“Y-9 now twenty kilometers out,” a lookout reported.
“Come on,” Elena whispered, watching their boats race back toward the harbor.
One by one, the deployment vessels returned. Crews quickly unloaded equipment, maintaining the pretense of normal operations. The militia boat completed its sweep and turned north, apparently satisfied.
“Last boat docking,” Captain Koh announced.
Elena checked her watch. The Y-9 would be overhead in minutes. “Everyone inside. Normal harbor operations only.”
They retreated to the warehouse as the surveillance aircraft’s drone filled the air. Elena watched through windows as the Y-9 circled Budai, sensors probing. Rain and electronic countermeasures would limit their effectiveness, but not eliminate it.
“All units showing operational,” Lin reported quietly. “Thirty-nine Zealot USVs successfully deployed. Mesh network stable.”
Elena allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. Despite the complications — suspected compromise, surveillance pressure, weather challenges — they’d succeeded. Budai’s coast now bristled with hidden teeth.
“Shark One, this is Shark Two,” she reported to Mick. “Coastal wolves are in position. The pack is ready to hunt.”
“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.
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.
