“Outstanding work,” Mick replied. “Any complications?”
“Mainland knows something’s up. Militia boat sniffed around, but found nothing actionable. Recommend advancing activation timeline.”
“Agreed. Jodi’s working on that issue. Get your team back to base.”
Elena gathered her people. Master Sergeant Sun approached, his earlier suspicion replaced by grudging respect.
“Not bad for a contractor,” he admitted. “You think like an insurgent. I approve.”
“High praise from a marine,” Elena replied.
Chief Chang shook her hand. “You kept my fishermen safe while accomplishing the mission. That’s all I asked.”
Captain Koh smiled through his exhaustion. “My grandfather smuggled weapons against the Japanese. My father ran supplies during the White Terror. Now I hide robot boats. Each generation finds its way to resist.”
Ensign Lin finished backing up his data. “Ma’am? The mesh network is learning. Every boat that passes, every radar return — it’s building a baseline of normal activity. In a week, it’ll be able to identify anomalies instantly.”
“That’s the idea,” Elena said. “Smart weapons for smart warfare.”
They loaded into vehicles for the return journey. As they left Budai, Elena took one last look at the coast. Peaceful fishing village, oyster platforms bobbing in the waves, morning catch being sorted at the docks.
But beneath the surface, thirty-nine mechanical wolves now prowled. When the time came, they would rise from hiding, missiles ready, AI minds calculating attack vectors. The Taiwan Strait had grown silicon fangs.
“You did good today,” Mick’s voice came through her earpiece. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we integrate with the main network.”
“Copy that.” Elena closed her eyes, exhaustion hitting hard. “The coastal wolves are ready. God help anyone who tries to land on these beaches.”
As their convoy headed inland, the Y-9 completed its surveillance run and turned west. Its cameras and sensors had captured thousands of images — fishing boats, aquaculture platforms, normal coastal activity.
They’d seen everything. They’d seen nothing.
In the digital age, the best camouflage was normalcy. And death now swam hidden among the oyster cages of Budai, patient as the tide itself.
Chapter Thirty-One:
The Forest Places Things
Captain Bertil Sonevang pressed himself deeper into the pine needles, ignoring the damp seeping through his ghillie suit. Thirty-two years of teaching history had taught him patience. Three decades in the Home Guard had taught him when patience might get you killed.
Through his thermal monocular, two figures moved along the forest trail like tourists who’d memorized their role too well. North Face jackets, expensive ones. Zeiss binoculars hanging just right, and camera bags that cost more than most Gotlanders made in a month. It all looked perfect.
Too perfect, too Gucci in his mind.
“Nyqvist,” Bertil whispered into his throat mic. “Status?”
“Eyes on POI,” Sergeant Albin Nyqvist responded from forty meters north of the persons of interest. “They’re stopping again. Same pattern as yesterday.”
Bertil tracked the pair through his optic. The taller one, Asian features, maybe Korean or Northern Chinese, knelt beside a limestone outcropping. His companion, stockier with Slavic cheekbones, maintained watch while consulting what looked like a birding guidebook.
Except birders don’t GPS-mark defensive positions, Bertil thought grimly.
This was the second day his team had shadowed some people affiliated with the “Baltic Wings Conservation Group.” Two days of watching them photographing approaches to the Patriot battery positioned three kilometers northeast. Two days of them sketching “geological formations” and landmarks to rapidly identify specific locations.
After the news they had heard about Kaliningrad, the sudden appearance of Chinese and Russian Marines conducting joint amphibious drills had everyone’s teeth on edge. Stockholm and NATO higher-ups had ordered increased surveillance of all foreign groups on Gotland. What the increased scrutiny found made Bertil’s old soldier instincts scream — danger.
“Wait, hold up.” Nyqvist’s voice tightened. “The tall one’s got something.”
Peering through his thermal, Bertil watched the Asian man produce an object of some sort from his pack. It looked cylindrical, matte gray in color, about the size of a large thermos. He couldn’t spot any commercial markings, not that it mattered.
“I’m recording it,” Corporal Emma Lindgren confirmed from her position. The digital camera captured a high-definition video of the scene, relaying it to the 2-503rd Battalion’s S2 shop and the P18 command post in real time.
The taller man knelt closer to the ground, placing the device into a shallow depression beside the outcropping’s base. The stockier man standing nearby produced a small tool that looked like a modified pH meter as he knelt down and pressed it into the ground nearby. The man’s movements were quick, smooth and professional. It was clear he’d done this before, many times.
The stockier man retrieved a stick of chalk from the pocket of his jacket and made a small mark on the limestone, three dots and a line. Bertil wasn’t sure what it meant, but he recognized reconnaissance markings when he saw them. It reminded him of something his grandfather had shared with him about his experience fighting the Soviets in the Winter War in neighboring Finland.
“Maybe it’s an acoustic sensor,” Bertil murmured softly. “Or something worse.”
The pair stood, brushing dirt from their knees. The Asian man turned his wrist, checked his watch, a military tell if Bertil had ever seen one. Civilians checked phones. Soldiers checked watches.
The pair began to move, continuing down the trail toward the coastal overlooks. Just two more nature lovers enjoying Gotland’s beauty. Except nature lovers didn’t emplace surveillance devices along trails leading to Patriot launchers and HIMAR vehicles.
Bertil reached for his radio, keying a different frequency. “Blackjack Six, Blackjack Six, this is Hemvärn Lead. Priority traffic. How copy?”
Captain Mercer’s voice came back almost immediately. “Good copy, Hemvärn. Send it.”
“Blackjack, we have confirmation of two POIs, possible foreign nationals. Break. Emplacing unknown device on the road in the vicinity of grid seven-tree-niner-four-two-eight. Request immediate consultation.”
“Hemvärn, wait one,” responded Mercer.
Bertil could picture the American captain in the TOC at the Grönt Centrum, probably pulling up the grid on his tactical display. Since the start of the Kaliningrad exercise, he’d been glad to see the Americans had stopped pretending this was a routine deployment. Pretense had a way of getting people killed.
“Hemvärn Lead, Blackjack Six. That grid puts you danger close to Route Apple.” Mercer used the coded designation for the Patriot battery’s primary logistics corridor. “Can you maintain observation?”
“Affirmative. But, Six, there’s a problem. They’re using reconnaissance markers along the route. If I had to guess? They’re Spetsnaz or trained by them.”
The encrypted channel stayed quiet for three heartbeats before it crackled to life.
“Copy all. I’ll round up a team. We’re eight mikes out. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to recover that device until we arrive. How many devices have you spotted so far?”
“Just the one so far. It could be acoustic or possibly a ground sensor. I’d wager they’re building a surveillance net.”