The Gotland Deception

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Environment Waits for No One

It was 0945 hours as the black Mercedes electric-powered vans hummed quietly up the gravel road, their low whine almost drowned out by the constant wind gusts rolling off the Baltic. Klara Hedevig stood at the edge of the Näsudden wind array, jacket pulled tight, smile pulled tighter.

The turbine blades above them spun in lazy circles, casting slow-moving shadows over the tour group. Two investors in green energy from Singapore were bright and smiling; Klara was happy that they wouldn’t need an interpreter as they also spoke English. An NGO from Japan had sent three of its representatives to investigate Sweden’s advancements in sustainable energy. A Spanish investment firm had also sent three of its people with an interpreter. Rounding out the delegation were eight Chinese “energy executives,” all dressed in tailored overcoats.

“I hope you’ll find this a compelling example of Sweden’s offshore wind capabilities,” Klara said. “These were retrofitted in 2030 to accommodate a new Siemens blade stabilization system. They’re still running at ninety-eight percent efficiency.”

The Chinese interpreter relayed her words in Mandarin, and the Spanish interpreter did her magic. The rest of the group understood her tour in English. One of the Chinese officials nodded. Another pointed southwest — toward the coast road. A small convoy of JLTVs rumbled in the distance, just visible through the mist.

Cao Ju, the interpreter for the Chinese group, didn’t wait for Klara to comment. He spoke quietly to the group in Mandarin, then turned to Klara. “They ask if this is part of the recent deployment.”

Klara hesitated, then gave a calculated nod. “Yes. US Army vehicles. Likely from the 173rd Airborne. They’ve increased their footprint here following recent developments in Kaliningrad and along the Suwałki Gap.”

One of the officials — the shortest of the group, with sharp eyes and an arctic-blue scarf — asked a clipped question in Mandarin, which Cao translated without embellishment. “How many soldiers have arrived? And where are they being housed?”

Klara turned her body slightly to shield the conversation from the wind, or from prying lenses, should any be watching. “I’m not totally sure. I’ve been told a regiment of paratroopers is likely around six hundred. As to where they are staying, I’ve heard some are staying in Roma, near the Grönt Centrum. I believe some are staying near the airport, while the rest are staying with the Gotland Regiment at Tofta.”

Cao’s left eyebrow rose, but he said nothing to her as he relayed the information.

The man in the scarf looked satisfied. He pulled out a small notebook, scribbled something, then turned his gaze back to the turbines.

“And this system here,” Klara continued, raising her voice slightly, “feeds into the southern grid loop that powers Klintehamn and portions of Burgsvik. Grid balancing is managed from a control center in Hemse.”

Cao repeated the energy cover story with professional ease. Klara noted how none of the officials so much as looked toward the turbines. Their eyes were scanning the tree line — counting trucks and estimating patterns.

A man from the Spanish group raised his hand politely and asked in English, “What’s the primary materials source for the turbine blade retrofits? Are you relying on domestic composites or importing from Germany or Denmark?”

Klara welcomed the break in tension. “Great question. The newer stabilizers are sourced through a joint Nordic supply network, mostly Swedish and Danish composites. The blade tips are still imported from a German subsidiary, but that may shift to local manufacture next year.”

One of the Singaporean investors chimed in, her tone bright. “And what’s the projected maintenance cycle at your efficiency rate?”

“Fourteen to sixteen months per full diagnostic rotation,” Klara replied. “We operate three drone teams for visual inspection and blade diagnostics. The offshore variants have a slightly longer cycle thanks to lower particulate exposure.”

Several heads nodded, satisfied. The tension faded slightly — at least among the non-Chinese participants.

Klara took a step forward and lowered her voice, speaking directly to Cao. “You’ll see supply convoys running east — west across this road through the end of the week. They’re repositioning HIMARS launchers and counter-UAV systems to the central corridor. There may also be Patriot radar assets mobile near Slite and Roma.”

Cao didn’t need to translate that. Every man in the group understood English better than they pretended.

Klara forced a pleasant tone. “Shall we move to the vans? The next site has active biogas processors and may smell… less than inviting.”

The group nodded as one. The man with the scarf lingered a moment longer, eyes squinting toward the coast road.

Klara didn’t breathe until he turned to follow.

The Roma biogas plant stank of wet fermenting compost, but Klara preferred the odor to the silence of the van ride. She pushed through her rehearsed speech with mechanical precision.

“…and this anaerobic digestion system is fed by agricultural waste from farms across central Gotland. It produces both heat and electricity, with minimal transmission loss to the surrounding district.”

Across the road, visible through a tree line were armored Humvees, stacks of cargo containers, and a row of folding tents braced against the spring wind. All signs of Bravo Company’s presence.

“Are those… military assets?” one of the Chinese officials asked — in English.

Klara paused just a beat longer than she should have. Her eyes flicked toward Cao.

“Temporary,” she said carefully. “Part of a Swedish-led training initiative. Best not to linger your attention on them too long. There are cameras. Sensors.”

Cao began translating, but she stepped closer and lowered her voice.

“Tell them, politely, that they are being watched, just like I am. If they start pointing, they’ll be having a much shorter visit to the island.”

Cao’s mouth tightened. He relayed the message. The response from the man in the scarf came swiftly — a terse phrase in Mandarin and a hard glance toward Klara.

Cao hesitated. “He says… you are too forward. That such disrespect is noted.”

Klara straightened her blazer. “Then he’s free to file a complaint with my director. After we’re safely off the island.”

For a few tense seconds, no one moved. Then the scarfed man gave a curt nod, and the rest of the group shifted their attention back to the tour.

A Spanish delegate leaned closer to his interpreter and asked something in hushed tones. After a brief exchange, the interpreter looked to Klara. “He’s asking how the plant manages methane capture and if excess gas is sold back to the national grid.”

“Good question,” Klara said, seizing the chance to reset the tone. “Yes, we capture and scrub the methane for purity, then it’s piped into the local grid under a regional agreement. Roughly twelve percent is sold back to mainland suppliers during peak capacity.”

One of the Singaporeans added, “Do you foresee hydrogen conversion scaling up here in the next three years?”

“It’s being discussed,” Klara replied smoothly. “The infrastructure’s viable with modest retrofits. But it depends on funding commitments from both Stockholm and Brussels.”

Klara continued, her voice crisp. “As I was saying, this plant handles over two thousand tons of biological input annually. Our newest digesters were installed in late 2031 and have improved conversion rates by nearly twelve percent.”

Behind her words, the rhythmic thud of heavy boots sounded from the tree line. A small patrol, four soldiers in full gear, rifles at low ready, passed along the perimeter, eyes scanning in all directions.

Cao glanced over, then returned his gaze to Klara. “You were right,” he said under his breath. “We’re being watched.”

Klara didn’t break stride. “Good. Maybe they’ll think I’m actually here for the digesters.”

They’d reached their final stop for this tour. What was supposed to be a dormant limestone pit repurposed for solar research was now less than a kilometer from Charlie Company’s new motor pool and RBS-70 SHORAD platforms.

As Klara delivered a rehearsed briefing on photovoltaic soil integration and regional output modeling, she noticed several of the visitors drifting too close to the western ridge. The Spanish and Japanese delegates remained near the marked display area, nodding along politely, while the Singaporeans took photos of the demo plots and panels. But it was the Chinese delegation who were again testing the boundaries.

She moved swiftly. “Please remain near the installation markers,” she said with forced cheer. “That ridge is unstable and marked for erosion monitoring.”

Cao quickly translated.

Still, one of the Chinese officials, a tall man with gray temples and leather gloves, continued up the incline.

From the ridge, he would see at least a half dozen Leopard tanks parked under camo netting, visible through breaks in the sparse trees.

Klara reached him just before the crest. “Sir, for your safety, I must insist — this is an off-limits zone.”

The man turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once and stepped back, rejoining the others below.

A Singaporean investor tilted her head toward Klara. “Are these solar arrays active already or just in testing?”

“Still in pilot phase,” Klara replied smoothly. “We’ve logged six months of seasonal data and are preparing a transition report to submit to Region Gotland’s energy board. If funded, full deployment will follow within two years.”

One of the Japanese delegates asked, “Have you had issues with ground stability from the old quarry base?”

Klara nodded. “Some. Drainage improvements were done last autumn, and we’ve layered erosion controls over the eastern edge. The rest of the ridge, as you’ve seen, is not meant for foot traffic.”

Cao approached quietly. “They are getting impatient,” he murmured. “They want details you have not provided.”

“They’ll get what they get,” Klara muttered. “Unless they want to risk the entire operation.”

She gave a tight smile as she returned to the group.

“To the untrained eye,” she said, pitching her voice for the onlookers possibly monitoring their conversation, “this may seem like an ordinary solar soil integration platform — but it’s one of the most efficient in Scandinavia. It’s been field-tested to survive Gotland’s harshest winters.”

Cao translated dutifully. The officials nodded, but their eyes lingered westward.

Klara’s hands remained still, but her mind raced. Back home, the red go bag in her closet was ready. Inside was a forged Estonian passport, euro cash, SIM chips, and a ferry ticket to Riga hidden in a birding field guide.

If this tour went sideways — if just one patrol got curious — her window to vanish would slam shut.

She exhaled, then gestured toward the vans. “We’ll finish at the café just ahead. Excellent saffron bread and no patrols.”

They followed without protest. No one spoke. The only sound was the sea wind — and the faint clatter of tank tracks shifting positions in the forest.

The bell above the café door chimed softly as Klara stepped inside. The warmth and the scent of strong coffee, cardamom buns, and clean wood floors enveloped her like a blanket. She pulled down her scarf, glad to be out of the wind.

Annika stood behind the counter, pouring espresso into a demitasse with the precision of a surgeon. Her sharp eyes flicked up. “Look who finally returns to civilization. I was beginning to think you’d defected to Stockholm.”

Klara offered a tired smile. “Only for a few hours. Green energy waits for no one.”

Annika raised a brow. “Green energy, or government guests? Someone saw your convoy down by Tofta. You looked very… official.”

Klara winced internally. Of course someone had noticed. “Part of the Baltic Resilience & Renewables Initiative,” she said casually, sliding onto a stool. “There are some NGOs and investors from Japan, Singapore, Spain, and China. Mostly technical experts from their clean energy board. They wanted a tour of our infrastructure — wind, solar, and biogas — to see the latest tech our Swedish industry has come up with. I think it’s going to lead to some new business for a few of our local companies.”

“Ah, that’s great. That explains the large convoy of guests. Your tour looked like a foreign minister’s motorcade,” Annika pressed.

“Ha-ha, yeah. I suppose it does,” Klara replied smoothly. “I think with all the uncertainty around the world these days, countries are looking for ways to insulate their sources of power in ways that don’t leave them dependent on the whims of a dictator deciding he wants to take over his neighbor.”

Annika made a noncommittal sound and handed another customer a flat white. “Yeah, I suppose you are right. Are you still planning that bird-watching thing?”

“The Baltic Wings Festival?” Klara nodded. “Absolutely. There will be a lot of attention from ecotourists, especially now that NATO’s decided to treat Gotland like a forward base.”

Annika narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

Klara leaned in, voice soft. “It’s not what it looks like, I promise. They’re bureaucrats. Stiff, boring, and constantly jetlagged. I spent half the day explaining anaerobic digesters and the other half making sure they didn’t trip over SHORAD cables.”

That earned a short laugh from Annika. “Well, if anyone can wrangle that crowd, it’s you.”

“Exactly,” Klara said. “It’s all harmless. Besides, I’d rather be arguing solar grid stability than listening to more NATO artillery echoing across the coast.”

Annika gave her a skeptical once-over, then poured Klara her usual tea and joined her at the bar. “If you say so. Just don’t bring any drama to my café.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Klara replied sweetly, though she could still feel Cao’s last glare burning behind her eyes.

She sipped her St. Hans Blend slowly, portraying a practiced calm on the outside. But inside, she was already rewriting the contingency plan for her escape.

Just in case.

The light in Klara’s kitchen was low, and the blinds were drawn tight. She moved with silent efficiency, opening a sideboard that held folded linen and placemats — at least on the surface. Behind the stacked tablecloths, a thin false backing slid away, revealing a narrow compartment no larger than a shoebox.

Inside was the red go bag: matte fabric, unbranded, soft-sided. It contained a rolled bundle of euro notes — none larger than twenties — a slim RFID-shielded wallet with two different national ID cards, a burner phone, and an Estonian passport in the name of Liisa Tark.

Next to it sat a nylon pouch with a handful of USB drives, a small GPS tracker, and a clean SIM pack. She checked everything, fingers moving fast but methodically.

Then she closed it, slid the panel back into place, and refolded the linens with care.

In the bathroom, she flushed a single index card she’d used to sketch a new extraction route — from Visby to Nynäshamn via the early freight ferry, then across to Riga by bus.

She would begin staying more nights at Lars’s place — claiming it helped her sleep better with him gone so often. That way, if anyone came snooping here, they wouldn’t find her home. And Lars wouldn’t have an excuse to stop by unannounced. It also meant less chance of him stumbling on her other contingencies, like the key to the storage unit on the north end of town — rented under a different name — that was currently secured inside her makeup bag. Inside that unit, she’d started storing nonperishable food, a field medical kit, a few changes of clothes, and a collapsible bicycle.

Tonight, she’d head to the co-op market and use self-checkout to withdraw small amounts of cash using her debit card — never more than a few hundred kronor at a time. She would spread these withdrawals out over multiple stores, over multiple nights.

She stared at the screen for a long moment before minimizing the window and pulling up the birding website she used as her cover.

She added a cheery post about the upcoming white-tailed eagle observation walk, then shut the laptop and leaned back in her chair.

The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the kitchen clock. Outside, the wind howled faintly across the eaves. Klara exhaled slowly.

It was all about timing now. She wasn’t sure whether she’d see the trap before it snapped shut.