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.”
“Yeah, or a targeting grid,” Mercer replied grimly. “Hold your position. We’re moving.”
Mercer arrived like his Ranger training had taught him — fast, quiet, and ready for war. The ISV materialized from the forest road, engine barely audible. The eight paratroopers dismounted with practiced efficiency, weapons at the low ready, heads on a swivel.
As the paratroopers approached, Bertil emerged from his hide, shedding the ghillie hood. “Captain Mercer. The POIs moved northwest, toward the Bungenäs overlook,” Bertil greeted him, pointing in the direction of the trail they had gone down.
“Damn, Bertil. You almost gave me a heart attack.” Mercer shook his head as his soldiers lowered their rifles. “OK, show me this device you mentioned.”
