The Gotland Deception

Chapter Thirty-One: The Forest Places Things

Captain Bertil Sonevang pressed himself deeper into the pine needles, ignoring the damp seeping through his ghillie suit. Thirty-two years of teaching history had taught him patience. Three decades in the Home Guard had taught him when patience might get you killed.

Through his thermal monocular, two figures moved along the forest trail like tourists who’d memorized their role too well. North Face jackets, expensive ones. Zeiss binoculars hanging just right, and camera bags that cost more than most Gotlanders made in a month. It all looked perfect.

Too perfect, too Gucci in his mind.

“Nyqvist,” Bertil whispered into his throat mic. “Status?”

“Eyes on POI,” Sergeant Albin Nyqvist responded from forty meters north of the persons of interest. “They’re stopping again. Same pattern as yesterday.”

Bertil tracked the pair through his optic. The taller one, Asian features, maybe Korean or Northern Chinese, knelt beside a limestone outcropping. His companion, stockier with Slavic cheekbones, maintained watch while consulting what looked like a birding guidebook.

Except birders don’t GPS-mark defensive positions, Bertil thought grimly.

This was the second day his team had shadowed some people affiliated with the “Baltic Wings Conservation Group.” Two days of watching them photographing approaches to the Patriot battery positioned three kilometers northeast. Two days of them sketching “geological formations” and landmarks to rapidly identify specific locations.

After the news they had heard about Kaliningrad, the sudden appearance of Chinese and Russian Marines conducting joint amphibious drills had everyone’s teeth on edge. Stockholm and NATO higher-ups had ordered increased surveillance of all foreign groups on Gotland. What the increased scrutiny found made Bertil’s old soldier instincts scream — danger.

“Wait, hold up.” Nyqvist’s voice tightened. “The tall one’s got something.”

Peering through his thermal, Bertil watched the Asian man produce an object of some sort from his pack. It looked cylindrical, matte gray in color, about the size of a large thermos. He couldn’t spot any commercial markings, not that it mattered.

“I’m recording it,” Corporal Emma Lindgren confirmed from her position. The digital camera captured a high-definition video of the scene, relaying it to the 2-503rd Battalion’s S2 shop and the P18 command post in real time.

The taller man knelt closer to the ground, placing the device into a shallow depression beside the outcropping’s base. The stockier man standing nearby produced a small tool that looked like a modified pH meter as he knelt down and pressed it into the ground nearby. The man’s movements were quick, smooth and professional. It was clear he’d done this before, many times.

The stockier man retrieved a stick of chalk from the pocket of his jacket and made a small mark on the limestone, three dots and a line. Bertil wasn’t sure what it meant, but he recognized reconnaissance markings when he saw them. It reminded him of something his grandfather had shared with him about his experience fighting the Soviets in the Winter War in neighboring Finland.

“Maybe it’s an acoustic sensor,” Bertil murmured softly. “Or something worse.”

The pair stood, brushing dirt from their knees. The Asian man turned his wrist, checked his watch, a military tell if Bertil had ever seen one. Civilians checked phones. Soldiers checked watches.

The pair began to move, continuing down the trail toward the coastal overlooks. Just two more nature lovers enjoying Gotland’s beauty. Except nature lovers didn’t emplace surveillance devices along trails leading to Patriot launchers and HIMAR vehicles.

Bertil reached for his radio, keying a different frequency. “Blackjack Six, Blackjack Six, this is Hemvärn Lead. Priority traffic. How copy?”

Captain Mercer’s voice came back almost immediately. “Good copy, Hemvärn. Send it.”

“Blackjack, we have confirmation of two POIs, possible foreign nationals. Break. Emplacing unknown device on the road in the vicinity of grid seven-tree-niner-four-two-eight. Request immediate consultation.”

“Hemvärn, wait one,” responded Mercer.

Bertil could picture the American captain in the TOC at the Grönt Centrum, probably pulling up the grid on his tactical display. Since the start of the Kaliningrad exercise, he’d been glad to see the Americans had stopped pretending this was a routine deployment. Pretense had a way of getting people killed.

“Hemvärn Lead, Blackjack Six. That grid puts you danger close to Route Apple.” Mercer used the coded designation for the Patriot battery’s primary logistics corridor. “Can you maintain observation?”

“Affirmative. But, Six, there’s a problem. They’re using reconnaissance markers along the route. If I had to guess? They’re Spetsnaz or trained by them.”

The encrypted channel stayed quiet for three heartbeats before it crackled to life.

“Copy all. I’ll round up a team. We’re eight mikes out. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to recover that device until we arrive. How many devices have you spotted so far?”

“Just the one so far. It could be acoustic or possibly a ground sensor. I’d wager they’re building a surveillance net.”

“Yeah, or a targeting grid,” Mercer replied grimly. “Hold your position. We’re moving.”

Mercer arrived like his Ranger training had taught him — fast, quiet, and ready for war. The ISV materialized from the forest road, engine barely audible. The eight paratroopers dismounted with practiced efficiency, weapons at the low ready, heads on a swivel.

As the paratroopers approached, Bertil emerged from his hide, shedding the ghillie hood. “Captain Mercer. The POIs moved northwest, toward the Bungenäs overlook,” Bertil greeted him, pointing in the direction of the trail they had gone down.

“Damn, Bertil. You almost gave me a heart attack.” Mercer shook his head as his soldiers lowered their rifles. “OK, show me this device you mentioned.”

Bertil nodded, motioning with his head for them to follow him. They moved carefully through the forest, Bertil’s Home Guard team falling in with the Americans as they fanned out. No friction, no confusion. Two weeks of joint patrols had built trust in each other’s abilities.

When they reached thirty meters from the limestone outcropping, Staff Sergeant Anna Chen raised her hand sharply. “Hold here, sir,” she called out, her voice carrying quiet authority. “Let me scan the area before we advance. If there’s a proximity sensor, I’d rather not trigger it blind.”

“Good call, Staff Sergeant,” Bertil acknowledged with approval.

Chen gave him a brief nod, already reaching into her patrol pack for the detection wand. She extended the device’s antenna with practiced efficiency, waiting for it to initialize before turning toward where Bertil had indicated the chalk marker. The scanner hummed softly as she swept it in precise overlapping arcs, her eyes never leaving the display.

“That’s… unexpected,” Chen murmured after a moment, brow furrowing at the readout. “If they’d placed any kind of sensor — seismic, acoustic, thermal — I should be detecting electromagnetic emissions. But I’m getting nothing. No RF signature, no magnetic anomalies. The area’s reading completely clean.”

“Interesting,” Mercer said, exchanging a glance with Bertil.

The Swedish lieutenant shifted his weight, clearly troubled. “I don’t doubt your equipment, Sergeant, but my team watched them place something. We have video confirmation.”

“I believe you, Lieutenant,” Chen replied, already flipping open the scanner’s side panel. “Could be tourists, could be something else. Let me recalibrate this before we make assumptions.” Her fingers adjusted the frequency range with the confidence of someone who’d done this countless times. “Some newer devices can remain completely passive until triggered, producing no emissions until activation. They’re designed specifically to defeat standard detection protocols.”

She closed the panel and resumed scanning, this time using a different sweep pattern.

“See, Holloway?” Mercer said with mock seriousness. “This is why Battalion sent us Chen. That high-tech gear is more complicated than our simple knuckle dragger brains can grasp. It requires at least a thirty-five on the ASVAB just to operate it.”

“Ha-ha, try eighty, sir,” Chen shot back without looking up from her work.

“Ah, cut the chatter, both of you,” Sergeant First Class Holloway interjected, though his tone held amusement. “Just be grateful we’ve got Chief Long and Staff Sergeant Chen running our EW section now. Remember that disaster we used to have, Anders?”

Mercer couldn’t suppress his laugh this time. First Lieutenant Jerry Anders had been part of their unit for seven months, claiming expertise in drone warfare and electronic countermeasures. Within weeks of his arrival at the company, it became painfully clear he couldn’t tell a frequency scanner from a metal detector, let alone interpret what it was detecting. When he was replaced with a warrant officer and NCO who lived and breathed electronic warfare, it transformed their capabilities overnight. Knowledgeable soldiers paired with the proper tools were a force multiplier a commander dreamed of.

Mercer eyed Chen as she waved her wand in precise patterns he didn’t understand, much like he suspected a wizarding student from Hogwarts would in one of those Harry Potter books he’d read growing up. Glancing over to Bertil, who made his way next to him, he saw a growing look of annoyance at how long this was taking.

“Chen, you got an ETA on how much longer this is going to take before it’s safe to make a visual inspection of this thing?” asked Mercer, to the relief of his Swedish counterpart.

Chen kept a neutral face as she shrugged. “Could be minutes, could be hours. If it’s GPS-linked, might not activate until—”

“Eliasson, what are you doing?” interrupted Bertil as he called out to one of his soldiers.

Mercer and Chen turned in the direction of the mystery device. One of Bertil’s soldiers, Private Henrik Eliasson, had started moving toward it.

“I’m moving around this outcropping to see if I can get a visual on the device,” replied the young soldier, continuing to cautiously move forward. “Ah, there, I can almost see it now—”

Chen’s scanner suddenly shrieked a warning. The display lit up with flashing yellow lights.

“Oh God! It’s got a proximity activation sensor!” Chen shouted loud enough for the soldiers around her to hear. “Everyone back, now!”

Eliasson froze as she shouted. He turned to look at them, a look of confusion etched on his face. “What do I—”

Before he could speak, the sound of a soft click echoed off the limestone outcropping when a black cylinder the size of a coffee can launched a meter into the air. For a split second, it hung there — then it detonated.

BOOM!

The clap of the explosion shattered the calm of the forest. The blast, not meant to shatter trees or carve a crater, exploded hundreds of tiny steel fragments in all directions. A hypersonic scythe designed to maim rather than kill.

Eliasson, standing closest to the device, had borne the brunt of the blast. The explosion had tossed his body like a rag doll, hurling him backward through the air before crashing in a heap. His body hit the ground ten meters away, immediately screaming a raw, primal sound that cut through the ringing in everyone’s ears.

“Medic!” someone shouted. Then a second voice shouted a call for help, urgently pleading and screaming in pain.

Through the smoke and dirt, Mercer rolled onto his side, picking himself off the ground. Surveying the situation around him. He saw soldiers, his and Bertil’s, scattered, some still standing, their weapons trained outward, others picking themselves off the ground like him.

Turning his eyes toward the screaming, he saw Private Eliasson, torn branches and leaves around him, his face contorted in agony. His training kicked in and he moved with purpose as he approached the gravely wounded soldier, assessing his wounds and determining what to do next.

Eliasson’s body was a torn and bloody mess. His left leg was gone below the knee, nothing but shredded meat and exposed bone, blood oozing with each beat of his heart. His right leg, while still attached, was torn open from hip to ankle, spurting arterial blood. His torso seemed OK, the body armor having absorbed the worst of the shrapnel, but both his arms were peppered with fragments. Deep gashes had found the gaps in his armor.

Corporal Gustav Holm, who’d been moving to pull Eliasson back, was on the ground clutching his right thigh. Dark blood seeped between his fingers. “Holy crap, I’m hit! Oh God, I’m hit!” he shouted through gritted teeth.

“Hang on, I’m coming!” Mercer heard Specialist Rodriguez shout as he ran toward Holm, ignoring a piece of shrapnel sticking out of his left arm.

“Move! Move! Move!” Sergeant First Class Williams was shouting as he sprinted forward with his aid bag. “Tourniquets now! Control that bleeding!” he ordered one of the soldiers nearest him.

The training kicked in as the paratroopers and Home Guard soldiers converged on their wounded. Williams went straight to Eliasson, ripping the individual first aid kit from the man’s battle belt.

“Hold him down!” Williams commanded as Eliasson thrashed. Two soldiers pinned the screaming man’s shoulders down while Williams worked the IFAK. He quickly applied the tourniquet on the left leg first, positioning it high and tight above the knee. As he twisted it tight, the blood seeping out stopped, but his screaming intensified.

“Keep holding him! The first tourniquet’s on. I need to apply another!” Williams shouted. “Eliasson, I’ve got to apply another one to stop the bleeding,” Williams told him as he tightened the tourniquet.

“Here’s another.” Chen tossed Williams her IFAK, then grabbed her radio. “Blackjack Base, this is Blackjack Six-Echo. We’ve been attacked. I need an emergency medevac to our position. Stand by for grid. Break. Grid seven-tree-niner-four-two-eight. I have at least three wounded. One is urgent critical. Traumatic amputation and severe extremity trauma. How copy?”

There was a short pause after she ended her call before the radio chirped to life. “Blackjack Six-Echo. Good copy on last transmission. Medevac spinning up from Visby. ETA twelve mikes.”

“Twelve minutes!” cursed Williams. “Tell ’em to hurry, Chen. He may not have twelve minutes!”

Mercer watched as Williams now had both tourniquets on Eliasson, but it was clear he was going into shock. His screams had faded to whimpers, his eyes losing their focus. “I need more pressure dressings. Find me some more!”

While Williams worked on Eliasson, Bertil knelt beside Holm, helping to apply direct pressure to the wound on his thigh. The corporal’s face was clammy and ghost white. “Hey, Gustav, stay with me. Look at me, look at my eyes.”

“It burns,” Holm gasped. “It burns…”

“That’s good, man. It means you’re alive.” Bertil kept pressure on the wound while another soldier positioned a pressure dressing over the wound. “Just hang in there, Gustav. You’re going to be fine.”

Rodriguez had sat himself against the trunk of a tree. He’d cut away at his uniform, exposing his arm, revealing a six-inch gash. It had cut deeply, but it wasn’t life-threatening. One of the other soldiers was already wrapping it, his combat lifesaver bag sitting next to him.

“Who’s got morphine!” Williams called out. “We need one over here!”

One of the medics produced two auto injectors from his bag. He tossed one to Williams, then applied the other to Holm. Within seconds, the wounded men’s faces began to relax as the pain meds took hold.

“Hey, we got choppers inbound. We need a landing zone now!” Mercer barked. They had almost forgotten to find a clearing for the helo, having been so busy trying to stabilize their urgent critical that they’d almost forgotten. “Over there — find us a thirty-meter radius. Move!”

The soldiers scattered, some expanding the security perimeter while others worked to clear branches and debris in a nearby clearing. In the distance, they started to hear the distinctive thumping of rotor blades. The sound of the helicopter closing in on them.

Chen appeared at Mercer’s shoulder, her scanner still in hand. “Sir, that device… it’s still transmitting. Low-power beacon. And there’s something else.” She showed him the display. “It’s emitting a GPS signal. Military-grade, encrypted.”

“Whoa, what are you saying?”

“Sir, I’m saying whatever that device was it’s still active and transmitting,” she explained.

“Good grief.” Mercer cursed and looked at the blood-soaked ground where Eliasson had fallen. “That thing is likely transmitting our coordinates to whoever is on the other end. We need to move out of this area until we can get EOD to neutralize this thing and figure out who it belongs to.”

Seconds later, a helicopter thundered overhead, a Swedish HKP 16 with medical crew aboard. It settled into the hastily cleared LZ, rotor wash whipping branches and dust into a frenzy.

“Come on! Let’s go! Let’s go!” the flight medic was shouting as he jumped out with a stretcher team.

They loaded Eliasson onto the stretcher first. The kid, barely twenty, had slipped unconscious. The medics worked with practiced efficiency, getting IV lines started as they moved.

Holm went next, still conscious but fading. Then Rodriguez, who tried to wave off help until Mercer ordered him onto the bird.

As the helicopter lifted off, Bertil stood beside Mercer, both men watching it disappear into the darkening sky.

“That was my fault, Captain,” Bertil said quietly. “I should have maintained better control of my men.”

“No, Bertil.” Mercer’s voice was hard. “This isn’t on you. It’s on them. The bastards who planted it.” He turned to face Chen. “Is your bag of tricks able to tell how many more of these things are out there?”

She shook her head. “No, sir, it can’t. But if they’re placing them along every major route…” She didn’t need to finish. He knew the implications.

“Damn. We need to alert all units. Nobody approaches suspicious markers without notifying your team and EOD.” Mercer pulled out his radio, then paused. “And, Bertil? Your man Eliasson, I think he’s going to make it. He may have lost the leg, but he’ll live.”

Bertil nodded slowly, but his eyes remained fixed on the bloodstained forest floor. In the distance, they could still hear the helicopter beating its way toward Visby Hospital.

As the sound of the helicopter continued to fade, the forest settled back into uneasy quiet. They roped off the area, marking it for EOD, and then loaded up into the vehicles and headed back to the Grönt Centrum to debrief on what had just happened.

The conference room smelled of strong coffee and a sleepless night. Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Brenner sat across from Colonel Anders Lindqvist, both men looking like they’d aged years in the past twenty-four hours. Captain Mercer stood near the wall map, favoring his left side where debris from yesterday’s blast had left bruises despite his body armor. Bertil sat carefully in a chair, his arm in a sling. He’d returned from the hospital against doctor’s orders.

“Three locations checked since dawn,” Major Stenqvist, Lindqvist’s S2, reported. “All negative. Whatever network they were building, yesterday’s incident seems to have spooked them into going to ground.”

“Or they finished whatever their mission was,” Captain Bradley, Brenner’s S2, added grimly. “Seven groups over two weeks. Even if each only placed a dozen devices…”

“That’s over eighty potential sensors or mines,” Brenner finished. “Ah, this could get ugly.”

Lindqvist rubbed his temples. “Stockholm’s sending their best EOD-Forensics team. Should arrive by 1400. The National Police Commissioner held a press conference this morning. They’re promising to bring the perpetrators to justice.”

“Justice.” Bertil’s voice carried bitter amusement. “This isn’t a crime. It’s war preparation.”

“True, but the public doesn’t know that yet,” Lindqvist replied. “And perhaps it’s better they don’t. We’re already seeing panic buying in Visby’s stores. If people knew the true scope…”

“Yeah, they’d begin to flee the island,” Bertil finished.

Mercer pulled up imagery on his tablet. “Sir, we checked the two locations Bertil identified. First was nothing, just some geology students taking samples. But they were nervous, kept asking why American soldiers were questioning them.”

“The whole island’s on edge,” Brenner observed. “Can’t blame them after yesterday. How’s Private Eliasson?”

“Stable,” Bertil answered quietly. “They saved the right leg, but he’ll never walk normally again. Twenty years old.” His good hand clenched. “Twenty years old and maimed by cowards who hide bombs in our soil.”

The room fell silent. Through the window, they could see increased security patrols, Swedish soldiers and American paratroopers working in mixed teams, everyone tense, everyone watching the area around them.

“It’s not just us,” Bradley said, pulling up regional intelligence reports. “The Baltics are going crazy. Estonia’s mobilizing their reserves. Latvia’s requested additional NATO assets. Everyone’s spooked by those Kaliningrad exercises.”

“As they should be,” Stenqvist added. “Joint amphibious operations two weeks before the scheduled EDEP exercise? Either they’re incompetent at scheduling, or—”

“Or they’re accelerating their timeline for something we don’t know yet,” Brenner finished. “It’s like they’re moving pieces into position early.”

Lindqvist’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowning. “Speaking of escalation…” He turned on the wall-mounted television. “You need to see this.”

The screen showed a press conference in Manila. General Emilio Sarmiento, the Philippines’ National Security Advisor, stood at a podium, his weathered face set in hard lines.

“—will not stand by while the PLA attempts to starve out the peaceful people of Taiwan. We will continue to deliver humanitarian aid, including food and medicine, to our democratic neighbors, without interference.”

“Oh crap, just what we need,” Bradley muttered. “He’s calling the PRC out.”

Sarmiento continued: “The PLA has no authority to deter, deny, or delay those shipments in international waters. If a single Filipino vessel is harassed or boarded, it will be met with swift consequences. I trust Beijing understands what that means.”

The news feed switched to a response from Beijing. Major General Ren Xiaojun, the PLA’s attack dog and spokesperson, stood before a bank of microphones. Even through the television, his contempt was palpable.

“General Sarmiento speaks with the arrogance of a bygone era. Taiwan is a domestic matter of the People’s Republic of China. Your so-called ‘deliveries’ are provocations, thinly veiled attempts to challenge our sovereignty.”

“Wow, would you listen to this bastard?” Mercer said under his breath. “Who does he think he is?”

Ren continued: “If Manila wishes to test the resolve of the People’s Liberation Army Navy, it will have its answer soon enough. The inspections begin tomorrow. I suggest you advise your captains accordingly… before someone miscalculates.”

Brenner muted the television. “Tomorrow. April fifteenth. Tax day in America, and the same day as their ‘customs enforcement’ is supposed to start.”

“It’s all connected. Has to be,” Bertil said slowly. “The devices here, the exercises in Kaliningrad, now this confrontation in the Pacific. They’re synchronizing events.”

“Yeah, multiple pressure points,” Bradley agreed, pulling up a global map. “You got the Taiwan Strait, the South China Sea, the Bering Sea, and the Baltic Sea. Pick your poison. We’ve got four geographically different locations, all under threat at the same time. They’re trying to force us to choose where to respond, where to place the limited forces we have.”

“Well, in my mind, they’ve already chosen where to attack,” Lindqvist added grimly.

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation. A Swedish communications specialist entered the room, looking shaken. “Colonel, priority message from Stockholm. The forensics team was able to analyze that partial fingerprint we sent them last night from the device.”

“Oh, they did? That’s excellent. What did they find?”

“A match — a Red Notice, actually. Wanted, detain on sight,” the specialist informed them.

“Really? What does a Red Notice mean again?” asked Brenner, turning to Lindqvist.

“An Interpol Red Notice is similar to your American FBI Most Wanted list or your terrorist watch list. It’s an international law enforcement bulletin,” explained Colonel Lindqvist. “It means our suspect is wanted internationally for serious crimes.”

“Huh, impressive work by your forensics team,” Brenner commented. “What more can you tell us about him?”

The comms specialist nodded, then explained, “The man’s real name is Hung Minghao, age thirty-seven. He entered the EU through Amsterdam three years ago using sophisticated forged documents — biometric passport, fabricated employment history, everything. The identity held up through multiple security screenings.” The specialist paused. “He’s been operating as a cultural attaché at the PRC embassy in Stockholm for the past eighteen months.”

“How sophisticated are we talking?” Bradley asked.

“State-level,” the specialist replied. “Our intelligence assessment suggests MSS 6th Bureau — their elite foreign operations division. He’s not just a spy, he’s an assassin. The Red Notice links him to the murder of a Taiwanese intelligence officer in Prague two years ago.”

“Jesus,” Brenner breathed. “An MSS assassin operating here for eighteen months.”

Lieutenant Erik Norling, the communications specialist, shifted the folder in his hands. “There’s more, sir. Swedish Intelligence was just informed this morning that British MI6 has been hunting this man for over a year.”

“The Brits?” Lindqvist leaned forward. “Why weren’t we told?”

“They only connected the dots yesterday when we sent the fingerprints through Interpol channels,” Norling explained. “Zhang Wei first appeared on their radar in Gibraltar. Local police confronted him photographing an American submarine entering the naval base. When they tried to question him, he assaulted both officers — killed one with his bare hands, left the other in a coma.”

The room went cold.

“The only reason they knew it was him,” Norling continued, “was a Royal Navy CCTV camera that caught the entire assault. Crystal-clear footage of his face, his methods. Professional, efficient, brutal. He disappeared before backup arrived.”

“And now he’s here,” Bertil said quietly. “On my island.”

“The British want him badly,” Norling added. “The officer he killed had three children. But Swedish intelligence has convinced them — with American backing — that the strategic value of surveillance outweighs immediate arrest.”

Brenner turned to Bradley. “State’s involved?”

“Has to be,” Bradley replied. “If we can map his network now, during this critical period with the PRC, it’s worth more than one arrest.”

Lindqvist nodded slowly. “So we watch. We wait. We see who else crawls out of the shadows.”

“A cold-blooded killer walking free on Gotland,” Mercer said. “That sits well with everyone?”

“No,” Brenner replied firmly. “But if grabbing him means a dozen other operatives go dark, potentially right before they activate? We can’t afford that trade.”

“The British aren’t happy,” Norling admitted. “But they’re cooperating. For now.”

“OK, then for now we wait, we observe, and we see who else he might lead us to.” With that, Lindqvist stood to signal the meeting was over.