By the fourth day, patterns emerged. The Swedes worked in careful layers — planning, discussing, implementing with quiet efficiency. They knew every trail, every cove, every farmer who might report unusual activity. Home Guard members like Bertil seemed to materialize from the forest itself, bearing local intelligence and strong coffee.
Mercer’s advance team adapted. Sites were selected for the incoming Patriot batteries — dispersed positions that balanced concealment with coverage. Ammunition would be cached in small lots, never concentrated. Fuel dumps were positioned near civilian stations, hidden in plain sight.
“It’s like building a ghost defense,” Holloway observed over dinner in Roma’s mess hall. “Everything scattered, nothing obvious.”
“That’s the point.” Mercer pushed reconstituted beef around his plate. The Swedes had apologized for the limited menu — supply chains were still adjusting to the sudden influx. “If Ivan comes calling, he won’t find neat targets.”
“Think he will?” Staff Sergeant Landon McRae asked. The designated marksman had spent the day scouting sniper positions with his Swedish counterpart.
“Above our pay grade,” Tanner interjected. “We prepare for yes and hope for no.”
Through the mess hall windows, dusk painted Gotland’s forests purplish black. Somewhere out there, Russian satellites were photographing every new antenna, every vehicle movement. The chess pieces were sliding into position.
“Sir?” A Swedish corporal appeared at Mercer’s elbow. “Colonel Lindqvist requests your presence. Priority message from your headquarters.”
Mercer exchanged glances with Tanner. Priority messages rarely brought good news.
The Swedish command post was a study in organized efficiency, filled with banks of radios, digital displays showing real-time air traffic, and a coffeepot that never seemed to empty. Lindqvist handed Mercer an encrypted printout as he walked in.
“The deployment schedule for the remainder of your unit has been accelerated,” the colonel said simply. “They now arrive in four days.”
Mercer scanned the message. He suspected someone in Brussels or D.C. was getting nervous with all the saber-rattling going on. When the military accelerated the timeline of deployment, it was usually because something was heating up.
Mercer turned to Lindqvist. “Can Visby handle the sudden influx of the airlift?”
“Eh, we’ll make it work.” Lindqvist’s tone suggested Swedish determination kicking in. “You have a lot of heavy equipment coming?”
“Some. Mostly JLTVs, our unarmored infantry support vehicles, and a few Strykers mounted with those new Leonidas-IIIs — the high-powered microwaves. They’re incredible drone killers. But they are coming by sea.”
“Hmm, good to know. Then we have much to prepare,” replied Lindqvist. He turned to his staff, speaking rapid Swedish. Orders were given, acknowledged, executed. The machinery of defense accelerated as preparations got underway.
Later, walking back to his temporary quarters, Mercer found Bertil sitting on a bench, studying the stars.
“Clear night,” the Home Guard veteran observed. “Good for satellites. Yours and theirs.”
“You think they’re watching us now, here on Gotland?” asked Mercer.
“Always.” Bertil’s weathered face was thoughtful as he went on to explain. “Captain, my great-grandfather fought the Russians in 1939, in the Winter War in Finland, not here. He was one of the men who volunteered. When the Russians invaded, no one from Europe or America came to their aid — only their fellow Nordic neighbors. He said the worst part of the war was waiting. Not knowing if the Russians would come or where they might come from. Just… waiting.”
“Yes, that must have been hard, not knowing,” Mercer offered, his voice low. “It’s different now, Bertil. NATO, technology—”
“Eh, yes and no,” interrupted Bertil. He stood, joints creaking as he stretched his back. “Sure, technology changes, but men don’t. Someone in Moscow looks at this island, sees opportunity. Someone in Washington sees a threat, or a way to hurt Russia and now China. And we Gotlanders, us Swedes…? All we see is home… and we wonder if we will still have one when the dust settles.”
Bertil then turned to Mercer, patting him on the shoulder like a father would a son, his voice warm and proud. “I’m starting to like you, Captain. Your boys seem competent, and that’s a good thing. If trouble comes, we’ll need that.” He paused, then added. “But enough talk of war and what might happen. Let us talk about this chess rematch you owe me.”
Mercer smiled, “Sure, we can play another match tonight if you’d like. But first I need to take a moment and call my wife.” He excused himself and began walking away from the building, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone.
Alex Mercer pressed the phone to his ear, smiling instinctively as Maddie’s voice rang through, bright and excited.
“Alex! Oh my God, babe! You won’t believe it!” she burst out, a tremble of joyful tears threading through her words.
