Torres watched Burke guide Boone up the ramps, tracks clanking on steel. The tank settled onto the flatbed with a satisfied groan of hydraulics.
“Perfect,” the loadmaster declared. “Now we chain her down.”
The process was repeated for each tank. By 1030, all four Abrams sat secured on their transporters. The Ripsaws, lighter and more compact, loaded faster onto smaller flatbeds.
“Convoy brief in five,” Kowalski announced.
They gathered near the lead Polish escort vehicle, a Rosomak APC bristling with antennas. Captain Sikora spread a laminated map on the hood of a vehicle.
“Gentlemen, our route.” Sikora traced the highways with a laser pointer. “A1 to Grudzi, then S6 north to Słupsk, finally S11 to Drawsko. Total distance three hundred twenty kilometers.”
“Anticipated threats?” Novak asked.
“Minimal. Some anti-NATO graffiti reported near Tczew. Possible protesters at the Słupsk interchange. Local police will clear them before we arrive.”
“How about speed? What are we allowed to travel?” asked Novak nervously.
Captain Sikora calmly replied. “Sixty kilometers per hour maximum. EU road regulations. The transporters are heavy — we don’t want to damage civilian infrastructure.”
Torres calculated. Five hours minimum, plus stops. They’d reach Drawsko well after dark.
“Rest stops every ninety minutes,” Sikora continued. “Designated truck stops only. Your soldiers remain with vehicles at all times.”
“What about security during transport and at the rest stops?” Torres asked before Novak could.
Sikora seemed unfazed by their questions as he continued to calmly respond to them. “Two Rosomaks front, two rear. Police coordination at major intersections. Polish Police have a SWAT team on standby, though we expect no issues.”
“Questions? No? Then mount up. We depart in twenty minutes.” Sikora wrapped up the briefing as he gathered up his map and notebook.
Torres found Burke prepping their escort JLTV. They’d ride separately from the tanks, standard procedure for road moves.
“You good to drive first shift?” Torres asked.
“Roger. Munoz wants to ride turret.”
“Negative,” Torres replied. “Too visible. We’re guests here, not occupiers. Windows up, weapons concealed.”
Burke nodded. “Munoz won’t like it.”
“Munoz will survive. Make sure everyone has water and snacks. Long ride ahead.”
Torres’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Maria: “Kids off to school. Sophia made honor roll!”
He smiled, then typed back: “Tell her I’m proud. Miss you all.”
“Miss you too. Stay safe over there.”
He pocketed the phone without responding. Safe was relative when you were moving seventy-ton tanks across a continent balanced on a knife’s edge.
“Sergeant Torres!” Kowalski waved from his command vehicle. “Ride with me for the first leg? I’d like to discuss integration procedures.”
Torres looked at Novak, who nodded. “Go ahead, Sergeant. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
The Polish major’s vehicle was surprisingly comfortable — cushioned seats, climate control, even cup holders. It was the lap of luxury compared to American trucks.
“Coffee?” asked Kowalski, offering a thermos as they pulled onto the highway.
“Thanks.” Torres accepted gratefully. It was proper coffee, not the motor oil Americans usually brewed.
Behind them, the convoy stretched half a kilometer. There were four tank transporters, four Ripsaw carriers, escort vehicles, and support trucks. They were a steel serpent winding through Poland.
“Your first time moving through Poland?” Kowalski asked.
“Did a rotation here in 2018,” Torres replied. “Just training then.”
“Ah, simpler times.” The major navigated through Gdańsk’s industrial district. “Now we have Russian troops in Belarus, Chinese advisors in Kaliningrad, and everyone pretending this is normal.”
“You think it kicks off?” Torres pressed.
Kowalski considered. “My grandfather fought the Nazis. My father prepared to fight the Soviets. I hoped my son would know peace.” He shrugged. “History has other plans.”
They passed graffiti on a warehouse wall. “NATO GO HOME” was lettered in red spray paint. It was fresh, by the look of it.
“Ignore that,” Kowalski said quickly. “Russian propaganda. Most Poles remember what occupation means.”
But Torres noticed the major’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
The highway opened up, with the Baltic coastline visible to their right. The convoy maintained perfect spacing, with Polish efficiency on display. Torres found himself relaxing slightly.
His phone buzzed. It was a text from Burke: “All good back here. Munoz sulking about the turret.”
“Tell him I’ll buy him a pierogi in Drawsko,” Torres replied.
They made their first stop at a truck stop near Tczew. Torres supervised the tie-down checks while Polish military police kept curious civilians at a distance. A few truckers took photos, but there were no incidents.
“Smooth so far,” Novak commented, stretching his legs.
“Long way to go yet, LT,” Torres replied.
