Sikora nodded approvingly. “Well said. Another round for my American friends! To adaptation!”
The tension broke. Conversations resumed, war stories flowing with the alcohol. Torres noticed Marrick remained at the bar, isolated in his certainty.
“Walk you back?” Torres offered an hour later, finding the warrant officer still nursing the same drink.
“I’m good.”
“Wasn’t a question, sir.”
They left together, stepping into the sharp Polish night. Their breath steamed in the cold air.
“They don’t get it,” Marrick said finally. “The capability we’re fielding. It’ll change everything.”
“Maybe. But those guys? They’ve been watching Russia’s moves for years. They’ve earned their skepticism.”
“Skepticism’s fine. But they act like I’m trying to replace them.”
Torres stopped walking. “Aren’t you?”
Marrick turned, surprised. “What?”
“Be honest, sir. Five years from now, ten — you really think we’ll need tank crews? Or will it all be Ripsaws, controlled from bunkers in Nevada?”
“That’s not—” Marrick paused. “I don’t know. Maybe. But right now, we need both.”
“Right now.” Torres resumed walking. “That’s all any of us have. Right now, your machines need us to tell them what to kill. Second that changes, we’re all obsolete.”
“You’d rather we stick with pure human control? Let kids die because they’re slower than algorithms?”
Torres thought of McDermott, his growing confidence. Of Munoz, fighting through his hesitation. Of his own son, chasing dreams in Texas.
“I’d rather we remember that someone has to live with the consequences,” he said finally. “Your Ripsaws will kill more efficiently. But they won’t carry the weight after.”
They reached the barracks in silence. Inside, exhausted soldiers grabbed what sleep they could before morning brought another day of preparation.
Torres paused at his door, checking his phone. A text from Maria: “Miguel went to all his classes today. Even stayed after for tutoring. Whatever you said worked.”
He smiled, pocketing the phone. Small victories.
Tomorrow they’d train again. Perfect the integration of man and machine. Prepare for a conflict everyone said wouldn’t happen.
But tonight, his son was back on track. His loader was working through his fears. His crew was ready.
For now, that was enough.
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Silent Guardians
The early-morning air hung thick with salt and humidity as Michael “Mick” Matsin exited the building housing the underground bunker, stepping into the night air. It felt good to escape the ops center buried beneath twenty feet of concrete and rebar that separated the world above from the nerve center below. As the fortified command post for the ROC Navy, it had been built to survive whatever Beijing might throw at it. It was a constant reminder of the threat under which the people of Taiwan continued to live.
As Mick pulled his Unplugged encrypted phone from the pocket of his cargo pants, he checked the time difference, noting that if it was 0230 here, that meant it was 1130 the morning before back home in Ventura County. His wife, Sarah, would be finishing her morning run along the beach, probably stopping at that coffee shop along Main Street she loved. The same place where they’d had their first date twenty-eight years ago, when he was a freshly minted fire control tech and she was finishing her nursing degree.
He pressed Call, and the phone rang twice before her voice filled his ear. “Hey, sailor.”
“Hey yourself.” Mick leaned against the building’s concrete wall, still warm from yesterday’s sun. In the sky above, the stars wheeled through gaps in the scattered clouds, the same stars she’d see in twelve hours. “How’s the weather back home, Sarah?”
“Seventy-two and perfect. The beach was gorgeous this morning.” She paused. “And you?”
“Hmmm, well, it’s humid and tropical, kind of what you would expect of an island,” he responded, omitting, of course, the air raid sirens they’d tested earlier, or how often and brazenly the PLA Air Force had been violating the Taiwanese ADIZ, or Air Defense Identification Zones, the closer they got to April 15. “It kind of reminds me of that time when we were stationed on Guam or Hawaii.”
“Yeah, those were happy times… Mick…” Her voice carried that tone, the one that cut through twenty-six years of marriage and five kids’ worth of deflection to get at the truth. “I’m not sure if you see any news over there, but the rhetoric from Beijing is getting worse. They’re calling Taiwan a ‘festering wound that must be cauterized.’”
He winced as he listened, then tried to say something. “I’ve heard some of it, Sarah—”
“Hey, don’t ‘Sarah’ me. I’ve spent twenty-plus years as a Navy wife. I know when you’re downplaying things.” He could hear her setting her coffee mug down, that distinctive sharp clinking sound it made, ceramic against the quartz countertop of their kitchen. “I know the money is good, and we could use it. But twelve hundred and fifty a day doesn’t do us any good if—”
“I know, you’re right.” He cut her off, the words coming out rougher than intended. She was concerned, that was all.
Below his feet, through twenty feet of rock, rebar, and concrete, forty-eight ROC naval personnel tracked every surface contact within two hundred miles. Kids, really. Same age as their oldest, the one serving on USS Intrepid. “The training’s going well. They’re quick learners. If anything happens, they’ll be ready.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about.”
A maintenance crew drove past in an electric cart, tools rattling. Mick waited until they passed. “Seven more weeks. Contract ends May thirty-first. Jodi’s already got us booked on the first flight to Guam, then home.”
“You promise?”
“Would I lie to my favorite nurse?” He teased.
“You’d try to protect her from worrying.” But he heard the smile creep into her voice. “How’s Jodi? Still making those terrible movie references?”
“Yup, yesterday she told the ROC Marines that operating the Zealot USVs was like ‘giving Maverick a boat instead of an F-14.’ They just stared at her.”
Sarah’s laugh filled the distance between them. “Tell her she needs newer material.”
“I’ll add it to the list, right after ‘stop calling President Ouyang Skinny Poo in front of the Taiwanese admirals.’” He laughed.
“She doesn’t!”
“She does. They love it.” Mick checked his watch. Fourteen minutes into his fifteen-minute break. “Listen, I need to—”
“I know. Back to the cave.” She sighed. “Mason called yesterday. The Intrepid’s in Yokosuka for resupply. He sounds good. Tired, but good.”
Their oldest, following his father’s path but in a Navy transformed by silicon and autonomy. “Tell him I’m proud of him next time he calls.”
“Tell him yourself when you get home.” A pause. “I love you, Michael Matsin. Come back to me.”
“I always do, Sarah.” The words were ritual, promise, prayer. “Love you too.”
“Mick?” she asked, not wanting the call to end.
“Yeah, I’m still here?”
“Whatever’s coming, whatever you’re really preparing them for, just… be careful. The kids need their father. I need my husband,” she said, her voice wavering.
He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of everything unsaid. The PLA naval buildup they’d tracked all week. The way the Taiwanese operators had stopped joking during drills. The grim efficiency that had replaced nervous energy.