang, Shih Hsin. Target-rich environments, annotated with red markings for entry points, dormitory zones, and student union buildings.
“The youth are already restless,” Cuī stated. “Your job is to give them a purpose.”
Hao raised an eyebrow. “Taipei and Kaohsiung are different beasts. You don’t flip a capital city with slogans and live streams.”
Cuī looked at him. “We’re not flipping cities. We’re lighting brushfires. Unrest doesn’t have to win. It just has to exhaust.”
He tapped the folder. “You’ll focus on the universities. Use the Kinmen footage. Push it through underground forums and diasporic networks. Emphasize betrayal, division. Frame it as ‘Kinmen was just the start.’”
“There’s already chatter,” Gao interjected, voice low. “After Kinmen, a few campus chapters of that old Reunification Society tried organizing. The turnouts were small. They got no traction.”
“Then seed new leaders,” Cuī said simply. “You’ve done it before. Use local faces, sympathetic faculty, dorm reps with activist streaks… anyone who wants to be seen as the next voice of the movement.”
He opened his palm and revealed a small slip of paper — six digits, two letters. “These are Telegram wallet codes. Consider these ‘emergency funds.’ Track expenditures. Remember, bribes are crude — credibility is better.”
Then Cuī’s tone shifted. “You’ll also expand your media front. Push content from the West. Show how American campuses are ‘awakening’ to the injustice.”
Gao frowned. “You mean the Berkeley protests?”
Cuī nodded. “UC Berkeley and San Diego. Small groups. Mostly international students — some ours, some not. But the optics are valuable. Showing American youth echoing Chinese grievances adds legitimacy.”
Hao scoffed. “They’re waving signs about colonial overreach and Asian identity. None of them could find Kinmen on a map.”
Cuī didn’t smile. “They don’t need to,” he countered. “They just need to be loud.”
The Ghost stepped closer to the car, lowering his voice further. “America has its own house fire. Your job is to connect the embers. When someone in Taipei sees a protest in Kaohsiung, then a crowd at UCSD, then a live stream from Berkeley — they start to believe there’s a movement. They see Taiwan as out of sync. They think something bigger is coming.”
Gao folded the folder shut. “And when do we pull back?” he asked.
“You don’t,” Cuī replied flatly. “While you’re at it, I want you to make sure you’re incorporating anger at this new synthetic drug, ‘Vortex.’ Make sure to gin up as much outrage as possible about its import from the West. ‘Taiwan isn’t protecting us’ should be a common theme.”