The Gotland Deception

Chapter Fourteen: Steel Across the Atlantic

Salt wind cut through SFC Ramon Torres’s OCP combat blouse, the fabric stiff with sea salt and cold as he stood on the dock, watching the morning sun paint the Baltic a gunmetal gray. The USNS Watkins loomed above him, her cargo cranes swinging M1E3 Abrams tanks from her hold like toys.

“Sixteen years in, and it still makes me nervous watching them dangle my tank over water,” SFC Ramon Torres said to himself. He didn’t take his eyes off Alpha-22 as it swayed above the dock.

First Lieutenant Adam Novak appeared beside him, his collar pulled high on his combat shell jacket, shoulders hunched against the wind. “Three years in, and I’m just trying not to throw up watching it.”

Torres grunted agreement, eyes locked on Alpha-22 as it swayed thirty feet above the concrete. That was his tank, his crew, his responsibility.

“Least they made it.” The LT’s breath hung in the frigid air like smoke. “When I heard they were routing through Hamburg first, I figured we’d be here till April.”

“Hamburg’s backed up with commercial traffic. Gdańsk gave us priority.” Torres thumbed on his tablet, scrolling through the manifest on its cracked screen. “All four tanks are accounted for. Ripsaws are coming off the Fisher in about an hour.”

The port bustled with controlled chaos. Polish longshoremen worked alongside US Navy cargo specialists, their shouts a mix of English, Polish, and the universal language of arm-waving. A platoon of Polish land forces patrolled the perimeter, MSBS Grot rifles cradled casually but ready.

“You sleep on the flight?” Novak asked.

“Some.” It had been twelve hours from Fort Bliss to Ramstein, another fourteen by bus to Gdańsk. His body still thought it was midnight in Texas.

“How’d Maria take it?”

Torres watched Alpha-22 touch down, chains rattling as dockers rushed to secure it. “Like she always does. Strong in front of the kids, fell apart after.”

“Sixteen years, four deployments—”

“Five,” Torres corrected. “Syria counted, even if it was just six months.”

“Right.” Novak shifted, uncomfortable with the personal talk. Torres thought Novak was a good kid, but even as a West Point graduate, he was still learning that leading meant knowing your NCOs as people, not just soldiers.

A Polish major approached, his English crisp despite the accent. “Sergeant Torres? Major Kowalski, 11th Armored Cavalry Division. I’m your liaison for the transit to Drawsko.”

Torres saluted. “Sir. This is Lieutenant Novak, our platoon leader.”

Kowalski returned the salute, then extended his hand. “Welcome to Poland, gentlemen. Your reputation precedes you — 1st Armor’s finest, yes?”

“We try, sir.” Novak shook hands, finding his command voice.

“Your route is secured. We’ll move in convoy — Polish lead and trail elements, your vehicles in the center. The roads are clear, but…” Kowalski paused. “There have been incidents. Russian sympathizers, mostly graffiti and protests. Nothing serious.”

Yet, Torres thought but didn’t say.

“Distance to Drawsko?” Novak pulled out his own tablet, probably triple-checking the route Torres had already memorized.

“Three hundred twenty kilometers. Five hours with rest stops. Your soldiers are already boarding buses, correct?”

“Yes, sir. They left Ramstein an hour ago.”

Torres’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Sergeant Burke: “Alpha-22 secured. Starting inspection.”

“Excuse me, sirs. I need to check on my crew.”

Torres jogged across the dock, dodging forklifts and cargo nets. The Abrams sat massive and patient, condensation already forming on its composite armor. Burke stood on the front slope, running through his checks.

“How’s she look, Nate?”

“Intact. Some surface rust on the track pins, but nothing major.” Nathan Burke, a Nebraska farm boy turned tanker, knew machinery like some men knew women. “Munoz is checking the bustle rack. Boone’s underneath, inspecting the running gear.”

“Good.” Torres circled the tank, eyes cataloging every bolt and weld. He’d learned to spot trouble before it spotted him. A loose track pin in Romania had nearly cost him his first tank.

“Sergeant Torres!” PFC Munoz appeared from behind the turret. “Permission to ask a question?”

“Ask away.”

Munoz hesitated. “My girl, she says the protests in Warsaw got pretty heated last week. Anti-NATO stuff. Do you think we’re gonna have any problems while we are here?”

Torres considered his answer. Munoz was twenty, from Jacksonville just like him and Maria. He had steady hands on the loader’s controls, but this was his first real deployment.

“Poland invited us, Munoz. Most folks here remember what Russian occupation looks like. A few protesters don’t speak for the whole country.”

Munoz nodded. “Roger, Sergeant. That’s good to know.”

As Munoz returned to work, Torres knew he hadn’t been completely honest with him. He’d listened to the intelligence briefs the S2 had given prior to them leaving Bliss. Pro-Russian and — Chinese information operations were running at full speed across Poland and most of Europe — especially after that incident off the coast of Gotland. The discovery of Chinese naval officers conducting espionage activities from a commercial vessel had really shaken things up in Europe. In addition to regular sabotage against undersea cables in the Baltic Sea, Asia, and the Caribbean, small acts of sabotage were starting to appear at rail junctions and port facilities across major logistic nodes in Europe and even back home. It felt like the world was slowly shifting beneath their feet and they didn’t even know it.

“Hey, Sarge.” Boone emerged from beneath the hull, coveralls already filthy. “Trans is good, but we’re down about two quarts of hydraulic fluid. Looks like normal seepage, but still, there has to be a way to keep it from leaking like that.”

Torres shrugged. He knew how to do regular maintenance on his tank, but he was far from a grease monkey who might know how to solve a problem like that. “Ugh,” he commented. “OK, Boone. Get it topped off before we roll. Burke, you and Munoz check the ammo storage. I want every round secured.”

Torres headed back to where Novak now stood with Major Kowalski and a Polish captain by the name of Piotr Sikoa studying a tablet map.

“—avoid the A1 through Toruń,” Captain Sikora was saying. “There’s construction delays, plus it takes us too close to Kaliningrad.”

“How close?” Novak asked.

“Hundred fifty kilometers at the nearest point.” Kowalski’s expression darkened. “Close enough for those Russian Helios ISR drones or even those new Chinese Winged Dragon high-altitude surveillance drones. We’ve been spotting more of these drones edging Polish airspace as they monitor our ports and the rail and road networks entering from Germany. For an exercise, they sure are conducting a lot of surveillance across much of our country.”

For a moment, no one spoke as the words hung in the salty air. The Russians had always maintained a presence in their Kaliningrad enclave, but the recent arrival of some Chinese units was beginning to cause alarm in Poland and even Germany that this so-called exercise might become something more. The Kaliningrad pocket was strange — a piece of Russia wedged between Poland and Lithuania. The so-called Suwałki Gap was the only thing separating Russia from its proxy Belarus.

“Geez, are these drones armed?” asked Novak.

Kowalski shrugged, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Who knows these days. When they first announced this new military and trade pact, I genuinely thought we might begin to see a period of normalcy with Russia. You know, neighboring countries trading with each other and perhaps moving beyond our past. Now? Who knows what Moscow and Beijing think anymore.”

A horn blast drew their attention. The USNS Fisher was maneuvering into the adjacent berth, her deck stacked with shipping containers. Inside those boxes were four M5 Ripsaw autonomous combat vehicles, the platoon’s new silicon-brained partners.

“Ah!” Kowalski brightened. “Your robots arrive. We are very curious about these systems.”

“You and me both, sir.” Torres had done the training at Fort Bliss, but three weeks wasn’t enough to trust his life to a machine.

Novak’s phone buzzed. He frowned at the screen.

“Problem, LT?” Torres asked.

“Text from Captain Morrison. Third Platoon had an issue clearing German customs. Some paperwork glitch with their Ripsaw’s AI classification.”

“They get it sorted?” Torres pressed.

“Yeah, but they’re twelve hours behind now.” Novak pocketed the phone. “We might be running our validation exercises shorthanded.”

Torres shrugged. In sixteen years, he’d learned that plans were just suggestions. “We’ll adapt.”

The next two hours blurred. Tanks were offloaded, inspected, and fueled. The Ripsaws emerged from their containers like lethal insects — low, angular, bristling with sensors and weapons. Each one cost more than most Americans made in a lifetime.

Torres watched the civilian technicians fuss over Ripsaw Two-One, his platoon’s assigned unit. The thing looked wrong somehow. Tanks had personalities, quirks you learned like a spouse’s moods. The Ripsaw just sat there, cameras swiveling with mechanical precision.

“Creepy, right?” Staff Sergeant Granger appeared beside him, coffee steaming in the cold. “It’s like it’s thinking.”

“It is thinking,” Torres insisted. “That’s the point.”

“Yeah, but thinking what?” asked Granger. He was eight years in and steady as bedrock; he didn’t rattle easy. But the Ripsaw had them all on edge.

“Right now? It’s probably calculating firing solutions on those seagulls,” Torres teased.

Granger laughed, breaking the tension. “As long as it doesn’t mistake us for seagulls.”

By 0900, the Polish HET crews had arrived. Torres watched the first M1300 Heavy Equipment Transporter back up to Alpha-21, its hydraulic ramps lowering with a mechanical whine.

“Easy with my baby!” Torres called out as Polish operators guided his tank onto the flatbed.

Torres’s counterpart was right to be nervous. Loading seventy tons of tank onto a transporter required millimeter precision. One wrong move and you’d throw a track or worse.

“Your men seem competent,” Novak observed, watching the Polish crew work.

Major Kowalski nodded with pride. “They move our Leopards and K2 Black Panthers regularly. American tanks are heavier, but the principle is the same.”

Alpha-22’s turn came next. Torres climbed up beside the Polish loadmaster, a grizzled sergeant who looked like he’d been doing this since the Cold War.

“Beautiful machine,” the Pole said in accented English, patting the Abrams’s armor. “Much heavier than our tanks.”

“She’ll ride steady?”

“Of course. We secure with twelve-point tie-downs. Could drive upside-down and she wouldn’t budge.” He grinned, gold tooth catching the morning sun.

Torres watched Burke guide Boone up the ramps, tracks clanking on steel. The tank settled onto the flatbed with a satisfied groan of hydraulics.

“Perfect,” the loadmaster declared. “Now we chain her down.”

The process was repeated for each tank. By 1030, all four Abrams sat secured on their transporters. The Ripsaws, lighter and more compact, loaded faster onto smaller flatbeds.

“Convoy brief in five,” Kowalski announced.

They gathered near the lead Polish escort vehicle, a Rosomak APC bristling with antennas. Captain Sikora spread a laminated map on the hood of a vehicle.

“Gentlemen, our route.” Sikora traced the highways with a laser pointer. “A1 to Grudzi, then S6 north to Słupsk, finally S11 to Drawsko. Total distance three hundred twenty kilometers.”

“Anticipated threats?” Novak asked.

“Minimal. Some anti-NATO graffiti reported near Tczew. Possible protesters at the Słupsk interchange. Local police will clear them before we arrive.”

“How about speed? What are we allowed to travel?” asked Novak nervously.

Captain Sikora calmly replied. “Sixty kilometers per hour maximum. EU road regulations. The transporters are heavy — we don’t want to damage civilian infrastructure.”

Torres calculated. Five hours minimum, plus stops. They’d reach Drawsko well after dark.

“Rest stops every ninety minutes,” Sikora continued. “Designated truck stops only. Your soldiers remain with vehicles at all times.”

“What about security during transport and at the rest stops?” Torres asked before Novak could.

Sikora seemed unfazed by their questions as he continued to calmly respond to them. “Two Rosomaks front, two rear. Police coordination at major intersections. Polish Police have a SWAT team on standby, though we expect no issues.”

Famous last words, Torres thought.

“Questions? No? Then mount up. We depart in twenty minutes.” Sikora wrapped up the briefing as he gathered up his map and notebook.

Torres found Burke prepping their escort JLTV. They’d ride separately from the tanks, standard procedure for road moves.

“You good to drive first shift?” Torres asked.

“Roger. Munoz wants to ride turret.”

“Negative,” Torres replied. “Too visible. We’re guests here, not occupiers. Windows up, weapons concealed.”

Burke nodded. “Munoz won’t like it.”

“Munoz will survive. Make sure everyone has water and snacks. Long ride ahead.”

Torres’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Maria: “Kids off to school. Sophia made honor roll!”

He smiled, then typed back: “Tell her I’m proud. Miss you all.”

“Miss you too. Stay safe over there.”

He pocketed the phone without responding. Safe was relative when you were moving seventy-ton tanks across a continent balanced on a knife’s edge.

“Sergeant Torres!” Kowalski waved from his command vehicle. “Ride with me for the first leg? I’d like to discuss integration procedures.”

Torres looked at Novak, who nodded. “Go ahead, Sergeant. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

The Polish major’s vehicle was surprisingly comfortable — cushioned seats, climate control, even cup holders. It was the lap of luxury compared to American trucks.

“Coffee?” asked Kowalski, offering a thermos as they pulled onto the highway.

“Thanks.” Torres accepted gratefully. It was proper coffee, not the motor oil Americans usually brewed.

Behind them, the convoy stretched half a kilometer. There were four tank transporters, four Ripsaw carriers, escort vehicles, and support trucks. They were a steel serpent winding through Poland.

“Your first time moving through Poland?” Kowalski asked.

“Did a rotation here in 2018,” Torres replied. “Just training then.”

“Ah, simpler times.” The major navigated through Gdańsk’s industrial district. “Now we have Russian troops in Belarus, Chinese advisors in Kaliningrad, and everyone pretending this is normal.”

“You think it kicks off?” Torres pressed.

Kowalski considered. “My grandfather fought the Nazis. My father prepared to fight the Soviets. I hoped my son would know peace.” He shrugged. “History has other plans.”

They passed graffiti on a warehouse wall. “NATO GO HOME” was lettered in red spray paint. It was fresh, by the look of it.

“Ignore that,” Kowalski said quickly. “Russian propaganda. Most Poles remember what occupation means.”

But Torres noticed the major’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

The highway opened up, with the Baltic coastline visible to their right. The convoy maintained perfect spacing, with Polish efficiency on display. Torres found himself relaxing slightly.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Burke: “All good back here. Munoz sulking about the turret.”

“Tell him I’ll buy him a pierogi in Drawsko,” Torres replied.

They made their first stop at a truck stop near Tczew. Torres supervised the tie-down checks while Polish military police kept curious civilians at a distance. A few truckers took photos, but there were no incidents.

“Smooth so far,” Novak commented, stretching his legs.

“Long way to go yet, LT,” Torres replied.

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.

Beautiful country, Torres admitted to himself. Worth defending.

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.”

More complications. Torres wondered if the delays were coincidence or something deliberate.

“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.

Almost there.

“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.

Good soldiers, he thought with pride.

“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.