Red icons populated the display. “Primary threats — Type 022 Houbeis. Fast-attack boats doing fifty knots on wave-piercing hulls. Eight YJ-83 missiles each.” He zoomed on the missile specs. “NATO calls them CSS-N-8 Saccades. With a three-hundred-sixty-four-pound warhead, one hit ruins your whole day.”
“What’s the range of the Longbows, and how does the targeting system work?” asked Petty Officer Tsai.
“Eight klicks.” Mick highlighted engagement zones. “Fire-and-forget targeting. Lock, launch, move. Sea-skimming profile makes them hard to counter. HEAT warhead punches through anything in the PLA inventory.”
He spent the morning showing combat footage. They watched Ukrainian sea drones harassing Russian warships and Houthi swarms in the Red Sea. They saw success and failure, frame by frame.
“Yesterday’s lessons become tomorrow’s tactics.” He paused the final video — a Russian corvette listing after a drone strike. “This is real, people. You adapt or you die. Simple as that.”
The day blurred into tactical discussions, targeting priorities, swarm coordination. Mick pushed them hard, watching exhaustion battle determination on young faces. By 1800, they moved with more confidence — smooth, efficient, lethal.
“OK, let’s call it. Outstanding work today.” He killed the displays. “Tomorrow, we run through our final live fire and test some of the lessons we’ve taught you. We’ll be firing Hellfires and Stingers, blowing stuff up. For now, I want you to get some chow, then grab some rack time. I’ll see you tomorrow. Dismissed.”
As they filtered out, chattering in Mandarin mixed with military English, Commander Tang lingered behind.
“I think they’re ready,” he said quietly.
Mick popped a fresh Zyn, contemplating Taiwan’s odds. “They’d better be.”
As they stepped outside, Guam’s tropical evening painted the sky orange. Mick had seven weeks until his contract ended. Only seven weeks to transform these kids into warriors who could hold the line when — not if — Beijing made its move.
His phone buzzed; his wife, Sarah, was checking in from California. He’d call her later, spin stories about routine training while preparing for anything but. His mind was racing too much to talk to her right now. “Slow is smooth.” He muttered his old submariner’s mantra. “Smooth is lethal.”
Tomorrow they’d arm the boats. Tonight, he’d pray his students never needed to unleash them.
The evening air hung warm and still, more like mid-May than early April — one of those rare Baltic gifts when winter releases its grip early. Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Brenner stood before the massive grill, turning elk steaks and wild boar sausages with practiced precision, the aromatic smoke of juniper wood chips rising into the cloudless twilight sky.
“Daniels, bring me that platter for the root vegetables,” Brenner called out, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Command Sergeant Major Eric Daniels appeared with a carved wooden serving board, grinning at the sight of his battalion commander playing Viking chef. The gesture wasn’t lost on anyone — here was their leader, on what might be the eve of history, personally preparing a feast for his officers.
The Vidhave’s staff had outdone themselves, transforming the eco lodge’s pavilion into something from the sagas. Overhead, strings of warm lights crisscrossed between the timber beams like stars caught in a net, while strategically placed torches cast dancing shadows that evoked ancient mead halls. The long wooden tables — already part of the pavilion’s rustic charm — now bore checkered cloths weighted with platters of grilled root vegetables, lingonberry sauce, and fresh rye bread. Swedish and American soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder, passing bottles of Gotlands Bryggeri and sharing stories that bridged a thousand years of warrior tradition. Colonel Lindqvist moved among them like a Norse chieftain, his weathered face bright with satisfaction at seeing his idea brought to life — two militaries becoming one force over fire and fellowship, the eternal bond of those who stand watch against the darkness.
Captain Alex Mercer stood near the rough-hewn bar the Vidhave staff had improvised, nursing a Gotlands Bryggeri as he watched the evening unfold. The unusually warm air carried the scent of juniper smoke and grilling meat across the pavilion, where Swedish and American officers had begun finding their seats at the long tables. Colonel Anders Lindqvist approached through the amber torchlight, moving with the confident grace of a man on his own ground.
“Your battalion commander knows his way around a grill,” Lindqvist observed, accepting the beer Mercer offered. His eyes tracked Brenner’s movements — the practiced efficiency, the care with each cut of meat.
“Rangers lead the way, sir. Even at Viking feasts,” Mercer replied, noting how Lindqvist’s weathered face cracked into a genuine smile.
