“I think so. It’s a credible deterrent,” Batista replied. “Air-defense umbrella, precision fires, just enough ground forces to secure our assets. It’s small enough not to provoke, large enough to complicate their planning if they wanted to try and seize the island.”
“Walk me through the timeline.”
Batista pulled up a deployment schedule on his tablet. “1-59 ADA begins movement in three weeks. Equipment follows by sea and air. Initial operational capability on Gotland by March fifteenth. Full TF Sentinel operational by April first.”
“That’s fast.”
“Has to be. The EDEP exercise kicks off May first. If they’re planning something, that’s their window.”
The President was quiet for a moment, his weathered hands folding and unfolding on his desk. “Jim, I grew up watching wheat futures. You learn to read patterns, spot the signs before the storm hits. What’s your gut telling you?”
Batista considered the question. In thirty years of service, his instincts had saved more lives than any intelligence report. “My gut says this is different, sir. Bigger. The resource allocation, the timing, the coordination between Russia and China — it’s unprecedented. They’re not just testing their readiness capabilities like they claim. They’re preparing for something.”
“Then we’d better be prepared too,” Ashford said. “You have my authorization for TF Sentinel. But, Jim—”
“Sir?”
“Keep it quiet. Last thing we need is the
“Understood, Mr. President.”
“And, Jim? That armor you mentioned, the 1st Armor and 3rd Infantry Division? Start the movements. Call it a training rotation. But I want them ready to roll into battle if this goes south.”
“Agreed. I’ll get it in motion, sir.”
The President nodded, then leaned forward. “One more thing. What’s your take on Gotland? Can the Swedes hold it if push comes to shove?”
Batista thought of the map, the narrow straits, the strategic position. “With our help? Yeah, not a problem. Without it? Not a chance in hell if the Chinese are involved.”
“Fair enough. Then make sure that doesn’t happen. Whatever it takes,” the President directed, then cut the feed.
Batista was left alone with his thoughts and the weight of what was coming. Outside, the snow continued to fall on Vaihingen, each flake adding to the blanket of white covering the base. Soon, he thought, they’d know if this was just another exercise or the prelude to something worse.
He stood, gathering his materials. Mons awaited, then Stockholm. Allies to reassure, defenses to coordinate, and always, always, the ticking clock counting down to May.
As he left the conference room, Batista couldn’t shake the feeling that they were already playing catch-up in a game whose rules they didn’t fully understand. The question wasn’t whether the storm was coming — it was whether they’d be ready when it hit.
Rain hissed gently against the windows of the bridge, each droplet shimmering under the amber glow of Yulin Naval Base’s floodlights. Captain Shen Tao studied the tactical display intensely, the tight scar above his eyebrow twitching — a permanent reminder of the violent typhoon that struck Woody Island during a disastrous exercise last October.
The Navy had been conducting its largest amphibious landing exercise, transporting twelve of their jack-up barge systems from Yulin Naval Base to Woody Island. When a typhoon swept into the area before they could secure the landing barges, seven of the twelve had been lost. Three more had been severely damaged. In a single day, Mother Nature had dealt a crippling blow to the PLAN’s amphibious landing capabilities, leaving the Navy scrambling to replace the lost barges and the crews that had manned them.
The new Shuiqiao barges, or “battle barges” as some called them, sat highlighted on Shen’s display. “One hundred ten meters, one hundred thirty-five, one hundred eighty-five,” Shen murmured, visualizing each barge variant’s position and function. They would deploy sequentially — shallow to deep water — to form a temporary eight-hundred-meter pier for rapid offloading.
“Sequential deployment,” he said quietly. “In theory, that’s how it’s supposed to work.”
His secure phone buzzed. Admiral Deng Litian’s caller ID flashed, a comforting yet stern reminder of the immense pressures at hand.
“Iron Wolf.” Deng’s voice resonated warmly despite the tension. “Reviewing the exercise parameters again, are we?”
“Yes, Admiral.” Shen gazed out the window, watching civilian ferries, converted roll-on/roll-off ships, materializing from the rain like phantom vessels. “Considering the disaster from last October, we are attempting a highly ambitious recovery. We’re compressing six months of training into three weeks.”
