The man in the scarf looked satisfied. He pulled out a small notebook, scribbled something, then turned his gaze back to the turbines.
“And this system here,” Klara continued, raising her voice slightly, “feeds into the southern grid loop that powers Klintehamn and portions of Burgsvik. Grid balancing is managed from a control center in Hemse.”
Cao repeated the energy cover story with professional ease. Klara noted how none of the officials so much as looked toward the turbines. Their eyes were scanning the tree line — counting trucks and estimating patterns.
A man from the Spanish group raised his hand politely and asked in English, “What’s the primary materials source for the turbine blade retrofits? Are you relying on domestic composites or importing from Germany or Denmark?”
Klara welcomed the break in tension. “Great question. The newer stabilizers are sourced through a joint Nordic supply network, mostly Swedish and Danish composites. The blade tips are still imported from a German subsidiary, but that may shift to local manufacture next year.”
One of the Singaporean investors chimed in, her tone bright. “And what’s the projected maintenance cycle at your efficiency rate?”
“Fourteen to sixteen months per full diagnostic rotation,” Klara replied. “We operate three drone teams for visual inspection and blade diagnostics. The offshore variants have a slightly longer cycle thanks to lower particulate exposure.”
Several heads nodded, satisfied. The tension faded slightly — at least among the non-Chinese participants.
Klara took a step forward and lowered her voice, speaking directly to Cao. “You’ll see supply convoys running east — west across this road through the end of the week. They’re repositioning HIMARS launchers and counter-UAV systems to the central corridor. There may also be Patriot radar assets mobile near Slite and Roma.”
Cao didn’t need to translate that. Every man in the group understood English better than they pretended.
Klara forced a pleasant tone. “Shall we move to the vans? The next site has active biogas processors and may smell… less than inviting.”
The group nodded as one. The man with the scarf lingered a moment longer, eyes squinting toward the coast road.
Klara didn’t breathe until he turned to follow.
The Roma biogas plant stank of wet fermenting compost, but Klara preferred the odor to the silence of the van ride. She pushed through her rehearsed speech with mechanical precision.
“…and this anaerobic digestion system is fed by agricultural waste from farms across central Gotland. It produces both heat and electricity, with minimal transmission loss to the surrounding district.”
Across the road, visible through a tree line were armored Humvees, stacks of cargo containers, and a row of folding tents braced against the spring wind. All signs of Bravo Company’s presence.
“Are those… military assets?” one of the Chinese officials asked — in English.
Klara paused just a beat longer than she should have. Her eyes flicked toward Cao.
“Temporary,” she said carefully. “Part of a Swedish-led training initiative. Best not to linger your attention on them too long. There are cameras. Sensors.”
Cao began translating, but she stepped closer and lowered her voice.
“Tell them, politely, that they are being watched, just like I am. If they start pointing, they’ll be having a much shorter visit to the island.”
Cao’s mouth tightened. He relayed the message. The response from the man in the scarf came swiftly — a terse phrase in Mandarin and a hard glance toward Klara.
Cao hesitated. “He says… you are too forward. That such disrespect is noted.”
Klara straightened her blazer. “Then he’s free to file a complaint with my director. After we’re safely off the island.”
For a few tense seconds, no one moved. Then the scarfed man gave a curt nod, and the rest of the group shifted their attention back to the tour.
A Spanish delegate leaned closer to his interpreter and asked something in hushed tones. After a brief exchange, the interpreter looked to Klara. “He’s asking how the plant manages methane capture and if excess gas is sold back to the national grid.”
“Good question,” Klara said, seizing the chance to reset the tone. “Yes, we capture and scrub the methane for purity, then it’s piped into the local grid under a regional agreement. Roughly twelve percent is sold back to mainland suppliers during peak capacity.”
One of the Singaporeans added, “Do you foresee hydrogen conversion scaling up here in the next three years?”
“It’s being discussed,” Klara replied smoothly. “The infrastructure’s viable with modest retrofits. But it depends on funding commitments from both Stockholm and Brussels.”
Klara continued, her voice crisp. “As I was saying, this plant handles over two thousand tons of biological input annually. Our newest digesters were installed in late 2031 and have improved conversion rates by nearly twelve percent.”
Behind her words, the rhythmic thud of heavy boots sounded from the tree line. A small patrol, four soldiers in full gear, rifles at low ready, passed along the perimeter, eyes scanning in all directions.
Cao glanced over, then returned his gaze to Klara. “You were right,” he said under his breath. “We’re being watched.”
Klara didn’t break stride. “Good. Maybe they’ll think I’m actually here for the digesters.”
They’d reached their final stop for this tour. What was supposed to be a dormant limestone pit repurposed for solar research was now less than a kilometer from Charlie Company’s new motor pool and RBS-70 SHORAD platforms.
As Klara delivered a rehearsed briefing on photovoltaic soil integration and regional output modeling, she noticed several of the visitors drifting too close to the western ridge. The Spanish and Japanese delegates remained near the marked display area, nodding along politely, while the Singaporeans took photos of the demo plots and panels. But it was the Chinese delegation who were again testing the boundaries.
She moved swiftly. “Please remain near the installation markers,” she said with forced cheer. “That ridge is unstable and marked for erosion monitoring.”
Cao quickly translated.
Still, one of the Chinese officials, a tall man with gray temples and leather gloves, continued up the incline.
From the ridge, he would see at least a half dozen Leopard tanks parked under camo netting, visible through breaks in the sparse trees.
Klara reached him just before the crest. “Sir, for your safety, I must insist — this is an off-limits zone.”
The man turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once and stepped back, rejoining the others below.
A Singaporean investor tilted her head toward Klara. “Are these solar arrays active already or just in testing?”
“Still in pilot phase,” Klara replied smoothly. “We’ve logged six months of seasonal data and are preparing a transition report to submit to Region Gotland’s energy board. If funded, full deployment will follow within two years.”
One of the Japanese delegates asked, “Have you had issues with ground stability from the old quarry base?”
Klara nodded. “Some. Drainage improvements were done last autumn, and we’ve layered erosion controls over the eastern edge. The rest of the ridge, as you’ve seen, is not meant for foot traffic.”
Cao approached quietly. “They are getting impatient,” he murmured. “They want details you have not provided.”
“They’ll get what they get,” Klara muttered. “Unless they want to risk the entire operation.”
She gave a tight smile as she returned to the group.
“To the untrained eye,” she said, pitching her voice for the onlookers possibly monitoring their conversation, “this may seem like an ordinary solar soil integration platform — but it’s one of the most efficient in Scandinavia. It’s been field-tested to survive Gotland’s harshest winters.”