Back on the road, Kowalski grew more talkative. He talked about his son, who had served in the Polish Army’s 16th Mechanized Division. His wife apparently taught school in Warsaw. Normal life continued, despite the gathering storm.
“You have children?” the major asked.
“Four. Oldest is fourteen, youngest is six,” Torres answered.
“Difficult, being away,” said Kowalski.
“Part of the job,” said Torres, even though his heart felt a familiar ache. Miguel’s tournament was in three days. Sophia was working on her quinceañera planning. Life moved on without him.
They passed through Słupsk without incident, the promised protesters nowhere in sight. Either Polish intelligence was wrong, or local police had been very efficient.
“Two hours to Drawsko,” Kowalski announced as they turned onto S11.
The landscape changed, and coastal plains gave way to forests and lakes. The sun dropped toward the horizon, painting everything gold.
His phone rang. It was Captain Morrison.
“Torres, you tracking our position?”
“Yes, sir. ETA 1900 hours.”
“Good. Ripsaw briefing pushed to 2100. Division commander wants to address everyone first. Mandatory formation at 2000.”
“Roger, sir. Any word on Third Platoon?” asked Torres.
“Delayed again,” Morrison explained. “German rail workers threatened a strike. They’re trying to route through Czech Republic.”
“Oh, and, Sergeant?” Morrison’s tone shifted. “Good work in Gdańsk. Major Kowalski sent positive feedback about your professionalism.”
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“Keep it up. Morrison out.”
Kowalski smiled. “I may have mentioned your excellence to my liaison.”
“Appreciated, Major.”
“Professional courtesy. Your country sends its best to help defend ours. The least we can do is acknowledge it.”
They crested a hill, and Drawsko Pomorskie sprawled before them. The training area’s lights twinkled in the gathering dusk.
“Final stop,” Kowalski announced over the convoy net. “Fuel and tie-down check before we enter the training area.”
The truck stop was military-controlled, and Polish MPs were already in position. The convoy pulled in with practiced precision.
Torres dismounted, his legs stiff from sitting. He walked the line of transporters, checking each tank. Alpha-22 sat patient and massive, waiting to be unleashed.
“How’re we looking, Burke?” asked Torres.
“Solid, Sergeant. No issues. The boys are ready to get these beasts off the trucks.”
“Soon enough,” Torres replied with a smile. “We’ll offload at first light. Tonight’s about getting settled.”
He checked his watch: 1830. Thirty minutes to Drawsko, then it would be a scramble to prepare for the division commander’s brief.
“Mount up!” Kowalski called. “Final push!”
The convoy rolled through Drawsko’s main gate as darkness fell. Security was tight — Polish and American MPs checked credentials, swept mirrors beneath vehicles, and utilized dogs to sniff for explosives.
“Welcome to Fort Trump,” someone muttered over the radio, using the unofficial nickname for the expanded American presence.
They followed guides to the armor assembly area. Even in darkness, Torres could see the buildup. Rows of vehicles and stacks of equipment were the infrastructure of deterrence.
“Tomorrow, we offload,” Kowalski said as they parked. “Tonight, we rest. Your barracks are in Area 7, Building 42.”
Torres shook the major’s hand. “Thanks for the smooth ride.”
“My pleasure. We’ll work well together, I think.”
Torres gathered his platoon as they dismounted. He saw tired faces, but they were still alert.
“Outstanding movement, men. Grab your gear, find your bunks. Formation at 1950 in the company area. Look sharp — division commander’s watching.”
They dispersed into the night. Torres lingered, looking at the tanks on their transporters. Tomorrow they’d roll off, ready to train… and ready to fight, if necessary.
His phone buzzed. It was Maria again. “Kids in bed. Carlos asked if tanks have beds too. I told him tanks sleep standing up.”
Tores smiled and typed, “Smart kid. Tanks do sleep standing up. Give them all a kiss from me.”
“Already did. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He pocketed the phone and headed for the barracks. Whatever the division commander had to say, whatever was building in the east, would wait until tomorrow.
Tonight, he had soldiers to take care of. The rest was above his pay grade.
But as he walked through the Polish night, past tanks and robots and the machinery of modern war, Torres couldn’t shake the feeling that pay grades wouldn’t matter much longer.
Something was coming. They all felt it.
The question was when.
