That drew a few laughs, breaking the ice and the tension.
A major with an intelligence insignia on his collar leaned forward. “I’m Major Stenqvist, the regiment’s S2. What would you say is your biggest threat you need to be ready to handle?”
Mercer knew he’d be asked a question like this and had prepared for it. “That’s a good question, Major Stenqvist. I’d say we have a couple of viable threats we need to watch for — the first being Spetsnaz infiltration. They could come in the form of tourists, or if an attack is underway, they could come via airborne or even a seaborne assault. Second, and more likely, drone swarms. Say this Russian-Chinese EDEP exercise turns kinetic. They’ll likely try to saturate our defenses with drones before sending cruise missiles,” Mercer explained, then softened his tone. “Major, this is your home. My men and I are not to occupy Gotland or garrison it for months or years. We’re here to help defend it until whatever this exercise is passes and we can all go home.”
Stenqvist smiled, nodding in agreement. “Let’s hope you are right, Captain. And if this defense needs to become an offense, what then?”
“Well, we do what paratroopers do best. We adapt, and we punch the ChiComs and Ruskies in the face and stomp on them until they say uncle,” Mercer replied, which elicited a few more laughs and some brash boasting about who would kick the enemy the hardest.
The site reconnaissance began at dawn the next day. Three Swedish liaison officers joined Mercer’s team — Captain Elin Boström from Air Defense, Lieutenant Nils Sandberg from Logistics, and a grizzled Home Guard officer who introduced himself simply as Bertil. His rank and name tape read Captain Sonevang. Mercer recognized him as the 32nd Battalion commander of the Gotland Home Guard. His unit functioned similar to how a National Guard unit would back in the States.
“Shouldn’t we address you as captain, sir?” Sergeant First Class Dan Holloway asked the older man.
“No, it’s OK. On Gotland, most of us Home Guard don’t really bother much with professional ranks. We have them because we are told we must, but we are generally on a first-name basis. Around here, everyone knows me as Bertil, but you can call me captain if you must,” the older man replied, his rugged and weathered face turning into a grin. “You see, I have been teaching history on this island for thirty-two years. I have students, now adults who send their children to my classes,” he laughed, explaining how he was as much a fixture of the island as the trees around them. “That is why everyone knows me as Bertil, not captain.”
Their convoy wound north from Visby, past limestone farmsteads and wind-twisted pines. Every few kilometers, Bertil pointed out local details, which roads flooded in spring, where cell coverage died, which farmers were “reliable” versus “talkative” when it came to developing credible sources and informants.
Mercer was studying his tablet’s tactical overlay when he said, “The airport is obvious for us to locate the Patriot radar at. But where else should we consider setting our other radars up, and the launchers?”
Bertil held a hand out for Mercer’s tablet. Taking the device in hand, he looked it over, then pointed to something. “You are right to point out the obviousness of the airport. This point here, the Grönt Centrum near Romakloster, would be a good location for you to set up the radar, command trailer and power unit for the Patriot battery and that Leonidas device you were telling us about. It is not a good idea to concentrate too many of your critical units around the airport. It is best to disperse them away from the population centers. The Centrum is centrally located on the island, and it has good lines of sight across many of the inland approaches toward Visby from the Baltic coast.”
While they were speaking, Boström pulled over near a forested ridge. “Here, Captain Mercer. This is Gråtmon Hill. It has good elevation and natural concealment.”
Mercer got out of the vehicle, his boots crunching on the frost-brittle grass that the sun hadn’t yet warmed. The position overlooked some routes from the east heading toward Visby. The area from which they’d pulled off the road provided them with some dense overhead forest cover, something that would come in handy if the enemy was using FPV drones to scout the area. Near the road they’d just exited was a logging road that ran further into the forest, offering more overhead concealment if they wanted to try and place one of the Patriot launchers or a HIMAR vehicle.
“Yeah, you’re right, Bertil. This is a good spot. What’s the distance to Visby?” asked SFC Holloway as he gave an approving nod to Mercer.
“Twelve kilometers,” Lieutenant Sandberg supplied. “Far enough to avoid civilian interference. Close enough for quick resupply when needed.”
Tanner was already pacing the perimeter, measuring fields of fire. “We could fit a Patriot launcher or a HIMAR truck here and easily keep it concealed or relocate quickly if we needed.”
“You have to be careful with the trees. They will interfere with the launcher coverage,” Boström warned.
“True, but better to have to move to find an opening in the tree coverage to fire than eat a Kalibr missile because we’re too exposed to their spotter drones,” Tanner countered. “Concealment over convenience is sometimes worth it if it can keep you alive.”
They spent three hours walking the site. Holloway marked positions on his GPS, command post here, ammunition storage there, generators tucked behind natural berms. Standard dispersal pattern, adapted for Gotland’s terrain.
“What about personnel?” Mercer asked Lindqvist, who’d remained silent during the survey. “Where would you like to have my troops billeted?”
“Not in Visby.” The colonel’s tone was firm. “The population is… concerned about militarization. They do not want to make Visby a military target, especially after the incident with that Chinese spy ship. We have a former military camp in Roma, the Grönt Centrum, that we would like to offer to your people. It dates back to our conscription days and has since been converted into a boarding school of sorts. It now teaches sustainable green farming and things like that. It’s vacant this semester for some renovations, so it’s ideal for our needs right now,” Colonel Lindqvist explained. “The grounds have dormitories we can use as sleeping quarters and living spaces for your people. It’s a good facility, Captain. We can turn some of the school rooms into offices for your headquarters as well, and the surrounding grounds offer protected berms and forested areas where you can position some of the Patriot vehicles and plenty of space for you to park your vehicles and establish a good perimeter.”
“Excellent, can we head over there now and take a look?”
“Yes, of course. It’s not a hotel or anything, but it’ll do.” Lindqvist almost smiled. “It’s Swedish military luxury.”
Roma Military Camp sprawled across a shallow valley twenty-five kilometers southeast of Visby. Built during the Cold War, expanded in fits and starts, and then turned into a vocational school a decade after the Cold War ended, the place was only recently undergoing refurbishment into an alternate reserve military encampment for wartime use or contingency operations like now.
From the moment Mercer saw the place, he had to admit, this was better than he had hoped for. It had running water, bathrooms, showers, a cantina, and warehouses where they could store gear and supplies. While it was clear the facility was still actively being used for civilian purposes, the buildings themselves still retained that utilitarian charm for which military architecture was known.