The Gotland Deception

Chapter Thirty-Three: Amber Watch

The thermal feed ghosted across the display, revealing faint flickers of heat behind a hedgerow — too angular, too deliberate. Torres leaned over Marrick’s shoulder, eyes narrowed beneath his helmet. “That’s not deer.”

The tanks sat cold beneath camouflage netting, their engines silent, hulls sunk into hardened berms carved into the Polish countryside. No headlights. No idling turbines. No chatter. The M5 Ripsaws stood motionless in sentry mode — running on battery power, their turrets slowly scanning sectors like wolves in the grass.

“Probably wild boar,” Marrick murmured, adjusting the drone’s thermal settings. “But I’ll tag it for monitoring.”

Torres straightened, his joints protesting after hours of stillness. Around them, Alpha Company held the line — fourteen M1E3 Abrams and their robotic wingmen scattered across three kilometers of forest and farmland: silent, watching… waiting.

This wasn’t training anymore.

“I’m walking the line,” Torres said quietly. “Keep me posted on any changes.”

Marrick nodded, eyes never leaving his screens. The warrant officer had grown thin these past weeks, living on energy drinks and determination. The burden of managing both manned and unmanned assets was telling.

Torres stepped out of the command vehicle into the Polish night. The air hung warm and still, unseasonably mild for April. Low fog drifted between pine breaks, muffling sound and blurring the tree line.

Perfect weather for infiltration, he thought.

He moved without night vision, letting his eyes adjust naturally. After twenty minutes, the darkness revealed its secrets — the bulk of camouflaged tanks, the geometric shadows of fighting positions, the faint glow of red-filtered lights where crews maintained their vigil.

At Alpha-22, he found Burke on watch, thermal sight slowly traversing their sector.

“All quiet?” he asked.

“Quiet as a crypt, Sarge.” Burke didn’t look away from his sight. “Munoz is catching some shut-eye. Kid was wound tighter than a spring.”

“He’s not the only one.” Torres climbed onto the hull, settling beside the loader’s hatch. “You good?”

“Been better. Coffee’s cold, can’t smoke on watch, I’m out of Zyn, and my back’s killing me.” Burke finally glanced over. “But yeah, other than that, I’m good. You?”

Torres chuckled, but didn’t answer immediately. A few kilometers to their front, the forest ended at abandoned farmland. Beyond that, somewhere in the darkness, lay Belarus. And beyond that… a lot of people with guns and armored vehicles.

“My sister called yesterday,” he said finally. “Said our parents are scared. News is talking about Taiwan, about Russian and Chinese ships massing in the Sea of Japan. She asked if I’m in danger.”

“What’d you tell her?”

Burke shrugged. “I lied. Said we’re safe, that I’m where I want to be.”

Torres eyed him. “And if it all goes sideways… both theaters at once?” He thought of the classified briefs, the movement of Russian forces, the Chinese “training exercises” that looked more like invasion prep.

“I don’t know, Sergeant. I guess we’ll see what happens,” Burke finally replied.

They sat in companionable silence, watching the darkness. Somewhere to the south, a Ripsaw’s thermal camera detected movement and flagged it — another boar, according to the algorithm. But every alert tightened nerves already stretched thin.

Torres’ radio crackled softly. “All Assassin elements, this is Assassin Six. Be advised — Polish infantry platoon will be moving through approximately one klick to your front in the next twenty mikes. They’re conducting their own border patrol. Do not engage, they are friendlies. Acknowledge.”

“Assassin Six, Two-Seven copies all,” Torres acknowledged.

Twenty minutes later, Burke whispered, “There they are. Movement, bearing zero-seven-zero. About nine hundred meters.”

Torres tracked them through his thermal sight: a full platoon of Polish infantry moving in a tactical column as they advanced through wooded terrain. Their movement was purposeful but unhurried — a routine patrol, not a combat operation.

“Our allies are out earning their pay,” Burke observed quietly.

“Yeah, just like us.” Torres watched the Polish soldiers continue their patrol, disappearing and reappearing between the trees. Soon, they were just heat signatures again, then nothing. The forest returned to its empty vigil.

“You know what I’m thinking about?” Burke said after a long pause. “My kids’ summer vacation. Wife wants to take them to Disney. I told her I’d think about it.”

“Disney in July? You’re braver than I thought.” Torres allowed himself a smile. “Mine want to go camping in Colorado. Real camping, not this tactical bivouac nonsense.”

“Think we’ll make it back for summer?”

Torres considered the question. They’d been here six weeks already. The rhetoric from Moscow and Beijing came in waves — sometimes threatening, sometimes conciliatory. Meanwhile, soldiers on both sides sat in the woods, watching each other across invisible lines.

“Yeah, I think so. This feels like… posturing. Both sides are showing teeth, but nobody really wants to bite.” He adjusted his thermal sight, scanning the empty forest. “Few more weeks of this, some diplomatic breakthrough — everyone goes home with stories about that time we almost started World War Three.”

“Stories and without a combat patch,” Burke added.

“Yeah, I can live with that.” Torres thought about his kids, about mountain trails and campfires without tactical significance. “Besides, armies are expensive. Keeping us all out here, burning diesel, wearing out equipment — someone’s going to run the numbers and decide talking is cheaper than posturing.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear, Sarge.”

They settled back into silence, watching the darkness. Somewhere out there, Polish infantry continued their patrol. Farther east, Russian and Chinese forces probably sat in their own positions, having similar conversations. Everyone waiting, watching… hoping cooler heads would prevail.

Torres allowed himself to imagine it — flying home, hugging his kids, complaining about the heat at Disney World or the mosquitoes in Colorado. Normal problems. Peaceful problems.

“Three more hours until shift change,” he said finally.

“I can make it three more weeks if it means we all go home,” Burke replied.

“Roger that.” Torres continued his scan, but his mind was already halfway to summer vacation. Sometimes hope was all you had on a dark night in Poland, waiting for a war nobody really wanted.