The Gotland Deception

Chapter Seventeen: Sky Soldiers

The C-130J Hercules banked hard left, and Captain Alex Mercer felt his stomach lurch. Through the porthole, Sweden’s unsinkable aircraft carrier materialized from Baltic haze — ninety miles of limestone and forest, ringed by cliffs that looked ready to repel invaders.

“Two minutes!” The loadmaster’s voice crackled through the cabin.

Mercer keyed his throat mic. “Blackjacks, final checks.”

Around him, thirty-four paratroopers from his advance party stirred. Body armor adjustments. Weapon slings. The familiar pre-insertion ritual that meant business was about to begin. First Sergeant Elijah “Big E” Tanner moved down the aisle like a prowling bear, checking gear with practiced eyes.

Senior NCO Daniel Holloway leaned close. “It’s too bad we can’t arrive via a combat jump, sir.”

“Yeah, that’s one way to make a first impression on the locals,” Mercer mused at the idea of him and his men parachuting into the Visby airport like an invading army. “But we’re here to assure the locals, not scare them.”

The Herc touched down with a controlled thump, engines screaming in reverse thrust as the pilots slowed them down and began to taxi to the military side of the airfield. Peering through the window, Mercer spotted their welcoming committee. A contingent from the Gotland Regiment, CV90 infantry fighting vehicles and Patria armored personnel carriers arranged in precise formation, a company of soldiers in their distinctive M90 woodland camo waiting for them at parade rest. They looked impressive, professional, and cautious. Exactly what Mercer expected from a nation in the crosshairs of whatever game it was the Chinese and Russians were playing.

As the aircraft came to a halt, the ramp began to lower, revealing the beauty of the Swedish island of Gotland, home to some 63,000 people, 25,700 of whom lived in Visby, the provincial capital. No sooner had the ramp touched down than a strong, Baltic wind hit Mercer like a cold slap across the face. He could taste the salt and smell the sea mixed with scents of jet fuel and fresh pine. Mercer led his advance team onto the tarmac as he made his way toward an officer waiting to greet them.

“Good afternoon! You must be Captain Mercer,” the Swedish officer announced as he walked toward him.

Mercer smiled. The colonel who approached had the weathered look of someone who’d spent more time in the field than behind a desk — Lindqvist, his name tape read. As the officer came to a stop, Mercer snapped a salute. “Colonel Lindqvist. Bravo Company, Second of the 503rd Airborne. Honor to be here, sir.”

Colonel Lindqvist returned his salute crisply. “Welcome to Gotland, Captain. It is an honor to welcome you to our island. Your reputation precedes you.” His flawless English and tone gave the impression of a learned man. “Your commander said you had previously served in the Ranger Regiment once upon a time, yes?”

Mercer smirked at the mention of his time in the Regiment. The last time he’d been to Gotland was during his time with the Rangers. He wasn’t sure if anyone from back then would still remember him.

“I did, but that was a long time ago, sir.”

“Ah, I thought I recognized your name. I was a newly promoted major when your Ranger unit parachuted onto the Tofta Range. That was a fun exercise if I recall.” Lindqvist’s eyes crinkled slightly at the memory. It was one of the few times Mercer could remember when his Ranger company had found themselves mauled in an exercise.

With a motion for Mercer to follow him, he led them past the soldiers standing in formation waiting to receive them. “You Rangers gave us a hell of a run for our money that day, Captain. Come, let us put the past behind us and discuss the present. We have much to plan for.”

The convoy rolled through Visby’s medieval walls forty minutes later, GAZ Tigers and Mercedes G-Wagons navigating streets built for horses, not vehicles. Mercer rode with Lindqvist in the lead vehicle as the colonel drove dangerously close to the edges of buildings and the occasional parked car. The airport was just north of Visby. The P18 or Gotland Regiment was located six miles southwest of Visby, near the Tofta firing range. This area hugged the western shore of the island and was where the majority of the military barracks and activity on Gotland took place. As they exited the city into the countryside, the colonel broke the silence.

“Captain, when does your main force arrive?” Lindqvist asked, his eyes on the road.

“Week from Thursday. Hundred and twenty personnel, plus equipment,” Mercer replied, keeping his tone neutral. “Our heavy gear follows by ship in the coming weeks.”

“Hmm, OK. And the Patriot batteries?”

“Ah, well, I can’t speak to Task Force Sentinel’s timeline. We’re just the security element.”

Lindqvist grunted. “One company to protect Patriot batteries that can engage targets three hundred kilometers away. That’s an interesting allocation.”

Mercer had had the same thoughts when he’d been given the orders. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who thought they were a little light in providing security for what was obviously a strategic asset and thereby a target.

“We make the most of what we have. Besides, paratroopers work best in small teams,” Mercer offered in response. “My understanding is our battalion headquarters along with Alpha and Charlie Companies are located at Berga Naval Base, with Delta Company situated at Muskö Naval Base. If we need a QRF force, Alpha Company is it. I think we’ll be fine with your people and won’t need them.”

“Hmm, we’ll see,” Lindqvist responded as he turned onto a forest road. “Do you know where the rest of the 173rd is going?”

“Latvia, near the Adazi military base just northeast of Riga,” Mercer replied. He then asked, “Just between us, Colonel, what do you think of this EDEP exercise in a few weeks? You think the Russians and Chinese are preparing for war or just trying to scare us?”

The colonel was quiet for a moment. “That’s hard to say, Captain. The Russian and Chinese economies are starting to benefit from this economic pact they have formed. It’s hard to believe they would want to risk all of it for a war I don’t think they are yet ready to fight, let alone win.”

“Yeah, that’s my thinking too. It’s hard to tell sometimes with all the saber-rattling. You would think after their thumping in Ukraine, they would take some time to maybe learn from their mistake and not try something as foolish as invading their neighbor again,” Mercer replied as their vehicle turned onto another road leading into a forested area.

A few minutes later, the Gotland Regiment’s headquarters building came into sight, seeming to materialize from the pine trees surrounding them. Mercer smiled as he took the sight in, observing how the buildings had been designed to blend in with the terrain around them. As they drove closer, he soon spotted strategically placed berms, suggesting hardened positions and defensive works beneath them. It was clear the Swedes were preparing their positions for whatever might come of this exercise, leaving nothing to chance.

Pulling up to the front of the building marked “Headquarters, P18 Gotland Regiment,” Mercer followed Colonel Lindqvist inside. Maps covered nearly every wall of the first room he’d walked into, some of them rendered in topographical detail, with defensive sectors marked in neat Swedish script and English next to it. The half dozen officers near a conference room table turned to greet him. Mercer recognized the looks. Professionals assessing the Americans who’d just arrived in their backyard.

Colonel Lindqvist motioned for Mercer and his people to take a seat as he walked toward the front of the room. “Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to Captain Mercer,” he announced loudly in English. “Captain Mercer is the commanding officer of Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 503rd Airborne Infantry. They are the security element for the Patriot and HIMAR batteries that should start to arrive in the coming weeks. Let’s go ahead and do some introductions. Captain Lindholm, why don’t you lead off for us.”

A younger captain stepped forward. “Afternoon, Captain. I’m Captain Joran Lindholm. I command a tank platoon. We’re the heavy armor for the regiment. Do your soldiers have experience working with or coordinating operations with armor?”

“We do. We’ve worked with Bradleys and Abrams at Grafenwoehr and participated in the last NATO exercise in Romania last summer,” Mercer replied confidently. “I’m aware your unit operates the Leopards. We’re used to working with them as well. They aren’t too much different.”

“Yeah, perhaps. But our terrain is difficult.” Lindholm gestured to the map. “Gotland, as you can see, is forests and farmland. We have some open areas for maneuver, but not many. One thing we do have plenty of is places for infiltrators to hide.”

Mercer sensed someone walking up behind him. He turned to hear First Sergeant Tanner comment, “Infiltrators, you say? Sounds like what we used to deal with in Afghanistan. Except you all have better roads.”

That drew a few laughs, breaking the ice and the tension.

A major with an intelligence insignia on his collar leaned forward. “I’m Major Stenqvist, the regiment’s S2. What would you say is your biggest threat you need to be ready to handle?”

Mercer knew he’d be asked a question like this and had prepared for it. “That’s a good question, Major Stenqvist. I’d say we have a couple of viable threats we need to watch for — the first being Spetsnaz infiltration. They could come in the form of tourists, or if an attack is underway, they could come via airborne or even a seaborne assault. Second, and more likely, drone swarms. Say this Russian-Chinese EDEP exercise turns kinetic. They’ll likely try to saturate our defenses with drones before sending cruise missiles,” Mercer explained, then softened his tone. “Major, this is your home. My men and I are not to occupy Gotland or garrison it for months or years. We’re here to help defend it until whatever this exercise is passes and we can all go home.”

Stenqvist smiled, nodding in agreement. “Let’s hope you are right, Captain. And if this defense needs to become an offense, what then?”

“Well, we do what paratroopers do best. We adapt, and we punch the ChiComs and Ruskies in the face and stomp on them until they say uncle,” Mercer replied, which elicited a few more laughs and some brash boasting about who would kick the enemy the hardest.

The site reconnaissance began at dawn the next day. Three Swedish liaison officers joined Mercer’s team — Captain Elin Boström from Air Defense, Lieutenant Nils Sandberg from Logistics, and a grizzled Home Guard officer who introduced himself simply as Bertil. His rank and name tape read Captain Sonevang. Mercer recognized him as the 32nd Battalion commander of the Gotland Home Guard. His unit functioned similar to how a National Guard unit would back in the States.

“Shouldn’t we address you as captain, sir?” Sergeant First Class Dan Holloway asked the older man.

“No, it’s OK. On Gotland, most of us Home Guard don’t really bother much with professional ranks. We have them because we are told we must, but we are generally on a first-name basis. Around here, everyone knows me as Bertil, but you can call me captain if you must,” the older man replied, his rugged and weathered face turning into a grin. “You see, I have been teaching history on this island for thirty-two years. I have students, now adults who send their children to my classes,” he laughed, explaining how he was as much a fixture of the island as the trees around them. “That is why everyone knows me as Bertil, not captain.”

Their convoy wound north from Visby, past limestone farmsteads and wind-twisted pines. Every few kilometers, Bertil pointed out local details, which roads flooded in spring, where cell coverage died, which farmers were “reliable” versus “talkative” when it came to developing credible sources and informants.

Mercer was studying his tablet’s tactical overlay when he said, “The airport is obvious for us to locate the Patriot radar at. But where else should we consider setting our other radars up, and the launchers?”

Bertil held a hand out for Mercer’s tablet. Taking the device in hand, he looked it over, then pointed to something. “You are right to point out the obviousness of the airport. This point here, the Grönt Centrum near Romakloster, would be a good location for you to set up the radar, command trailer and power unit for the Patriot battery and that Leonidas device you were telling us about. It is not a good idea to concentrate too many of your critical units around the airport. It is best to disperse them away from the population centers. The Centrum is centrally located on the island, and it has good lines of sight across many of the inland approaches toward Visby from the Baltic coast.”

While they were speaking, Boström pulled over near a forested ridge. “Here, Captain Mercer. This is Gråtmon Hill. It has good elevation and natural concealment.”

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.”

Mercer laughed. “How long does that usually take?”

“Sometimes minutes. Sometimes years.” Bertil’s eyes twinkled. “But once decided, we commit fully. No half measures.”

A cultural note filed away. Mercer had worked with dozens of allied forces over the years. Each had their quirks. The Swedes seemed methodical, careful, and prone to debate. But their preparations showed attention to detail that spoke of competence.

“Sergeant Holloway will coordinate billeting details,” Mercer told Colonel Lindqvist. “What about local support? Fuel, food, medical?”

“Already arranged. Our quartermaster will brief your logistics NCO. Medical support from Visby Hospital for serious casualties. Field treatment here.” Lindqvist paused. “One suggestion, Captain.”

“Sir?”

“Your men. When they have liberty, remind them they are guests. Gotland does not see many foreign soldiers. Most will welcome you. Others…” He spread his hands.

“Understood. We’ll maintain a low profile,” Mercer assured him.

“Good. Because if this exercise across the water becomes something more, we’ll need the population’s support. Fear makes poor allies,” replied Lindqvist.

Alex finally found a quiet spot to call his wife. He’d been gone two days now, and he’d promised he would do his best to stay in touch while he was gone. He knew tomorrow was a big day for her and he wanted to make sure she knew he hadn’t forgotten. Pressing the phone to his ear, he smiled as Maddie’s familiar voice came through, warm yet tinged with a hint of nerves.

“Hey, babe,” she began softly, a gentle sigh following. “How are things going on your end? You guys getting settled?”

“Yeah, we’re getting things sorted,” he began. “You know this place is beautiful, Madz. You were right, Gotland is beautiful.”

She laughed. “Hey, can I get you to say that again while I record it?”

He scrunched his eyebrows. “Huh? What?”

“You know, that part where you said I was right?” she replied while stifling a laugh.

“Ha-ha, you got me there, Madz. OK, I’ll say it again, slow for you… you were right. Did you get that?” he joked good-naturedly with her as she laughed. He missed that — hearing her laugh.

“So, you know tomorrow’s launch day,” she began. It was the release date of the third book in her series, which she had been working on feverishly for months. “I really wish you were here for it. It just won’t be the same celebrating it without you at da Mario.”

He smiled softly, picturing their favorite spot vividly — the cozy Italian bistro in Creazzo they’d made their tradition on every release day. “I wish I was there too. I know it’s going to be amazing, Madz.”

She sighed again, worry creeping into her tone. “I really hope so. We’ve put so much into this ad campaign. If it doesn’t take off… I’m just worried about the finances, the nanny, all of it.”

“Hey, trust the process,” Alex reassured her gently. “You’ve done everything right. Just focus on the kids, enjoy the day, and let the launch happen. We’ll deal with whatever comes afterward.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, gratitude softening her voice. “Speaking of the kids, they’re doing great. The twins adore Caroline — honestly, hiring her was the best decision we’ve made in a long time.”

“And Alex Junior?”

“Your mini-me?” Madz laughed lightly. “He’s a handful, but Caroline manages him like a pro. Seriously, that woman deserves a medal.”

“I’m glad it’s working out,” Alex said, warmth and relief easing his worry. “I know it’s been tough without your mom around.”

“Yeah,” Madz agreed quietly, her voice momentarily thick with emotion. “But having Caroline here these past six months has been a lifesaver. I don’t know how I would’ve managed the new book without her.”

“You’re doing great, Madz,” Alex reassured her again. “Tomorrow’s going to prove it. You’re an amazing writer, and the world is finally going to see that.”

“I hope you’re right,” she whispered, courage returning to her voice. “Stay safe, Alex. Come home soon.”

“Always. Love you.”

“Love you more, Blackjack Six.”