The Gotland Deception

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Black Tracks, Cold Steel

The tanks thundered across the field in a bounding overwatch formation, with one group of tanks covering the others while they advanced. The roar of tank engines echoed through the valley as Alpha Company assaulted a simulated defensive belt. Muzzle flashes lit up the night as they reached the first obstacle line — rows of dragon teeth anti-tank obstacles interlaced with barbed wire in front of a tank ditch deep enough they’d need specialized engineering vehicles to cross.

Surging forward from behind Torres’ platoon came a trio of engineering vehicles with attached Sapper teams — combat engineers trained in breaching complex obstacles and fortified positions.

The four Abrams tanks in 2nd Platoon laid down suppressive fire as a pair of M5 Ripsaws flanked out ahead, scanning the trench line for enemy ATGM teams with thermal optics and LIDAR pings.

“Loader, AMP!” Torres barked as he spotted a target his gunner should have.

“Gunner, shift — bunker complex, eleven o’clock, six hundred!”

“Identified!” Burke’s Cajun drawl cut through the noise.

“Fire!”

“On the way!”

The 120mm main gun cracked. A moment later, the target bloomed in a flash of simulated fire and smoke — another OPFOR strongpoint taken off the board.

Live rounds punched into earthen berms behind the targets. The crack of tank cannons mixed with the steady hammer of coaxial machine guns. Overhead, illumination rounds burst like miniature suns, casting stark shadows across the obstacle belt.

“Sapper element is moving up,” Lieutenant Novak reported from Alpha-21. “Assassin Two-Three and Two-Four, suppress flanks. That tree line’s hot.”

“Gunner, coax — fixed fire, trench line, ten o’clock,” Torres ordered, eyes locked on the flickering IR signature along the berm line.

“Identified,” Burke replied.

The M240 coax opened up with a stuttering burst, red tracers stitching the edge of the trenchworks. Alongside, Alpha-22 and -23 joined in, hammering suppression with coax and .50-cal fire from the commander’s remote operated weapon station. The engineering vehicles surged forward under the covering fire from Torres’s platoon.

Moving abreast of them, a pair of M1150 Assault Breacher Vehicles advanced in staggered formation to the obstacle line. One of the ABVs fired its MCLIC, a rocket-dragged line charge that arced high before slamming down across the dragon teeth and tangled concertina wire.

“Fire in the hole!” an engineer called over the company net.

A concussive blast ripped across the obstacle belt — flame, dust, and shrapnel shearing through the concertina wire and dragon teeth. Smoke hung low as the breaching lane began to take shape. Without delay, a Joint Assault Bridge vehicle crept forward, aligned with the cleared gap. The JAB vehicle deployed its bridging array across the shallow anti-tank ditch. The span locked into place with a metallic clank.

“Assassin Two-Two, Castle Two-One,” came the call over the company net. “Lane is clear. Bridge set. Passage open for armor.”

“Copy, Castle. Alpha Two-Two moving,” Torres replied, keying his throat mic.

To his left, an M5 Ripsaw crossed the newly created bridge and pushed out toward Phase Line Dallas, its turret sweeping side to side. Torres tracked it on his multi-function display. A thermal ping bloomed behind the far berm — a small, fast, humanoid heat signature.

“Possible missile team, eleven o’clock,” Burke announced.

“Loader — switch out Sabot. Give me AMP!” Torres snapped.

“Copy,” Munoz replied, already reaching. He ejected the sabot shell and locked in the Advanced Multi-Purpose round. “AMP up!”

“Gunner — send it,” Torres said.

“On the way.”

The 120mm barked, hurling the programmable round downrange. The round detonated mid-air, showering the target’s cover with shrapnel. The thermal signature winked out.

“Good effect,” declared Burke excitedly.

“Good shot! Maintain overwatch,” Torres congratulated, settling back into his seat. “Driver, get us on the move and across the bridge. Assassins Two-Three, and Two-Four, follow behind us.”

Specialist Boone got them across the bridge quickly and safely as the Ripsaws cautiously advanced ahead of them. Torres felt like they were steel wolves being unleashed, searching for targets to kill.

“Contact! BMP, ten o’clock! Five hundred and fifty meters!” The Ripsaw’s sensors had found something. Its 30mm autocannon barked, tracers walking across a concealed position. The remote-controlled target vehicle — dressed up to look like a BMP-3 — shuddered under the impacts.

Torres heard an explosion near his tank.

Close. Too close.

“What the hell was that?” Munoz asked.

“Another Sapper charge,” Boone called from the driver’s position. “It looks like Beast element breached the obstacle line we just cleared.”

“Don’t worry about Bravo Company. Stay focused on our area,” Torres interjected, redirecting their focus.

Tanks all around them advanced deeper into the exercise area. The night erupt in controlled violence. The sound of artillery simulators continued unabated, the noise barely audible inside their armored cocoon. Smoke grenades popped at random locations, obscuring thermal sights. Yet through it all, their robotic Ripsaws prowled ahead, marking targets for the main force to destroy.

“We’ve got problems.” Burke’s voice was tight with concentration. “Assassin Ripsaw Two just went dark.”

Torres checked his display. The blue diamond representing the M5 had turned amber — damaged or destroyed.

“Simulated RPG strike,” Romeo One Alpha reported, frustration bleeding through his professional tone. “Assassin Ripsaw Two is combat ineffective. Transferring sectors to Assassin Ripsaw Three.”

It was a lesson learned the hard way: unmanned didn’t mean invulnerable.

“Boone, watch that crater on your left,” Torres coached as they entered the breach. The kid was holding steady, but breach operations tested every driver. One wrong move meant thrown track or worse.

“I see it, Sergeant. Nice and easy.”

Torres kept his head on a swivel as their tank continued through the course, watching for the inevitable counterattack. In the Russo-Ukraine War, both sides had learned to pre-register artillery on their own obstacles.

“Incoming! Incoming!” someone screamed over the company net.

The world outside their tank exploded.

The sound of artillery simulators bracketed their position. Pyrotechnic charges exploded, throwing rockets, dirt, and debris into the air to rain on them — simulating shrapnel hitting their vehicle. As Torres watched the scene unfold around them through his commander’s independent thermal viewer, he saw Assassin Two-Four slide sideways on some loose soil. It threw a track as a tree branch got caught in the gear teeth, stopping their vehicle.

“Assassin Two-Four’s immobilized,” Staff Sergeant Delaney reported, voice steady despite the chaos. “Continuing to engage.”

“Assassin Two-Three, cover them,” Novak ordered. “Two-Two, with me. We’re pushing through.”

Torres felt pride swell as he listened to Novak take charge with an air of authority and confidence he didn’t have four months ago when he’d first shown up. The lieutenant was growing into the role, making decisions under pressure. “Roger, Assassin Two-One. Assassin Two-Two’s with you.”

They cleared the obstacle belt into hell as more targets appeared.

“Contact front! Multiple vehicles!” Burke’s hands flew over controls. “I count three T-90s, three o’clock, 450 meters. Load Sabot!”

“Copy, load Sabot!” Munoz replied, already reaching. He ejected the AMP shell and locked in the Sabot round. “Sabot up!”

“On the way.”

BOOM!

The 120mm cannon belched flame as it hurled the depleted uranium lawn dart across the four hundred and fifty meters in fractions of a second. Sparks erupted against the armored hull of the T-90 main battle tank. The other tanks were hit in rapid succession as Novak joined the fray.

Downrange, the target vehicles died in a shower of sparks. But four more appeared, their exterior silhouettes giving them away as BTR-90 armored personnel carriers. Then to Torres’s surprise, a trio of target vehicles that appeared to be T-90s emerged from deeper within a nearby copse of trees to their four o’clock position.

“Two-Two, they’re swarming us,” Novak called, his voice tense. “All Assassin elements, action front. Establish base of fire.”

The other platoons of the company spread out in a hasty line formation anchored on Torres and Novak. The tanks found whatever cover the terrain offered while firing at the defenders. This was the critical moment — they had successfully breached into the enemy rear area. It meant they were exposed to more enemy kill zones, but they also had the chance to really wreck the enemies’ day.

“Assassin Ripsaw Three has visual on enemy command post,” Romeo One Alpha announced. “Grid Papa-Romeo-Two-Five-Seven. Requesting permission to engage with Javelin strike.”

“Permission granted,” Captain Morrison replied instantly. “Prosecute and take ’em out!”

Torres watched his display as the remaining M5 locked onto the target. In real combat, its Javelin launcher would send a missile arcing into the night. Here, computers calculated the hit probability and awarded the kill.

“Command post destroyed,” the exercise controller announced. “OPFOR C2 degraded.”

The defensive fire slackened. Without coordination, the remote-controlled vehicles reverted to basic programming — still dangerous, but predictable.

“All Assassin elements, advance!” Captain Morrison commanded. “Objective in sight!”

The company surged forward. Torres caught glimpses of other platoons maneuvering — First on the left, Third swinging wide right. Textbook company team breach and assault.

“Loader, how we doing on ammo?”

“Eight sabot, four AMPs remaining,” Munoz replied promptly. The kid was finding his rhythm, combat stress focusing him now instead of freezing him up.

“Two-Two, infantry in the open, one o’clock,” Novak called.

Torres saw the thermal mannequins representing dismounted infantry. In combat, these would be the enemy’s last reserve, trying to stop the breakthrough.

“Burke, coax. Troops in the open — eight o’clock, two hundred meters!” Torres shouted.

The coaxial machine gun chattered, walking tracers across the target array. The exercise controllers marked them destroyed, one by one.

And then, suddenly, it was over.

“Objective secured,” Morrison announced. “Cease fire, cease fire. ENDEX.”

Torres slumped in his seat, adrenaline crash hitting hard. Around them, the battlefield fell silent except for idling engines and the crackle of burning simulators.

“Nice work, Boone,” Torres praised. “That was textbook driving through that breach, Specialist. Well done!”

“Thanks, Sergeant.” The kid sounded exhausted but proud. “Though I about filled my pants on more than one occasion. That has to be the most realistic tank course I’ve ever seen.”

“Man, you ain’t joking, Boone. If you didn’t pucker a little on this course, you weren’t paying attention,” Burke drawled.

They pulled into the assembly area as dawn broke. Maintenance teams swarmed over vehicles, checking for exercise damage. Torres found Staff Sergeant Granger standing beside Two-Three, staring at his tank.

“You OK, Granger?” Torres asked.

“That was intense, Torres. If Assassin Ripsaw Two hadn’t marked that position first…” Granger shook his head. “Those robots saved our bacon tonight.”

It was true. Despite losing one M5, the unmanned vehicles had identified threats faster than human crews could have managed. The integration was working.

“Sergeant Torres!” Lieutenant Novak approached, Captain Morrison and the company executive officer in tow. “Outstanding work tonight.”

“Thank you, sir. The platoon performed well.”

The XO, First Lieutenant Washington, studied him with calculating eyes. “Walk with us, Sergeant First Class.”

They moved away from the vehicles, finding privacy behind a maintenance shelter. Dawn painted the Polish countryside gold, but Torres felt the weight of what was coming.

“I’ll cut to it,” Washington said. “The CO and I have been watching you. Your platoon has the best gunnery scores, highest readiness rates, and now this — flawless execution under pressure.”

“It’s a team effort, sir.”

“Ah don’t be modest,” Captain Morrison interjected. “Your leadership makes the difference. Which is why we need to talk about contingencies.”

Torres felt his stomach tighten. He knew where this was going.

Washington continued, “Listen, if this balloon goes up — and between us, intel says it might — we need depth in our leadership. If something happens to me or the CO, or hell, Novak…”

“You’re the glue holding this platoon together,” Morrison finished. “But we might need you to hold more than that. If the company officers are taken out, are you ready and able to step up? To take command of the company if it comes to that?”

The question hung in the morning air. Torres thought of his crews — Burke and Munoz, finally clicking as a team. Granger, steady as a rock. Delaney, turning his poetry into deadly precision. The kids would become killers if they had too.

“If it comes to it, sir. I’ll do whatever the mission requires.”

“Good. I know you will.” Captain Morrison clapped his shoulder. “I know this sounds morbid, me asking you this. But it’s important for me and the other officers in the company to know which of our NCOs can set up and take charge if things really get ugly. During World War II, tank crews died pretty quickly. Hell, we saw how fast tank crews got chewed up in the Russo-Ukraine War. I just need you to think about it and be ready in case this exercise in Belarus spills over into NATO territory.”

Torres nodded. “I understand, sir. I appreciate the confidence you have in my ability to lead should it come to it. I’ll do what has to be done.”

Morrison smiled. “I like that about you, Torres. You’d make a hell of an officer if you ever decided to put in for your commission. But enough of that. Get your guys some rest. We’ve got recovery operations at 1000, then Major Lathrop wants to review what went right, what went wrong, and what could go better. The battalion plans to run the exercise again tomorrow night.”

“Wow, no rest for the weary.”

Morrison laughed. “There never is, Sergeant. There never is.”

As the officers departed, Torres stood alone, watching the sunrise. Somewhere to the east, past Belarus, Russian and Chinese forces conducted their own exercises. Training their own crews, testing their own integration of man and machine.

The M5 Ripsaws sat in a neat line, battle damage already being repaired by contractors. In a few hours, they’d be ready to fight again. No fatigue. No fear. No doubt.

But they couldn’t hold ground — couldn’t make the choice between legitimate target and war crime. They couldn’t inspire scared kids to be more than they thought possible. That still took people… flawed, tired, magnificent people.

“Sergeant?” Munoz appeared, looking haggard. “Maintenance wants to know about that track tension issue.”

“OK. I’m on my way.” Torres took one last look at the sunrise, then turned back to his work. Because somewhere out there, the next war was waiting. And when it came, it would come at machine speed, with human souls paying the price.

It was time to make sure his people were ready.

Torres sat on his bunk, tablet propped on his knees. The FaceTime connection struggled with the base’s overloaded Wi-Fi, but Maria’s face finally resolved on screen.

“Hey, baby,” she said, and just hearing her voice made his chest tight.

“Hey. Kids asleep?”

“Finally. Carlos fought bedtime for two hours. Kept saying Daddy promised to read him a story.”

Guilt twisted in his stomach. “I did. Lost track of time with the exercise.”

“He’ll live.” Maria’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “How are you?”

“Tired. Cold. Missing you.”

“How’s the training going? You guys ready to show the Russians what’s what?”

Torres forced a laugh. “If they’re dumb enough to try something, yeah. Though honestly, I think this is all just saber rattling. No way Moscow wants a real fight with NATO.”

“That’s good. The news makes it sound worse.”

“News always does. If it bleeds, it leads. We’re just here as a deterrent. Wave the flag, show some strength, everyone goes home.” He kept his voice light, confident. No point worrying her with his doubts.

“Speaking of home…” Maria’s expression shifted. “Miguel’s in trouble at school again.”

“Ugh, what now?”

“Cutting classes. Third time this month. Coach called — said if Miguel misses one more class, he’s off the team for the season.”

Torres sat up straighter. “Whoa, hold up, Maria. He’s skipping school?”

“No, just his afternoon classes. He shows up in the morning and for practice after school. He disappears between eleven and three. It’s starting to tank his grades, Ramon.”

Torres sighed audibly in frustration. “OK. Put him on, Maria. I’ll handle this.”

“Ramon—”

“Put him on, Maria,” he said with a bit more heat than he meant to.

She disappeared. He heard footsteps, muffled arguments, then Miguel’s face filled the screen. Even at fourteen, Torres could see the athlete in him — broad shoulders, quick eyes.

“Hey, Dad. How’s it going in Poland?”

“Don’t ‘hey, dad’ me, Miguel. You want to explain yourself?”

Miguel’s cheeks flushed as he shrugged. “School’s pointless, dad.”

“Oh really? Pointless? You know what’s pointless? Throwing away a gift most kids would kill for.”

“Oh, come on, dad. It’s just a few classes—”

“No, Miguel, it’s not. We’re talking about your future here.” Torres leaned forward. “You know what your fastball clocked at last week?”

“Eighty-seven,” Miguel answered with genuine pride.

“That’s right. Eighty-seven miles per hour — at fourteen, Miguel. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Miguel shrugged again, but Torres saw interest spark in his son’s eyes.

“It means scouts are already asking about you. It means you could have college paid for. Hell, it means you could go pro if you keep developing. You could land a multimillion-dollar contract, Miguel. But you know what else it means?”

“What?”

“It means nothing if you can’t stay eligible. No grades, no team. No team, no scouts. No scouts, no multimillion-dollar contract.”

“Oh, come on, dad. It’s not that bad. I’ll always have baseball—”

“Oh, yeah? Where? The parking lot? Your backyard? You think the Astros are scouting kids who got kicked off their high school team for being too stupid to show up for algebra?”

Miguel’s jaw tightened. “I’m not stupid.”

“Then stop acting like it. You’ve got a gift, Miguel. A real shot at something special. How many kids in your school can throw eighty-seven?”

“None.”

“How many in El Paso?”

“Maybe… two or three?”

“And how many of them are ditching class?”

Silence.

“Miguel, I’m not there to drag you out of bed or make sure you show up for class. Your mom’s working doubles to pay for the transmission that decided to take a crap on us three hundred and two miles after the warranty expired. You want to help? Stop making her worry about whether you’ll graduate.”

“Ugh, these classes are sooo boring—”

“Life’s boring. You think sitting in this tank for hours is exciting? You think your mom loves checking IVs at three a.m.? We do it because it gets us somewhere better.”

Miguel’s defiance cracked slightly. “The other kids say baseball’s just a game.”

“The other kids are jealous. They see what you can do, know they can’t touch it. So they try to drag you down to their level. That what you want? To be just another kid with excuses?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want?”

Miguel looked away, then back. “I want to pitch in the majors.”

“Say it again.”

“I want to pitch in the majors.”

“Then you have to start acting like it. Major leaguers don’t skip class. They don’t give coaches reasons to bench them. They show up, do the work, and earn their shot.” Torres softened his tone. “You’ve got something special, son. Please don’t waste it because sitting in history class is boring.”

“What if I’m not good enough, dad?”

“Then you fail trying, not because you were too lazy to show up. But, Miguel? You are good enough. I’ve watched you pitch since you were eight. You’ve got the arm. You’ve got the focus. You just need the discipline.”

Miguel nodded slowly. “Coach says there might be scouts at the regional tournament.”

“Oh, wow! That’s amazing, Miguel! When is it?”

“It’s in six weeks,” Miguel explained, excitement returning in his voice.

Torres looked off screen for a moment before returning to face his son. “OK, Miguel. Then you’ve got six weeks to fix your grades and show those scouts you’re worth investing in. Do you think you can you do that? Turn your grades around to show ’em you’ve got brains to go with that arm?”

“Yeah, I think I can do that,” Miguel confirmed.

“You think, or you know?”

“I know I can.”

“Good. Because if you make the majors, you’re buying me season tickets.”

Miguel cracked a smile — the first real one Torres had seen. “Let me guess… behind home plate?”

“Ah come on. I’m your father, not your agent. I’ll take the bleachers. I just want to see my boy play, and live the baseball career I never had vicariously,” Torres joked.

Maria reappeared as Miguel left. “Thank you, Ramon. I’ve been trying to get through to him for weeks.”

“It’s OK, Maria. He just needed to hear it different. How are you holding up?”

“I’m OK. Tired. The hospital’s been crazy with all this flu going around. The auto shop said the transmission should be repaired in a couple of days. What luck, the damn warranty running out when it did,” She paused. “Are you really not worried? About the situation there?”

“Eh, not really. The Russians talk big, but they know better. They got their asses kicked in Ukraine. I doubt they’re looking for a repeat.” He felt bad about lying to her, but protecting her was more important.

She smiled. “Good. I sleep better thinking you’re just doing training over there.”

“That’s all this is. Big, expensive training,” he replied.

They talked for a few more minutes — Carlos’s preschool adventures, Sophia’s science fair project. Normal life continuing an ocean away.

“I should go,” Maria finally said. “Early shift tomorrow.”

“Maria—”

“Come home safe, OK? Even if it is just training.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The connection ended. Torres stared at the blank screen, then tossed the tablet aside. Down the hall, someone laughed. Polish voices mixed with American — the two forces had started mingling more naturally.

His phone buzzed. Text from Burke: “Pub run. You in?”

Torres considered. He should sleep. Tomorrow brought more training, more preparation. But his mind was racing — Miguel’s future, Munoz’s struggles, the growing weight of keeping everyone ready.

“Give me five,” he typed back.

The pub reeked of sweat and spilled beer — a universal constant in military watering holes. Torres pushed through a crowd of Polish tankers to find Burke holding court at a corner table.

“—so there we are, in Latvia, six clicks off the railhead, knee-deep in mud, and my driver locks up the steering system trying to drift an Abrams like he’s in Fast & Furious,” Burke was saying, his Louisiana drawl thickened by beer and bravado.

The Poles roared with laughter. One of them — a sergeant from the K2 company — wiped tears from his eyes as he leaned in. “During Iron Spear last year, our crew ran over our own drone on day one. Commander screamed, ‘That was twenty thousand euros!’ Then blamed the Americans for making it too quiet.”

“But did you finish the lane?” Burke asked, raising his glass.

“Tak! Drone was gone, but gunner hit every target. Even the ones we weren’t assigned!”

“Combat effective,” Torres said dryly, sliding into the seat beside Burke. “That’s all that matters.”

Another round arrived. Laughter thickened. No politics, no doctrine — just soldiers telling stories from training rotations that had started to feel more like a prelude than preparation.

“Sarge!” PFC Sellers waved from across the table. “Settle a bet. Can the Ripsaw really engage twelve targets simultaneously?”

“Theoretically,” Torres said carefully, noting the mixed company. “Never seen it tested.”

“Because it’s fantasy,” declared a Polish corporal. “Machine cannot think like gunner. Cannot feel battlefield.”

“Doesn’t need to feel,” Marrick’s voice cut through. The warrant officer sat at the bar, nursing something clear. “It just needs to calculate faster than you can blink.”

The Pole turned. “You are robot officer, yes? Tell me — your machine, it knows difference between soldier and farmer with rifle?”

“Thermal signature, movement patterns, weapon recognition—”

“I ask simple question. Does. It. Know?”

Marrick’s jaw tightened. “It processes thousands of data points—”

“So no.”

The table went quiet. Torres saw hands drifting toward bottles — not for drinking.

“Different tools for different jobs,” Torres interjected. “Ripsaw spots targets. We decide what to shoot. System works.”

“Until it doesn’t,” the Pole insisted. “Ukraine teaches us — war is chaos. Your pretty robots, they like order. What happens in chaos?”

“We adapt.” Novak appeared, Captain Sikora beside him. “Just like you did. Just like everyone who survives does.”

Sikora nodded approvingly. “Well said. Another round for my American friends! To adaptation!”

The tension broke. Conversations resumed, war stories flowing with the alcohol. Torres noticed Marrick remained at the bar, isolated in his certainty.

“Walk you back?” Torres offered an hour later, finding the warrant officer still nursing the same drink.

“I’m good.”

“Wasn’t a question, sir.”

They left together, stepping into the sharp Polish night. Their breath steamed in the cold air.

“They don’t get it,” Marrick said finally. “The capability we’re fielding. It’ll change everything.”

“Maybe. But those guys? They’ve been watching Russia’s moves for years. They’ve earned their skepticism.”

“Skepticism’s fine. But they act like I’m trying to replace them.”

Torres stopped walking. “Aren’t you?”

Marrick turned, surprised. “What?”

“Be honest, sir. Five years from now, ten — you really think we’ll need tank crews? Or will it all be Ripsaws, controlled from bunkers in Nevada?”

“That’s not—” Marrick paused. “I don’t know. Maybe. But right now, we need both.”

“Right now.” Torres resumed walking. “That’s all any of us have. Right now, your machines need us to tell them what to kill. Second that changes, we’re all obsolete.”

“You’d rather we stick with pure human control? Let kids die because they’re slower than algorithms?”

Torres thought of McDermott, his growing confidence. Of Munoz, fighting through his hesitation. Of his own son, chasing dreams in Texas.

“I’d rather we remember that someone has to live with the consequences,” he said finally. “Your Ripsaws will kill more efficiently. But they won’t carry the weight after.”

They reached the barracks in silence. Inside, exhausted soldiers grabbed what sleep they could before morning brought another day of preparation.

Torres paused at his door, checking his phone. A text from Maria: “Miguel went to all his classes today. Even stayed after for tutoring. Whatever you said worked.”

He smiled, pocketing the phone. Small victories.

Tomorrow they’d train again. Perfect the integration of man and machine. Prepare for a conflict everyone said wouldn’t happen.

But tonight, his son was back on track. His loader was working through his fears. His crew was ready.

For now, that was enough.