The Gotland Deception

Chapter Twenty-One: Welcome to the Edge

Tropical rain hammered the tarmac in sheets. The squall had rolled in fast, turning the morning sky the color of old steel. Wind gusts shoved the C-17’s tail as hydraulics lowered its cargo ramp with a mechanical groan.

Jodi Mack stood just inside the hangar bay, tablet tucked under her tactical jacket as rain hammered the flight deck. Water pooled around her boots, trailing wet prints across concrete still warm from the previous day’s sun. Outside, forty-eight Taiwanese sailors and marines stood in formation under the deluge. Their digital blue uniforms clung to them like a second skin, soaked and dripping — but not a single one shifted or grumbled.

Good, she thought. They’ll need that kind of discipline.

“Skinny Poo’s probably watching this through a spy satellite,” Mick muttered, checking his watch. “Counting heads. Measuring shadows.”

She glanced at Mick, still smirking at the nickname “Skinny Poo.” It had been born in 2013, when a photo of Xi Jinping and Obama walking alongside each other caught the attention of a savvy internet troll in Taiwan. He’d replaced the two with a caricature of Winnie-the-Pooh and Tigger. Xi was Pooh, obviously, and as the meme went viral, Beijing lost its mind.

They banned the meme, scrubbing search results and declaring Pooh an “enemy of the state” — but it was too late. Taiwanese netizens had already weaponized it into a national pastime. Subtle mockery was disguised as cartoon humor. These jabs, that censors couldn’t always catch and Beijing couldn’t laugh off, lived on.

When Xi died, his handpicked successor had inherited more than just the presidency. He’d inherited the meme. He was lankier than Xi, colder in demeanor, but no less authoritarian. When an internet troll called him Skinny Poo, the name stuck, like a middle finger dressed in honey.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Mack commented, watching as the final ROC operator descended the ramp. According to her roster, he should be Commander Tang Muyang, a submarine warfare specialist with ten years in Taiwan’s navy. Observing him, Mack noted how his eyes swept the hangar, cataloging exits, defensive positions, potential threats. It was the kind of automatic threat assessment that came from years of living next door to a hostile giant.

“That’s our lead student,” Mick noted. “Downloaded his file last night. Smart cookie. MIT exchange program, systems engineering.”

“Perfect.” Mack tapped her tablet, pulling up the training schedule. “He’ll need every neuron firing to handle what we’re teaching.”

The formation marched into the hangar, boots splashing through puddles. Up close, Mack could see the tension in their faces. Young men and women who’d grown up watching PLA destroyers probe their waters, counting missile batteries pointed at their homes. Last week’s vote in Beijing had stripped away any remaining illusions. The PRC’s declaration that Taiwan would be included in the new customs inspection routine under the guise of their new drug enforcement act was a blockade in all but name. It was still yet to be determined if the US and the rest of the international community would adhere to the inspection terms or test Beijing’s appetite for direct conflict.

“Welcome to Guam,” Mack called out, her voice carrying over the rain drumming on metal. “My name is Jodi Mack, but you can call me Mack. I’m one of the TSG trainers from a company called Anduril Industries. Prior to Anduril, I was a lieutenant in the US Navy, specializing in unmanned underwater vehicles. This is my TSG counterpart, retired Chief Warrant Officer Three Michael Matsin. He spent twenty-six years in the US Navy and is a encyclopedia of all things related to unmanned naval warfare.”

“Just Mick, or Chief,” he added. “Save the formalities for people who care.”

A few tight smiles cracked through the formation’s discipline.

“You’re here because your government bought the best unmanned systems money can’t normally buy,” Mack continued. “Seeker-class XLUUVs that can hunt subs autonomously for thirty days. Hammer Shark sprint torpedoes that’ll make a Song-class submarine look like it’s standing still. Zealot surface vessels that turn your coastline into a no-go zone.”

She paused, studying their faces. “But hardware’s just expensive junk without operators who know how to use it. That’s where we come in.”

“Ma’am” — Commander Tang raised a hand — “the systems you mentioned — they’re American designs. Will we have full operational authority?”

“Good question.” Mack appreciated the directness. “Short answer, yes. Long answer, you’ll have Lattice AI integration giving you tactical control while strategic oversight remains within your command structure. Think of it as Netflix for naval warfare — you pick what to watch, but the algorithm suggests what might kill you.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the ranks.

“Look, some decisions aren’t ours to make and have been forced upon us,” Mick interjected. “This latest decision by the PRC to include Taiwan in their drug enforcement act inspection regime is a case in point. But we’re not here to debate policy or what happens next. We’re here to train you on some equipment that gives your leaders some options and the PLA some pause.” His humor evaporated as he addressed the elephant in the room head-on. “We all know this customs inspection regime starting April fifteenth is a threat to the very survival of your country. Our job isn’t to decide what happens next. That’s a political question we elect leaders to decide. What Mack and I are here to do is make sure that if they try to enforce this blockade, they’ll be fishing ChiCom destroyers out of the Taiwan Strait.”

Thunder rolled across the airfield. The lights flickered, emergency power kicking in smoothly.

“Questions?” Mack asked.

A young petty officer, barely twenty-one by the look of him, raised his hand tentatively. “The vote last week… they really mean it this time?”

The hangar fell silent except for rain and distant thunder.

“They’ve meant it every time,” Mack said quietly. “Difference is, this time they think they can win. Our job — your job — is to make that calculation so costly they’ll choke on it.”

She gestured to the equipment containers being offloaded from the C-17, each one stenciled with cryptic designations: XLUUV-SEEK-7, CAN-USV-12, MINE-CAP-3.

“Ten days,” she announced. “That’s what you get to master systems that take our operators months to learn. We’ll run you eighteen hours a day. Sleep will be a luxury. Mistakes will be painful. But when you leave here, you’ll be able to turn the waters around Taiwan into a graveyard for anyone stupid enough to test you.”

“Including West Taiwan’s finest rust buckets,” Mick added with a wolfish grin.

This time the laughter was genuine. Even Tang cracked a smile at the joking reference to mainland China as “West Taiwan” instead of the People’s Republic of China.

“Ground rules,” Mack continued. “Everything you see here is classified beyond classified. The Chinese have assets throughout the Pacific trying to steal what you’re about to learn. Trust no one outside this group. Use only secured comms. And if someone approaches you offering money for information…”

“Report it immediately,” Tang finished. “We’ve had the briefings.”

“Good.” Mack stepped aside as ground crews began moving the first container into the hangar. “Grab your gear and follow Chief Reyes to billeting. PT formation at 1400. First classroom session at 1500. Tonight, you learn to think like the machines you’ll command.”

The formation broke, operators collecting seabags and equipment cases. Mack noticed how they moved — alert, professional, but with an undercurrent of urgency. They understood the stakes.

“Think they’re ready for this?” Mick asked quietly.

Mack watched Tang directing his people, organizing them into work details without being asked. “They better be. Clock’s ticking, and Skinny Poo’s not known for patience.”

“Speaking of which…” Mick pulled out his phone, showing her a news alert. “PLA Navy announced another ‘training evolution’ near Matsu. Three destroyers, carrier group standing by in reserve.”

“Pressure tactics.” Mack shrugged, but her jaw tightened. “Let them posture. In ten days, these kids will have the tools to make that carrier group think twice about entering the strait.”

The squall began to ease, sunlight breaking through in patches. Steam rose from the tarmac as tropical heat reasserted itself. Mack looked at her tablet one more time, reviewing the compressed training schedule. Ten days to teach submarine hunters how to command robot wolves. Ten days to help David sharpen his rock-slinging skills.

No pressure, she thought, then called out to the ROC contingent. “One more thing. Anyone here seen The Empire Strikes Back?”

Confused nods and raised hands.

“Good. Because, as Yoda said, ‘Do or do not, there is no try.’ Except here, ‘do not’ means your country drowns in landing craft. So let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”

She turned to Mick. “Think I should ease up on the movie quotes?”

“Nah.” He scratched his beard. “If you can’t find wisdom in eighties action flicks, what’s the point of defending democracy?”

Tang appeared at her elbow, having settled his people. “Excuse me, Mack, one question. These XLUUVs — they’re truly autonomous? No tether to a base?”

“Yes. Thirty days of underwater hunting, all on their own. Here, let me show you something.” She pulled up a schematic on her tablet. “These bad boys have onboard AIs that can process and identify acoustic signatures, classify threats, and even predict submarine behavior patterns over time. You designate the zones they operate in, and you control and program the rules of engagement they use. After that, they’re killer whales with torpedoes for teeth.”

“Amazing. And what if the PLA tries to jam our communications?”

“Ah, well, that’s the beauty of autonomy.” Mick leaned in. “Can’t jam what doesn’t need to phone home. These things will keep hunting even if every satellite burns and every radio tower falls.”

Tang studied the schematic, fingers tracing torpedo loadouts and sensor arrays. “We’ve theorized such systems. To see them real…”

“Yes, it’s impressive. We’ve moved well past theory, Commander,” interrupted Mack as she closed the tablet. “It’s time we welcome you to the future of naval warfare. Population: you.”

Tang smiled at her brashness.

“Come on,” Mack said, leading them deeper into the complex. “Time to turn you into ghost whisperers. Except your ghosts will be carrying Mark 48 torpedoes.”

Outside, the squall had passed completely now, leaving behind that electric clarity that came after tropical storms. As Mack looked behind the hangar, she knew somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, Chinese satellites were certainly watching, counting, analyzing.

Let them watch, she thought. By the time they understand what we’ve taught here, it’ll be too late.

Behind her, forty-eight voices began calling cadence as Chief Reyes led them to their quarters. The sound echoed off hangar walls, mixing with jet engines and distant thunder.

The countdown to April fifteenth had started. Time to contact was steadily approaching.

“Simulated contacts bearing one-six-zero. Depth forty meters. Speed five knots and climbing.”

Mick stood behind a pair of ROC sailors hunched over their console. The green trace of the Seeker-class XLUUV ghosted across the bathymetric map, showing the depth and shape of the underwater terrain. Sonar pings highlighted a target track just beyond the shelf drop. The ops trailer smelled of coffee, electronics, and nervous sweat.

“What’s your call, Petty Officer Liang Zihao?” Mick kept his voice neutral.

The young sailor’s fingers hovered over the Engagement Authorize key. On screen, the Seeker’s AI had already classified the contact: PLAN Type 039C submarine, confidence eighty-seven percent. The autonomous hunter circled like a shark, maintaining perfect acoustic shadow while calculating firing solutions.

“It’s… it’s requesting permission to engage,” Liang said, voice tight.

“That’s because we’re in training mode.” Mick tapped the screen. “Fully autonomous, this thing would’ve already put two Mark 48s in the water. You’ve got eight seconds to authorize or abort.”

Liang glanced at his partner, then stabbed the Authorize key. “Weapons free.”

The display erupted in data streams. Two torpedoes separated from the Seeker, their tracks diverging to bracket the target. The submarine contact immediately accelerated, diving for the thermocline. Too late. The first torpedo detonated beneath its keel, the second finishing what physics started.

“Kill confirmed,” the AI announced in its eerily calm voice. “Returning to patrol pattern.”

“Outstanding.” Mick clapped Liang on the shoulder. “Except for one thing. Check your IFF overlay.”

Liang’s face went pale as he pulled up the identification layer. The “enemy” submarine now showed friendly markers — a Japanese Soryu-class on scheduled transit.

“Well, that complicates things,” he muttered in Mandarin.

“Yeah, just a bit. You sank an allied sub.” Mick leaned against the console. “Look, the PLA knows our allies’ signatures too. They’ll spoof, they’ll deceive, they’ll try to make you kill friendlies. That’s why we have human oversight.”

Commander Tang watched from the supervisor’s station, taking notes on a secured tablet. “How often do they attempt acoustic spoofing?”

“During my time in the Navy, every time we sailed through the South China Sea,” Mick replied bluntly. “Your Seeker’s AI is good, Commander — scary good — but it’s not perfect. It learns from every engagement, sure, but the enemy learns too.”

He pulled up another scenario. “OK, we’re going to reset and try this again. This time we’re running the Matsu Gap. Petty Officer Wang, you’re up.”

The display refreshed. Three Seekers appeared in formation, patrolling the narrow waters between Matsu Island and the Chinese mainland. Mick had programmed this one himself — a nightmare scenario of overlapping sonar coverage, civilian traffic, and hostile submarines trying to force the strait.

“Mission parameters,” he announced. “Prevent any submerged transit while avoiding civilian casualties. You’ve got six hours of battery on each Seeker before they need to surface and recharge. Oh, and the PLA just declared another ‘live-fire exercise’ in your patrol box.”

Wang’s team huddled over their stations. Within minutes, they’d repositioned the Seekers into a picket line, using Lattice AI to coordinate overlapping sonar coverage. Smart, but predictable.

“Incoming surface contact,” one operator called out. “Container ship, bearing zero-nine-five.”

“Let it pass,” Wang ordered.

Mick suppressed a smile. The ship passed directly over Seeker-2’s position. The XLUUV’s AI immediately detected the acoustic anomaly — something heavy had just detached from the container ship’s hull.

“Contact! Subsurface separation from merchant vessel!”

“It’s a parasitic mini-sub,” Commander Tang identified quickly. “We’ve been monitoring the PLA’s experiments with them.”

“Ah-ha. Good catch,” complimented Mick as he watched Wang’s team continue to react. “But heads up, you’ve got bigger problems.”

The display began to light up with new contacts. What looked like a group of routine fishing vessels heading to sea had just dumped dozens of active sonar buoys, creating a wall of acoustic noise. Behind the screen, two Type 093 nuclear attack subs sprinted for the gap.

“They’re herding us,” Wang realized. “Trying to force our Seekers out of position.”

“So, what do you do?” pressed Mick.

Wang’s fingers flew across his console. “Seeker-1, ignore the noise. Maintain station. Seeker-3, shallow dive, get below the thermocline. Seeker-2…” He paused, calculating. “Sprint north, then cut engines. Drift onto their flank.”

The display updated in real time. The Chinese subs, confident in their acoustic cover, maintained their sprint. They never detected Seeker-2 drifting silently into their baffles.

“Fire when ready,” Wang ordered.

Four torpedoes lanced out. The lead Type 093 managed an emergency blow, broaching like a wounded whale before the weapons found it. The second tried to dive but ran straight into Seeker-3’s firing solution.

“Splash two,” the AI reported.

But the mini-sub had slipped through during the chaos.

“You stopped the main force but missed the infiltrator,” Mick noted. “In real combat, that could be carrying special forces, mines, or worse. Tang, what’s your assessment?”

The commander stood, addressing his sailors. “We’re thinking like surface warriors, not submariners. The Seekers give us reach, but we need to think in three dimensions, multiple layers.”

“Exactly.” Mick pulled up a new display showing the full undersea battle space. “Each Seeker can deploy sixteen micro-mines from its payload bay. Create choke points. Channel the enemy where you want them.”

Outside, dawn painted Apra Harbor gold. Through the trailer’s reinforced windows, they could see the actual Seeker units in their cradles, technicians running final checks. Each one cost twenty-eight million dollars — less than a tenth of a manned submarine but with similar capability in confined waters.

“Let’s talk real-world employment,” Mick continued. “Your coastline has three major approach routes for amphibious assault. The Penghu Channel, the north approach past Keelung, and the southern route through the Luzon Strait. How many Seekers would you need for effective coverage?”

The room erupted in discussion. Some argued for concentration of force, others for dispersed operations. Tang let them debate before speaking.

“Twelve per approach, minimum. But that assumes perfect coordination.”

“Which brings us to Lattice.” Mick activated the holographic display, showing a three-dimensional network of interconnected nodes. “This isn’t just a command and control tool. It’s a hive mind for your robot fleet. Each platform shares data, learns from others’ experiences, adapts tactics in real time.”

He highlighted vulnerability points. “But it’s also your greatest weakness. The PLA’s been developing quantum computing specifically to crack AI networks. They hack their way into Lattice, they own your fleet.”

“Ouch. Countermeasures?” Tang asked.

“Compartmentalization. Firewalls between tactical and strategic layers. And this.” Mick held up a physical key. “Manual override, hardwired into each platform. It’s a Stone Age solution to a Space Age problem.”

Petty Officer Liang raised his hand. “Sir, the battery limitation. Six hours seems…”

“Inadequate? Yeah, it is.” Mick shrugged. “That’s why you rotate. Always have a third of your force charging, a third in transit, a third on station. Or…”

He pulled up another slide showing modified Taiwanese fishing vessels.

“Tender ships. Disguised as trawlers but carrying charging stations. The Seekers surface at night, quick charge, and they’re back in the fight.”

“The PLA will target them,” Tang observed.

“Of course they will. Which is why you defend them with these bad boys.” The display showed Zealot USVs, bristling with missiles and autocannons. “Surface escort for your subsurface hunters. Combined arms, autonomous style.”

The morning wore on. Scenario after scenario, each more complex than the last. The ROC operators began thinking less like traditional sailors and more like orchestra conductors, managing a symphony of autonomous systems.

During a break, Mick found himself outside with Tang, both men watching the actual Seekers being lowered into the harbor for afternoon live trials.

“Your thoughts, Commander?”

Tang was quiet for a moment. “It changes everything. For decades, we’ve planned for heroic last stands. Brave men dying to slow the invasion. This…” He gestured at the robots. “This gives us a chance to win.”

“Only if you use them right.” Mick lit a cigarette, ignoring base regulations. “The PLA’s not stupid. They’re developing countermeasures as we speak. Drone swarms to overwhelm your Seekers, EMP weapons to fry their circuits, cyberattacks on Lattice.”

“Then we adapt faster.” Tang’s jaw set. “We have to.”

“Exactly. That’s the spirit.” Mick flicked ash into the harbor. “Tomorrow we run the nightmare scenario. Full invasion fleet, contested electromagnetic environment, degraded communications. Think your people are ready?”

“They’ll have to be.” Tang watched his sailors through the trailer window, bent over their consoles with fierce concentration. “That vote in Beijing last week… it was meant to end us.”

“Then let’s make sure they choke on the attempt.” Mick crushed out his cigarette. “Yoda was wrong about one thing. There is ‘try.’ And trying to invade Taiwan after we’re done here will be the PRC’s last mistake.”

They headed back inside. The next scenario was loading — a hundred PLAN vessels approaching with their barge bridges and civilian vehicle ferries loaded with battalions of armor and infantry fighting vehicles, hundreds of PLA aircraft, communications jammed, satellites offline.

Time to teach these kids how to fight blind and mute.