The Gotland Deception

Chapter Twenty-Two: Steel Horizon

“Assassin Two-Two, this is Assassin Two-Seven. I’ve got eyes on ridge. We’ve got FPV drones above and in the tree line,” Torres’s voice crackled over the internal comms. He’d barely called out his warning when, a second later, the Leonidas-equipped Ripsaw on the flank fired a directed pulse into the sky. Torres watched through his commander’s independent thermal viewer in satisfaction as the pair of commercial-grade quadcopters dropped like flies into the Polish mud. The threat had been eliminated before it could ruin their day.

Unlike conventional weapons, the electromagnetic pulse made no sound when it fired. There was no crack of the sound barrier breaking, no swooshing sound of a rocket motor or missile accelerating — just a faint electrical hum, then silence where rotors had once buzzed.

“Assassin Two-Seven, Romeo One-Alpha, targets eliminated, targets eliminated,” Warrant Officer Marrick announced over the battalion net. “Shifting autonomous patrol route to Grid November-Kilo-Four-Seven.”

A sharp crack split the air. Then another. The M5’s 30mm autocannon tore into a drone-controlled target vehicle disguised as a Russian BMP-3. The unmanned target erupted in a shower of sparks and shredded composite material before igniting, adding to the realism.

“Holy—” Private First Class Munoz jumped in surprise from the sudden eruption of machine-gun fire and cannons going off outside as the exercise got underway. “Whoa! Those are live rounds that Polish watchtower is firing over top of us!”

“Damn right they are,” Torres growled from his commander’s station. “They’re firing well above us to simulate what it will sound like when it’s the real deal, Private. We train as we fight. No do-overs when Ivan comes knocking. Now stay focused. Head in the game, guys.”

Their tank moved with the rest of the platoon as they advanced further into the training range. The whole scene was surreal, far more realistic than the range they’d trained on at Bliss. As they approached a wooded area, the hairs on the back of Torres’s neck tingled. He keyed his mic. “Gunner, traverse right. Watch that wood line.”

“Copy that,” Sergeant Burke replied. The turret whined as their 120mm smoothbore cannon tracked to the right of the scarred training area. More tracers arced overhead — red streams of 7.62mm mixed with the stuttering bark of the louder .50-cal, firing somewhere to their left.

A pyrotechnic artillery simulator exploded nearby, adding yet another layer of realism to their training. Some crazy Polish engineers had rigged canisters filled with loose rocks and dirt to be thrown into the air to rain down on their vehicles as they drove by. It greatly increased the pucker factor of their training.

“Assassin Two-Seven, this is Assassin Two-Six.” Lieutenant Novak’s voice cut through, trying to project calm over the chaos. “Polish element reports movement along grid Papa-Romeo-Two-Eight-Eight-Seven-Six. Probable OPFOR armor.”

Another explosion erupted, closer this time. Smoke canisters popped along the ridgeline, obscuring thermal sights with thick gray clouds.

“Roger, Assassin Two-Six. Assassin Two-Two moving to overwatch.”

“Driver, ford that creek, then find us a berm near the tree line,” Torres commanded. “We need defilade to cover First Platoon’s advance.”

Specialist Boone responded instantly. The seventy-ton M1E3 lurched forward, turbine screaming. They plunged into the shallow creek, water spraying in the air as they did. The tracks churned through the muddy bottom, finding purchase on the rocky streambed without missing a beat.

As they exited the far bank, another salvo of artillery simulators detonated behind them, close enough to pepper the turret with dirt clods. Boone spotted what Torres wanted — a natural earthen berm created by years of erosion, just high enough to hide their hull and drove toward it.

“Perfect, Boone. Ease her in.”

The Abrams settled into its hull-down position with mechanical precision, Boone feathering the throttle until only the turret and the business end of the M256 smoothbore protruded above the scraped berm. The turbine’s whine dropped to a whisper — its fifteen hundred shaft horsepower idling like a caged predator.

Torres pressed his face against the CITV’s padded eyepiece. The commander’s independent thermal viewer painted the battlefield in stark contrasts — white hot against black cold. Through the drifting smoke from their earlier engagements, the next-generation FLIR cut through the visual clutter like a scalpel through flesh.

He spotted movement in the trees; something was darting between the birch trees and pines. Heat plumes from diesel engines soon appeared, betraying the OPFOR vehicles crawling through their scripted dance. They were the T-90M surrogates — tracked drone targets with bolt-on visual enhancers, making them look like Russian tanks. They executed their pre-programmed routes with robotic precision. Beyond them, the fixed targets lurked in scraped fighting positions, their IR-suppression blankets turning the forty-ton steel monsters into hidden ghosts, at least to the untrained eye.

“Contact front, tank. T-72 at our eleven o’clock!” Burke called out with the practiced precision of a man who’d found what he was hunting. His hands danced across the gunner’s control handles — not frantic, but precise. “Whoa, scratch that. It’s a pair of T-90s, not T-72s. Six hundred meters moving from our eleven o’clock position to our three o’clock… hang on. I’m still searching the treeline.”

Burke continued his search with the thermal sights as he swept right, the magnification jumping from three-power to ten with a flick of his thumb. “Torres — I got three more tanks, right side of those pines to our four o’clock. They’re in hull-down position, T-72 profile. Six hundred and twenty meters.”

“Got it! Load sabot. Gunner — target left T-90,” Torres commanded, his words following the precise cadence drilled into every tanker at Fort Moore. No wasted syllables. No confusion. In combat, confusion killed.

The ballistic computer system absorbed the data like a digital deity of destruction. Wind speed, air density, barrel drop from the previous rounds fired — all processed in nanoseconds.

But Munoz was already moving. His right knee snapped the knee switch, and the ammunition ready rack door retracted with a hydraulic hiss. The sabot round sat waiting — forty-five pounds of tank-killing precision. He grabbed it, pivoting his body as he rammed it home. He slammed the breech shut.

“Sabot up!” His palm struck Burke’s shoulder, letting him know the gun was ready to fire.

Burke never stopped tracking the T-90 as it continued to move. The stabilization kept the reticle dead center on its turret ring.

“Fire!” Torres shouted.

“On the way!”

BOOM!

The Abrams bucked. Sixty-eight tons of steel compressed against the torsion bars as the main gun roared to life. Downrange, the sabot petals separated in a brief metallic flower before the penetrator — a depleted uranium dart — punched through the target.

Orange smoke erupted from the pyrotechnics, confirming their kill. Four seconds had elapsed from contact to kill. In combat, four seconds was forever. Here, it was good enough.

“Target identified!” Burke was already traversing right. “Engaging second T-90!”

The dance continued — acquire, engage. Each evolution was smoother than the last. Torres watched his crew work with grim satisfaction.

No wasted motion. No hesitation.

Outside their tank, more artillery simulators exploded, continuing to add to the surreal scene around them. Torres spun his commander’s independent thermal viewer through a full 360-degree sweep, checking their flanks and rear while Burke maintained his sight picture on the tree line. Through the CITV, he caught glimpses of the battle unfolding — Polish K2s maneuvering through smoke, their 120mm guns thundering. An M5 Ripsaw darted between burning target hulks, its autocannon chattering.

“Target, eleven o’clock, static T-72!” Burke called out, already tracking.

“Fire and adjust!” Torres confirmed, continuing his scan. There wasn’t anything behind them yet, but that could change fast.

“Up!” Munoz had another sabot ready.

“On the way!”

The gun fired again. The brass base from the combustible casing spat out of the breach, clanking against the floor as Munoz readied the gun to fire.

Torres had nearly completed his sweep when he caught movement in his peripheral vision — black specks against gray sky.

“Drone swarm, three o’clock high!” he called over the company net.

The sky filled with angry hornets — thirty-plus FPV drones converging from multiple vectors. Some carried training munitions, others just cameras, but in combat each would pack enough explosive to mission-kill a tank.

“All Warrior elements, air threat inbound!” Novak called. “Leonidas systems to auto-engage!”

The M5-CD variants swiveled their high-power microwave emitters skyward. There was no visible beam, just drones tumbling from the sky like poisoned birds.

Ten down, thought Torres. Fifteen. Twenty… not enough.

The drone operators or the AI controlling them was reacting to the HPM and scattering, making it harder for the Leonidas system to fry their circuitry.

“We got leakers! They’re getting through!” Munoz’s voice cracked, tangible fear in it now. This might be training, but those drones looked too real as they dove at their position.

The surviving drones evaded erratically, moving with inhuman speed as they bore down on them. In real combat, this was exploding death on a stick flying at a hundred-plus miles per hour. Torres watched in horror as one of the little nightmares zipped around several trees before aiming for a Polish tank to their left. Drones had gotten through. Vehicles were lost.

The Polish K2 to their left popped a red smoke grenade as simulated flames — hit by a drone carrying a training marker. The crew bailed out, playing dead as per the exercise rules as they watched the others continue on.

Torres pushed the loss aside and put his head back in the game as he ordered his tank back on the move. “Assassin Six, Assassin Two-Seven, displacing to next firing position!” Torres radioed.

Seconds later, Novak called. “All Assassin Two elements, retrograde to Phase Line Blue!”

As they backed off the tree line under a hail of simulated fire — explosions, tracers, and smoke — it looked like the combat footage they had trained on from Ukraine. By the time they reached the rally point, half the company of tanks was dead. The M5s were toast.

“ENDEX, ENDEX,” Iron Six’s voice boomed across the net. “Exercise complete. Return to Assembly Area Alpha for debrief.”

The battlefield fell silent except for the whine of the tank’s turbine engines. Torres climbed from his tank, legs shaky from adrenaline. All around him, tank crews emerged looking shell-shocked. The combination of live ammunition, overhead tracers, and constant explosions had achieved its purpose. This felt real; it felt terrifying.

“Wow. Holy crap, that was insane,” Burke muttered, pulling off his CVC helmet. Sweat plastered his hair to his skull.

“That was… educational,” Torres corrected. He watched the Ripsaws return to their staging point, moving in perfect formation despite the chaos. Those machines had performed well, but the drone swarms had still broken through.

It was time to learn from this controlled disaster and figure out what went wrong, what went right, and what they could do better.

The after-action review took place in the same converted hangar, but the atmosphere was different. Crews sat straighter, paying closer attention. There was nothing like live rounds and explosions to focus the mind.

“You are dead,” Lieutenant Colonel Cunningham announced without preamble, addressing the assembled companies. “If this were real combat — we just lost forty percent of the battalion. Why?”

This time, no one rushed to answer. The live-fire exercise had stripped away comfortable assumptions.

“Because you still think this is a game,” Cunningham continued. “When artillery falls, when tracers fly, when drones swarm — you hesitate. You think. You die.”

He clicked through footage from the exercise. Tanks bunched up under fire. Crews slowed to react to the drone threat. Perfect kill zones had been created by predictable movement.

“The Ripsaws performed well,” Major Lathrop added. “They identified threats, engaged targets, maintained precision under fire. But look here—” He highlighted a moment where an M5 sat motionless while its controlling crew dealt with their own crisis. “When humans panic, machines become expensive targets.”

Warrant Officer Marrick stood. “Sir, the data shows the autonomous systems achieved—”

“That’s great. But machines don’t bleed,” Cunningham cut him off. “Your machines killed targets, Chief. But they couldn’t adapt when the enemy changed its tactics. They failed to recognize the trap until too late.”

Torres found himself nodding. The Ripsaws had performed their programmed tasks perfectly. But war wasn’t a program.

“Sergeant Torres,” Cunningham pointed at him. “Your crew. What did you learn?”

Torres stood slowly. “That we need to train harder, sir. The noise, the chaos — it got to us. My loader froze up when things got loud. My driver overcorrected under fire. We survived on instinct, not skill.”

“Honest assessment. Continue.”

“The integration with the Ripsaws is still clunky. When our tank is fighting for survival, we can’t manage the unmanned systems effectively. It’s like trying to play piano while drowning.”

There were a few chuckles from the crowd. Gallows humor ruled among tankers.

“So what do you propose?” asked Lieutenant Colonel Cunningham.

“Repetition under stress, sir. Run this exercise daily if we have to. Live rounds, explosions, maximum chaos. Do it until managing Ripsaws under fire becomes muscle memory, not conscious thought.”

“And the fear?” Lathrop’s eyes narrowed. “When real missiles fly, when your soldiers begin to die?”

Torres thought of the stories he’d heard the veterans of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria — of their tanks getting nailed by Iranian-provided explosively-formed penetrators during the heights of the Iraq War. The discovery that EFPs penetrated the armor of main battle tanks had been shocking.

“Sir, fear keeps you sharp. It’s a good motivator. But I’ve always believed it’s training that keeps you alive. I’d say we need more of the latter to manage the fear,” Torres explained.

Cunningham nodded slowly. “That’s an astute answer, Sergeant. I agree. Tomorrow, we run this again. And again after that until the battalion stops thinking and starts fighting. This has to be second nature, people. Action, reaction.”

Major Lathrop pulled up a slide for everyone to chew on. It showed the casualty projections for what a real conflict in the Suwałki Gap might look like. The numbers were sobering.

Cunningham resumed speaking. “In two weeks, we begin Steel Forge — a combined arms exercise with the entire division as well as our Dutch, Polish, and German NATO partners. The exercise will include attack helicopters, fighters, drones, artillery, and rocket artillery. Why? Because we train as we fight, and we fight as we train. We do this so when the balloon goes up — nothing changes. It’s muscle memory. Act, react — without hesitation.”

Cunningham paused, letting that sink in.

“I know some of you think this is extreme — that I’m pushing our battalion too hard, risking too much in training.” His voice hardened. “You all remember how the Ukraine War played out — suicide drones and World War I — style trench warfare? That’s what happens when you lose the ability to maneuver, when a force gets drawn into an urban fight inside of villages and cities. It bogs you down; it traps you into a war of attrition instead of a war of maneuver. We are tankers. Maneuver warfare is in our DNA. It’s how we fight. The wars of tomorrow will be fought with everything we practiced today — drones, AI, electronic warfare, and violence of machines at the speed of AI.”

Torres found himself nodding along. It was cold, but it was the truth. He smiled when he saw Captain Morrison, his company commander, step forward. “Sir, Alpha Company is ready for the challenge. We’ll train until it’s second nature.”

“Good. Because if China moves on Taiwan, if Russia moves here” — Cunningham gestured toward the east — “there will be no learning curve. You will fight with what you know, or you will die learning.”

The briefing continued, but Torres found his mind drifting to his crew. Munoz especially — the kid had talent, but Torres was concerned he might freeze under pressure. They’d need focused drills, stress inoculation.

Maybe I’ll partner him with Burke more, he thought. Let the steady calm of our gunner rub off on him.

After dismissal, Torres gathered his platoon. “Listen up. What happened today was a wake-up call. We got our bells rung because we weren’t ready for this kind of chaos.” He looked at each of his soldiers. “That changes now. Starting tomorrow, we train under maximum stress. If you can’t handle the training, you’re going to struggle when it’s real.”

“Sergeant” — Munoz raised a hand tentatively — “the explosions, the tracers — it felt real out there.”

“Good. That’s the point.” Torres softened slightly. “Look, I know today was rough. But every mistake we make here is one we won’t make when lives are on the line. Real combat is worse — no reset button, no second chances. We train hard so we can fight easy.”

He turned to Warrant Officer Marrick, who’d joined their huddle. “Sir, we need to work on the Ripsaw integration. That drone swarm hit us hard.”

“Agreed. I’ll have my guys work on drone detection and interception. That won’t happen again.”

“Perfect.” Torres addressed the group again. “One more thing. What I said in there about not having do-overs? I meant it. We’re in the business of making the other guy die for his country. That’s an ugly truth, but it’s our truth. The better we get at our job, the more of us come home. Questions?”

None came. They understood the stakes.

“All right. Recovery operations in thirty minutes. Make sure your track is squared away — we roll again at 0700 tomorrow.”

As the soldiers dispersed, Lieutenant Novak approached. “Wise words, Sergeant. Think they’ll stick?”

“They’d better.” Torres watched Munoz helping Burke check their tank’s optics, already moving with more purpose.

“Because the major’s right — if this kicks off for real, we won’t get a learning curve,” said Novak.

“I know. The guys know too,” Torres replied softly. “Tomorrow’s another day. We’ll do better.”

They’d keep training until the fear became fuel, until chaos became clarity. Because somewhere east of them, they knew Russian and Chinese forces were running their own exercises. And they weren’t planning to lose either.