The Gotland Deception

Chapter Twenty: Everyone Knows Bertil

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.

He chuckled, warmth filling him instantly at the sound of her voice. “Slow down, Madz. What’s happened?”

“The new book, Alex — it’s hit number seven overall on Amazon. Number seven! It’s been in the top hundred for three straight days now!”

“That’s incredible!” Pride swelled in Alex’s chest, almost overwhelming. “I told you, didn’t I? Always knew you had it in you.”

“Because you never stopped believing in me,” she replied, her voice softer now, earnest and deeply grateful. “You know I couldn’t have done this without you. Everything you’ve sacrificed… the late nights, the marketing lessons, the nanny—”

“It was worth every moment,” he assured gently, picturing her face, eyes sparkling with triumph and tears. “How are my girls and my little dude?”

“They miss you terribly. Haley and Holly keep asking when Daddy’s coming home, and Alex Jr. points at your picture and babbles something suspiciously close to ‘Dada.’”

Alex’s throat tightened, emotion thickening his voice. “I miss them so much. I miss you.”

“We miss you too,” she whispered, voice breaking softly. She gathered herself quickly, laughing lightly through fresh tears. “But listen to this — I checked what it says I’ve sold, and you won’t believe it, Alex. I’ve sold an entire year’s worth of your captain’s pay in just four days. Four days — can you believe it?”

He nearly choked, astonishment flooding him. Never in a million years had he thought her hobby would turn into such a goldmine. “Madz, are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” she laughed, triumphant and a bit mischievous. “And when all of this is over, I’m going to retire you from the Army, soldier boy.”

Alex laughed softly, shaking his head, still amazed. “Oh, I don’t think we’re quite there yet. Let’s wait and see how the rest of this series turns out, OK?”

“Ha-ha, you’re jealous. You watch, buddy,” she said firmly, the smile evident in her voice. “Ah, I hear junior crying. I gotta go take care of this, but you stay safe out there and hurry your butt home. I’ll need to put you back to work marketing my next book.”

He swallowed hard, the thought bittersweet yet enticingly real. “Will do. I’ll stay safe. I’ll be home to you and the kids before you know it.”

“You’d better,” she said softly, heartfelt urgency underscoring her words. “We need you home.”

“I love you, Madz.”

“Love you more, Blackjack Six,” she teased gently. “Stay safe.”

As Alex ended the call, he took a deep breath, carrying her words like armor against the uncertain days ahead.

This had better stay an exercise… he ruminated to himself as he headed back to the barracks and the game of chess Bertil was bound to be waiting to play.

Captain Alex Mercer took a moment to stretch as the vehicles came to a halt. Today marked the eighth day since his advance party had arrived on Gotland. They were nearing the end of their familiarization tour, finalizing potential positions for equipment from the 1st Battalion, 59th Air Defense Artillery Regiment that was now steadily arriving. Major Zachary Holt, the battalion’s S3, had joined them the previous night, eager to scout precise locations for the launchers, radar stations, and supporting infrastructure.

The final area Mercer still needed to see lay along Gotland’s rugged eastern shore, where limestone cliffs plunged sharply into the Baltic, creating a natural barrier that had witnessed Viking longships, Hanseatic merchants, and invasion fleets alike throughout history. The strategic importance of this coastline was unmistakable, even in peacetime.

Captain Elin Boström, commander of the Gotland Regiment’s IRIS-T battery, had taken point for today’s visit. Mercer had found Captain Boström impressive from the moment they’d first met eight days prior, struck by how seamlessly she and Bertil combined sharp tactical knowledge with a deep appreciation of the island’s storied history, interspersed with casual wit and easy humor.

Today, Boström and Bertil had guided Mercer, Holt, and the rest of their small team to an overlook near Smöjen, several kilometers south of Kyllaj harbor. From this vantage point, the Baltic stretched out before them, glittering in the sunlight, with the hazy outline of Latvia faintly visible along the horizon.

Captain Boström gestured toward discreetly camouflaged equipment positioned nearby. “Right there is one of our IRIS-T radar installations,” she explained confidently. “It covers this entire sector, giving us excellent visibility toward the sea and early warning against threats coming from the direction of Latvia or mainland Russia. From here, we track every vessel and aircraft crossing into Swedish waters.”

“Impressive setup, Captain,” Sergeant First Class Holloway remarked, clearly intrigued. “What’s the radar’s operational range?”

Boström smiled warmly, appreciating Holloway’s genuine interest. “The Giraffe 1X radar we’re operating here can reliably detect air targets up to around seventy-five kilometers out,” she explained. “When it comes to smaller targets like FPVs, UAVs, and drones, its effective detection range narrows to between twenty and forty kilometers, with coverage extending up to about ten thousand meters — or around thirty-three thousand feet, for you Yanks,” she added with a playful wink.

Major Holt stepped forward, studying the position intently. “Captain, your IRIS-T battery and radar capability dovetail perfectly with what we’re setting up at Grönt Centrum. Once our Patriot battery is in place near Romakloster and the railway, your radar feed can directly augment our detection capabilities at lower altitudes. The Patriots will handle the higher and longer-range threats — ballistic and cruise missiles, fighter jets — while your IRIS-T provides intermediate coverage. Together, that’s a robust layered defense.”

“Exactly,” Boström confirmed enthusiastically. “Integrating your Patriot battery with our IRIS-T network is key to comprehensive airspace management. And with your Leonidas-III high-powered microwave systems in place, we’ll also neutralize drone swarms without firing a shot. I understand you plan to mount those on JLTVs and Strykers?”

“Precisely,” Holt nodded. “Bravo Company, 2-503rd Infantry, will operate eight Leonidas-III systems spread strategically around our critical assets — Patriot radars and launchers, HIMARS batteries, and our key command-and-control nodes. The HPM systems will be fully integrated through NATO’s Integrated Air and Missile Defence network, giving us an immediate, non-kinetic option against drone swarms and small UCAV threats.”

Mercer glanced out across the Baltic once more, the cool sea breeze tugging at his jacket collar. This spot near Smöjen, with its hidden radars and commanding views, underscored exactly why Gotland had long been a linchpin of Baltic defense strategies. The systems they were now positioning represented a decisive evolution in capability — a blend of high-tech equipment and skilled professionals committed to ensuring the island remained a formidable deterrent.

“All right,” Mercer said decisively, turning to Major Holt and Captain Boström. “This location is definitely a go. Let’s lock it in.”

Captain Alex Mercer and the small convoy departed the overlook near Smöjen, leaving behind the panoramic views and the concealed radar positions. They navigated narrow roads flanked by dense pine and juniper forests, heading north toward Fårösund, where the ferry connected Gotland to Fårö Island.

Arriving at the ferry terminal, Mercer noticed the expansive Baltic stretching out before them, dotted with islands and framed by stark, windswept shores. Captain Elin Boström guided them to a strategic viewpoint near the terminal, pointing toward the horizon.

“Here, and across on Faro, near Southern Sand, there are some campsites along the beach, and some roads that lead inland, connecting the beach to the rest of the island,” she explained, indicating a stretch of shoreline and how an enemy might come ashore. “If I was invading, I would come ashore here as it’s a prime location for amphibious landings and quick access to roads leading out of the beach area.”

Bertil unfolded a map of Faro and began to explain. “Captain Mercer, when you look at Faro, you have Southern Sand resort area in the south, and Norsta Aurer beach to the north. But only Southern Sand has immediate access to a road. It has fewer obstacles, mostly gravelly beaches — making this place ideal terrain if the opposition brings specialized landing craft.”

Mercer studied the landscape, already visualizing defensive positions. First Sergeant Tanner had his camera out again, methodically documenting angles and approaches. “I take it you guys have pre-registered artillery targets?” he asked, his voice clinical.

“Yes, of course, every hundred meters. In fact, we have pre-registered coordinates for every possible beach landing location onto Gotland and Faro. This makes it easy for artillery and air units to know where to bomb depending on what kind of information we are receiving,” Boström responded, pride evident in her confident tone. “This comes from decades of preparation. Each rock, every significant tree, everything has coordinates and firing solutions should the Russians and their friends try something.”

Just then, a chilly gust blew off the Baltic. Mercer could swear it felt like a tension in the air had just blown over them. It reminded him of a feeling, like something bad was about to happen. It was a premonition he’d felt during his time with the Rangers, when his company would provide security or overwatch for a Delta or SEAL before it went bad.

Mercer pushed the feeling aside, then turned directly to Boström. “What’s your professional assessment, Captain? If Gotland was assaulted by Russian VDV or Marines, how long could you hold out without reinforcements?”

She considered the question carefully, then turned to face the sea. “That depends of course on how large the force is that invades, but if I had to guess, with the size of our force and your own, seventy-two hours against a determined invader. Perhaps ninety-six if we trade space to buy time.” Boström then turned to face Mercer directly. “But that’s not the primary strategy, correct? You Americans aren’t planning for a delaying action, are you?”

Mercer met her gaze firmly. “No, ma’am. We’re here to win.”

“Good. Then let’s hope your Patriots and Leonidas-III systems are as effective as your confidence suggests,” she replied, offering a thin smile.

Major Holt, who had remained quiet through most of the tour, spoke up. “With your IRIS-T batteries integrated, Captain Boström, and our Patriots in position around Romakloster and the Grönt Centrum, I feel pretty confident about our systems creating a solid, overlapping coverage of Gotland that’ll extend several hundred kilometers in every direction. Should the Russians or Chinese decide to get froggy with waves of FPV drones or something like that, our Leonidas-III HPM units and Strykers will handle any drone swarms and loitering munitions. I think this gives us some good flexibility and depth in protecting critical targets against conventional and hybrid threats.”

Mercer nodded approvingly. “Agreed. Especially in light of what they discovered from that Chinese cargo vessel your Navy intercepted off the coast. But that also brings me back to something I was thinking about during our last stop, Boström,” he said as he looked at Bertil’s map again. He pointed to Karlsvärd Fortress, at the entrance of Slite harbor. “I know this is a historical military fort, and the last time it was used was in 2011, but I can’t get past how geographically well positioned this location is for protecting Slite.

“You pointed out how you have one of your Giraffe radars located near Slite, and we’ll likely place one of those Leonidas systems there with a HIMARS truck. But what if we placed a platoon of soldiers on Karlsvärd, armed with Javelin ATGMs and MANPADs? We could turn that little island into a decent fortified position, especially if we pair the platoon with a mortar section and heavy weapons squad,” Mercer explained.

Colonel Lindqvist seemed to agree. “It’s not a bad idea, Captain. It does come down to manpower. We just don’t have enough soldiers to man all the positions we should. I’d like to broach this topic with your battalion commander and my own leadership. I don’t particularly like the idea of having your battalion scattered across three different locations like this. It leaves you too thin in too many areas and not strong in any one particular spot. But that is a political question that is above my pay grade. For now, let’s finish the site survey and prep for the arrival of the rest of your equipment and people.”

The ride back toward Roma was subdued, each occupant absorbed by their thoughts. Upon arrival at the tactical operations center, they were met with an unexpected sight: a cluster of civilian cars bearing official Swedish government plates.

“Great, speaking of politics,” Colonel Lindqvist muttered with thinly veiled annoyance. “It would appear we have our Stockholm observers visiting today.”

Mercer chuckled at the familiar feeling. I guess the military perspective of politicians is universal, even here in Sweden…

As Mercer and Colonel Lindqvist exited the vehicle, one of the bureaucrats made his way toward them. He extended a hand toward Colonel Lindqvist. “Colonel, good to see you again.”

Lindqvist smiled pleasantly, shaking his hand. “Likewise, Deputy Minister. If you’ll allow me, this is Captain Alex Mercer. He’s the company commander for Bravo Company, Second Battalion, 503rd Airborne Infantry,” the colonel introduced.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain. I’m Deputy Defense Minister Eriksson,” the slender man said. He adjusted his rimless glasses. “Don’t mind us. We are just checking in, here to assess how the integration of your forces into the defense of Sweden is going.”

“Things are going well, Deputy Minister. The majority of the American forces begin to arrive in the coming days,” interjected Lindqvist diplomatically.

“Oh, that’s good to hear. Hopefully, some of the residents will understand their presence is just temporary. You would be surprised how some residents are already expressing concerns about their pending arrival,” Eriksson cautiously warned.

“It’s nothing personal against you or your men, Captain,” he said to Mercer. “It’s just that American forces tend to draw attention — sometimes unwanted attention, some argue.”

Mercer got the hint and interjected firmly but respectfully, “We understand, sir. We’re mindful of that, and that is why we are looking to maintain a minimal footprint. No unnecessary presence in civilian areas. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Hmm, that’s good to hear. Public perception remains sensitive,” Eriksson pressed, looking directly at Mercer. “I appreciate the ‘out of sight, out of mind’ mentality, but perhaps some community engagement might reassure some skeptical locals? You know, show the human side of NATO operations if you will.”

Tanner coughed quietly, suppressing amusement at the thought of paratroopers conducting soft community outreach.

“Perhaps once the units and their equipment have fully arrived, we can consider how to do something like this,” Lindqvist replied, ending the discussion.

As the delegation departed, Bertil appeared silently beside Mercer, observing the civilian cars leave. “Politicians… they want safety without soldiers, security without weapons. An impossible balance.”

“Same everywhere, I guess,” Mercer laughed. “Don’t worry, Bertil. They’ll appreciate us quickly enough if things turn ugly.”

“If,” Bertil echoed solemnly. “A small word with large consequences.”

Mercer gathered his team later that evening inside Roma’s tactical operations center. Maps and laptops filled the tables, powered by strong Swedish coffee. First Sergeant Tanner briefed on the main body’s imminent arrival, detailing housing arrangements and logistics. Major Holt outlined Patriot battery positions near Gråtmon, with secondary sites identified to the north and east.

Before adjourning, Mercer revisited Eriksson’s point about community relations. Ideas circulated: language training cards, sports matches with locals, structured activity to minimize friction. Yet Mercer knew the best reassurance came from effective defense.

As his team dispersed for the night, Mercer paused, staring across Gotland’s landscape now fading into twilight. Stepping outside, he felt the Baltic breeze again, crisp and invigorating. Soon, NATO’s pledge to Gotland would be tangible, embodied by soldiers ready to hold the line. Only time would reveal if their preparations would be tested, but until then, readiness was their watchword.

The kettle clicked off just as the front door opened. Klara Hedevig didn’t move from the window. She watched the mist crawl across the rooftops of southern Visby, soft tendrils of dampness rolling inland from the sea.

“You left the lock undone again,” came her boyfriend’s voice, boots thudding as he entered. “One of these days, I’ll walk in and scare you half to death.”

Klara turned just enough to offer a faint smile. “Maybe that’s what I was hoping for.”

Lars snorted. “Well, if you want a scare, I’ve got news for you.” He shrugged off his field jacket, tossed it over the back of the chair, and ran a hand through damp, wind-mussed hair. “You remember how we were told it would just be one company of American paratroopers?”

“Bravo Company, right? The ones at the Grönt Centrum in Roma?”

He dropped into the kitchen chair, rubbing his face. “Yeah. That’s changed. Everything’s changed. The Chinese Foreign Minister opened his mouth yesterday — made it official that the PLA and Russian Navy have their little love nest up in Kaliningrad. And guess what? The PLA restored that old Soviet air base outside Gvardeysk.”

Klara stiffened slightly. She kept her back to him, pouring two mugs of tea with practiced calm. “I thought that base was derelict.”

“So did Stockholm. So did NATO. But turns out the Chinese have been quietly rebuilding it for years. And now, we find out there’s a full PLA amphibious task force exercising with Russian Marines. So now, NATO wants to move all their American paratroopers, consolidated here on Gotland.”

He accepted the tea with a tired nod. “Whole regiment’s coming. Not just Bravo. Alpha Company is taking over Vidhave Eco Lodge and some surrounding property. Patriot missile crews and C2 elements are moving in with them.”

Klara sat slowly across from him. “That’s… a lot more people.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he replied, clearly irritated. “Charlie and Delta Companies are going to be billeted near the P18 compound and the Tofta Range.” He shook his head. “That area’s going to look like Fort Bragg East by next week. We were never set up to house a full regiment. I’ve got HVAC techs flying in from Malmö and Stockholm, commercial tenting companies on twenty-four-hour call. We’re bringing in those massive, long tents with integrated flooring and climate control — you know, the ones they use for disaster relief? We’re converting half the logistics park in Slite to house gear and overflow billets.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Klara said, voice low, distracted.

He laughed bitterly. “You have no idea. We’re about four trailers of portable toilets away from losing our minds.”

“This is going to impact the lodging I had set up for the Baltic Wings Festival near the airport, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah, it probably is,” Lars answered. “And I can’t guarantee it won’t affect any of your other bookings with the huge amount of influx coming in.”

“Damn. This is going to be really inconvenient for both of us, then,” Klara replied.

Lars put his head into his hands. “It’s going to be a very long week… at least I have you to make it better.”

“Aw, I’m so sorry all of this is coming down on you all at once,” Klara responded soothingly. She stood up and gave him a hug from behind before massaging Lars’s shoulders.

Although she did her best to play the role of empathetic and dutiful girlfriend, she had moved behind him partly so she wouldn’t have to work as hard to control her face. Her thoughts were spiraling. Eight of her operatives had confirmed lodging near the airport. Vidhave was only fifteen minutes west by car. If Alpha Company was taking over the area, that entire plan was compromised. Worse, the Patriot unit and their support teams would make any movement toward the airfield a much riskier proposition.

Lars slowly relaxed his shoulders under the influence of her strong hands. He sighed. “Thank you for this. You always know how to calm me down.”

“Of course,” Klara replied cheerfully. “I’m here for you.”

After another moment or so, she slipped back down into her seat and took another sip of her tea. “So when does Alpha Company arrive, my love?”

“They’re already off the boat. Staging now in Visby Harbor.”

Her stomach tightened.

“Well, how can I help make this whole situation better for you?” she asked.

“I can think of one thing,” Lars said with a wink. “But it will have to wait. I still have to coordinate power grid assessments with Region Gotland and find a local contractor who can deliver six hundred meals three times a day until the field kitchens are operational. Honestly, I just came here for breakfast and to vent. I have to be out the door again in fifteen.”

She reached over and placed her hand on his. “Lars, I am so sorry. We’ll get through this… together. Let me fix you breakfast,” she replied.

In no time flat she had some toasted rye crispbread and jam on a plate for him, which he accepted with gratitude. As soon as he ate it, he rose from the table, kissed her on the head, and left.

Once the door closed, Klara allowed herself to curse quietly under her breath. “This is going to mess up all of my hard work!” she said to herself. Now instead of the original one hundred and fifty or so US paratroopers her operatives had planned on encountering, they’d be up against about six hundred of them. Not to mention, these huge areas being taken over would absolutely impact her housing plans before and during the festival.

She needed to get to the office as soon as possible. Her morning observation walk would have to wait.

As soon as she stepped into her work area, Klara went straight for her laptop. She logged in, turned on her VPN, and didn’t even bother checking the birding websites yet. This amount of information would be very difficult to transmit through one of the boards. Instead, she went right for her Tuta email account, where she wrote a draft email that she would never send. She had just finished typing when she noticed another draft email besides the one she had been writing.

The message was simple: “Team modified. Eight Russian attendees of the Baltic Wings Festival have changed their travel plans, and Chinese attendees will be taking their place.”

For the second time that morning, Klara swore. Russians could blend in. But Chinese? In Roma? In Vidhave?

She stood abruptly and crossed to her laptop. Everything was unraveling. And the Americans weren’t even fully unpacked yet.

She exhaled, forcing herself to slow her breathing and concentrate.

Time to pivot, she thought. Time to adapt. Before the window closes entirely.