“Least they made it.” The LT’s breath hung in the frigid air like smoke. “When I heard they were routing through Hamburg first, I figured we’d be here till April.”
“Hamburg’s backed up with commercial traffic. Gdańsk gave us priority.” Torres thumbed on his tablet, scrolling through the manifest on its cracked screen. “All four tanks are accounted for. Ripsaws are coming off the
The port bustled with controlled chaos. Polish longshoremen worked alongside US Navy cargo specialists, their shouts a mix of English, Polish, and the universal language of arm-waving. A platoon of Polish land forces patrolled the perimeter, MSBS Grot rifles cradled casually but ready.
“You sleep on the flight?” Novak asked.
“Some.” It had been twelve hours from Fort Bliss to Ramstein, another fourteen by bus to Gdańsk. His body still thought it was midnight in Texas.
“How’d Maria take it?”
Torres watched Alpha-22 touch down, chains rattling as dockers rushed to secure it. “Like she always does. Strong in front of the kids, fell apart after.”
“Sixteen years, four deployments—”
“Five,” Torres corrected. “Syria counted, even if it was just six months.”
“Right.” Novak shifted, uncomfortable with the personal talk. Torres thought Novak was a good kid, but even as a West Point graduate, he was still learning that leading meant knowing your NCOs as people, not just soldiers.
A Polish major approached, his English crisp despite the accent. “Sergeant Torres? Major Kowalski, 11th Armored Cavalry Division. I’m your liaison for the transit to Drawsko.”
Torres saluted. “Sir. This is Lieutenant Novak, our platoon leader.”
Kowalski returned the salute, then extended his hand. “Welcome to Poland, gentlemen. Your reputation precedes you — 1st Armor’s finest, yes?”
“We try, sir.” Novak shook hands, finding his command voice.
“Your route is secured. We’ll move in convoy — Polish lead and trail elements, your vehicles in the center. The roads are clear, but…” Kowalski paused. “There have been incidents. Russian sympathizers, mostly graffiti and protests. Nothing serious.”
“Distance to Drawsko?” Novak pulled out his own tablet, probably triple-checking the route Torres had already memorized.
“Three hundred twenty kilometers. Five hours with rest stops. Your soldiers are already boarding buses, correct?”
“Yes, sir. They left Ramstein an hour ago.”
Torres’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Sergeant Burke: “Alpha-22 secured. Starting inspection.”
“Excuse me, sirs. I need to check on my crew.”
Torres jogged across the dock, dodging forklifts and cargo nets. The Abrams sat massive and patient, condensation already forming on its composite armor. Burke stood on the front slope, running through his checks.
“How’s she look, Nate?”
“Intact. Some surface rust on the track pins, but nothing major.” Nathan Burke, a Nebraska farm boy turned tanker, knew machinery like some men knew women. “Munoz is checking the bustle rack. Boone’s underneath, inspecting the running gear.”
“Good.” Torres circled the tank, eyes cataloging every bolt and weld. He’d learned to spot trouble before it spotted him. A loose track pin in Romania had nearly cost him his first tank.
“Sergeant Torres!” PFC Munoz appeared from behind the turret. “Permission to ask a question?”
“Ask away.”
Munoz hesitated. “My girl, she says the protests in Warsaw got pretty heated last week. Anti-NATO stuff. Do you think we’re gonna have any problems while we are here?”
Torres considered his answer. Munoz was twenty, from Jacksonville just like him and Maria. He had steady hands on the loader’s controls, but this was his first real deployment.
“Poland invited us, Munoz. Most folks here remember what Russian occupation looks like. A few protesters don’t speak for the whole country.”
Munoz nodded. “Roger, Sergeant. That’s good to know.”
As Munoz returned to work, Torres knew he hadn’t been completely honest with him. He’d listened to the intelligence briefs the S2 had given prior to them leaving Bliss. Pro-Russian and — Chinese information operations were running at full speed across Poland and most of Europe — especially after that incident off the coast of Gotland. The discovery of Chinese naval officers conducting espionage activities from a commercial vessel had really shaken things up in Europe. In addition to regular sabotage against undersea cables in the Baltic Sea, Asia, and the Caribbean, small acts of sabotage were starting to appear at rail junctions and port facilities across major logistic nodes in Europe and even back home. It felt like the world was slowly shifting beneath their feet and they didn’t even know it.
“Hey, Sarge.” Boone emerged from beneath the hull, coveralls already filthy. “Trans is good, but we’re down about two quarts of hydraulic fluid. Looks like normal seepage, but still, there has to be a way to keep it from leaking like that.”
