“Bravo Company, right? The ones at the Grönt Centrum in Roma?”
He dropped into the kitchen chair, rubbing his face. “Yeah. That’s changed. Everything’s changed. The Chinese Foreign Minister opened his mouth yesterday — made it official that the PLA and Russian Navy have their little love nest up in Kaliningrad. And guess what? The PLA restored that old Soviet air base outside Gvardeysk.”
Klara stiffened slightly. She kept her back to him, pouring two mugs of tea with practiced calm. “I thought that base was derelict.”
“So did Stockholm. So did NATO. But turns out the Chinese have been quietly rebuilding it for years. And now, we find out there’s a full PLA amphibious task force exercising with Russian Marines. So now, NATO wants to move all their American paratroopers, consolidated here on Gotland.”
He accepted the tea with a tired nod. “Whole regiment’s coming. Not just Bravo. Alpha Company is taking over Vidhave Eco Lodge and some surrounding property. Patriot missile crews and C2 elements are moving in with them.”
Klara sat slowly across from him. “That’s… a lot more people.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” he replied, clearly irritated. “Charlie and Delta Companies are going to be billeted near the P18 compound and the Tofta Range.” He shook his head. “That area’s going to look like Fort Bragg East by next week. We were never set up to house a full regiment. I’ve got HVAC techs flying in from Malmö and Stockholm, commercial tenting companies on twenty-four-hour call. We’re bringing in those massive, long tents with integrated flooring and climate control — you know, the ones they use for disaster relief? We’re converting half the logistics park in Slite to house gear and overflow billets.”
“Sounds like a nightmare,” Klara said, voice low, distracted.
He laughed bitterly. “You have no idea. We’re about four trailers of portable toilets away from losing our minds.”
“This is going to impact the lodging I had set up for the Baltic Wings Festival near the airport, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yeah, it probably is,” Lars answered. “And I can’t guarantee it won’t affect any of your other bookings with the huge amount of influx coming in.”
“Damn. This is going to be really inconvenient for both of us, then,” Klara replied.
Lars put his head into his hands. “It’s going to be a very long week… at least I have you to make it better.”
“Aw, I’m so sorry all of this is coming down on you all at once,” Klara responded soothingly. She stood up and gave him a hug from behind before massaging Lars’s shoulders.
Although she did her best to play the role of empathetic and dutiful girlfriend, she had moved behind him partly so she wouldn’t have to work as hard to control her face. Her thoughts were spiraling. Eight of her operatives had confirmed lodging near the airport. Vidhave was only fifteen minutes west by car. If Alpha Company was taking over the area, that entire plan was compromised. Worse, the Patriot unit and their support teams would make any movement toward the airfield a much riskier proposition.
Lars slowly relaxed his shoulders under the influence of her strong hands. He sighed. “Thank you for this. You always know how to calm me down.”
“Of course,” Klara replied cheerfully. “I’m here for you.”
After another moment or so, she slipped back down into her seat and took another sip of her tea. “So when does Alpha Company arrive, my love?”
“They’re already off the boat. Staging now in Visby Harbor.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Well, how can I help make this whole situation better for you?” she asked.
“I can think of one thing,” Lars said with a wink. “But it will have to wait. I still have to coordinate power grid assessments with Region Gotland and find a local contractor who can deliver six hundred meals three times a day until the field kitchens are operational. Honestly, I just came here for breakfast and to vent. I have to be out the door again in fifteen.”
She reached over and placed her hand on his. “Lars, I am so sorry. We’ll get through this… together. Let me fix you breakfast,” she replied.
In no time flat she had some toasted rye crispbread and jam on a plate for him, which he accepted with gratitude. As soon as he ate it, he rose from the table, kissed her on the head, and left.
Once the door closed, Klara allowed herself to curse quietly under her breath. “This is going to mess up all of my hard work!” she said to herself. Now instead of the original one hundred and fifty or so US paratroopers her operatives had planned on encountering, they’d be up against about six hundred of them. Not to mention, these huge areas being taken over would absolutely impact her housing plans before and during the festival.
She needed to get to the office as soon as possible. Her morning observation walk would have to wait.
As soon as she stepped into her work area, Klara went straight for her laptop. She logged in, turned on her VPN, and didn’t even bother checking the birding websites yet. This amount of information would be very difficult to transmit through one of the boards. Instead, she went right for her Tuta email account, where she wrote a draft email that she would never send. She had just finished typing when she noticed another draft email besides the one she had been writing.
The message was simple: “Team modified. Eight Russian attendees of the Baltic Wings Festival have changed their travel plans, and Chinese attendees will be taking their place.”
For the second time that morning, Klara swore. Russians could blend in. But Chinese? In Roma? In Vidhave?
She stood abruptly and crossed to her laptop. Everything was unraveling. And the Americans weren’t even fully unpacked yet.
She exhaled, forcing herself to slow her breathing and concentrate.
Time to pivot, she thought. Time to adapt. Before the window closes entirely.
Chapter Twenty-One:
Welcome to the Edge
Tropical rain hammered the tarmac in sheets. The squall had rolled in fast, turning the morning sky the color of old steel. Wind gusts shoved the C-17’s tail as hydraulics lowered its cargo ramp with a mechanical groan.
Jodi Mack stood just inside the hangar bay, tablet tucked under her tactical jacket as rain hammered the flight deck. Water pooled around her boots, trailing wet prints across concrete still warm from the previous day’s sun. Outside, forty-eight Taiwanese sailors and marines stood in formation under the deluge. Their digital blue uniforms clung to them like a second skin, soaked and dripping — but not a single one shifted or grumbled.
Good, she thought. They’ll need that kind of discipline.
“Skinny Poo’s probably watching this through a spy satellite,” Mick muttered, checking his watch. “Counting heads. Measuring shadows.”
She glanced at Mick, still smirking at the nickname “Skinny Poo.” It had been born in 2013, when a photo of Xi Jinping and Obama walking alongside each other caught the attention of a savvy internet troll in Taiwan. He’d replaced the two with a caricature of Winnie-the-Pooh and Tigger. Xi was Pooh, obviously, and as the meme went viral, Beijing lost its mind.
They banned the meme, scrubbing search results and declaring Pooh an “enemy of the state” — but it was too late. Taiwanese netizens had already weaponized it into a national pastime. Subtle mockery was disguised as cartoon humor. These jabs, that censors couldn’t always catch and Beijing couldn’t laugh off, lived on.
When Xi died, his handpicked successor had inherited more than just the presidency. He’d inherited the meme. He was lankier than Xi, colder in demeanor, but no less authoritarian. When an internet troll called him Skinny Poo, the name stuck, like a middle finger dressed in honey.