The general then gestured back toward the interactive map, emphasizing the northern and western regions of Visby. “Make sure launcher sites are positioned north and west of the city, carefully concealed, far from residential areas. No convoys through the city center. NATO uniforms should only appear in town at our invitation or in clearly approved circumstances.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Task Force Sentinel isn’t simply here to reinforce us; it’s a strategic trip wire. With the situation in Kaliningrad unfolding rapidly, Gotland is directly in the crosshairs. Gentlemen, let’s ensure we remain ready without becoming reckless.”
Each officer exchanged solemn, determined nods, fully grasping the gravity of the task before them.
The wind coming off the Baltic was crisp but tolerable, a reminder that spring hadn’t quite made up its mind. The small ferry pitched gently as it glided across the narrow sound separating Gotland from Fårö, its deck empty but for a few cars and a solitary van. A gull screeched overhead.
Mikko Rautio stood at the railing, hands stuffed into the pockets of his waxed canvas coat, eyes scanning the northern coastline as it emerged — windswept, sparse, and quiet.
“Perfect light,” he murmured in Finnish, lifting his phone to snap a few reference shots of the approaching shoreline. “Soft shadows. The raukar will look incredible once the fog lifts.”
Sanna, seated behind the car’s windshield with her tablet balanced on her knees, looked up from the outline she’d been refining.
“Chapter five,” she called out. “The jarl’s longship makes landfall here. Midsummer storm. The cliffs feel like teeth as they approach.”
Mikko smiled faintly. “That’s good. We should hike out to Langhammars at dusk — catch the rocks under the low sun.”
From anyone listening, it was ordinary enough. Writers in their element. A couple escaping to the silence of the islands for historical inspiration. That was the point.
But Mikko had already logged the position of the new relay antenna near Fårösund on the way up from Visby. And the coastal defense radar near Bungenäs, barely visible through the pines, had been rotating on a tighter interval than usual. Noted. Time-stamped. Logged.
As the ferry ramp clanked down onto the short stretch of dock, Sanna slid her sunglasses on and adjusted her scarf.
“I messaged Eva — the Airbnb host. She left the keys in the box by the porch, like last time. The house sits just beyond Ryssnas,” she said casually. “She mentioned something about the historical society hosting a local exhibit in Visby next month. Might be worth supporting. Good visibility for the channel.”
“Perfect,” Mikko replied. “We’ll offer to contribute. Maybe a special episode on the Brotherhood of Raukar.”
“Or a short AI-animated sequence,” she added, tapping her stylus. “Something eerie. The land gods never left.”
The roads of Fårö were as they remembered — narrow, edged with early spring frost, and lined with scrub pine and open rock. The farther north they drove, the fewer cars they saw. When they passed a Home Guard checkpoint near a coastal trailhead, Mikko offered a friendly wave. The soldier didn’t stop them — just logged the license plate like always.
By the time they pulled into the gravel driveway of their Airbnb — a weathered timber cottage tucked into the woods just west of Norsta Auren — the sun had pushed through the cloud layer.
The porch creaked beneath their boots. Mikko opened the lockbox and retrieved the key with a practiced hand. Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of smoke and cedar. A welcome basket sat on the kitchen table — locally made crackers, a jar of juniper honey, and a handwritten note:
Sanna smiled. “She thinks we’re writing the sequel to
Mikko dropped their bag by the door and peered out the window toward the trail leading north.
“We’ll give them something worth filming,” he said quietly. Then, louder, “Let’s take the drone out tomorrow. Sunrise over the cliffs?”
Sanna nodded. “And this afternoon, we visit the old fishing harbor. I want to walk the ridgeline.”
From this cozy little hideaway, nestled between folklore and granite, the map of Gotland’s defenses would soon take shape — piece by careful piece.
