“Stable,” Bertil answered quietly. “They saved the right leg, but he’ll never walk normally again. Twenty years old.” His good hand clenched. “Twenty years old and maimed by cowards who hide bombs in our soil.”
The room fell silent. Through the window, they could see increased security patrols, Swedish soldiers and American paratroopers working in mixed teams, everyone tense, everyone watching the area around them.
“It’s not just us,” Bradley said, pulling up regional intelligence reports. “The Baltics are going crazy. Estonia’s mobilizing their reserves. Latvia’s requested additional NATO assets. Everyone’s spooked by those Kaliningrad exercises.”
“As they should be,” Stenqvist added. “Joint amphibious operations two weeks before the scheduled EDEP exercise? Either they’re incompetent at scheduling, or—”
“Or they’re accelerating their timeline for something we don’t know yet,” Brenner finished. “It’s like they’re moving pieces into position early.”
Lindqvist’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowning. “Speaking of escalation…” He turned on the wall-mounted television. “You need to see this.”
The screen showed a press conference in Manila. General Emilio Sarmiento, the Philippines’ National Security Advisor, stood at a podium, his weathered face set in hard lines.
“—will not stand by while the PLA attempts to starve out the peaceful people of Taiwan. We will continue to deliver humanitarian aid, including food and medicine, to our democratic neighbors, without interference.”
“Oh crap, just what we need,” Bradley muttered. “He’s calling the PRC out.”
Sarmiento continued: “The PLA has no authority to deter, deny, or delay those shipments in international waters. If a single Filipino vessel is harassed or boarded, it will be met with swift consequences. I trust Beijing understands what that means.”
The news feed switched to a response from Beijing. Major General Ren Xiaojun, the PLA’s attack dog and spokesperson, stood before a bank of microphones. Even through the television, his contempt was palpable.
“General Sarmiento speaks with the arrogance of a bygone era. Taiwan is a domestic matter of the People’s Republic of China. Your so-called ‘deliveries’ are provocations, thinly veiled attempts to challenge our sovereignty.”
“Wow, would you listen to this bastard?” Mercer said under his breath. “Who does he think he is?”
Ren continued: “If Manila wishes to test the resolve of the People’s Liberation Army Navy, it will have its answer soon enough. The inspections begin tomorrow. I suggest you advise your captains accordingly… before someone miscalculates.”
Brenner muted the television. “Tomorrow. April fifteenth. Tax day in America, and the same day as their ‘customs enforcement’ is supposed to start.”
“It’s all connected. Has to be,” Bertil said slowly. “The devices here, the exercises in Kaliningrad, now this confrontation in the Pacific. They’re synchronizing events.”
“Yeah, multiple pressure points,” Bradley agreed, pulling up a global map. “You got the Taiwan Strait, the South China Sea, the Bering Sea, and the Baltic Sea. Pick your poison. We’ve got four geographically different locations, all under threat at the same time. They’re trying to force us to choose where to respond, where to place the limited forces we have.”
“Well, in my mind, they’ve already chosen where to attack,” Lindqvist added grimly.
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation. A Swedish communications specialist entered the room, looking shaken. “Colonel, priority message from Stockholm. The forensics team was able to analyze that partial fingerprint we sent them last night from the device.”
“Oh, they did? That’s excellent. What did they find?”
“A match — a Red Notice, actually. Wanted, detain on sight,” the specialist informed them.
“Really? What does a Red Notice mean again?” asked Brenner, turning to Lindqvist.
“An Interpol Red Notice is similar to your American FBI Most Wanted list or your terrorist watch list. It’s an international law enforcement bulletin,” explained Colonel Lindqvist. “It means our suspect is wanted internationally for serious crimes.”
“Huh, impressive work by your forensics team,” Brenner commented. “What more can you tell us about him?”
The comms specialist nodded, then explained, “The man’s real name is Hung Minghao, age thirty-seven. He entered the EU through Amsterdam three years ago using sophisticated forged documents — biometric passport, fabricated employment history, everything. The identity held up through multiple security screenings.” The specialist paused. “He’s been operating as a cultural attaché at the PRC embassy in Stockholm for the past eighteen months.”
“How sophisticated are we talking?” Bradley asked.
“State-level,” the specialist replied. “Our intelligence assessment suggests MSS 6th Bureau — their elite foreign operations division. He’s not just a spy, he’s an assassin. The Red Notice links him to the murder of a Taiwanese intelligence officer in Prague two years ago.”
