Mercer got out of the vehicle, his boots crunching on the frost-brittle grass that the sun hadn’t yet warmed. The position overlooked some routes from the east heading toward Visby. The area from which they’d pulled off the road provided them with some dense overhead forest cover, something that would come in handy if the enemy was using FPV drones to scout the area. Near the road they’d just exited was a logging road that ran further into the forest, offering more overhead concealment if they wanted to try and place one of the Patriot launchers or a HIMAR vehicle.
“Yeah, you’re right, Bertil. This is a good spot. What’s the distance to Visby?” asked SFC Holloway as he gave an approving nod to Mercer.
“Twelve kilometers,” Lieutenant Sandberg supplied. “Far enough to avoid civilian interference. Close enough for quick resupply when needed.”
Tanner was already pacing the perimeter, measuring fields of fire. “We could fit a Patriot launcher or a HIMAR truck here and easily keep it concealed or relocate quickly if we needed.”
“You have to be careful with the trees. They will interfere with the launcher coverage,” Boström warned.
“True, but better to have to move to find an opening in the tree coverage to fire than eat a Kalibr missile because we’re too exposed to their spotter drones,” Tanner countered. “Concealment over convenience is sometimes worth it if it can keep you alive.”
They spent three hours walking the site. Holloway marked positions on his GPS, command post here, ammunition storage there, generators tucked behind natural berms. Standard dispersal pattern, adapted for Gotland’s terrain.
“What about personnel?” Mercer asked Lindqvist, who’d remained silent during the survey. “Where would you like to have my troops billeted?”
“Not in Visby.” The colonel’s tone was firm. “The population is… concerned about militarization. They do not want to make Visby a military target, especially after the incident with that Chinese spy ship. We have a former military camp in Roma, the Grönt Centrum, that we would like to offer to your people. It dates back to our conscription days and has since been converted into a boarding school of sorts. It now teaches sustainable green farming and things like that. It’s vacant this semester for some renovations, so it’s ideal for our needs right now,” Colonel Lindqvist explained. “The grounds have dormitories we can use as sleeping quarters and living spaces for your people. It’s a good facility, Captain. We can turn some of the school rooms into offices for your headquarters as well, and the surrounding grounds offer protected berms and forested areas where you can position some of the Patriot vehicles and plenty of space for you to park your vehicles and establish a good perimeter.”
“Excellent, can we head over there now and take a look?”
“Yes, of course. It’s not a hotel or anything, but it’ll do.” Lindqvist almost smiled. “It’s Swedish military luxury.”
Roma Military Camp sprawled across a shallow valley twenty-five kilometers southeast of Visby. Built during the Cold War, expanded in fits and starts, and then turned into a vocational school a decade after the Cold War ended, the place was only recently undergoing refurbishment into an alternate reserve military encampment for wartime use or contingency operations like now.
From the moment Mercer saw the place, he had to admit, this was better than he had hoped for. It had running water, bathrooms, showers, a cantina, and warehouses where they could store gear and supplies. While it was clear the facility was still actively being used for civilian purposes, the buildings themselves still retained that utilitarian charm for which military architecture was known.
“Well, boys, looks like this is going to be home sweet home,” Sergeant First Class Holloway loudly announced as the soldiers walked into the building.
The buildings, returned once again to barracks, were indeed basic. They were long buildings with open bays, metal bunks with folded-over mattresses, and communal showers that promised tepid water. But the bones of the building were sound — thick walls, good sight lines, and multiple exit routes. It even had a restaurant that looked to have been a mess hall at one point.
“We can work with this,” First Sergeant Tanner declared, already mentally organizing platoon areas. “Weapons cleaning station there. TOC in that end room. Comms can set up—”
An explosion of Swedish erupted nearby. Two Home Guard soldiers were unloading equipment from a truck, apparently disagreeing about proper procedure. The argument grew heated.
“Problem?” Mercer asked Bertil.
The old teacher sighed. “Göran thinks ammunition should be stored in the old bunker. Erik says it’s too damp. They’ve had this argument for three years.”
“And?” Mercer asked.
“They’re both right.” Bertil shrugged. “The bunker is secure, but moisture is bad for long-term storage. Welcome to Swedish consensus-building, Captain. Everyone discusses until everyone agrees.”
